watching a rescue from above

Maybe it just has something to do with being in a big city, or maybe it is just all in my head, but I have noticed that in Paris it seems as though no one acknowledges their neighbors. Granted living in an apartment building makes it particularly tough, it would be nice to have some interaction every once in a while with someone from the same quartier. I would like the 9arrondissement, or at least the Place de Clichy, to give me some sign that she is aware of my temporary existence—most likely she does not really care.

The best picture I could get from my balcony,
it didn't feel appropriate to disturb him

There is one resident, however, that everyone seems to know. On the Rue de Clichy, just down from the newly renovated Place de Clichy, there is a homeless man who has created a kind of abode out of blankets, clothes, and paper. He spends his days sleeping under a tarp and his nights wandering around, reading the day old papers littered on the sidewalks. Over the past few weeks, I have often seen baguettes neatly placed next to his mat by the local Boulanger, and leftovers on paper plates taken down by tenants in the surrounding buildings. He has, in a way, been adopted by the people of my quartier.

When I first looked over my balcony and saw his dirty pile of fabric—his home—I was a bit suspicious. What this strange man? What my neighborhood, a neighborhood notorious for drug deals and whores? A few days ago, I found out just why he calls this place home.

From my bedroom window, I saw a man around twenty pull up on a motorcycle, park next to the mat, and start tearing it apart. In the homeless man’s absence, the man on the bike began to pull the tarp off and spread the clothes, food and blankets out onto the sidewalk. It was truly a horrific act of human behavior.

Upon seeing this, a woman, who must have been about sixty, ran out from across the street and took to the absent street dweller’s defense. She pushed the lowlife aside and started places her unnamed friend’s belongings back on his mat. She was protecting a man most people would look down upon. She did not care that the man was homeless; she was doing what she knew was right.

After an exchange of inaudible words, the man remounted his bike and drove away. A crowd had formed and several people began to help the older woman reassemble man’s only version of a home. At this moment, I knew why the man chose to stay on the Rue de Clichy, and my in humanity slightly increased. Though I knew nothing of these neighbors, I felt comforted in the possibility that if they were willing to help him, maybe they would be willing to help me too. Maybe people were actually inherently good?

He starts reading the day old paper

Later that night, as I stood on my balcony once more with a glass of Bordeaux and a Gauloise, I watched as the man walked back and saw for the first time the remnants of what has taken place earlier that day. I watched as he stopped, looked, and without any expression whatsoever, started to carefully rearrange everything he had come to collect. He did not even acknowledge anything had happened. After this, he sat down and read a dirty newspaper. As I watched him, all I could think of was how much I wished the boulangerie was still open so that I could go and buy him a sandwich. 

different names for the same thing

the port of Cassis

Spending this past weekend in Cassis, a small resort town forty-five minutes from Marseille where I took part in an exchange program five years ago, served as a much needed break from the chaos of Paris. Though I have only been in Paris for four weeks, I have begun to feel the effects of the city, and must admit that last week, I was beginning to become a bit homesick. I was longing for the feeling of family, of being in a home rooted in love. 

the lovely Laffitte home

Since my return from this short weekend vacation, I can honestly say that I feel as if I am a part of two distinct families—my own family back in Atlanta, and the Laffitte family, who are lucky enough to call Cassis their home. Five years ago, they opened their doors to a fourteen-year-old American boy from Atlanta. Now, after experiencing the tragic loss of the father who treated me like his own, they welcomed me back with many a bisous. Time had passed, life had changed, but their love for me remained strong. 

After the death of a beloved father and husband, Brigitte, Antoine, and Victoire Laffitte have formed a bond so strong it is visible to the human eye. In the presence of these wonderful people, I found proof that there is such a thing as life, and even love, after tragedy. Following a farewell dinner on the shores of Mediterranean, Antoine and Victoire shared with me their favorite pictures of the late Jacques, and the strength in their eyes while doing so was more than moving—it brought me to tears.

my french mother, Brigitte 

At this moment, I knew I was witnessing an act of genuine human love, an act so rare that when it occurs, one is speechless. In my case, there truly were no words to express the honor I felt during these precious moments. All I could do was sit, and watch, and listen.

Here I was in this small house on the hills of this tiny French town on the vast and beautiful Mediterranean, and I was entirely and fully surrounded by love. Despite our different languages, despite our different cultures and backgrounds, the four of us, the three Laffittes and I, were connected by something so much bigger. We were intertwined by something that transcends borders and barriers. We were neither American nor French. We were human beings opening our hearts to one another and that was all that mattered.

No matter the language, no matter the place, there really is no difference in genuine love being two people. L’amour, love: it’s all the same. And this past weekend, the Laffittes showed me that love, no matter where you go, truly is all around.

the beautiful Victoire

my dear friend, Antoine, and I 

le mystère du papillon

While my morning coffee began to wear off during the second hour of today’s French workshop, I found myself entering the typical student mindset: uninterested, unaware, and entirely unenthused. As my hand moved further up my cheek and my head fell closer to my chin, I was stirred by something that can only be described as completely surreal. 

In front of my glazed eyes was a flickering butterfly, just floating in mid-air as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Before I was able to fully comprehend this rather peculiar phenomenon, the entire class seemed to be on its feet, sending the poor butterfly into a panic. After an unsuccessful search around the room’s exterior for an exit, the butterfly flew to my desk, where it sat on my paper, seemingly asking me for guidance. At this point, I scooped him up into my hands, took him over to the window, and set him free.

My teacher, having the heart of a French woman, encouraged me to think of this as an omen for some sort of romantic exploit. I, being, well, me, couldn’t help but take her advice. I left class feeling as though my romantic visions of France were about to be fulfilled, and as though I was soon to experience my own version of a fairy tale.

I took one step out of the NYU building and found myself to be standing in a massive, and quite fresh, pile of dog shit. My visions of romance dissipated immediately; my hope was shattered. 

At this moment, I could not help but notice, and even laugh at, this complete juxtaposition of sentiments. I had just been in the realm of total surrealism, captivated by the beauty and romance of my butterfly friend, only to be ripped out of it by something so foul. Was this some kind of sign that the surrealism of romance and I just aren’t meant to coexist? Were the heavens trying to tell me to plan my life accordingly? I was completely dumbfounded.

People say that romance is dead, something of past generations, and that perhaps we, ourselves, have killed it. If so, why does it seem as though everywhere I look, it is staring at me, laughing at my inability to take part. Couples on vespas. Lovers on the banks of the Seine. Jeff, the lone one. What do I get when I have the slightest bit of faith in my future romantic endeavors? Dog shit.

Being the person that I am, I in no means want to believe this. And deep down, I know that romance is alive. It is just much more of a phenomenon than we like to think. One just has to realize that love, like the fluttering butterfly, is much more of a mystery than the world makes it out to be. 

stop for pedestrians

NYU in Paris is located on a rather busy road, and granted that the Starbucks we American students find so attractive is on the opposite side of the street, one will often see a study abroad student much like myself peaking out on the Rue de Passy, waiting for an opportunity to cross. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that Parisians have little to no respect for the everyday pedestrian. We wait and we wait to cross, and though we always do, it sometimes takes a bit more time than expected.

In New York, the pedestrian rules the road. Illegal jaywalking is just plain oxymoronic. However, Paris seems to be entirely indifferent to our survival. We dart across the road with our eyes almost closed, just hoping to make it over in one piece. It truly is survival of the fittest.

All of us at NYU have surely experienced some state of overwhelming frustration, stuck at a kind of crossroads, waiting to cross onto the side of the street where our new and concrete relationships are located, but seemingly unable to find the right time to do so. The great thing about being in an absolute limbo is that were all in it together, and no one knows just where to go. Walking around in the Oberkampf looking for a bar, a friend of mine told me he had not felt this feeling of being completely unaware since those sweet first weeks of freshman year.

This pseudo-reincarnation of the spirit of freshman year has been the enabler for such a conglomeration of friendships. We are all so lost that we are up for just about anything. When you know no one, you are willing to meet anyone. In New York, we are so quick to cross the street that other pedestrians often go unnoticed. We look only at our friends, the people with whom we are familiar. We often thwart the potential for the breeding of a new relationship.

Here, however, we were all forced to stop and stand-alone for a little while longer. This necessary loneliness induces in us a willingness to take a second look around and an excitement to try building relationships with people of a different sort. I am blessed by the amount of uniquely interesting people I have befriended over the past ten days, and suddenly the trek across the street to Starbucks isn’t so scary. In fact, it is actually quite fun. Because I took the time to get to know the people standing next to me, I now have plenty of hands to hold while making the not so dangerous crossing, but frankly, I don’t see why we can’t all join hands and make the trip together.  

Some pictures of a little gathering I had last night with new friends:

Katie rocks some great bangs.

Katie and the lovely Iris

Will, with a creeping Julia

ceci, c'est paris

One of the most difficult parts of adjusting to the difficulties of the study abroad experience has been learning to differentiate between my fantasy of such experience and the reality of it. Not that I am by any means disappointed with NYU in Paris, or with the people I have met, it has just been an interesting adjustment of thought processing.

This whole idea started when I began to tack these quite lovely replicas of Victorian shadow puppet cards onto my wall for some much needed decoration. I started thinking about shadows, and the concept of the real vs. the illusion, and how different the illusion is from its reality. Furthermore, when put in the context of myself, I thought of my expectations of Paris as a kind of shadow, and the reality of it as the card itself.

I can never choose a favorite, but the turtle is always up there. 

I started this semester with what one could call a certain fantasy, just as I started last year with a certain idea about NYU in New York, and similarly to the fall of 2009, the fall of 2010 was quick to spit in my fantasy’s face. I realized that I had this glamorous, and even by definition romantic, vision of what Paris would be like, and when I found myself alone in a room above a street clustered with whores, I felt nothing but sheer disappointment. Then there was a moment where I thought to myself, “what am I doing”?

From this point on, I shook this fantasy out of my mind, embraced reality, and ventured onward. I have begun to meet the most incredible people and have recently become part of the most real, down to earth group of people, and could not be happier. Just as René Magritte’s “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” is truly not a pipe, my fantasy of Paris is not realistic, but that does not mean the reality of it cannot be just as fantastic.

When we hold on to such high expectations, we are often the greatest contributing factors to our own disappointment. After I thought about some of the times I had been disappointed most, I came up with a rather disturbing conclusion: I was most disappointed by the failure of promises coming from myself, not from others. I was my greatest weakness. I was the key contributor to my own unhappiness. In just a short week, I have come to realize that one of the steps to overall satisfaction is to avoid focusing solely on the shadow, or fantasy, of life, and learn to appreciate the quite lovely qualities of the card from which the shadow comes. 

  

My surprisingly comfy futon

My cluttered desk and full closet, expected

cool like spidey

Now that I have an apartment in Paris with two cool roommates, I guess I am considered an official resident of the City of Lights. Set in the heart of the 9èm arrondissement, our three bedroom apartment is an old artist’s studio with awesome views of Sacre Coeur and la Place de Clichy. All in all, it’s sick. The six foot tall crouching Spider-Man statue at the top of the spiral staircase is just the icing on the cake.

Our Friend Spidey

Seeing the apartment for the first time really made this whole thing real, and kind of made me freak out even more. But with the reassurance that I am living with two of the nicest guys I have yet to meet on the program—and the bottle of Xanax in my Marc by Marc messenger—I was able to relax just a bit. I was able to put things into perspective, and realize just what is ahead: a whole lot of fun.

I spent yesterday studying the Paris metro map, and making the effort to take as many possible trains to various parts of the city. When trying to meet my parents for lunch on the Ile-de-la-Cité, I took a wrong turn and ended up in a dodgy suburb 15 minutes outside of the city—Fail. No worries, just a quick transfer and twenty minutes later and it was Bordeaux and beef bourguignon.  All was good. I still have a few metro kinks to work out, but I am sure I will be a natural in no time.

If only I could learn to navigate the routes of my life here in Paris as easily, and as quickly, as the Paris public transportation system. Learning the nooks and crannies of a Parisian social life will undoubtedly take much longer. There is no place to purchase a guide with mapped out lines telling me where to go and which direction to choose. I must make those choices on my own. Much like my experience on the subway, I must get lost—I must make mistakes—in order to learn.

Before I was given the keys to my apartment, I knew I would spend a great deal of time stumbling before I truly felt settled in, but I was completely unprepared, and absolutely terrified. Now that I have a home, a place to go back to once I find my way out of the land of the lost, I am a bit less anxious. I feel much safer making the step into the unknown, the uncharted land.  I mean Spider-Man does live in my apartment, and I am assuming that makes us friends, so I am considering myself one lucky guy. 

Living/Dining Room

Kitchen

View of the Place de Clichy

View from my bedroom

    

the circles of paris

I have only been in Paris a short while, and this being my first chance to grab a bit of Internet, I have a lot of thoughts running through my head. I have not become nearly as acquainted with the city as I would like, but what I know of it, I love.

I have learned that Paris is a quiet city. Not much happens in the streets between the hours of 1:00 AM and 9:AM. However, one must not be fooled, for within the walls of the old and beautiful buildings, there is much action. I keep finding myself comparing Paris to New York in almost every arena, and notice that it is in their energies that I find the greatest difference.

New York is not in the least bit modest; everything about her is out on display. Paris, on the other hand, is a bit more modest, a bit more private. A cute store clerk in the 1er arrondissement was talking to me about how closed off Parisians tend to be, especially when it comes to groups of friends. She mentioned that it is particularly hard to find an inner circle, to find a group of people who love you unconditionally. Reassuringly, she spoke of how much stronger she felt the love of a Parisian to be. Once you’re in, you’re in for good.

As I sit in a Starbucks, something tragically so American, watching my Internet credits dwindle, I cannot help but consider the possibility that I will spend the next few months searching for an in, finding nothing. Jeff, the wallflower.

The thing about New York is that it is so superficial that it can make one feel as though he is welcome, as though he is appreciated. Paris is completely indifferent. She almost wants you to feel alone. This afternoon I am going to meet the NYU group at the hostel, and maybe I will find an immediate connection? Maybe I will be offered an immediate in? If not, I guess I have plenty of time, and plenty of beautiful Parisian streets and boulevards, to search for one. 

Here is a picture of a door to the apartment building we are staying in, the inner courtyard, and the street (Rue de Bac). It is in a very beautiful location on the Left Bank.