Autumn in [my] New York

Each time I’m in a large city—and to be fair, I extend this to San Francisco, Paris, New York, London, etc.—I find that there is a generalized desire in the population to appropriate the city. I hear words tossed around like “You haven’t seen the real [New York/San Francisco]”, implying that the speaker somehow does know the real [New York/San Francisco], and has therefore excitingly (for him or her) one-upped me. Or perhaps I am quizzed: “have you seen [union square/oberkampf/the mission] yet? No?! Oh, well, then you haven’t seen the city!” This last part is always added triumphantly, making me feel like the person doing the quizzing feels satisfied at owning the city in question more than me. Knowing this or that city, and being able to rattle off the street names and subway stops has in some circles (at least the ones I find myself in!) become a mark of sophistication. I find this to be a very interesting social behavior and wonder if I do the same.

Thus far it seems to me that New York is no exception to this desire for appropriation. If anything, I would say it is more rampant here than in other places I have been, in part because there is such a large spectrum of what can be appropriated and in part because it is arguably the world’s epicenter of the culture of ownership and possession.

American Express has been running a series of advertisements over the course of the last year involving different celebrities who list a number of tangible and intangible things that they own. Robert DeNiro’s ends with something like “My New York. My Card: American Express.” I might be blurring the details, but the theme came through clearly: a city can be owned and carried around in your pocket just like a credit card. American Express didn’t invent this turn of phrase (My New York)—they merely capitalized on an already used expression. As we were passing through China Town in a cab, a friend of mine who has lived in the city for several years once said, “This part of New York is so strange to me. I don’t ever think of it—don’t ever consider it part of my New York.”

“What do you mean, your New York? How is it yours? You were born and raised in the Midwest!” He wasn’t able to answer that, but it seemed natural to him that part of the city, certain aspects of it, should belong to him regardless of where he originally came from.

I’m curious to know--is this a mainly American behavior, this need to own even intangibles? Is this born of a deep-rooted feeling of cultural insecurity? A need to own some portion of ‘The Cosmopolitan’ in order to prove worldliness? Or is it just human nature?

In any event, I don’t feel that I own any part of New York whatsoever. I am distinctly aware of my transient status, and happy with it. But if there were to be any part of the city that I would ever incorporate into a definition of “My New York” I would certainly have the Brooklyn Botanic Garden at the very very top of my list. Each time I go to a city or town (of any size) visiting gardens and parks, or any other form of public green space, is first on my agenda. Having said that, and having visited Turkey, Azerbaijan, Morocco, Mexico, Spain, France, Germany, and other western European countries, I can say with absolute certainty that the Brooklyn Botanic Garden is the most perfect of any that I've seen. It is the most perfectly planned, well-maintained, restful and interesting garden I have ever visited. Truly. If you haven’t seen it, you simply must. And go during the growing season, to be sure. I’m told that they have a cherry blossom festival in the spring, which must be enchanting.

Though not a garden, there was another place I went today that might eventually be added to “My New York” if I ever develop one. I walked down Waverly Place, the entire length of it, and found it to be the first built space I have visited within Manhattan that made me feel happy and at peace. Waverly Place made me want to linger, to slow my step, to examine the wisteria vines climbing the sides of the human scaled houses. There were shutters on the windows for once (many of which were veiled from the inside with lace and voile), no more than three or four stories on most of the buildings, and a real character apparent in each of the houses. Some of them were cranberry red, some white, some goldenrod yellow; some had pots of mums on the front steps, others had jack-o-lanterns. ‘This is the New York of Edith Wharton,’ I thought, as the autumn sunlight poured down like Lyle’s Syrup on the street, so thick and golden, and so sweet, it was almost too much. It was a warm fall day, the sky was the deep crystalline blue of glacial lakes, and the air in Waverly Place smelled of falling leaves, not of exhaust and waste. Finally I found a place in this city where I can breathe easy and forget the apocalyptic wheezing and screeching of the subway trains. Yes; as I strolled down the street the only sound in my head was Billie Holiday, sending the notes of “Autumn in New York” up through me like the curls of steam rising from a cup of hot cider. No matter whether I’m in Ann Arbor, Paris or New York, and regardless of the season, I always know I am having a moment worth remembering when an experience is so full of emotion that Billie Holiday’s voice comes to me on its own.

Saralocks and the three chairs

The first morning I was here I decided I would have coffee outside in a park. So I bought a coffee before 8 am and headed toward Union Square, very near where I was staying. Soon my romantic notions of sipping at my coffee on a park bench in view of flowers fell to pieces. Firstly, the benches were actually all occupied. This wasn't immediately apparent from the street as most of them were occupied by sleeping/lounging homeless people. Or maybe they just were very into the "lived in" look and were, additionally, hygiene deficient. Either way, the benches were occupied. Secondly, other than a patch of scraggly impatiens, there were no flowers.

I eventually discovered a cluster of French park style tables and chairs around a statue on the other side of the park. A middle-aged, respectable looking (read--clean and coiffed) woman was sitting at one of these tables, reading the morning paper. I joined her. The first table I sat down at wasn't suitable because, well, it was filthy. It had something sort of thick, brown and sticky dried onto it. The second one I moved to was also unsuitable because of the unpleasant urine odor coming from the joint between the retaining wall and the sidewalk immediately behind it. Finally (sigh) the third was just perfect.

And so I began sipping happily at my coffee, making notes in my "cahier" about the passers-by, the sound of the leaves, the sound of...a picture being taken?? Over to my left, at quite a distance, and partially obscured by the undergrowth around a tree was a young man photographer, taking pictures in my direction.

I was disturbed. With my ankles still crossed I quickly pivoted to the right, so that my back would be turned toward him. Perhaps he was taking pictures of something else. And I returned to my morning musings and coffee.

Then the snapping started again. He had gotten closer and had come around to the front--his monster lens aimed directly at me--so that I could know make him out quite plainly. Film student type. Yes, you know the kind: dark jeans and white t-shirt and an odd and no doubt very symbolic tattoo visible on his forearm. With ear-rings.

Frustrated, and thoroughly uncomfortable, I began rifling in my bag with my head down, thinking about whether I would let this drive me from my carefully selected perch. When I heard the camera click for the third time, this time so close I could have snatched it from him, I decided quite instantly that yes, it would drive me from my precious table. I got up, with a little "hmph!" of deep annoyance, and Mister Tattooed Image Stealer came nearer to me to say, "oh, I'm so sorry if I disturbed you! I hope I didn't freak you out or anything."

I looked down at the ground, tossed my bag on my left shoulder and whisked past him, uttering only an ambiguous "yeah..."

On the train to Brooklyn I thought about it--how was a photograph more invasive than a simple memory? Was this man's taking pictures of me really so different from him staring and remembering me? Or just looking and remembering? Why did I feel so robbed? What would he *do* with the picture?

Just then a Muslim woman walked in, entirely cloaked in black from head to toe, everything covered in yards of fabric but a slim slot for her eyes. I could see that she was about 5'4, a bit rotund, and that at least the skin on the bridge of her nose was not unlike the color of olive oil. But mainly all I could see was the fabric on her. It was plain. There were no markings, embroidery, beading or patterns. And it seemed to me that she moved like a ghost through the world, seeing without being seen, absent from the memory of the world. After all, who can remember fabric alone?

Exhibit A: New York

Riding in the taxi from Laguardia to the city, the sight of the Manhattan skyline emerged, looking to me like a cluster of distant tombstones. We raced along the East River, slicing through the beams of autumn sun at razor speeds. Each apartment building, overpass, basketball hoop and bench appeared like a single frame in a movie, flashed in front of my eyes. It didn't seem real...something inside of me hoped that the taxi would never stop; that I would never step down into those cemented streets, that I could continue observing the scene, in my museum way, from behind the window forever.

But the taxi did stop. And with sun in my eyes, a tightness in my throat and my two suitcases in hand, I stepped up to my first stop: Amy's apartment.

I've now since moved to my second stop, as I search for a more permanent living situation. And soon I will be moving to my third stop, still having no place of my own to live!

There must have been something to that feeling in me as we drove into Manhattan, that feeling that seemed to say "keep moving. don't stop."

Effectivement...I haven't stopped since I arrived.

Funny News

BEIJING, China (AP) -- A drunken Chinese tourist bit a panda at the Beijing Zoo after the animal attacked him when he jumped into the enclosure and tried to hug it, state media said Wednesday.

Geography Lesson?

A tall angular-bodied (peroxide) blond woman struts into the coffee shop where I was studying this morning. The heels of her stiletto boots struck the marble tiles with the loud clack clack of fourth of July poppers.

The coffee-shop trivia of the day was: “What is the capital of Ukraine?” For a correct answer, you get 10 cents off your order. Easy enough, no?

No.

“ooh!!!!” she squealed, triumphantly punching her French-manicured fists in the air.
“I know that! It’s Russia!”

Below her Caribou visor the barista drew her eyebrows together. “Ummm, no…actually, it’s Kiev.”

Miss Stiletto is visibly annoyed. “Are you SURE?”

Visor: “Yes”

She didn’t get ten cents off her order.

Views of the past

Five years ago at this time I was walking through the deserted streets of Villerville, France. I remember being enchanted by the fall there, and by the feeling—the certainty—of living moments that I would never in my life repeat. I would never be in those gray, shuttered streets
in the autumn,
on the arm of that person,
not ever.

It was a sweet and melancholy feeling, and an addictive one. In fact, everything about my time with that particular person, and the places we went, were tinged with that very same seductive melancholy. I remember the damp and the chill of his room under the eaves, with its disintegrating stone tiles underfoot, its yellowing, dust-laden stuffed swans overhead, and his face of a medieval king who had been beheaded several hundred years before.

I suppose there was something archeaological about my entire 18-19 year old stay in France. Maybe after my parents’ divorce that’s exactly what I was looking for—a romanticized study of lost glory, of crumble and decay.

Maybe too, that’s why the Paris experience I had this winter of 2006 was so much different from before—I was trying to retrace my footsteps from before. But at that time I needed to ponder loss and the past whereas now I’m fixated on growth and the future. I should have been seeking out a newer Paris.

That will be for the next time.

A is for Apple, B is for Brooklyn, C is for Cidermill

Well, for those interested parties, I never did find a summer job. I spent the summer studying for the LSAT which I will take at the end of this month. Though I doubt I will ever use my score for any practical purpose (since I won't be applying to law school in the near future after all). But one never knows, and since I've spent nearly the entire summer preparing for the exam, I might as well take it.

After the exam, I'm leaving Michigan for Brooklyn. I *do* have a job there. Oh! And I also got a translating job, which I can do from anywhere.

Yesterday I read through my old journal entries from several years ago--they were both refreshing and eye opening. If I don't check in on my old writing every now and again, I tend to believe that although time is moving forward, I am not developing intellectually or emotionally. I tend to think that I am staying exactly the same (stagnating if you will); that for the rest of my life, however long that may be, I will look at the world with precisely the same mentality and set of thoughts with which I look at it now. I can now confirm to myself that this is very unlikely, judging by how much my thoughts have continually evolved over the years.

It also ocurred to me that I am not a happy person when I don't write every day. I don't mean necesarrily writing in here (this blog is a fairly recent thing in my life), but just writing my thoughts somewhere. I can't quite put my finger on why exactly this must be, but I have at least come to understand that it is a fact. I'm thinking that perhaps it is something very basic: maybe, being a visual thinker, I don't feel my thoughts are fully formed without seeing them hatched out in black and white before my eyes? That's all I've come up with so far. Whatever the reason may be, when I'm not writing every day, I begin to lose a sense of time--days go by without my feeling that I've lived them. And I get the very unpleasant sensation that I haven't been thinking in a long while.

There isn't much to comment on from Michigan, I suppose. It seems that autumn has rolled in. There is a chill in the air, and the leaves of the trees and the petals of flowers have all lost their luster. The past two weeks have been marked by windless days of quiet rain and gray skies that signal the coming winter. But it also means that it is Michigan apple season, and that is one of the very best things about the fall. There are honey crisp apples now to be eaten by the cider mill, a cup of hot cider in hand, and maybe a tiny, steaming, cinnamon-tinged home-made donut in the other hand. For me there is no other autumn outside of apples and cider mills. I hope I'll get a chance to go before I leave!

Down and Out in...Michigan

Since a number of people have inquired about the absence of updates, I thought an answer in order: I am now back in the United States (in Michigan to be precise). Sara's European Adventures have officially come to a close for the time being. The blog was meant simply to chronicle my, well, "adventures," as Anna named them, in Paris and Madrid, and since they've ended I don't know what to do now with this blog.

I have yet to decide if it would be interesting, and therefore worthwhile, to continue my commentary from Michigan, as life here in the metro Detroit area typically offers little in the way of adventure. On the other hand, being back does stimulate myriad of thoughts on different, more social subjects. But do I write them in my journal with pen and paper, for my eyes only, or do I write them here? If I do write my thoughts here, "here" being the internet in general, do I write on this blog, or start another one of a different name? Down and out in DE-troit? As you can see, my mind is wrought with complex and difficult decisions! Ha. I would be sleeping more soundly these days if that were the only (or at least the most complicated) decision I had to make right now.

While this decision is being made, here is an update on my current activities: I'm taking an LSAT prep course and looking for a job for the summer. I would like to highlight that looking for a job in Detroit is no easy task at the moment, where unemployment is higher than the national average, and the skeleton of the local economy (the auto-industry) is coming unhinged. No one seems to be hiring, massive quantities of homes are for sale in Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills, small businesses still open are slow. One Starbucks location around here was hiring, but after looking at my resume the manager informed me that my profile "might be a little....um...fancy for us at the moment. We're only hiring baristas, not managers."

"No! I'm not fancy! I really just want to be a barista, *really*" I was very desperate, emphasizing "really" as much as I could, but even that didn't convince her. Granted, the rest of the baristas watching our exchange had, let's say, "experimental" hair stylings and some extra piercings here and there, but don't the green aprons and the black clothes neutralize any potential fanciness???

The result is simply quite depressing: I can't even get a job at Starbucks.

Welcome to Detroit, where the local time is 4 minutes to 8 o'clock, Eastern Standard Time.

I don't think we're in Ohio anymore...

That’s what I thought to myself en route to Toledo, in the train, as we sped past rolling hills like the massive rounded waves of the open ocean, frozen into place. They were tinted crimson here on the crests of some, and there in the troughs of others, with carpets of May poppies. The other parts of the hills were covered with golden-green wild grasses, offset by the silvery sage color of the olive trees in the middle distance.

The train station was also a far-cry from the Toledo Amtrak station, to be sure. We were greeted by a station of painted tiles and carved wood, in a sort of baroque Islamic style. The station was situated at a slight distance from the town, which itself is perched on a high-hill carved out from the red rocks by a rapid river. As Daddy and I walked up, up and up toward Toledo, we walked through hedges of rose bushes in full bloom, fields of wild snapdragon, hollyhocks, sweet peas, and some vibrantly purple flower that grew in abundance and that I’ve never seen before.

With great satisfaction, our visit to Toledo permitted me to understand, at long last, the formerly mystifying expression: “holy Toledo”. It certainly came from the fact that Toledo was for a couple of centuries (I don’t retain dates well) the heart of the Catholic church in Spain. Before that, though, it was a sort of capital for the Visigoths, as well as apparently being a vital foothold for the Muslims in Europe during the Islamic presence in Spain. During that time it was also an important center of Jewish life and culture in Spain.

Both tellingly and sort of sadly there are few traces of anything left, religiously speaking, other than Catholicism. That being said, though there are “few” traces, there “are” traces of both the Jewish and Islamic presence, and I suppose for me that was the most interesting thing. With each press of my foot to the cobble-stoned streets, I was aware that I was probably walking on the same sacred stones that had witnessed the ebb and flow of so many distinct cultures over the centuries. The concept of erasure was also very striking to me—each culture that had come before was ‘erased’ by the next: the mosques and synagogues were largely turned into churches, and so convincingly that I had to search for the remains of what had existed before them. I suppose this is true of most, if not all places—the winners win, and install themselves with force, establishing their culture by obliterating aspects of others. But I have yet to determine why this notion was so much more powerful to me in “holy Toledo” than in other places I have been.

Chocolate Con Churros

A young Chinese man walks into the café where I am writing. Everything he is wearing (I am quite sure) is made of acrylic, which stands out stiffly from his deflated frame. When he walks, he makes rapid, high-pitched “hweet hweet” noises from the rubbing together of all of his many acrylic surfaces. In his hands he holds a Madrid guidebook written in Chinese.

The café is full, both at the small, square tables and at the bar. Everyone is Spanish except for me, and now this young man in acrylic. After he passes under the arched entrance, he stands there, stupefied, watching the Spanish customers drinking, smoking, eating, talking. His eyes are opened wide and his lips are slightly parted. It is the same expression I see on the faces of the children watching the puppet shows in the Retiro park. And, like those children, this man seems pleased with the spectacle before him.

Just as his lips begin to curl into an almost imperceptible smile, he is jostled by one of the harried waitresses. She looks at him with annoyance and barks, “que quieres?” He looks at her without answering, so she repeats in English, “what do you want?” From his white acrylic pocket he removes a folded magazine clipping. Carefully opening it, he points to a picture and says, each syllable separated, staccato-like, “cho-co-la-te-con-chu-rros.” As her hands full of dirty dishes and mugs, she points with her chin in the direction of the bar then waddles off quickly and duck-like to the kitchen. The young man follows her with his eyes.

When the chocolate con churros are delivered, he examines them with the great care of a forensic scientist, holding a churro up to the light, turning it slowly to better study it. When he at long last begins to eat, he chews so slowly, and with such satisfied purpose that the rest of the customers at the bar exchange amused and slightly condescending looks. He sees them but doesn’t seem to care and continues to enjoy his snack in all happiness. When finished, he methodically places his coins one by one on the counter in payment, puts on his backpack, and walks out of the café.

My table is by the door. As he walks past, I see the faint smile on his face before he disappears into the crowded street.

San Isidro

Though I don’t have any particular story to unite these images, I think most of them are quite lovely (worth sharing anyway). They are from the festival of San Isidro, which just finished recently. For those of you who aren’t Catholic, here is what I learned—each city, or profession (and probably countless other things) has a saint/patron saint. Madrid, for example, has a patron saint called “Saint Isidro.” This saint has its special season of celebration, marked by nearly two weeks of processions, concerts, plays and cultural displays, all of which culminate in fireworks. “All major ‘fiestas’ in Spain finish with fireworks, Sara!” That’s how one of my professors, Pilar, responded when I wondered out loud how the fireworks were related to the Saint. From what I understand, it’s probably like Jesus, the Christmas tree and their relationship to one another.

One of the especially charming things about San Isidro is that she brings about the coming to Madrid of people from various pueblos in their regional traditional dress. Many of the Madrileños were dressed in traditional dress as well, and the little ones were so cute (jolis à croquer, je ne te dis pas) that I couldn’t help myself from following them around to take pictures. The girls each wore a big red carnation bobby-pinned at the hairline, at the upper-limit of their foreheads, and wore triangular scarves that they tied under their olive-hued chins. The boys were dressed much like the little newspaper sellers in the 1920’s Chicago streets, complete with tiny bowler hats and neck scarves.

The second thing that endeared me to San Isidro was the classical concert held by the lake in the Retiro (played by a French orchestra), accompanied at the finale by fireworks. I enjoyed both the concert and the fireworks immensely, even though I had to wait for two hours amongst a family of pushy, pumpkinseed-spitting smokers in order to enjoy the spectacle.

So fireworks and children—this is what I understood of San Isidro. Other than that, what this Saint does/did, or why they celebrate in the particular way that they do, I haven’t managed to understand with my limited Spanish. If anyone knows, I would be very pleased if you could explain it to me.

Open Debate

(picture is of a "course camarguaise" in the south of France. The goal is to remove ribbons/strings that are tied around the bull's horns...without getting stabbed by the bull, of course. Pretty sure you lose points for that.)

Any of you who read the occasional comments that people leave on my entries may have noticed that someone left one recently expressing disagreement with my view on the Spanish variety of bullfighting. When I saw this comment, I thought initially that I would just let it be, as after all I write this blog for you, my family and friends, and not for anyone else. But the comments made irked me, and here's why--I demand precision in everything. I demand it especially of myself, a little of others, but always always demand it if it is a question of argument or debate. So if anyone is going to leave comment on what I've said in a chastizing manner, I would appreciate some precision. A comment of any form loses credibility when the issue is NOT addressed (in this case, the failure to address the torturing of bulls) and in which assumptions are made.

All of my personal annoyances aside, the most important thing is that this subject of Spanish bullfighting is extremely interesting. This particular debate raises facinating general questions about who the "we" is in any culture and what value to attach to "tradition" of any variety. My response is below, filled with some interesting facts about bullfighting, inserted in italics after the comments that were left on my page.

****I REPEAT: my comments are in italics. The rest are not.****

"El Toreo" is an art, for sure, but it's even more than that. It's like a challenge between the man and the animal.

Yes indeed. It’s “like” a challenge, because it isn’t a real challenge. Firstly,it has been suggested and supported by many sources that the bulls are compromised before they entire the ring (The following, for example, is from Luis Gilpérez-Fraile, La vergüenza nacional [The National Shame], Madrid: Penthalon Editions, 1991:
“Before entering the arena, the bull has been locked up in the toril, a dungeon wherein he has been subject to a number of horrendous brutalities: he has been beaten and battered, crushed for a night with sand-packs, his horns have been painfully lopped and truncated. At the end of that protracted torture, his feet are washed with thinner in order to make him restless while his eyes are covered with vaseline in order to impair his already very deficient eyesight. Then he is hit and jabbed with pinching instruments in order to make him enter the ring. The beast tries to escape. He only sees bright colours. Then the faenas begin. He is subjected to three `picas'.<1>Foot note 1_1 Each pica is a spear or lance ending in a piercing steel blade of 10 cm, followed by one or two disks. Most often the disk or disks enter the skin of the bull, opening a huge, bulky gap of 40 cms, breaking the bull's inner organs and causing internal haemorrhage. The bleeding is such that quite often blood outpours not only through the wounds but also through the animal's mouth. Then he is subject to the darts, also of piercing, cutting steel. Some darts end in a blade of 80 mm (these are called `punishment darts', to be fastened to the animal if he has been able to avoid one of the three picas); the other darts are a little shorter. The blades of the darts (bandelillas) are steel harpoons which provoke a harrowing pain to the bull with his every movement. The bull is subjected to being stabbed with darts many times until he is sufficientl y weakened. He is already dying when at last he is pierced with the sword. The sword may fail to dispatch him, and the puntilleros butcher him with a stab (puntilla), in a ruthless prolonged series of attempts. Sometimes, when the bull has learnt to escape from the picas, he is pushed to a hidden backyard (the chiqueros) wherein he is stabbed, pricked, bled and tortured.”

If anyone has personally worked behind the scenes in a bullring and can swear to me that none of these things are true, please speak up. That will not change, of course, what I had in mind for the "secondly" part: the fact that the bull is not given any possible chance of a fair challenge as he is first (before being 'challenged' by the main matador with his sword) badly wounded by many armed men. But still, if anyone knows these other tortures to be currently false or exaggerated, please let me know.

You have to know that the bulls live 4 or 5 years before they die in the bullring. Until that day, thet are the best of their owners's houses. They are their pride. Many livestock farmers really love their bulls, fuss over them, and fell pain for giving them to death. But it's their destiny. Their lifes are written from the moment where they are born.

Again, that’s wonderful that the bulls have such lovely lives, but the main point is still not addressed: why are they tortured? Why can’t the art and the challenge take place by either a) killing the bull after the spectacle in a swift manner (such as in Portugal) or do away with the killing all together (as in the French “course camarguaise”)? And is the bull’s destiny to be tortured before his death? I can't see the logic in this destiny argument at all. Why is it a bull's destiny to be stabbed and bled to death, but not the destiny of a horse, a cat or a dog?

We eat chickens (or fishes, or lambs, never mind) that were born to be killed and eaten by people like me and you. Not only killed, even eaten. And I'm sure that no one of you cry for it.

The usage of “we” here is patently incorrect: in this case, “we” do not eat animals. I do not and have not for most of my life. Secondly, there are strict regulations in the United States and Europe regarding how animals must be killed. For example, from an article on beef regulation in Europe: “Current European Union regulations on killing cattle for food ordain that the animals should have a painless, instantaneous death (the animal having previously been painlessly rendered unconscious, which has brought about the famous or infamous issue of canonic slaughtering according to the precepts of some religious fundamentalists); and that a number of prescriptions be complied with as regards the raising and transport of the animals in order to secure a minimum of welfare.”

Assumptions are also made here about my reactions to animals: I do get teary when seeing the wretched dens of misery and filth that most chickens live in in the United States for example, am filled with nausea and disgust when seeing the hundreds of cow carcasses in the Rungis market in Paris. But again, I repeat that these animals are NOT under any circumstances subjected to the pre-death torture that the bulls in Spanish bullfighting are subjected to. Secondly, the “we” that it seems is being used here to define the Spanish is a bit questionable as well since

1) bullfighting is banned in Catalonia, which is still Spain and
2) according to scholar Lorenzo Peña, “Most Spaniards dislike the fiesta (the Madrid bull-ring has a capacity of some 23,000 spectators; it is seldom completely full; the Madrid area has a population of almost 5 million people). Despite the heavily subsidized publicity offensive of the taurino lobby (with TV broadcasts by all channels which make it almost impossible not to watch them unless you refrain from watching TV altogether), such occasional polls as have been exceptionally allowed (the subject being taboo) show that only about 10 to 15 percent of Spaniards do really enjoy the fiesta, with an additional 20 percent looking upon it as `normal', while the majority never watch such shows or dislike them. A sociologist named Prof. Amando de Miguel, has published the results of his survey in the pro-taurino monarchist newspaper ABC, on 17-03-1996: 35 percent of Spaniards never watch corridas; 33 percent declare they dislike them altogether; 19 percent enjoy them `a little' ; 13 percent enjoy it `very much'.


Sometimes, unusually, if the bull has involved bravely, its life is forgiven and die in the country, free...

I understand that the spectacle is quite grotesque if you don't know the meaning of the different things which take place in it. I advise to read before write, and try to understand some basic things about our main tradition.

Again, these assumptions: I’ve read a great deal on this subject and only agreed to go to a bullfight at all to see firsthand if there was something that I was missing. Now, if there are “basic things” about this “main tradition” that I have missed here, I am eager to hear what they are, because presently I have not been provided with any compelling argument in support of bullfighting. In fact, my one and only complaint has not been addressed, which, as I've already made abundantly clear, is this: WHY is the torture of the bull necessary? Additionally, just because this variety of bullfighting is the main tradition of some, not all, Spanish people, does not make it something good or worthy of being revered. For example, in gladiator days, crowds watched and cheered as humans were torn to bits. That was a tradition, but was it a good one? No. In some countries, it is a tradition for young women to be “circumcised” in most cases against their will, causing most of them to be mutilated and in pain for the rest of their lives. Is that practice to be upheld and protected in the name of tradition? I think not. And for an example from the United States, proponents of slavery often argued in its defense on the basis of the master and slave relationship being a “tradition” that deserved preservation and respect. Of course that was false, and the tradition was abolished, for the undeniable betterment of society.

All of that is to say that it makes no difference in this particular discussion whether anyone calls this variety of bullfighting a “tradition.” Traditions can be bad or good and sometimes require change, as I believe, until persuaded otherwise, that this one does.

Please won't you *not* be my neighbor

Since the first of May, nothing has been the same in the apartment. I find that I miss my next-door meatball to whom I never spoke, and I definitely miss the two girls who used to be here. The beautiful Italian was also nice to have around. Their departure at the beginning of the month wouldn’t have been so tragic if they had been replaced by equivalently interesting or nice people. Instead, we now have one absurdly tall, skeletal Swede whose eyes protrude alarmingly out from his head and who slinks around much too noiselessly; we have a tall German man, also frighteningly skinny, who dresses only in black cotton, with the exception of his steel-toed combat boots; we have an American girl from Los Angeles who came to stay here for vacation--though she doesn’t know anyone and doesn’t speak Spanish and doesn’t take classes—and who disinfects her hands 3 or 4 times in the course of a conversation of the same length in minutes. We also have a Colombian couple in their fifties. The husband apparently has some vision problems as he leaves the bathroom covered with pieces of his shaved off beard and dribbles of urine on the toilet. I find this most unpleasant, though he and his wife are otherwise friendly people.

However, the last new tenant is my least favorite of all. He looks quite a lot like Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump, though in that dirty, angry hippy phase post leg-loss. I forgot his real name because in my head he is Lieutenant Dan (actually, more like “lootinint day-yan”). He is from Nebraska and eats nothing but white bread, pork products and beer (his refrigerator shelf is right above mine). Lt. Dan’s diet is reflected in the most unfortunate way in his skin, which is excessively greasy, large-pored, and ruddy. He has hair growing chia-pet like from everywhere and he smells so sweaty that you can detect his odor walking a half a block behind him. All of this would be….less awful if he had a better personality. Lieutenant Dan introduced himself in the following way “Hi I’m Lieutenant Dan, from Nebraska, though I did my graduate work at Harvard.” What?! I found that to be both tacky and a pathetic attempt at arrogance. It was at that very moment that I began to see all of the pores on his face and the hairs on his neck. I might not have noticed them if he hadn’t been so arrogant. No, I would definitely have noticed them, but maybe they would have bothered me less. Anyway, I also dislike the way I run into him every evening when I’m coming home from class—he has a sneaky, cackling way of laughing, an insulting habit of not looking at my eyes when he speaks to me, and he follows me up the four flights of stairs even though I know he usually takes the elevator. Today, to avoid him, I dilly dallied at the university with some students, then walked half the way home. I arrived 40 minutes later than usual, only to find him smoking on a bench in front of our building. He threw his half smoked cigarette on the ground and followed me in the building.

I dislike him and his serpentine ways…

Madrileño Morning, cont'd

I haven't been doing a very good job of writing here recently, so I'd forgotten all about the Madrileño morning photos. Here is the information on that, as I wrote the day I took the pictures (see previous post called Madrileño morning):

I am seated on the sunny patio of a café. It is 9 o'clock on a Saturday morning. I am mainly alone in the café, and the street is quiet but for a group of young Madrilenos (likely just a tad older than me) who clearly have yet to go home from their night-long fiesta. It is also clear from the volume of their voices, their stumbling, their raucous laughter and the large glass bottles of beer they carry that they are quite drunk. I am annoyed by them and want them to go home, or at the very least just to go away.

But they don't go away. They talk and laugh and drink and suddenly one of the young men begins to sing. His voice is acrylic and strong and resonates off the tiled square, off the walls of the buildings and sends chills down my spine. Soon, two bald, pot-bellied men come to the windows of their apartments several stories above the square to listen, leaning on their elbows as they watch the singer. He is singing some kind of flamenco song, but he isn't exactly singing--he is forcing those strident, melancolic notes out from the bottom of his chest. They are beautiful, but sound very painful, as if they are beating their way out of him. From where I sit, I can see his face redden and his chest heave with the effort of his song. The young man's song is something about a girl named Lucia, her eyes, the moon and the singer's heart. The street is filled with nothing but the sound of this young man's exquisite plea to Lucia for several long and lovely minutes.

His friends had all been gathered tightly around him as he sang, but one of the girls begins to do a flamenco dance at a little distance from the group. She raises her arms delicately over her head and stamps her feet to the rhythm of her friend's voice. After a moment she stumbles and falls over, scraping her hand, and they seem to remember all at once that they are drunk and without sleep. The music and dancing stops, they trip and meander their way out of the square and down the street and as I watch the impromptu concert grow smaller in the distance I think to myself, "what a wonderful way for me to begin a Saturday morning."

La Corrida

(Photos are self explanatory, no? I want only to point out that that horse you see is the one that gets shoved around by the bull. That coat he's wearing is his protection. Also, the photo of me and Daddy was taken before the bullfight, so we look quite happy. Actually, Daddy looks happy and I look horrid. But I like the expression on his face, so I thought it best to swallow my pride and post it anyway
: )

Daddy insisted that we go to a bullfight. And so we did. I can now say with authority that it is without question the most inhumane display of barbarism that I have ever witnessed and quite a putrid relic of gladiators days. In my view la corrida has no place in today’s world, or at least not a corrida with swords and killing. I’m quite sure that the “art” could be achieved and appreciated without the slow slaughter. Oh it was hideous.

There was a vociferous Spanish spectator next to us who, when the matador’s sword wouldn’t penetrate the bull’s body, bellowed with disgust, “No es así! Muy malo! Muy malo!!!” (not like that! Very bad! He muttered other things as well, but those were the only ones I could make out). He pitched the casings of his pumpkin seeds to the ground with gusto following each exclamation. Listening to him I was marked by the notion of there being a correct way to bleed a bull to death in this arena. Noticing my disgust, and taking advantage of daddy’s bathroom absence, he said, “oye, chica—it’s not “let’s go watch a bull die”, but art. This is art. And there’s a right way to do it.” (that was in Spanish, but I don’t know really exactly how to write what he said).
“De acuerdo,” I said carefully, “pero el torro va morrir, verdad? Entonces…” (okay, but the bull is going to die, right? So…) Before I could struggle through another sentence he had interrupted me and was repeating this business about it being art. I was unconvinced.

One very mildly positive thing I can point out is that I gained greater perspective on two commonly used expressions during the bullfight:

The matador spent many minutes doing a sort of tango with the bull and a crimson cape. Apparently, he was more or less hypnotizing the bull. In the end, the doomed creature charged into the swords that killed him because he ran toward the only thing he saw: the red. Hence the expression “seeing red.”

In the first part of the spectacle, before the matador is alone with the bull in the ring, a man enters, mounted on a sort of armored horse, with a long, thick javelin at his side (a thick round sword at the end). This horseman then stabs the bull from his perch. Subsequently the enraged bull charges at his attacker, jabbing his horns up into the underbelly of the (gagged and blindfolded) horse. The entire horse and rider are lifted up off the ground by bull’s head. And so I came to understand the meaning of “bull headed.” [PS this was a particularly horrific part of the bullfight. I couldn’t understand, though it was gagged, why the horse didn’t make any noise. I could see its hooves trembling in fear or pain, but it never made a noise. On the other hand, my pumpkin-seed gobbling, beer guzzling neighbor made lots of noise scoffing at my pity for the horse. He explained that before, until some years ago, the horse entered the arena unprotected. And so, in this way, it went without saying that part of the bullfight involved watching a horse get gored to death by the bull]

Also, watching the matador strut around the arena, chin tucked under, pelvis thrust forward arms spread back, recalled images of bullfighters from old Warner Brothers cartoons. The cartoonists were extremely accurate in their depictions of the facial expressions and movements which, to me as a child seemed absurdly, impossibly dramatic. And yet, no….

In all seriousness, I must say this:
I couldn’t have imagined I would have to blink away tears for the death of an animal
until I heard a 600 kilo bull bleating for mercy
as blood streamed from his mouth,
as the stadium cheered and applauded,
as the beaten animal finally collapsed,
twitching in a mass of wet, blackened sand.

This is what I carried with me out of the arena.

The Hallway

A picture to go with the description (see the "Mi casa" entry).

Swedish Update

It seems that our Swede has captured the interest not only of the apartment mates here in Madrid but of everyone who has read about him. I thought you all should know that Meatball has left the building. I even have his room now! It's nearly twice as big as my old one, and much more soundproof. I don't hear the neighbors as I did before, which makes it both easier to sleep and more difficult to find funny things to write about.

I spoke to Married with Children before he left, as I ran into him in the lobby of the building while he was waiting for his taxi.

"Are you leaving?" I asked.

"Yes. I am happy to go home." He smiled (this being the first time) and went into the street.

For the record, mainly in response to May's hilarious comment, he ate all varieties of meatballs. He ate Italian looking meatballs, meatballs in cartons written in Spanish, and on one occasion, I saw (in the wastepaper basket in the kitchen) an empty carton of Swedish meatballs from Ikea : )

Madrileno Morning

A story will follow this picture, though likely not today. I am leaving for Toledo with Daddy in a few minutes. And no, not Toledo Ohio (though Daddy did ask a man at the tourist office, jokingly, if it looked the same as Toledo Ohio. If it did, he said, there was no point in going since he spent many years in there and didn't care to go back).

Mi Casa

First, a little about where I am living.

The street is called Valverde. From one end, the end from which I took the picture, it is quite lovely. The other end, however, is peppered with sex shops selling “love toys,” as advertised from the outside (among other things, no doubt). Also, there are a number of prostitutes on that end of the street. When I say “a number”, the number I see is along the order of 15 or 20.

[I would like to point out that this is really my first “experience” with prostitutes. I’ve seen one or two women that I’ve suspected of being prostitutes in Paris, and one or two “confirmed” prostitutes in Nantes. But needless to say, I never saw throngs of them, never up close and never every day. Any previous knowledge I had about prostitutes came from Hollywood movies. So I was shocked to find that they don’t all dress particularly provocatively, they don’t all wear a lot of make up, and the greater majority of them on my street stand in doorways mindlessly cracking open pumpkin seeds with their front teeth (chucking the casings on the pavement) and drinking fruit juice. Jackets, flip flops, pumpkin seeds and fruit juice? This isn’t at all what I had pictured]

The apartment itself is really like an upscale dorm—there are eight of us who live here, all in our 20’s. Each person has their own private bedroom, but we share a lounge area, kitchen and three full bathrooms. The entire place is immaculately clean, white and quiet. The décor is very VERY minimalist—there is little furniture and little decoration, and everything is white. The entire place is situated along one long narrow hallway, the lounge in the front, the rooms in the middle and the kitchen and bathroom at the end. The hallway has high white ceilings, halogen light, white walls, white wood floor. All of the sounds echo and resonate through this space, so everyone has taken to stepping lightly and to speaking in hushed tones. In fact, one of the girls here says that no one should stay more than two months in this apartment because it so resembles a mental institution that you will necessarily lose your mind to fit in to the surroundings. I don’t know if I necessarily agree, since I happen to love clean, quiet spaces. I won’t find out, of course, since I’ll be leaving after two months.

My immediate neighbor is quite peculiar. It seems he is Swedish and has been here since October. Perhaps he has gone mad months ago. No one knows what his name is. When I say “no one,” I am referring to a Mexican girl (Regina) and a Venezuelan girl (Maria) who are the two residents I am friendly with, and the only two who are very social. There used to be a beautiful Italian guy called Franco, who was social, but he’s gone back to Italy. He didn’t know the Swedish man’s name, either. General consensus is that he is very odd, our Swede. For one thing, he must have every season of Married With Children on DVD box set—before work in the morning, he watches an episode, and as soon as he comes home at night from work, I hear him nearly running down the hallway, fumbling with his keys, and turning it on the second he gets in the door. “love and marriage love and marriage…” The first few days I was here, when I wasn’t going out very much, I toyed with the notion that perhaps that was his cell phone ring since I heard it so often. But one evening while I was trying to sleep, I noticed that it came, in fact, about every 40 minutes and that he never spoke afterwards. And so in this way I ruled out the cell phone theory. He presumably watches the show all evening long, until about midnight, only breaking to make himself some dinner (as every time I come in or go out I hear the theme song or Al Bundy). Another, and final, detail about him: he eats microwaveable meatballs every night.

The room to the left of me is occupied by an Indian man from England (judging by his accent that I hear through the wall), whom I’ve seen only once. But I hear him most nights talking to his girlfriend over the internet (she’s in medical school in London and wants to drop out), and watching Bollywood movies.

Next to him is a young Mexican girl, according to Regina from a very small town, who spends the entire weekend making (and subsequently eating) corn tortillas from scratch with eggs and green chile sauce.

It’s quite an interesting bunch…

Complutense

My classes are at the Complutense University on the edge of Madrid. There are 90,000 students spread out throughout the different schools, making it the largest in Spain and more than twice as big as Michigan. The campus is large and sprawling, covered with trees and really hideous specimens of 1970’s architecture. My class building (see picture) reminds me quite a lot of Communist apartment buildings in Baku. The funny things is, despite all of that, the campus really isn’t ugly. In fact, I think it’s quite pretty. I can’t under-emphasize the trees—there are so many of them and they are so lovely. There are oaks and sycamore and many fir trees, the delicate kind that only grow in hot places. Also, they don’t have gardens or landscaping on campus (though there is a large botanical garden), but the untended to hills and green spaces are filled with wild grasses, poppies and some kind of purple flower/weed. The wild grasses shine gold under the hot sun…I wait for class to start on a little hill in front of my class building, and looking behind me into the grasses and pines you would think I was in the countryside. I took a picture of myself for you to see how pretty it is (please note the golden grasses : ).

There are only 6 people in my class, and 7 teachers. In fact, the ‘teachers’ are composed of 3 professors and 4 grad students getting their masters in education. The odd thing is that all of them come to class—we have four hours of class a day, in a row, and all of them sit behind us through each class. Well, they take turns teaching the classes, so only 6 of them sit behind us at a given time. The teachers are all very lively and kind, and all speak very fast, “becauseSpanishpeoplespeakfast,so[we]needtolearntounderstandthematthatspeed.”

In the class there is one Russian (Valeria, 27, who never wears a bra, has permed, peroxide blond hair—dyed dark brown at the roots—whose fluorescent clothes were all purchased one size too small, and whose “life’s dream” is to own a pink Porsche), one Italian boy named GianPaolo (23, who was looking for a ‘girlfriend’ from the beginning and who has quickly taken to making out with Valeria in front of the classroom), Meital (who is 34, Israeli and very sweet, and whose name means “dew.” I’ve been spending quite a lot of time with her and her husband, who is here working on some kind of Masters degree in International law. Both of them are lawyers), Liv (a 26 year-old red-headed Norwegian nurse with dreadlocks and body-piercings), and finally Lala (an 18 year old girl from Baku who arrogantly declared on the first day that she speaks 5 languages fluently, among which English is her very best non-native language, but who can neither speak nor understand English. Example:

Me: “So Lala—do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Lala: (blink blink blink) “you do? Family is good.”
Me: “umm….so you do have siblings?”
Lala: “Yes, I want to have many child. My father is of 7 child.”
Me: “oh, I guess class is starting. It’s nice talking to you.”

Another striking feature about Lala: she has large, lovely wide-set eyes and a very large space between her eyes and eyebrows—she paints this space in the colors and shape of a peacock’s tail-feathers.

Madrid

There are a number of things which surprise me about Madrid. Firstly, I had never actually seen a picture of it before landing here. So the hilly-ness of the city and its many trees surprise me, as I imagined it to be situated in a desert-like red bowl of dust, concave and treeless. In fact, there are many, many trees (more in the center than in Paris by far), lots of hills and there has been no red dust. Secondly, I always assumed that Paris was one of the European capitals that spoke the least English, despite its huge tourism industry. Now I have found a European capital that speaks even less English than Paris. My assumption that many people would speak French was also rebuffed by tourism office workers, waiters and store clerks who snorted and/or giggled when I asked those who didn’t understand me if they spoke French.

There are old men with Picasso-like brown leathery skin who surprise me, as they whistle down the street from their bicycles so that people will bring their knives for sharpening between the stones on his handle-bar. And there are short, large-bellied men playing classical Spanish music on harps and accordions in the street who surprise me.

There is more of certain kinds of noise here than in Paris: more guitarists with lovely voices and lively fingers singing Spanish love songs, louder conversations, more laughter, more groups of people (adults mainly) singing and clapping together on the street as they remember a song, more birds singing (and singing louder—I think they have some different birds here…). So far, I have heard less honking and much much less “Vous êtes malade ou quoi?!”.

The biggest surprise of all is the huge park in the city, El Retiro. What shocks me most about it is that it exists at all. What I mean to say is that I particularly love gardens and parks. I have books on exquisite gardens of the world, and have read many more. Further, I have even taken a semester long landscape architecture class in which we spent several weeks studying the impact of urban green spaces on their urban area and population. In all of those readings and studies, many parks and gardens around the world were mentioned. But never ONCE was this one mentioned. Not only is this one more beautiful than any I’ve ever seen (including Central Park, the Luxembourg Gardens, Golden Gate Park), but it is definitely the most used and loved of those that I have seen. Each time I go, at any time of the day, any day of the week, holiday or non-holiday, the massive park is packed with people. The reason, aside from the beauty, is that they have so much going on inside: they have cafés, food stands, potato chip, pumpkin seed, candy and nut-vendors, ice-cream stands, fortune tellers, palm readers, acrobats, south-american guitarists singing love songs, Spanish kids doing choreographed hip-hop dances (for money), Chinese people drawings names in Chinese characters, balloon animal makers dressed up as Mickey Mouse, toy stands, soccer greens, basketball hoops, rollerblading, bicycling, picnic tables, concerts….And of course, perhaps best of all, is the man-made lake in the center of the park, on which you can rent a paddle boat (see picture). There is also a Conservatory (for flowers, though it’s used as an art exhibit space now) in the woods of the park made entirely of crystal. The sun shines through the panes and beams rainbows across the grass, onto the leaves of the surrounding trees…

Finally, Madrid mornings smell different from Paris mornings—I smell more coffee and hot oil than freshly baking bread (PS I really don’t like churros, nor do I like churros y chocolate).

Duck Duck...Pigeon!

Imagine a sunny day in the 7th arrondissement of Paris, in a café echoing with old Celine Dion songs, and a creepy, too short (even seated, his near-dwarfism is apparent), dark-eyed Gaulois watching me type.

In my line of view there is a young American girl, at most three years older than me, sitting on a stool with her young Italian husband. She has a big diamond wedding ring on her finger. Something about her has seemed familiar to me since she sat in front of me about an hour ago. [Oh, and incidentally, the bit about the diamond ring has nothing to do with this story at all, other than the fact that it is particularly remarkable on her young hands. It also doesn’t really jive with her pumas, sevens and tank top. Or no…maybe it’s the floppy knot of hair that makes her ring look out of place…I don’t know; en tous cas, il y a pour moi quelque chose qui cloche.]

Occasionally I have been eavesdropping and glancing at this couple, to glean little bits of information about who they are. A few moments ago they began talking about bird watching.

She brought it up.

Her Italian husband laughed and declared that no one really did beerd watcheeng. She retorts:
-Hey! Don’t knock bird watching! It’s really serious for some people. When you come visit my grandparents in Michigan, you better not say anything like that in front of them. They spend hours bird watching.

What?!

-Yeah! There’ll be a bird going ‘tweet tweet’ outside and my grandma will be in the kitchen and go ‘oh hey, listen! There’s like a…chickadee outside’ Yeah, totally! They’re totally serious about it. So..yeah.

She pronounced these last words (so…yeah) with great conviction and with a look of having satisfactorily won an argument on her face.

So there you have it. I’m just thoroughly amused by this whole scene, nothing more nothing less. I’m also now wondering whether she seems so familiar to me because I’ve seen her before in Michigan, or whether because I somehow intuitively recognize her as being from Michigan.

Is that possible? Is there something especially michigan-y about Michiganders? Opinions welcome.


On a different bird topic, a couple of weeks ago, I was walking down a narrow street in Paris when 6 or 7 pigeons came swooping down through the middle of the street. I ducked a little, but gracefully, acting sort of like I was looking behind me. When I did, my gaze crossed that of a middle-aged man walking 20 paces or so behind me. He smiled a little at me, as in "I saw that ducking, but who ducks for pigeons? They have an innate sense of SPLAT!!!!!" One of the pigeons ran smack into his face, scratching his cheek.

"Voulez-vous un mouchoir, monsieur?"

"Non, merci," he grumbled, suddenly not smirking any more.

Good thing I ducked.

Photos from Avignon...

A few things:

One of the pictures of me was taken from halfway up the walkways along the walls of the Palais des Papes. The other was taken in a fantastic little tea salon in Avignon. It was just like me; an English style tea-service and décor served in a French style (with miniature home-made almond "financiers"), and middle-eastern music playing softly overhead.

The first bridge is the Pont d'Avignon. The second picture of a bridge, the large many arched one, is called "Pont du Gard." It is very old and Roman, but that's all I can tell you. It has it's own theme-park of sorts, not entirely unlike Niagara falls, but cleaner and more chic. Well, plus français, quoi.

The olive tree is from 908 AD, and has its very own plaque saying so. Isn't it beautiful? Though it is located along the footpath leading to the Pont du Gard, it is not originally from that spot--it was transplanted from Spain in 1985. Notice how many of the little leaves were captured as mere green blurs by my 7 megapixel digital camera. This should indicate one thing to you: Mistral.

All the other photos are probably self-explanatory, but if not, let me know : )

Paris retrospective

Yesterday I went to see a fantastic exhibit of Wily Ronis’ Paris photographs. It was all the better because, despite his 95 years of age at the time, he was very active in preparing the show. And so both his genius and his personality were imparted on the organization of the works.

At the exhibit there were two elderly Parisian women, each a head shorter than I am. As the photos were arranged chronologically, and as I had entered the exhibit just moments after them, I got to know the women a little as I followed them through the exhibit, photograph by photograph (I also got the know the tops of their heads quite well, which is a detail I will come back to). They stood before each picture for several minutes, faces craned upwards, tracing over the trees and the angles of buildings with their arthritic fingers. For these women, the process of viewing each picture was the same: identify the location in Paris at which the photograph was taken, then try to associate some personal memory with the location. In one instance, for example, there was a picture of a worker strike in the 1930’s. One of the women said to the other, “I remember I met you there that day, the day of the strike. You had your blue vest on!”
-Oh! The blue vest! Yes…oh, I loved that vest. Do you remember the buttons?
“Oh they were incomparable! I wanted a vest just like yours!”
-No one had a vest like that (shakes head slowly, lips pursed pridefully). That’s why it was so special (silence, punctuated by the other woman’s nodding).
Then, arm in arm, they hobbled on to the next picture to play their game of memories.

I was seeing the exhibit along with them, viewing them as much as I was viewing Ronis’ photographs. I was very touched by the notion of two Parisian ladies, presumably in their eighties (at least), going on an excursion together to a photography exhibit; I was touched by the way they helped support each other physically as they walked, and touched by how they supported each other by recalling or clarifying memories (“no, no, your hair was long then, and you had that sweetheart who lived in the 15th, remember?”). It was both beautiful and sweet to see the photographs through my eyes and theirs, but watching them also made me sad.

Their hair was teased and sprayed into what looked like helmets, with a roll of hair turning upward, running down the base of their necks from ear to ear. As I stared at the tops of their heads and listened to them reminisce, it occurred to me that their hairstyle might in fact be a helmet of sorts—-maybe it’s a psychological protection against the relentless coming of years. Maybe when they look in the mirror and see the hairstyle they had in the 60’s, when they were 30 or 40 years old, they feel only the weight of the first few decades of life on their backs, and not all 80 or 90 years of it…

Another thing that struck me about the exhibit was something that Ronis said about why it was that he ever took photographs, and why he took so many of people, often very ordinary, in Paris (and not of more grandiose things such as monuments or buildings):

“Bien sûr que j’aime l’architecture de Paris—c’est ma ville, elle est belle. Mais c’est les gens qui m’intéressent…ce qui m’intéressait c’était de voir mes frères et mes soeurs parisiens et comment ils vivaient…je retrouvais des gens avec qui j’aurais pu vivre, avec qui j’aurais pu converser, qui auraient pu être mes amis, mes voisins; des gens qui m’inspiraient de la sympathie.”

(Of course I adore the architecture of Paris—it’s my city. It’s beautiful. But it’s the people who interest me…what interested me was to see my Parisian brothers and sisters and how they lived…I found people with whom I could have lived, with whom I could have had conversations, who could have been my friends, neighbors; people who aroused sympathy in me)

I believe this to be true. It is for me, in any event. I take pictures of people window shopping, or men laughing in the park, and I note the kind of the light that falls on their faces. I think I do this in order to preserve and to appropriate moments of other people’s lives in which I crave some kind of participation. Maybe I want to feel like the mother and daughter gazing into the windows of stores and to feel the joy that makes the men in the park laugh. All of this is to say that it occurred to me yesterday that my taking of pictures, and my scribbling of notes, is about living moments of other people’s lives, and joining my experience with theirs. It makes me feel larger—-more than "one," anyway.

The women in the picture at the top are not the women I was speaking about--they are two other women I found sitting in a park, chatting about the birds.

sur le pont d'avignon

You all might have noticed that my brain is wired in such a way that one word, phrase or object will instantly call up a song. For instance, when I hear the words “Last night” I either think to myself, or, more often than not, sing, “Last night I watched him sleeping, once more the nightmare came…” from Miss Saigon. Or, even more ridiculously, when I hear “Marseille,” I think “Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé…”
[Four years ago, when I was spending the weekend with some French friends in Normandy, I was in the kitchen (which was open to the living room) while my friend’s mother talked to her cousin about his recent move to Marseille in the living room. As I was pouring myself a glass of water, I thoughtlessly began to sing the Marseillaise. And though I had been singing quietly, conversation in the next room ceased. Raucous laughter followed a brief pause (for the sake of clarity, I was not involved in the raucous laughter).
“Oh!!!!!!I (gasp for air between bouts of intensive giggling) knew (HAHAHAHAHA) you (ha….ha…HAHAHA) looooooooved France, but I (gasp….ha. ha. HAHAHA) didn’t realize you loved it (heh) that much!!!!!!! Our little American who hums the Marseillaise in the kitchen!”]

That being said, you all might imagine my first reaction to Stéphane’s invitation to Avignon….

Yes. That’s right: “Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse, on y danse…” This time, though, Stéphane and I laughed together, which was decidedly more pleasant. Anyway, you can only imagine my delight at actually having found myself “sur” the pont d’avignon. It was lovely and exciting for me; the above picture was taken on the bridge. I was too timid to actually pretend to be dancing in circles for my photo, though the thought did cross my mind. But then, just when I was contemplating being that silly, I saw a Chinese girl about my age striking a sort of jazzercise pose for her picture. It was at that point that I thought perhaps I would not dance on the bridge. My apologies to all disappointed parties.

Other than the famous "Pont," I visited the Pope’s Palace (or…“papal” palace?), strolled through the adorable but cold and empty streets, learned why people talk so much about “The Mistral” and otherwise had a wonderful time. First of all, knowing nothing about Catholicism and knowing almost nothing about old European history, I was not aware that the seat of the Catholic Church was in Avignon for over a hundred years, beginning the 1300’s. And so, much to my surprise, there is a fairly ornate, medieval Vatican of sorts in the southern part of France. Also surprising (and funny, especially) is that on the medieval frescoes in the papal chambers are naked women bathing. Maybe they had different definitions of papal chastity back then…? Unfortunately, no photos were allowed inside the palace, so you will all have to come see for yourselves what I am talking about.

Now. The Mistral: before I encountered it in real life, my reaction to the mention of the allegedly cold and bitter wind that blows through the south of France on occasion was the following: I am from Michigan—don’t you think I know what glacial winds are? Apparently, I did not know. No no no. I definitely did not know. The much talked about Mistral turns out to be a wind that approximates those nasty Canadian polar winds that sometime knock around Michigan in the dead of winter, but the Mistral is colder, stronger and sneakier. The Mistral swirls and slaps, whistles and squeals across the corners and roofs of houses, and you can hear the gales coming from afar from the groaning and snapping of the trees. You’ll say “oh, but we have that in Michigan.” Yes, we do, but the Mistral is worse. Soooooo much worse.

Needless to say, there are few tourists in Avignon this time of year. But despite the Mistral, the narrow, cobble-stoned streets; the sunny, sycamore-lined squares; and the not exceedingly expensive gourmet restaurants with exceedingly fresh, inventive fare, were all so charming that I can’t wait for the opportunity to go back one day for the festival in the summer time.