Martin Carrot Soup

Last month, in one of my English tutoring sessions with my perfect French children, we were doing vocab exercises from a workbook, when I saw the name Rachel. I told her that that was my sister’s name. She reacted in joy, as she told me that Rachel was one of her favorite names, along with Rebecca (flattered; I surprisingly get quite a few compliments on it here in France. It’s like they have never heard it before!), Nicholas, and Jessica. She obviously goes to a bilingual school, because American names in France are a symbol of lower social standing. Par contre, VERY French names are bourgeois. Par exemple, Marie-Sophie and Pierre-Henri would live in the perfect apartment on Ile St. Louis (highest spit of real estate in the city--in the middle of the Seine right next to the island with Notre Dame). The more names you have, the swankier your social status. The name game conversation ended with Emma’s response that she dislikes the name Martin. She says it reminds her of Carrot Soup. I agree. Martin Carrot Soup. 

The Brass Section

So, during the first week of my internship (at an NGO which builds children’s homes for street children in developing countries), I needed to ask one of my colleagues if he had a paper clip. I knew the French word was some brass instrument, so I asked him for the “trompette.” He gave me an odd look, and was all, “Are you asking me if I play the trumpet?” Um, no. In fact, I just need one of those “trucs” which holds a pile of papers together. “OH, une trombone!” Trumpet, trombone; I knew they were all in the brass section!

Hungarian Breakfast Wisdom

My friend Lindsey and I met the nicest people in Budapest. We were particularly enamored by Janos, the man who hosted us in his apartment, He may be the most hospitable person I have ever met. He said, "I'm so glad you are here; I love my city." He also drew walking routes for us to take (with alternative routes, just in case), and gave us suggestions on where to find a local spot for dinner. On this jaunt of ours, which included the great capitals of Europe, the Berlin Wall, cathedrals, clock towers, and rivers, one of my clearest memories is what Janos said to us at the breakfast table. "It's hard to fall in love in a place where everyone drives cars." He has a good point there.

At the non-touristy cafe he directed us to, I had my first mute experience....and I thought I was becoming bilingual. I walked into the restroom before we headed out, and, evidently, I sauntered through one of the open doors into the men's room (furnished with a real, live Hungarian man). Upon seeing the urinals (and his bewildered face), I backed up realizing that we could not communicate with each other. I can only say "Good afternoon" and "Thank you" in Magyar, but neither of those terms seemed appropriate, in light of the facts that it was evening and that I was not grateful. I don't really know if my vocal chords grunted or if it my gesticulations grunted silently as I backed up. Theis was the first time in my life that I could not communicate with someone using language. I wanted to say "I'm sorry, I thought THIS open door was the women's room." But, alas, no. I grunted instead. I felt as though someone had burgled the Communications Department of my mind, not even leaving greetings or articles or adverbs. My jewel-box was empty.

Mouth Sour, Heart Sick

I was on my way to a great restaurant/art gallery/concert venue/artist collective with some friends a couple of weeks ago. On the way, we passed through one of the most populated junctions in a shady part of town. While transferring trains, we ascended the stairs past bloodied paper towels, rubber gloves, and needles. I’d never seen heroin paraphernalia before. I hardly knew what I had seen, just a blur of loneliness. The next day, I saw an older woman babbling and laughing to herself in the metro. She proceeded to spit half-chewed pecans out of her mouth and put them back into her pocket. She then pulled out another crust piece of pecan tart from her shabby coat. She was starving for many things. I felt my eyes watering beneath the florescent lights. When I got out at the next stop, I almost started to run. My mouth went sour. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to scream. I asked why. I felt powerless. In population statistics, they don’t take account of those dead among the living. There is no peace, even in a place that hasn’t seen war since Hitler died. God, hold their hearts in Your hand. 

Running Like Children

I resumed my tutoring jobs this semester. One of the families I work for is French, and the adorable and perfect daughters are 7 and 10 years old. I went to pick them up from their talented, artistic, French children lessons before taking them home to tutor English. I walk into the courtyard at the neighborhood activity center and see the oldest, who is bilingual in English. I greeted her with “bises,” as is custom (the first time I met her, she stood there oddly with her head tilted up in anticipation...little did I know that kids are supposed to greet adults with cheek kisses, too). She told me that she and her sister were playing a game of “cache-cache” (hide-and-go-seek) while they were waiting for me. I started walking around the planters with bushes in the center of the complex, calling her name. I saw the little one’s tiny form, and watched her hesitate as she recognized who was calling her in the dark. She then proceeded to call out my name and perform a running jump full-force into my arms, an act of acrobatic skill which she sealed by attacking my cheeks with kisses. I held her tightly. I can’t get this moment out of my mind. It’s hard to understand why adults don’t respond this way to others, when it is evidently part of our nature. We are inhibited, cold, jaded. If we could only be like children, running into each others arms with reckless abandon.

Extremely Paris and Incredibly Home

There are few places I would rather be right now than France, as it is one of the most enchanted, frustrating, and complicated places that I know. I daresay I missed the Parisians a bit. I frankly think they are super. Such fascinating specimens must not go unwatched. The city itself is a microcosm of certain beautiful and alternately terrible things; history, modernity, progress, prostitution, imperialism, racism, classism, romance, beauty, tradition, formality, elitism, culture, art, and some of the most radical and interesting philosophical thought to ever grace the planet Earth. It’s good to be challenged by a place that is so quintessentially worthwhile, and so socially conflicting. It allows you to guard closely in mind that all places are broken and full of natural splendor. Christian theologian Francis Schaeffer once spoke of “wretched beauties,” in relation to the redeemed followers of Jesus. Paris, and the Parisians themselves (as do all people) apply to this description of humanity.

The flight back (home) to Paris was long, but worth every second. After a lovely Christmas vacation in California with my family, I boarded the plane for my 15 hour return to France. Although I did not sleep (despite my efforts and artificial soporific aids - Tylenol PM), I did start and finish a quite good novel called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It will be a movie in a week or two back in the States, and I must say that I look forward to seeing it. Having spent a good long time away from fiction for no apparent reason, it was a lovely re-entry to the world of the modern fiction novel. Following a nine-year-old boy grappling with the death of his father in the horrors of September 11, the novelist weaves a tale of heritage, healing, and a mission to recover from the tragedy of loss and the ambivalence of life. Needless to say, I covered my face and issued warm tears into my gigantic, knit scarf for about half of the flight. Please go read it TODAY (you will be done by tomorrow...it’s that good!).

Christmas, Nostalgia, and Other Traditions

It’s Christmastime in Paris. It’s about 40 degrees, and there are festive lights all over the place. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here (no pilgrims, no indians), so it’s a jarring shift from Autumn to Christmas! The Champs-Elysees is all lit up, and there are Christmas markets selling hot mulled wine and chestnuts roasted on a (tiny) open fire. In fact, I was there for the “tree-lighting.” Of course, my point of reference for this phenomenon is the gigantic christmas trees with bulbs that get illuminated and serenaded at the outdoor shopping mall. It was a bit different here, with the streets completely filled, and modern, electrical swirls ascending naked deciduous trees. Slightly anticlimactic, but a famous French actress was there (Audrey Tatou - from Amelie), so it was quite the event. All of us Americans are getting ready to go home and be with our families for Christmas. I think that I would be a bit more nostalgic about leaving in 5 DAYS if I weren’t coming back. I had a dear friend who lives in Spain visiting in town this past weekend, and saying goodbye to her on Saturday night made me realize how much I’m going to miss the wonderful friends I’ve made here in Paris. Either way, I will probably cry for at least four hours of my 30 that I will spend traveling and sitting in the airport on layovers. But I will say that I can’t wait to be on my couch reading good books, watching White Christmas, and baking banana bread!