Words fall through me
I woke up and did a bit of Forum moderation for work. Perhaps it was a device to keep me inside. Once it drew nearer to noon, I took a shower, took photos of myself (again, another device to not leave the flat) and mentally prepared myself to leave. I was a bit terrified to leave. I wanted to go to the Pompidou Modern Art Museum, something I have wanted to do since I came here last January. I was tangled up on worries about getting lost, about having to interact, about never finding the flat again & having to sleep outside. I pulled myself out of the house thinking one foot in front of the other. Hopped on the Metro & made my way down to the Chatelet station of the 4 line. I got off the station and thought to myself "oh my god, where do I go from here?" I turned left & found out that my instincts, or at least my 50/50 decision of right vs left, was correct. I walked past tourist shops until the Pompidou called to me on my left. Crossed the street full of enchanted people, white hashmarks on the street to mark my progress. The Pompidou is glaringly dissident with the rest of Paris, even more so than the Eiffel Tower. It has an exoskeleton of pipes that addressed me like a promise of fortune. I queued up in the long line that jutted out into the plaza that marks the entrance.
As I was in line, a man in front of me reached his head back to take in the view of the building. He turned back to me and spoke in French, "What do you think of it?" I fumbled, not knowing how to say "I don't understand." He asked, "In English?". Yes, please. English. "What do you think of it?"
"I think it's beautiful."
"Hm, I am not so sure."
"Well, it is very industrial. Stark contrast to most everything else in Paris."
The queue was long & looked to not progress quickly. We had time to chat about work & where we grew up, about my previous time at Paris & my constant intention to see the Pompidou. The queue was for entrance into the entrance, not to buy tickets. My bag was half hazardously checked & we were ushered through.
"Well," he said as he removed his hat and gloves "I think I am going to get a coffee while I see if the line goes down" he adjusts his eyes to the cafe situated a floor above, overlooking the center of the ground floor. "Do you want to join me?"
"Sure, I haven't had coffee this entire trip. It's about time."
He ordered for me, something I was most grateful for, and then proceeded to pay. Again, grateful.
We sat for a bit, seated next to each other, overlooking the foreboding ticket queue. We talked about things moderately above small talk. By the look of his skin & smile lines, he was kind & in his mid-thirties. Our espressos slowly evaporated into our tongues, and when they were completely exhausted, they rested on miniature red cafeteria trays. I was conscious not to drink too quickly, attempting to make them last the same amount of time as a US medium sized coffee. Sugar cubes were undressed from their wrappers. I thought they were Now N Laters before better investigation. He said he wouldn't brave the line, that he would rather wander over to Notre Dame & see the Cathedral. He invited me to travel along & I accepted. He seemed harmless and happy & I knew that there would be moments where someone in Paris would approach me, possibly maliciously, and this did not seem to be that moment.
It was nice to have someone who understood the area with me. Eric was his name, from Montpellier in the South of France. We walked around Paris for the next few hours. He would speak to me entirely in French & I would laugh in exasperation for how I couldn't even venture a guess on what he was saying. We wandered into a tiny Cathedral, the name escapes me now... Saint Michelle?... somewhere near the Notre Dame grounds. It took me 30 minutes before I posed the question of, "Do you mind if I smoke." Of course he didn't. No one in Europe cares about trivial things like personal pollution. There were gardens and tourists & Americans in full Harley Davidson regalia scattered around Notre Dame's perimeter. People were leaping up on pedestals to fudge perspective in their point-and-shoots. We wandered around the river. He laughed in a way that made me think of gay little children, far before they understood sexual orientation.
After a while of aimless wandering, and being told I walk like a Parisian due to the speed of my gait, we proceeded towards the Metro- direction: Tour l'eiffle. Exiting the Metro gave me a perspective of the Eiffle Tower that I hadn't seen before. We were up on a hill, overlooking 100 yards of tiny cabins all lit up like a Nordic Christmas town. Snow makers dispelled flakes of snow & men with wide blue shovels fastened the artificial particles into tiny piles for children to play in. They made snow angels next to plastic polar bears. The Christmas Market, marche Noelle, was enchanting from a distance. Once inside I realized how many people were around me, I wished that Christmas carols sung in English weren't playing over speakers. I wondered how hot liquids didn't mangle tiny plastic cups they were put in. The tower was tucked inside a layer of fog. I couldn't see the top. The second floor weaved in and out of visibility as the fog changed.
I walked under the tower, thinking to take a picture of it from over my head, but then realized how that must have been done a million times before- much like every photo I have taken this trip. There was a long stretch of field with rickety trees that reached up like eroded candelabras, all the exact same height, knobby and barren from the winter. They lined a pathway that presented the Peace Wall. Apparently you can make wishes to the wall, but the digital interactive portion of the display wasn't active. I felt a sense of relief for not having to think what I would wish for. I feel like my realization phase is still looming. I haven't figured out what I want to say just yet.
Next was a long walk along the river, uncharacteristically full for Paris, and an attempt to take a river tour somewhere further down. The river was so full the boats were only running between bridges. They were fearful the tops wouldn't make it under the arches. All this talk of water has me aching for a restroom. Back to the main streets. I attempt to find the bathroom in the Aquarium, but I would need a ticket. A cafe, and the temptation of more caffeine, is the only solution.
A long restroom line , bathrooms with no hooks to hold my coat & a woman who monopolized the sink later, I sipped another espresso-this time in a proper vs a paper cup-and headed back to the Metro. At this point, the sky was saturated with dusk's blue & the Tower was illuminated in yellow light.
There were a group of guys break dancing near the Metro. I desperately wanted to ask what music they were dancing to. If only my phone worked & Shazaam was a possibility. The 4 only went a few stops, by this time Eric and I had long since said goodbye, before we were instructed to leave the train. I hovered around the platform for a while before I realized that it would not be going anywhere. I approached a transit employee, "Pardonnez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?"
"A little, yes."
She told me that I couldn't take the 4. That 6, 9 and 12 were my only options. I knew that 12 intersected right where I needed to exit. 12 it was. I got off the Metro with the familiar sensation of "Well, where do I go from here?" and proceeded, instructed only by what my gut told me. I found myself walking along a street I went wandering on earlier when I was curious what existed to the left of my flat. There was a huge wall filled with gorgeous graffiti that I had admired earlier. I made my turn right when I saw Marvin the Martian & accomplishment swelled up inside my chest like a shot of cheap vodka. I damn near applauded myself as I entered the front door to where my flat is.
I stayed up for Coin Release, managed the forums for a few hours with a handful of the rest of my co-workers and SPP moderators. I was a bit bleary eyed by the time 6am rolled around. The thought occurred to me that France is a blissful little Betty, considering the fact that their Boulangeries open at 5am. I threw on my coat, wrapped myself in a scarf and fastened on my mittens. A baguette would be mine. This time, there were no people loitering in the streets. Daylight was a sneaky suspicion on the horizon's agenda. I entered an empty bakery off the main boulevard & was overly giddy with having found one. "Bonjour!" I said to the shopkeeper & he echoed it back to me with the same sense of glee. I ordered a baguette & a croissant that I would later find out contained puree apples in it. The teller must have known that I didn't speak French because he said the tally in English, "Two-Fifty". Bless you, because I never would have guessed.
I had a small bag of aromatic bread in my hands, nearly disintegrating with my touch it was so fresh. I was positively beaming the entire 3 block stretch home. I had to pretend to blank-face when I passed an old man in the street so as not to bring attention to myself. 'Who is this giddy nit frolicking through the street with a loaf of bread?'
France has taught me to respect and revere the small things in life, to celebrate the simple. I have discovered that I am resilient & capable. (That seems like an item on Cafe Gratitude's menu) I frequently experience fear & the desire to hide, to stay inside my flat & never interact outside of this space. And it's not the money or the flight that convinces me to go outside-I would be happy to stay in here for days & never regret the expense or location lost-it's the importance of awkwardness that reminds me to leave.
Since I missed my flight, I was able (able?) to go to my family's Christmas dinner at my Oma (that's Grandma in German) and Grandpa's place. My Great Aunt, Grandmother's sister, was there. I adore her. There is some undefined bond that links us together. She is the only person in my entire extended family who I feel a connection with. She mentioned to me about how looking back at her life, she finds it hard to believe that she lived through the things that she did. She was a citizen of Prussia when it existed prior to WW2. During the war, she married an abusive man from Polland, losing her Prussian/German citizenship. Her husband was a high rank in the military & promised to keep her brother safe. Instead he sent him to the front lines & they still (although they know in their hearts) have never heard confirmation that he died. They are just left with that painful loose end. She said that the only thing she has ever known is how to run. She ran from her destructive marriage, she ran from her homeland. And I realized then, there must be something to us- to our closeness. I am a runner. Clearly not under the same circumstances as my Aunt, but I understand the sentiment. I know how to depend on myself, I understand myself. It's easier to be singular. The point of me being here is still unknown and yet to be articulated. But if my first intention is to stay inside, then I need to go out. I need to tempt my fate of getting lost, of having a conversation, of being approached. I need to make myself uncomfortable. Because so far, comfortable has not proved favorable.
As I was in line, a man in front of me reached his head back to take in the view of the building. He turned back to me and spoke in French, "What do you think of it?" I fumbled, not knowing how to say "I don't understand." He asked, "In English?". Yes, please. English. "What do you think of it?"
"I think it's beautiful."
"Hm, I am not so sure."
"Well, it is very industrial. Stark contrast to most everything else in Paris."
The queue was long & looked to not progress quickly. We had time to chat about work & where we grew up, about my previous time at Paris & my constant intention to see the Pompidou. The queue was for entrance into the entrance, not to buy tickets. My bag was half hazardously checked & we were ushered through.
"Well," he said as he removed his hat and gloves "I think I am going to get a coffee while I see if the line goes down" he adjusts his eyes to the cafe situated a floor above, overlooking the center of the ground floor. "Do you want to join me?"
"Sure, I haven't had coffee this entire trip. It's about time."
He ordered for me, something I was most grateful for, and then proceeded to pay. Again, grateful.
We sat for a bit, seated next to each other, overlooking the foreboding ticket queue. We talked about things moderately above small talk. By the look of his skin & smile lines, he was kind & in his mid-thirties. Our espressos slowly evaporated into our tongues, and when they were completely exhausted, they rested on miniature red cafeteria trays. I was conscious not to drink too quickly, attempting to make them last the same amount of time as a US medium sized coffee. Sugar cubes were undressed from their wrappers. I thought they were Now N Laters before better investigation. He said he wouldn't brave the line, that he would rather wander over to Notre Dame & see the Cathedral. He invited me to travel along & I accepted. He seemed harmless and happy & I knew that there would be moments where someone in Paris would approach me, possibly maliciously, and this did not seem to be that moment.
It was nice to have someone who understood the area with me. Eric was his name, from Montpellier in the South of France. We walked around Paris for the next few hours. He would speak to me entirely in French & I would laugh in exasperation for how I couldn't even venture a guess on what he was saying. We wandered into a tiny Cathedral, the name escapes me now... Saint Michelle?... somewhere near the Notre Dame grounds. It took me 30 minutes before I posed the question of, "Do you mind if I smoke." Of course he didn't. No one in Europe cares about trivial things like personal pollution. There were gardens and tourists & Americans in full Harley Davidson regalia scattered around Notre Dame's perimeter. People were leaping up on pedestals to fudge perspective in their point-and-shoots. We wandered around the river. He laughed in a way that made me think of gay little children, far before they understood sexual orientation.
After a while of aimless wandering, and being told I walk like a Parisian due to the speed of my gait, we proceeded towards the Metro- direction: Tour l'eiffle. Exiting the Metro gave me a perspective of the Eiffle Tower that I hadn't seen before. We were up on a hill, overlooking 100 yards of tiny cabins all lit up like a Nordic Christmas town. Snow makers dispelled flakes of snow & men with wide blue shovels fastened the artificial particles into tiny piles for children to play in. They made snow angels next to plastic polar bears. The Christmas Market, marche Noelle, was enchanting from a distance. Once inside I realized how many people were around me, I wished that Christmas carols sung in English weren't playing over speakers. I wondered how hot liquids didn't mangle tiny plastic cups they were put in. The tower was tucked inside a layer of fog. I couldn't see the top. The second floor weaved in and out of visibility as the fog changed.
I walked under the tower, thinking to take a picture of it from over my head, but then realized how that must have been done a million times before- much like every photo I have taken this trip. There was a long stretch of field with rickety trees that reached up like eroded candelabras, all the exact same height, knobby and barren from the winter. They lined a pathway that presented the Peace Wall. Apparently you can make wishes to the wall, but the digital interactive portion of the display wasn't active. I felt a sense of relief for not having to think what I would wish for. I feel like my realization phase is still looming. I haven't figured out what I want to say just yet.
Next was a long walk along the river, uncharacteristically full for Paris, and an attempt to take a river tour somewhere further down. The river was so full the boats were only running between bridges. They were fearful the tops wouldn't make it under the arches. All this talk of water has me aching for a restroom. Back to the main streets. I attempt to find the bathroom in the Aquarium, but I would need a ticket. A cafe, and the temptation of more caffeine, is the only solution.
A long restroom line , bathrooms with no hooks to hold my coat & a woman who monopolized the sink later, I sipped another espresso-this time in a proper vs a paper cup-and headed back to the Metro. At this point, the sky was saturated with dusk's blue & the Tower was illuminated in yellow light.
There were a group of guys break dancing near the Metro. I desperately wanted to ask what music they were dancing to. If only my phone worked & Shazaam was a possibility. The 4 only went a few stops, by this time Eric and I had long since said goodbye, before we were instructed to leave the train. I hovered around the platform for a while before I realized that it would not be going anywhere. I approached a transit employee, "Pardonnez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?"
"A little, yes."
She told me that I couldn't take the 4. That 6, 9 and 12 were my only options. I knew that 12 intersected right where I needed to exit. 12 it was. I got off the Metro with the familiar sensation of "Well, where do I go from here?" and proceeded, instructed only by what my gut told me. I found myself walking along a street I went wandering on earlier when I was curious what existed to the left of my flat. There was a huge wall filled with gorgeous graffiti that I had admired earlier. I made my turn right when I saw Marvin the Martian & accomplishment swelled up inside my chest like a shot of cheap vodka. I damn near applauded myself as I entered the front door to where my flat is.
I stayed up for Coin Release, managed the forums for a few hours with a handful of the rest of my co-workers and SPP moderators. I was a bit bleary eyed by the time 6am rolled around. The thought occurred to me that France is a blissful little Betty, considering the fact that their Boulangeries open at 5am. I threw on my coat, wrapped myself in a scarf and fastened on my mittens. A baguette would be mine. This time, there were no people loitering in the streets. Daylight was a sneaky suspicion on the horizon's agenda. I entered an empty bakery off the main boulevard & was overly giddy with having found one. "Bonjour!" I said to the shopkeeper & he echoed it back to me with the same sense of glee. I ordered a baguette & a croissant that I would later find out contained puree apples in it. The teller must have known that I didn't speak French because he said the tally in English, "Two-Fifty". Bless you, because I never would have guessed.
I had a small bag of aromatic bread in my hands, nearly disintegrating with my touch it was so fresh. I was positively beaming the entire 3 block stretch home. I had to pretend to blank-face when I passed an old man in the street so as not to bring attention to myself. 'Who is this giddy nit frolicking through the street with a loaf of bread?'
France has taught me to respect and revere the small things in life, to celebrate the simple. I have discovered that I am resilient & capable. (That seems like an item on Cafe Gratitude's menu) I frequently experience fear & the desire to hide, to stay inside my flat & never interact outside of this space. And it's not the money or the flight that convinces me to go outside-I would be happy to stay in here for days & never regret the expense or location lost-it's the importance of awkwardness that reminds me to leave.
Since I missed my flight, I was able (able?) to go to my family's Christmas dinner at my Oma (that's Grandma in German) and Grandpa's place. My Great Aunt, Grandmother's sister, was there. I adore her. There is some undefined bond that links us together. She is the only person in my entire extended family who I feel a connection with. She mentioned to me about how looking back at her life, she finds it hard to believe that she lived through the things that she did. She was a citizen of Prussia when it existed prior to WW2. During the war, she married an abusive man from Polland, losing her Prussian/German citizenship. Her husband was a high rank in the military & promised to keep her brother safe. Instead he sent him to the front lines & they still (although they know in their hearts) have never heard confirmation that he died. They are just left with that painful loose end. She said that the only thing she has ever known is how to run. She ran from her destructive marriage, she ran from her homeland. And I realized then, there must be something to us- to our closeness. I am a runner. Clearly not under the same circumstances as my Aunt, but I understand the sentiment. I know how to depend on myself, I understand myself. It's easier to be singular. The point of me being here is still unknown and yet to be articulated. But if my first intention is to stay inside, then I need to go out. I need to tempt my fate of getting lost, of having a conversation, of being approached. I need to make myself uncomfortable. Because so far, comfortable has not proved favorable.