Sunday, September 25, 2011.

I'm feeling uninspired right now. I don't have a clue what I should write in this post! 
Good start, huh? 
Deciding what stories from my journey and thoughts in my head should be included in my blog is kinda like deciding what guests to invite to a party... 


If you just invite one or two really good friends, no one else will be offended. But what if you want to have a bigger party? I mean, what if you want to invite a few more story-friends to your blog-party? Pretty soon, just to avoid awkwardness and hurt-feelings, you find your guest list extending way beyond what you had intended. 
For example, if you invite the story about jamming with the French harmonica-player at Sacre-Couer all evening (and ending up with ten extra euros in change in your guitar case in the process), then you surely have to invite the story about having "American breakfast" (a.k.a. mediocre Pancakes from a mix, bacon, and eggs) with two German students the next morning. 
And if you invite that story to the blog-party, then it really would be rude to withhold your invitation from the story about the killer public bathroom in the 7th arrondisment! 
And if you invite that story, then you really should include the story about going for a run and falling on your face in front of hundreds of tourists, and then having a bumbling conversation, in French, explaining to a very concerned man that you were not hurt. (That one is always a little shy and awkward at the party, but that's no reason to exclude the story from the fun!) 
And sure it's nice to invite all your short, happy little stories to the party for comic relief, but what about your real firends? The ones with some substance and personality. 
For example, the description of what it feels like to jog along the Seine on a cold Sunday morning, when the city is at its quietest and, in my opinion, most beautiful, watching teams of rowers sliding along the gleaming sun-stained surface. You definitely can't forget to invite such a peaceful story as that! 
Then there is the story about the day that you spent at theHolocaust Memorial, and your thoughts and reflections on that experience. 
Oh, but then that will open up a whole new group of intro-spective, reflective, personal, analytical, and didactic friends that should be getting invites as well. 
Like the piece you've been meaning to write about cultural misunderstandings and language barriers. It's a tough topic to handle, but certainly brings something dynamic to the party. 
And of course, no party is complete without its hipster and slightly pompous self-proclaimed intellectual pontificating with anyone that will listen about the woes of society, so I'm just warning you that your thoughts about gender roles in French culture, your lessons on the history of French/European imperialism in the 19th century, as well as any other probably unjustified epiphanies that you've had about the complex workings of the world, will also expect an invitation. They'll probably feel entitled to a personal delivery of the invite, or at least a phone call. 
And to counter-act all these stories of adventure in France, you'll also have to invite some entries about the people that you love and miss from your home, and your thoughts on what it really means to be homesick... 

So you see? Who has the time, energy, or party supplies to accomodate such an exponentially swelling and varied blog-guest list? I certainly don't! So instead of telling all the stories that want to come hang out on my blog, I'm just going to call the party off for tonight and get back to living in Paris!  

I'm sending some love your way

While the apostle Paul was imprisoned, he wrote a letter to the church in Philippi expressing his joy—joy that from his own suffering he could spread the Gospel of Christ. 

No matter what we believe, I think Paul can be an example to us
. 

In chains, he rejoices. In grave circumstances, he has only a message of love and encouragement. He does not dwell on or complain about his own suffering (or at least not outwardly) instead he accepts it and thrives in it. 

Because of the example of Paul's suffering, and also because of the message of wisdom, joy, and love that he cultivated even amidst his adversity, I am able to gain. I am able to find peace and joy as well as apply his lessons and example to my own life, thousands of years after he lived, simply because he chose to make the most of a sucky situation.  

I've been accused, at least in the days of my childhood, of "always trying to find a reason to be upset".  Perhaps it is a stubborn, subliminal reaction to this accusation, or perhaps it is just my particular way of coping with the clouds of arbitrary and devastating pain that sometimes linger on our path as we spin around on this earth,but over the years a spirit of perpetual optimism has grown in me. 

Despite this, I sometimes still find myself dwelling on my own problems, retreating inward and focusing on my own suffering. 

This is what Paul's example made me see: 

(Bare with me while I, as I so often do in my writing, extend this metaphor beyond what is probably, or probably definitely, the reasonable limit.)

I imagine pain, anxiety, suffering—whatever type of adversity we face—as a gas, like helium or argon. And this gas follows the laws of physics and chemistry in respect to volume, pressure, and mass (flashback to high school chem, anyone?) If I focus the high-energy molecules of my problems inward, if look at them within myself alone, then they have nowhere to go in that small volume of space. The volume is low; the pressure is high. Of course my problems seem big when my focus is inward! Relative to myself, there is a massive cloud of angry, upset, stressed-out molecules colliding inside of me! 

(And no, pepto bismol wont fix my problem. It's a metaphor... grow up!) 

But what if my focus is outward? At the volume of the earth, of the universe, or even  of this little, third-floor apartment in Paris, those problem molecules can disperse and diffuse. They are a wispy cloud in this room, a little blotch of pain in this city, a single spec of dust on this earth, and they are nothing in God's infinite universe. 

Unfortunately though, a little bit of that suffering inevitably remains within us. A few molecules linger, that, relative to ourselves, are still significant enough to cause us grief, suffering, pain, stress, or maybe just annoyance. 

The point is that our problems, out in this universe and all of the millennia it has seen, don't seem so big anymore. 

And even if, once diluted and let out of their bodily cage, the vestiges of that pain are still near impossible to bare inside, there is hope. If our suffering is outwardly manifested as love—as something positive, constructive, or encouraging—then, in the world at least (even if not within ourselves) that suffering is cancelled out. If we focus outward, good can come from our problems. Suffering can become gain. 

I know that this was perhaps a little heavy, and definitely strange. Though to me and, I hope to someone that really needs to hear it, it makes perfect sense. 

Even now, after releasing the energy from those feeble but irritating thoughts of pessimism and frustration that festered within me today, I feel better. I feel like I at least put my own life, in the grand and beautiful scheme of everything, in perspective. I released the negative, converted it into a personal message of hope and love for anyone who is nice enough (and patient enough) to read the silly things that I write. 

The cool thing about love and hope, though, is that they don't follow the same rules as pain. While problems diffuse and are diluted when we focus outside ourselves, love and hope multiply exponentially when we let them out, bouncing from smile to smile and radiating in a continuous stream for miles and for years, never losing strength or concentration. 

After all, Paul's message of love and his example of hope, created from his moment of suffering, traveled for thousands of years and tonight found a random girl in Paris who needed it very much. 

Now if only love could travel BACK in time, I'd be sending it your way, Paul. 

When in doubt, just get on a train.

The plan was to go to the Loire Valley and visit the chateaux, castles, and wineries. 


Instead, we ended up in a quiet little town outside of Paris that was a little bit shabby and entirely closed -down for Sunday. To anyone familiar with French cities, it would seem like an altogether unremarkable community.


But today ended up being one of my favorite days in France so far. 


I've been aching to get out of the city, even if just for a day or a few hours. Paris is a beautiful place; as in any major metropolitan area though, it rarely feels totally peaceful here. I've been in Paris for a while now, and this weekend I was ready to get away from the concrete, the noise, the lights, and the tourists. I've noticed that what I crave the most when I'm in another place for a long period of time is a sense of every-day-ness. It's almost as if seeing and realizing that someone is at home somewhere is enough to satiate my own hunger for home. I know that the daily life of plenty of people takes place in the white-tiled Metro tunnels and busy streets of Paris, but I guess what I mean by "every-day"  is life more like mine. and I'm not exactly a city girl..(yet!)


Anyway, today I got a little taste of "every-day" life. After deciding not to go to the Loire valley, Faith, Zoe, and I decided (since we were already at the station) to just take an RER train to a random place called Trillport.


We eventually convinced ourselves that Trillport was going to be THE hidden gem of French holiday destinations. 

Fate would decide, however, that we would never make it to Trillport. Instead, we had to get off the train in a little town not far from of our desired destination. There was literally nothing of any official interest for visitors in this town. It consisted of the necessities: a Tabac, a couple bars/resturants, a boulangerie, and phamacie, and a coffiuer. As we walked through town, we felt as if everyone (which was probably like five total people) was watching us. They probably wondered what these crazy American girls with their cameras and umbrellas were doing strolling through their town. 


Passing through the one main street of the town, we came to a river (actually what we thought was the Seine, but we later found was a man-made aqua duct that ran on-top of the Seine). The banks were green and damp from the rain, with a winding dirt path running along the waters edge. We wandered down the path for a while, talking and enjoying the fresh air while the rain pattered against our umbrellas and rustled in the branches of the chestnut trees. 


We decided that this particular time and place, in some random little town on a rainy Sunday afternoon, was a unique experience, and in that lies its beauty. We felt a sense that not many people had walked that path, or stood in that particular meadow, or crossed that same blue bridge. 


In Paris, there too many beautiful places to count; part of their beauty, though, is that they are shared by thousands of people everyday, from all over the world. This place had a different type of significance—it is an experience that we could keep for ourselves. The town itself may not have been anything special, but we made a wonderful Sunday afternoon out of it; for that it will always be a little bit special, if only for us. 




I still wish I knew what was in Trillport though! 

More Photos!

Paris Pictures #2 

quelques jours vous avez...

Today, I'm almost tempted to say, was a bad day.

I am apparently allergic to something in Paris, because my immune system has gone entirely berserk! Today I woke up, for the third morning in a row, with my eyes swollen SHUT, and a bright red puffy painful rash all over my face. (Needless to say, I'm not too pretty at the moment).


This whole ordeal began about three days ago, and since then I've been in a benedryl/Zyrtec induced haze. The first day, people would say things like, "you look a little tired today." The next day, I heard things lie "Are you okay? it looks like you've been crying." But today, the general response was more like "OH MY GOSH what happened to your FACE!??"
If you've ever seen Will Smiths allergic reaction in the movie Hitch, it's like that. I mean, I'm already within walking distance of Notre-Dame; now all I need to do is develop a hunchback and go hang out in the bell tower—that's how messed up my face is.


So I suffered through three hours of French this morning, squinting through bright pink eyelids that are now about three inches too thick, and then scheduled myself a doctors appointment for 6:00 in the evening.
Finally, after a long, boring, and very itchy afternoon, I set out for my rendez-vous.


Of course, it's one of those days, so I had to go back three different times for things that I forgot.


And naturally, I made plenty of wrong turns and got lost on the way.


But I finally found the street, realized that I (miraculously) wasn't late, and felt my spirits lift with the thought that I was just a couple blocks away from someone who might be able to help! With my eye out for #27, I walked down the grungy, narrow little rue where the doctor's office was located. I passed 20, 21, 22, 23, okay, this is promising, 24, 25, almost there, 26, 28, 29, 30. Wait a minute...


Either this is where I'm supposed to pull out my wand, tap a few bricks, and wait for a magical alley to materialize before my eyes, of there is no #27.


I tried to look for it on the map on my phone, but the battery was too low. Of course.
So I walked back the way I came, trying to picture the map. I had taken the wrong street earlier though, so I wasn't coming from the same direction. Great!


Meanwhile, a heavy cloud of smoke from a crowded Tabac irritated my skin and made my lids swell so that there were just two puffy little slits where my eyes should have been...


Finally, after wandering around the area for a few minutes, I found #27 (nestled appropriately between #10 and #12, duh!). I made my way up a rickety and temperamental elevator that is about the size of my refrigerator, (my european refrigerator, not my American one...) and passed through a little black door into a dim waiting room.


When I was finally called into the Doctor's office, which was cheery but looked more like a personal apartment than a medical facility, I explained that I've been having a severe allergic reaction to something in Paris (as if it wasn't evident by my blimp of a face) and that benedryl and zyrtec have not had any effect.


Now, no matter how great French medical care supposedly is, I guess it was a bit naive of me to expect some miracle cure, especially since I didn't even know what was causing the alergic reaction...
But basically I was told, " just keep doing what you're doing, hopefully it'll go away. That'll be 30 euros, cash please."


When I left the building, it was raining.


I didn't have a coat, boots, or umbrella.


...or my metro pass.






In class today, Proff. Clemence told us about an expression that the French use;
"quelques jours vous avez, quelques jours vous n'avez pas" Or something to that effect...


Basically it means "there are good days and bad days"


I don't necessarily agree with that though. Whether in Paris or California, there are days when everything seems to be going wrong, days when you seem to be catching all the luck, and days that are just somewhere in the middle. In the end, though, I think it's attitude—the ability to appreciate blessings in disguise and seize opportunities—that determines whether your day is "bad" or "good". Today was not a bad day; it was a day to test my strength. I learned some valuable lessons, and even made some progress on my French.


For example, when a man on the street said to me "are you okay girl, you look a little tired no? Not so pretty tonight?" I was at first upset, but then I realized that I had understood everything that he said in FRENCH!


 I also realized that his face always looks that ugly, whereas mine is just temporarily like this, so I really can't blame him for being bitter and rude. Poor guy.

Side note: I'm going to the Loire Valley tomorrow! and I booked a cheap train ticket to Amsterdam for november! I can't wait!

Speaking of frog legs and Italian fashion...

Since I can’t possibly share EVERYTHING, I’m just going to do a few short vignettes... 

Montmartre and the rainstorm: It was early on a Sunday evening and I decided I wanted to explore a little. I got on a bus, without any idea where it was headed, and found myself in Montmartre once again. I wandered through the cobblestone streets and reached Sacre-couer, this time climbing the 300 hundred steps to the top of the dome. The view was absolutely spectacular—panoramic Paris in the foreground, with dramatic thundering skies and a strip of distant green countryside in the background. (Look at my photos and you’ll see how beautiful it was). I think it was at this moment when it really hit me that I was actually in Paris, France, on the other side of the world. I’ll never forget it.  

I spiraled quickly back down the stairs just as rain started pouring down in sheets and forming little rivers that cascaded down the sides of the steep, narrow streets. Drenched, but feeling light and poetic, I tucked into a corner creperie. The waiter raised an eyebrow at me and laughed a little at my sopping wet hair and the growing puddle at my feet, but I just shrugged and smiled. I picked a table in the farthest corner and ordered a coffee, and sat there writing letters and drying off until the rain had stopped and the sun was nearly down. As I left, my waiter asked me where I was from, and when I responded “California,” he said “Ah. this is why you are so pretty.” 

My first Paris bar experience: 

I’ve made friends with a girl from Argentina here in Paris, and she invited a few of us to meet her at this cafe/bar one night. I was pretty excited, because as I am not drinking age in the States, I have never really been to a bar! It was a cool place, and we met some very interesting French people. Unfortunately, at one point I got stuck sitting next to this guy who could talk about nothing but electronic/techno music, how lame he thinks nightlife in Paris is, and how men wear their collars in various parts of Europe. (In case you were dying to know, he likes to wear his popped-up, like the Italians.) Then, oblivious to my blatant disgust, he proceeded to suggest we go back to my place. Um, excusez-moi? no. Anyway, he was a reaaal keeper, that one. 

Minus the creep though, I had a really great time! 

Velib!:
I’m from Davis, California, the bike capital of the world. I can handle riding a bike through Paris.  Right? 

Well that’s what I told myself, anyway. 

I mean, I guess I was right; I could handle it. I am here to tell the tale... 

But it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. Especially since I chose to ride on a street with no bike lane, heavy traffic, j-walkers, dogs, gawking tourists, pigeons, vespas, ambulances, ambiguous traffic signals, other bikes, old people, strollers, formula-one racers, a stampede of rhinoceros, mimes pretending to be driving cars, left turns, flash floods, right turns, loopedy-loops, downhills, uphills, an army of orcs, and of course, the worst, Parisian drivers. 

A little terrifying, yes, but exhilarating. What a fun way to see Paris!

A perfect evening: 

Faith, Sahar, and I met up at the Luxembourg Gardens one afternoon to discuss our travel plans. Finding a bench in the shade to get out of the muggy heat, we sat and listed off the places we’d like to see while in Europe. Mine goes like this: 

North, south, east, and west in France

Switzerland 

The Netherlands 

Great Britain 

Italy 

Germany 

AND/OR possibly

Greece, Spain, The Czech Republic, Scotland, Ireland, 

and I think a few more but I can’t even think of them now... 

Now obviously that’s a lot of places to visit on a small budget and during a short time, so it’s unlikely I’ll be able to hit them all. We shall see! 

After talking for a couple of hours, we set out on a quest to find some Escargot! Instead, we found ourselves in a neglected but charming little alley near Place d’Italie and decided on an empty Vietnamese restaurant. Inside, it was decorated with colorful artwork and illuminated with strings of multi-colored lights and lanterns. The man serving us was so friendly, and when we got our menus we saw that they served frog legs! Score! A surprise thunderstorm splattered rain against the trees and pavement outside as we sat and talked in the warm restaurant with tea and delicious food  (p.s. frog legs are really good!). We ordered desert, a vanilla, meringue, and praline piece of heaven, and stepped out into the evening just as the rain stopped. As we walked through puddles past glowing street side cafes to find the closest metro, we came to the conclusion that we would have to become frequenters of this little off-the-beaten-path restaurant that no doubt serves the best Vietnamese-chili-flavored-frog-legs in that part of south-eastern Paris. :) 

Oh and by the way

just to be fun, I decided to hide a link to more photos of Paris somewhere in my blog.
 :)

It doesn't do this experience justice, but it'll have to do.

You know you're really living when you are so busy experiencing things that you never have the time to sit down and reflect on what you have been experiencing! That's exactly why it's been so long since I've written a blog—every night I get back to my apartment completely exhausted after a full day of class and Parisian exploration, practically fall into my bed, and crash until the next morning. Then I do it all over again.  
It's Friday evening here in Paris, and I finally have some time to rest. These past weeks seemed to have gone by so quickly, but then at the same time, I feel as if I have been here for a lifetime. I don't even know how to go about processing and reflecting on all that I have seen, done, and noticed... Where to begin? 


I started the French Language Practicum this week, which meets for three hours a day five days a week, directly followed by a 1-3 hour "excursion" to different parts of Paris (once the actual semester starts, I'll only have French for 3 hours a week, luckily). My professor, Madame Clemence, is this fabulous little Parisian woman who speaks to us only in French. We spend all day in her class, we go on little field trips, we have break time and lunch time, and she teaches us things like the days of the week, months of the year, the numbers, and the alphabet. So yeah, it IS just like being in first grade again. Only better, because I'm in Paris! However tiring our afternoon excursions might be, I really appreciate what they have planned for us; I'm seeing parts of Paris, away from the monuments and tourists traps, which I may never have found on my own. 
For example, we visited Belleville, which is a part of north-eastern Paris which has historically been a community of immigrants;  the typical Parisian architecture in this part of the city is colored with vibrant street art which is, I'm told, in protest to plans to renovate and gentrify this largely residential area to make it more upper-class bohemian and bourgeois (or "bobo").


It's amazing how easy it is to pick up a language when you're totally surrounded by it 24 hours a day. When we learned to speak as children, we were totally surrounded by language, and eventually we had to learn that language in order to communicate our own needs and thoughts. I feel like that's what I'm going though all over again. Right now, I can listen to people speaking French and understand everything that they are saying (except when it gets really complicated, like when the man giving the tour of the Mosque of Paris got into a heated debate with another man, in French, about the philosophical and spiritual implications of determinism vs. free will... that was a tad over my head. Luckily I had Madame Clemence to explain it afterwards!). So I can hear and read French well at this point, but I definitely have a hard time speaking the language still. It's frustrating, but I'll get there.So, I guess we can logically conclude that even though toddlers might be able to talk much yet, they very well might be able to understand everything that we're saying... so be careful!


I wish that I could share all of the lessons I have already learned and adventures I have already had. Words are powerful, there is no doubt, but the English language (or at least my ability to manipulate it) doesn't seem to have the capacity to describe my experience thus far. Maybe that's why I should learn French... 


Anyway, there are more places to see and adventures to be had. Au revior, et amour de Paris. :)