A Bit(e) of Home

Last week, I realized I had hit the halfway point in my ten-month stay in Paris, and I’ve been moderately devastated ever since. This devastation was compounded today, when I finally got my visa validated and became a super-legal resident of France, as opposed to just a legal resident of France. When the friendly, frazzled woman working in the OFII office handed me back my folder of documents and my newly-stamped passport, she also passed me a short form I had never seen before.

“This is for when you renew your visa,” she informed me matter-of-factly. She paused, as I ogled at her. “If you want to stay.”

Of course I do want to stay! I wanted to cry, planning on giving her a very long list of reasons why I loved her country.

But after careful consideration, I decided the woman probably had enough on her plate without a crazy American rambling on about her incurable francophilia. So I merely beamed at her, wished her a nice day, and skipped out the door.

 Now, this past Saturday, Carol and I had gotten together with three other students for an epic American baking extravaganza. We sat around the apartment's big central table until the wee hours, mixing batter, eating cookie dough, and peering anxiously into the oven to see if our concoctions were behaving themselves. The whole evening was fantastically fun and nostalgic. Anyway, this home-style baking got me thinking about all the things I truly appreciate about the US.

So, with all due respect to France, I feel like a brief ode to America is in order.

Some of the things I miss about the US might seem trivial. For example, I would love to see a normal-sized trashcan again. Ours is approximately the size of a tin can, requiring daily trips to the garbage bin, and is constantly threatening to overflow. And don’t even get me started on the recycling; some days we have giant cereal boxes and old newspapers tumbling all over the kitchen floor because they just won’t fit.

More than reasonably-sized trashcans, I miss my university. Really, I do. And not just because of all the lovely friends I've left behind. I miss being actually expected to participate, and having professors that actually talk to and even joke with their students (heaven forbid a French professor crack a joke in class). And I cannot wait to get away from those darn problématiques, an incomprehensible method of paper-writing that only the French will ever understand how to do, and that only foreign students in France can ever understand the frustrations of. I don't care if they are part of a long cultural legacy. They. Make. No. Sense.

Silly things aside, however, there is one aspect of American culture that I sincerely miss, and appreciate all the more when I am away. It's something I like to call spontaneity: an openness to meeting new people, to making friends with startling, wonderful alacrity, or to merely making conversation with your metro neighbor, that doesn't really exist in France.

I witnessed this firsthand during my epic four-hour wait at the OFII office today. I kept striking up a conversation with my ever-changing string of seat-mates, most of whom were American students. And it actually shocked me, how easy and natural this give-and-take felt. The simple experience of forming a connection with another person, however brief, reminded me why Americans have a reputation for being so friendly. We might not be overgrown puppies, as my Toulousian host father informed me, but we do love to meet new people.

I've been trying to decide the reason for this friendliness. Perhaps our spontaneity stems from our roots as an immigrant, and a migrant, culture. Whether crossing oceans, prairies, mountain ranges, etc., men and women have had to make homes for themselves in unfamiliar places, amongst unfamiliar people. I am no anthropologist. But it may be that people are that much more inclined to open their hearts to each other in this sort of migratory culture, rather than a culture where everyone stays put. Of course, not every community is welcoming. But I feel like the phrase “home is where the heart is” takes on particular relevance for any New World denizens. 

Strangely, the French have no equivalent for the word “home.” “Home” in French is synonymous with “house” or “residence,” and so that fabulously profound phrase doesn’t really translate. Culturally, why should it? In general, the French make friends in preschool, remain friends with those people for the rest of their lives, and rarely leave the areas where they were born. “Home” as a theoretical concept doesn't have the same relevance to French culture as it does to American culture. And that's a shame, really. 

I want emphasize that I still adore France and had to think very hard to come up with all the things I don't like about it (most of these lists turn into things I do like about France). But with no disrespect meant to my host country, and in honor of Saint Valentine’s Day, I have a special request to make...

America, will you be my Valentine? You are still my favorite (if only by a smidgeon).

Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,
Grace

Winter Magic

I know that for some people, winter is the yearly bane of their existence. It’s that time of year where even making it from the door to the metro stop is a painful ordeal, and where there is no such thing as too many pairs of socks.

I am not one of those people.

I’ve already established that fall is my favorite season, so to suddenly start sing winter’s praises might seem traitorous. And yes, winter can be nose-bitingly cold, rather gray, and depressingly dark. But winter also has the trump card of trump cards: SNOW.

If someone can come up with a single, more fantastic experience than waking up some quiet weekend morning, looking out the window, and seeing a world of white, then please let me know, because I would love to hear about it.

I turn into a child when snow is around. Jumping up and down and grinning uncontrollably are two of the more obvious symptoms. And I had been waiting for Parisian snow since October, when my family and friends were experiencing the mother of all snowstorms back in the States. When the weather finally turned cold, I knew it was only a matter of time. But nothing prepared me for Paris dressed in her winter best.

When I burst out of the apartment building last Sunday morning, bundled up from head to toe and giddy with excitement, the streets were deserted. Snow was still falling, and everything was covered by a thin layer of white. With my trusty camera dangling from my wrist, I immediately made it my mission to rush to as many places in the city as I could and document them forever for posterity.

I estimate that I had walked almost seven hours in total. In that time I walked through three gardens (Luxembourg, Tuileries, and the sculpture garden at Musée Rodin), through the Latin Quarter, past Notre Dame and the Palais de Justice, around the tip of Ile-de-la-Cité, through the Louvre courtyards, around Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elysée, over to the Palais de Chaillot, across the river to the Eiffel Tower, past Invalides, past the Tour Montparnasse, and finally back home. The only thing I missed was Montmartre, and I am still holding out hope of another storm.

In the end, was Paris as magical as I hoped it would be?

Yes, it was.

Snow makes everything beautiful, but the real magic of snow is its power to render even cynical, cranky Parisians friendly and open. In my experience, Parisians are quite nice but reserved, in that too-cool-for-school sort way, as if fully enjoying something means losing all credibility. 

Snow changes all of that. Everyone smiles and calls greetings to each other. People run up to strangers begging for pictures, and then wish them a nice day. Lots of slipping and sliding occurs, and laughter of course results. The children are the most adorable, especially the toddlers, who likely can’t remember seeing anything like this. They waddle around, penguin-like, and slide across the snow-slick courtyards on their bellies, or else wiggle-dance in place. The more daring parents take out old trash bags and send their kids sliding down ramps, an activity met with gales of laughter.

Beneath this cheer, there is an unspoken understanding that the next day, everything will go back to normal. The snow will melt, life will recommence, and Paris will go back to her old, albeit wintery self. But for this one day, the entire city is busy celebrating life. And this is when Paris is at her best.

Why Traveling is Important (also known as wanderings in Bruges, Maastricht, and Aachen)

Windswept and loving it in Bruges

The moment I fell in love with Bruges was not when I saw my first canal (although infatuation certainly set in). In fact, I was standing inside the aptly named Bear Necessities, a store devoted exclusively to teddy bears, and listening to a white-haired man explain in broken English the history of Flemish oppression by their French-speaking overlords. He pressed his hand over his heart and exclaimed that if there were ever a revolution, he would be the first to barricades.

That was when I fell in love.

To backtrack, this moment all started when I innocently asked what was with all the teddy bears? After all, a store devoted to teddy bears is a bit of a novelty, isn't it?

In less than 30 seconds, the conversation had somehow segued into a 45-minute lesson on Belgian history, complete with file-packed folders, excerpts of significant laws and speeches, and colorful personal anecdotes. I stood there, and suddenly Bruges, that picturesque “Venice of the North,” was not simply a medieval time capsule. And despite the gorgeous waterways, the chocolate stores ever two feet, and the horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping down over the cobblestones, it was not some fairy kingdom. I can still say without hesitation that Bruges is one of the most adorably quaint cities I have ever seen, complete—I kid you not—with four very large windmills along the western canal. But Bruges (or Brugge, as the locals call it) suddenly became, despite its medieval veneer,  a very modern city, with modern people and modern issues.

This fusion of old and new continued through all three cities I visited at the end of January. In each instance, ancient, twisty streets and old cathedrals meshed with elements of extreme modernity. Somehow, this only made the experiences more vivid and more wonderful. This was no middle school trip to Plymouth Rock or Williamstown, with historical enactors walking around. These cities were real.

 A quintessential scene in Bruges: canal, cobblestones, bicycle.

 Why isn't my town like this, again?

 The city's coat of arms

A water fountain for horses! Although if I was a horse, I would be terrified.

 The belltower in the central square, during a carillon concert.

 Me!

 A very tall windmill

 Inside the chocolate museum

 Apparently this is Cortès arriving in the new world and drinking a tankard of cocoa...

 Inside the demonstration room, watching the production of scrumptious praline chocolates

Who needs wax museums when you can have chocolate museums? Although I'm still trying to figure out if making a chocolate Barack Obama is politically correct or not...

  

We bid goodbye to Bruges on late Sunday afternoon, after two wonderful days of roaming around. An astonishingly short train ride later, we found ourselves in Maastricht, Holland. I haven’t the faintest idea what I was expecting in the Netherlands. That said, I was not expecting to arrive and spend the next half an hour ogling as families in Renaissance costumes and Darth Vader suits strode down the streets and confetti flew everywhere. It was a Sunday night, which in Paris becomes dead quiet. But in Maastricht, the whole city was alive. Its buoyant citizens were shouting, laughing, and drinking pints of impossibly cheap beer as to music pouring from the packed bars.

“What is going on tonight?” I asked the manager at our hostel, visibly shocked.

“Oh, it must be the start of carnival season,” he replied vaguely, as if surprised this was even worth mentioning.

Once we got over the initial excitement, however, Maastricht turned into one of those places you would be happy to live in for the rest of your life: clean, friendly, and beautiful.

From what I saw, the city seems like the ideal fusion of medieval architecture and contemporary sensibilities. The historic elements, like the great gothic basilica or the stone walls that border the old city center, brush shoulders with numerous bars, restaurants, and truly excellent shopping. And despite its centuries-old history, Maastricht also happens to be a cutting-edge environmental paradise. Apparently the whole of the Netherlands hopes to be carbon neutral within the next twenty years, and I believe it. Bicycles easily outnumber the cars, a beautiful, arching pedestrian bridge spans the main waterway, and the stars in the sky that night were brighter than I’ve seen them in years.

 From the deck of our hotel, bordering the main river

 Bicycles!

 Carnival decorations hanging from the window

 Early morning in the shopping district (yes, there are normally people in this city)

View of the sky from the pedestrian bridge

My personal favorite moment in Maastricht actually took place in what might exemplify the city’s overall theme of fusing old and new. Just off the main plaza, a gothic cathedral has been transformed—quite fittingly, in my opinion—into a bookstore of epic proportions. While this is not the first time I’ve seen a too-little-used cathedral made over for a new purpose, I’ve never seen a transformation quite so respectful of the building’s original function. Well, perhaps not entirely respectful: in one of the most humorous bits of decorating I’ve seen, the back apse of the cathedral has been transformed into a lovely little coffee shop with a giant, cross-shaped table right in the middle. Still, what’s more worship-worthy than a good book and a cup of coffee?

 Inside Selexyz Domincanen (or Sexy Dominican, as I prefer to think of it)

 Coffee Lovers, the store's cafe

Look, even my coffee cup was full of love!

The last city of this four-day extravaganza continued the trend of double letters (because in German and Dutch, why use one vowel when you can use two?). Now, while the outer edges of Aachen, the former Aix-la-Chapelle are a typical city—which is to say, neither ugly nor particularly attractive—the old city is a wonderfully bewildering labyrinth of hilly, winding streets, packed with shops, coffee houses, and store after store after store selling printen, little spice cookies traditional to Aachen.

 The town hall at night

 Charlemagne, of course!

 The old city, with the Palatine Chapel at the end of the street

 The Chicken Thief

 Printentee

But Aachen’s claim to fame has nothing to do with coffee shops or with printen (as good as they are). The city was once the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, in the days of Charlemagne. You can bet that Aachen is proud of that heritage, and rightly so. There is a whole list of attractions around the city associated with Charlemagne, and statues of the long-dead emperor can be found throughout the central plazas. The most astonishing site, however, is the renowned Palatine Chapel.

Now, it’s been some time since I saw something that actually made me gasp aloud. But the instant I walked through the Palatine Chapel’s unassuming doors, I was struck dumb.

It is important to keep in mind, upon entering the Palatine Chapel, that it was built in the year 792. Because when it finally penetrates your dazed mind that this edifice was built more than twelve hundred years ago, you will be stunned as much by pure human ingenuity as by the chapel itself.

The draw of the Palatine Chapel lies not in its size, which is dwarfed by later gothic cathedrals, but by its beauty. Imagine, if you will, a great, eight-sided dome, rising over a hundred feet in the air and entirely covered with golden mosaics and biblical figures, each one rendered in glowing, vibrant detail. You walk into the center of the chapel and revolve slowly in the spot, mouth ever-so-slightly ajar, until you’re so dizzy you can’t quite think, let alone process what you’re staring at.

It’s probably a good thing I’ve never seen the Pyramids. I have a feeling I would never recover.

The list of museums and tourist attractions in Aachen—in each of these cities, actually—is quite short, particularly in comparison to a city like Paris or London. But there’s a trick to traveling in these smaller places: open yourself up to all your silly, spontaneous impulses, and indulge in the small pleasures in life. Poke around a children’s toy store, and stare nostalgically at the Playmobil collection. Lounge about in the enormous, modern furniture store and envision your future house. Sit down for a cup of coffee at the free trade store and strike up a conversation with an American ex-pat. Laugh at your inability to read German and muddle through anyway with help from the locals.

The secret to traveling, in short, is living entirely in the moment. That might also be the secret traveling teaches us, as trite as that might sound. There is a famous quote that says the world is a book, and those who never travel have only read the first page.

Now, there are people who have never traveled who understand the world far better than most of us can ever hope for (I’m going to pull the geeky English major card here and use the example of Emily Dickinson, who essentially lived in an attic for most of her adult life and yet left a searing collection of poems that continue to inspire over a century later). And there are, of course, people who have traveled to the far ends of the earth and could not be less enlightened.

But I like to think that traveling sends us back to our child forms, open to possibilities, to new ideas, to experiencing everything as vivid and new and worth exploring. And that, dear readers, is truly a gift.