An Unknown Spot of Earth

A kind and soothing breeze whistles through the warm fall air. The vines from the neighbor's vineyard shudder closer to their trellis and my scarf falls neatly around my neck. The cloudless sky above me is reminiscent of the clear blue that colors Wisconsin in its Indian summer. And as I sit here, basking in this calm moment of paradise, my host, Marianne, joins me on the lawn with a bottle of wine, fresh goat's cheese, and charcuterie. I cannot help but wonder, "What on earth have I done to merit this exquisite moment tucked away in an unknown spot on this earth?"

If someone had informed me two weeks ago that this tiny French village would be my new home for a little while, I would have responded with outrage, confusion, and derision. Vertou is a suburb of Nantes that is home to less than 2,000 inhabitants. But it is unlike any other suburb I have ever seen in this world. Were it not for the presence of all the cars and power lines, I would say it is a village untouched by time and untainted by 20th century struggle, where people mostly grow their own vegetables, trade homemade cheeses, and purchase the majority of their wine from the local vineyard. In short, it is the France of everyone's dreams. Until this moment, it existed only within the pages of the French textbooks I've read since I was eleven. It is the France we French majors know exists but have never truly seen or learned about. Our American obsession with Paris as the epitome of what it is to be French is completely irreconcilable with this paysage (landscape) of the past. This, readers, is a glorious France beyond description, breathlessly waiting for people to discover it.

Again, this was the last kind of France I thought would experience upon my arrival in Nantes. However, when I stepped off the train a week ago, I discovered that the apartment situation I imagined was far from the reality. I was promised a nice little room in a two bedroom apartment to share with a young couple. What I found instead was a closet for a bedroom in an unsafe neighborhood where my "roommates" were drug addicts, my landlord illegally rented me the room, and a kitchen that was as messy as it was dirty and full of flies. Cockroaches were everywhere. For this, I was expected to pay 90 euro a week, in advance, in cash. Needless to say, I was heartbroken, angry, and frightened. I needed to change my situation, and fast.

But as much as I adore the French, they are slow on the uptake and often quick to take advantage of foreigners (especially Americans, because we're dumb and naive). Desperate, hopeless, and literally living on a prayer, I made a visit to the IES center in Nantes. Having explained my situation (and, I might add, incredibly lucky to have studied at the sister IES center in Paris), their staff dropped everything for two hours and frantically called their contacts and emailed various host families. Their only possibility was from a distant connection with a family in Vertou. I bit my tongue and swallowed hard. I knew it was my only option, so I was bound and determined to make it work.

I met with the Garniers in their home in provincial Vertou and immediately fell in love with them. They warmly invited me to stay with them at no cost - provided I spoke English at dinner. I could not believe my luck. The big guy upstairs answered my desperate plea. Not only would I have a place to stay, but a loving family to call my own. In an hour of laughter and anecdotes, my prospects changed from homelessness to heaven. At this moment, I am more grateful than anyone else on this planet and surely among the luckiest. I see this incredible happenstance as the opportunity of a lifetime. I have no idea how long I will stay with the Garnier family, but I do know it is a unique moment in my life. It is calm and beautiful here in Vertou, and as such it gives me a glimpse of a France and a life I have never seen before. And maybe, at the end of my time here, I will at last find the ability to express in words the quintessence of what it is to live the way the French do. Until then, I will bask in the glowing of the great perhaps that has already changed the quintessence of me. Young, growing, and hopeful, my adventure has just begun.

The Wise, Wayfaring Stranger

Her name is Rasha. At the age of 65, she meanders, shoeless, through the northern metro lines, chanting a haunting Islamic melody in Arabic. She is frightening and mysterious, and everyone in the car brutally ignores her. She is one of thousands of immigrants who come to Paris in search of a better life, much like my ancestors from Germany to the United States two centuries ago. The chant that rang from her throat on that rainy Friday morning is one I shall never, ever, forget.

With Rasha in mind, I set out to discover a Paris I've never seen before: that is, la Paris profonde, or "deep Paris". The Paris that tourists do not know about. The Paris that students shy from. The Paris that exists for the majority of people who live here. When I studied abroad in 2011, my experience was filled with traditional French people, rich food, and ritzy neighborhoods. Monuments and museums filled my nights and classes like French literature with other Americans filled my days. This time around, I deliberately went to neighborhoods I would have previously avoided and spent the majority of my days alone.

Being alone in Paris is daunting and a little overwhelming. You have no one to rely on but yourself. The enduring loneliness made me somewhat of an accidental anthropologist. I spent the majority of my time watching the everyday habits of ordinary Parisians. I went around Paris' perimeters. I walked from one side of the city to the other. I saw Chinatown, Arabville, and Little Africa. I watched racism take place and poor schoolboys sprint to the harsh, closing doors of the metro. I helped an elderly French woman carry her groceries home. I had drinks with an Argentinian guy and chatted about European life with a student from Switzerland. And around 2 p.m., I always, always took an espresso at the closest café. Indeed, my week here in Paris has been a charmed life. But at the same time, I cannot help but feel that I really do not belong here anymore.

Of all the people I've watched, whether strolling in front of me or hurrying past on their way to somewhere important, they have lives and friends and family here in Paris, the prized jewel in the crown of France. They have the distinct privilege of calling it home. On Saturday, I met up with my friend Emily from Lawrence, who is starting her semester with IES this fall exactly two years after I started mine. And while Emily is a good friend with whom I made many memories in this city, she and her fellow IES compatriots made me feel out of place, old, and wise.

I know Paris extremely well. I have fearlessly roamed her grand boulevards and strolled along the magnificent Seine. I do not need a metro or bus map to get around, for I know most of the lines by heart. I do not need maps, directions, or help to get around and I hardly need the coveted Paris Pratique that never left my bag two years ago. This city and the experiences I had within and without her walls made me the person I am today. Emily and all those starting IES this fall have not yet had that experience. And while I think they are all wonderful, I cannot relate to them because I am no longer impressed by Paris' beauty or the quality of her coffee or the gentility of her people. She no longer intimidates me the way she intimidates them. Rather, she embraces me like an old friend, and tells me stories of her people over a dozen two euro coffees within her peripherie. My dear Paris, you will always be my first love and a vibrant living memory, but it is time to leave your warm embrace in search of my next great perhaps.

Tomorrow, I will board a train that will speed toward a great dawn of experience and opportunity. But I will not shed a tear for the precious moments I have spent here. As my host mother, Madame told me, "Paris will wait for you until the end of time. But you must leave her to write the next chapter of the book that is your life." And as I head to the Eiffel Tower on this beautifully clear and starry night to watch her light up one last time, I only regret that I never took time to appreciate all the little things Paris did that made me, well, me.

Until next time, my love.
Paris, je t'aime.

Familiar Smells and Solitude, Down Streets I've Never Been

I am now entirely convinced that there is only one way to immerse oneself in the happenings of Paris. That is, to get so incredibly lost you feel there is no way you shall ever find your way home. It is terrifying and thrilling and not altogether an unusual experience in a place that doesn't believe in grid systems.

Today, I tackled an area of Paris that I have long avoided: Montmartre. When I studied here two years ago, I was downright prejudiced and convinced that Montmartre was only a tourist jam. I was also convinced it was full of petty theft and far more ghetto than cute. While there is truth to some of these stereotypes (especially the one concerning tourists), I am pleased to report that the afternoon I spent climbing its hills was one of the best afternoons I've ever spent here. It is an exquisite little place full of quirky residents and rich history.

In other news, I cannot believe I ever forgot about the amazing quality of the food in France. Everything is so rich, natural, and fresh! Madame never spends more than an hour cooking, and yet the meals she puts in front of me would take me hours in the states! I often watch her transformation of food with wonderment and jealousy, and by the time we're ready to eat, my appetite and expectation are understandably at an all time high.

It's hard to describe French food, much like it's hard to describe French style, French living, and the French language. There are, however, two words that come close: effortless and elegant. I've made a promise to myself to explore the Paris I've never known, and today was a start. For the past two days I've made a whirlwind tour of all my old hangouts - Rue Daguerre, Café Indiana in Montparnasse, the Latin quarter, and the Marais. And while there is always a special place in my heart for all these exquisite places, they now reek of nostalgia. It is far too depressing for me to stroll the avenues of these lovely neighborhoods without my friends from IES by my side. But I refuse to sulk in my solitude. I am here in Paris for four more days, and I intend to make the most of the countless streets I have never seen.

Paris is a sensory overload. For the second time in a row, I am wholly overwhelmed by the variety of things there are to see, smell, taste, feel, and hear. Every quartier has its own unique blend of smells that cannot be replicated anywhere else. When I left my host mother’s apartment in Neuilly-sur-Seine yesterday, the first thing I noticed were the smells. Just below her apartment building is a flower shop, run by one of Madame’s close friends. Walking down the street toward the metro stop is the extraordinary smell of freshly baked breads. It wafts through the air and permeates an entire city block with its bouquet. Descending into the metro is that familiar smell of steel, smoke, and strong French cologne (Disclaimer: this is hardly the case with most Paris metro stops – just Pont de Neuilly. It’s on the border with the French business district, La Défense, so there is always an army of attractive French men on every departing train).

While the buildings and monuments of American cities are mostly gray and silver, with a little dash of red thrown in, Paris is a "moveable feast for the eyes", according to Thomas Jefferson. It is full of traditional building facades  that feature iron balustrades, blue roofs, and creamy white shutters. Turn the corner and chances are you'll run into a cathedral - from Notre Dame to Sacre-Cœur and beyond - which are of course, testaments to the layers of history that possess Paris at all hours. Keep going and you run into the Hôtel de Ville (the city hall), which has an elegance and grandeur like none other I have yet seen in Europe. By now, you’ve also probably run into more than a hundred Parisians and have been astounded by their impeccable fashion and incomprehensible perfection. They stroll, saunter, and rush by, but regardless of their social-economic status, age, or, for the most part, race, they are effortlessly put together in a way that puts the American teenager’s preference for sweatpants in public spheres to shame. They wear mostly neutral tones accented by expensive shoes and scarves, and the women are very careful in the way they choose their purses.

As I sit here in this café and read this back to myself, I regret I am not doing Paris justice. It is a place that must be experienced before it is accurately described, so you have no choice but to come here yourself if you haven't already. 

Until next time, when this adventurous American arrives in Nantes! 

Chaos and Concrete

I decided to spend my final weekend in the United States in Chicago, Illinois. The whole time, I've been ostensibly waiting for the American experience to hit me like the oncoming traffic of bustling downtown. But it hasn't really, and like most things in life, we can never predict when something profound is about to hit us.

Today, I met my friend Sarah for lunch and coffee at a French bistro near DePaul University. Sarah is sarcastic, vibrant, fantastically passionate and startlingly beautiful. It has been over a year since we've seen each other and the distance has only made us closer. We talked for nearly three hours and while we covered the gamut of topics from gender identity to the thriving culture of YouTube, we also spent quite a lot of time on the idea and vibe of the American city.

I asked her, "What do you love about Chicago? What makes it different from London, Paris, and New York?"

Her response was simple. "Chicago is chaotic." I was at first intrigued, but not wholly surprised. "I always felt like I could spend hours strolling through Paris," she continued, "But Chicago needs to be busy. Everyone always has somewhere to be."

And, as I found out yesterday, if you don't have somewhere to be or go or have something to do, you're deemed rather odd and the people around you, bustling past you, are suddenly skeptical of your existence - especially if you're standing in front of a street corner for nearly an hour, like I was as I waited for the French Consulate to re-open (long story).

What I also noticed about Chicago (an observation to which both Sarah and Alex - my good friend and hostess for the weekend - agreed) is that it is extraordinarily imposing. In other words, everything is HUGE. The buildings are taller, the avenues are wider, the buses are longer, and the train tracks roar louder. Everything about this city screams the American lifestyle: big, loud, and unapologetically boisterous.

Upon reading this post back to myself, I cannot help but think that those words are the first ones Europeans use to describe an American. Yet it's a difficult sentiment to refute given the intense kind of life that thrives here in Chicago, the quintessential American metropolis.

Indeed, Chicago has its share of problems (namely crime and traffic), but it is also like the rest of America in that it seems overflowing with new ideas and improvements. The architecture itself is an example of decades upon decades of improved structural design and aesthetic desires. And while I would say that it is on the whole cold, clinical, and concrete, the people who live here are warmer, quirkier, and full of youth. In other words, they are American from head to toe, and that includes their warm American hearts and their above average American girths.

So what is America, anyway? A chaotic concrete jungle full of surprise and supersize meals? Or does its essence lie instead in the minds and souls of the hardworking citizens who carved a steely city out of its chilly Midwestern landscape?

The answer, of course, is that it is all this and more.