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!

Etiquette, Amongst Other Oddities

French etiquette confuses me. You would think it would be clear seeing that they invented the word, but alas, no. When you’re at the grocery store they don’t bag your groceries for you. It’s you at the end of the check-out scrambling not to crush your eggs with your can of peas, along with the last two people who paid for their goods. Odd. When there are strangers in my house, no one ever introduces them to me. I have given up on introducing myself unless in case of emergency, because introductions are apparently not important when you are a worthless foreign student. Additionally, one would never acknowledge someone else’s existence in public, (on the street, on the metro, etc.) but if you are in your apartment building you MUST smile and wish everyone a good day or good evening. I guess I have a different definition of “neighbor” than the French. I always considered humanity to be included, but I guess that doesn’t hold true here. The Parisians are only neighbors with those who share the same street address. Adults ride scooters here. Seriously, like Razor scooters from 2001, but with business suits. All the adults here are so small that it’s not weird (however, their size IS weird - it’s rare to find a man over 6 ft or a woman over 5’6’’), but the fact that they are riding scooters with ties does evoke a naughty American giggle every now and then. One of my friends who lives in a host family has to share his bathroom with the cat. I repeat: THE CAT USES THE TOILET. I still do not understand the mechanics of this phenomenon. Okay, I admit it’s creepy and sounds like a Ben Stiller movie, but don’t hate -- I love this cat. His name is Soleno, he is all white, and we are dear friends. He is a “tout petit chat.” The French love calling things “tout petit” (“all little” = tiny little), probably because everything here is “tiny little.” People, cars, cats, expresso, the overpriced food you order at a sidewalk cafe. It’s all tout petit and expensive! The last item of the day which I find hilarious is the use of the phrase “En fait” (= In fact). They say this ALL THE TIME! “En fait, I think it’s eight o’clock.” “En fait, I went to the Expressionism Expo today.” “En fait, there were a million people at the cinema last evening.” Everything is so factual. My favorite is when small children use this qualifier. Literally, four year olds saying “In fact...” I look at them and I’m all, “You don’t know anything for a fact; you’re four years old!” But they think they know. They will be so French when they grow up. 

The Lonely Ones

So some of the lovely women in my Bible Study and I are starting to get angry. Don’t get scared, it’s good angry. We have been talking about the prevalence of the sex industry here in Paris, and have been getting ready to do something about it. Last Sunday, we went on a prayer walk up at Metro Pigalle in Montmartre (on the street where you find the Moulin Rouge). The entire street is lined with sex shops, peep shows (I feel like that’s the least attractive title they could give it), strip clubs, etc. Rather nauseating. We were praying over the people involved in these situations: the women inside of the buildings, and the men who frequented them. It’s so tragic to see how consumeristic it has all become. Walking down the street, you literally see McDonald’s next to a porn movie theater. It continues to alternate between sex shops and food all the way down the street. Which begs the question: what is a need? Why is the sex industry sending the message that this is as normal and necessary as lunch? I kept finding myself getting angry at the men on the streets (and praying for them, seeing that ONLY getting angry would be counter-productive on a prayer walk...). There weren’t very many women around in this neighborhood, and you could just feel the seediness of the mens’ intentions. I additionally found it interesting that I am in this neighborhood all the time to meet people because I have friends who live right there, but I tend to look away. I feel like all good little blonde children were told to look away when things got inappropriate. So I did, and I still do. But walking through this neighborhood intentionally looking IN was quite informative, and allowed us to pray INTO the bondage that these people are feeling. Many of these people are in slavery, both literally and emotionally, and if we refuse to look, we are refusing to care. 

A Few Of My Favorite Things (Okay, I'm really in the mood to see the Sound of Music)

Almost every morning I walk by this lovely flower shop called Veronique Miss. I don’t know how it happens, but I always seem to be passing while one of the young ladies who works there is dragging out pots of heinously-priced and highly-aesthetic miniature arboretums and flora. They also put out a classy, iron parakeet cage fully equipped with a noisy, live bird. It sounds like an underdeveloped pterodactyl, and I can’t help wondering why they are trying to sell the poor dear at a flower shop. Nevertheless, it’s in these simple moments of little consequence when I realize how much I appreciate beauty around me. Another example, from the metro (where some of the best people-watching occurs): the other day I saw an elderly man helping his wife (rare, I know, but they were wearing rings) who evidently had some difficulty walking. Her illness may have been related to her back, seeing as she was crouched over, almost in half, and could not straighten her spine. Her husband’s patience and protection were incredible. It was as though he wanted nothing more than for her to be comfortable, despite the fact that she was apparently in agony. Looking at him as he took care of her and guided her off and on the metro and up the numerous stairs was another reminder of the beauty in creation around me. Flowers are lovely, and people can be even lovelier.