My Amazing Hippie House Mom

Rosine is an incredible woman. Very thoughtful, intelligent, well-spoken and respectful. We knock every time we want to enter a room, but at the same time, when I may have accidentally walked into the unlocked salle de bains while she was getting out of the shower, she was okay with it and said I need not apologize. She just illuminates grace and comfort in every sort of way.

When I was sick, she gave me three kinds of cough drops, when I got stitches she took me to the pharmacy to get better supplies to wash my wounds, and had the pharmacist re-wrap my stitches after we had been walking along the Seine. And she will cook for me whenever, even though I don't ask her to. I can genuinely tell she wants to teach me, not talk down to me for my very simple mistakes.


"A Warm Welcome", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

And while her outlook on life is at a different point than where I find myself, I can very easily see my future ressembling hers. She is not active in politics, but she holds very strong opinions on how the world functions and what could be changed. We had a fifteen minute conversation about how silly it was that people spend their whole lives trying to pay off a mortage, when having a roof over your head is probably the single most important thing you need in life. And we talked about how globalization has completely diminished the lives of small farmers, who work their entire lives to provide for their families. But with importing and exporting goods taking over every market system, it becomes impossible for them to stand on their own two feet.


"Les Escaliers", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

Today we had an afternoon date planned to go the Modern Art Museum of Paris, and possibly Palais Tokyo, an industrial art museum with a pretty funky twist. I came back from class to take a nap since I haven't been sleeping well with my stitches. Rosine said, ok, bonne sieste and I'll see you soon. Around 3 pm she meekly walked into my room and said, "Excusez-moi Lauren, je vous revez." Looking at my clock I realized I overslept by an hour and immediately got up. She told me to take my time because she was preparing some meat for us to eat before we left.

Meat = hamburger + tomato salad = nomnoms.

So we leave around 3:45, after she made sure I thoroughly cleaned my stitches of course, and set off to find her car. It took us about thirty minutes and three cigarettes later to find her car. We were on the verge of aborting the mission and taking the bus when we turned on one final rue. The whole time we talked about her neighbors and her childhood, and Elisa's half sister. It was nice to just walk around the streets and hear her talk while she strutted along in her Birkenstock sandals and black flowing skirt with a long matching sheer top.

Wind blowing through our hair, Rosine showed me a few places on our way across the Seine. We talked about anglacismes, idiomatic phrases, and pollution. When we got to the Modern Art Museum we realized the permanent collection was a look-alike or a second-hand collection, meaning certain artists mimicked other works of art. It was pretty interesting to see different interpretations of famous Matisse paintings, or Warhol prints, or even Pollock tosses of paint. And the whole time, Rosine would look at one, guess the name and run up to the sign to see if she was right. And she was about 99.99999% of the time. We went through the whole museum in about an hour, but somehow discussed nearly every d'oeuvre.


"Le the et les noix.", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

After sharing a Diet Coke on the Terrace we stepped into Palais Tokyo to look at the funky gift shops. She bought me a 1Euro postcard that has the name "Aurore" written in graffiti on the front. Then she took me to a pharmacist and bought me new cleanser for my arm and made sure my dressings were clean enough. We walked along the Seine for a few minutes and discussed how I can get back to this area tomorrow for class. The evening was so nice, we even got to see a little garden at the back of the museum. On our way home we stopped at a supermarche for some things for dinner. It was a very light selection; some endives with pears, seeds, ham and olive oil. Then peaches with ice cream for dessert. Wonderfully simple.

Elisa got home after we finished dinner so we caught up for a few minutes and discussed the permanent collection we had just seen. And she asked me about my adventure filled weekend and if everything turned out okay. Rosine made a joke that everything bad happened when she left, and I said, "Oui, aujord'hui a Sweet Briar, j'ai dit que quand ma mere d'acceuil est partie, l'enfer est arrive! C'est comme, when mom leaves for the weekend, all hell breaks loose!" She laughed and said, "and so it goes..." (Is she not perfect or what for making a Vonnegut reference?)

When Elisa left the kitchen Rosine told me this beautiful story about when the French had a fete for the Americans after WWII when they sent thank you gifts to the States. Each gift had a name and address of the family who sent it. Her mother just so happened to send a doll of some kind, and there was an American woman who sent her a letter, asking where she could find one because she had a daughter, who happened to be about Rosine's age at the time, who wanted one. Instead of just writing back a response to find the doll, Rosine's mother sent the woman a doll of her own and they soon became pen-pals. In the late 1950's, Rosine's father traveled to the states and actually met the woman. But her mother never did. And until the two died, they continued to write each other, telling stories of their lives in the kitchen and around the family. One Christmas, Rosine told me she received a great package with things she had never seen before. One-piece pajama sets with footies, Rice Krispie treats, Popcorn, etc. She said it arrived a few weeks before Christmas but she had to wait, but it always stood out in her mind. I thought it was beautiful that Rosine's mother found such a great hobby to start, and that she was able to create a wonderful friendship that lasted until death. That would be so hard to do today, there are no more celebrations of countries helping one another, no connections made between absolute strangers. It's a different time now though.


"L'amour est un caillou riant dans le soleil.", Jardin du Luxembourg, 2010

Then we moved on to talking about her wall of memories. For 15 years she has built this wonderful wall, and I was envious for a few weeks because she was keeping these memories to herself. But tonight, I had the pleasure of going through just one set of keepsakes on the wall. We took down a small handbag full of old tickets and notes from the past years. I was happy to see this because I have been saving my movie theater, museum, and theater tickets for years. Seeing her face light up when she pulled each ticket or handout from inside the purse was priceless. She would quickly pick up her green-framed glasses from the chain hanging on her neck, place them on her nose, and say to herself, "C'est quoi ca....OH! Je sais! Oh, c'est incroyable!" And then the story would start. For nearly an hour she dove into past adventures, surprises for her children, and even little notes she wrote herself from a series of photographs she once went and saw.

One quote stood out to me, "You are not the only who is lonely." I couldn't read the signature beside the quote, but it reminded me of one of To Write Love on Her Arm's creedos: "You are not alone." So I got to tell her all about the organization I try to help out with, and how its for suicide prevention. She thought it was great and she seemed surprised to hear me say I helped out with a non-profit organization, probably because I already have so much on my plate.

We talked, and talked, and every time her eyes lit up, I felt mine light up. I thought to myself, This is really someone I want to be there when I walk down the aisle, when I publish my first book of short stories, and someone I'd like to send photos too every few months. After a day like this, who would want to leave Paris so soon?


"Hoarders Paradise", Chez Madame Dru, 2010

Childhood is calling.

I love seeing other people enjoy themselves and the people around them. It's like hearing a secret, or getting to watch something truly amazing. Little kids running around wild brighten my day, but in addition to those moments where their chocolate covered faces are screaming, and they're kicking at pigeons, I look at their parents or the adults around them. They all have this same look in their eyes, but it's one that's masked with fear-- with maturity. Somewhere deep down they know they want to get up and run around with this little wonder. But instead, they sit idly, thinking about the childhood they once possessed.

Childhood is calling.

Last night I climbed a statue on the street and sat on it's lap. People walked by, some gave confused looks, but others smiled and understood I was just imitating the figure. I jumped down off of it and skipped up to catch up with my friends. But I Elf-hopped across the cross-walk. Drunk? No way. And I hate that that even has to be a question, or that's just the thought that comes across someone's mind when they see a 19 year old climbing statues, or chasing pigeons. "Oh, that girl must be on drugs", or, "I bet she's had a little too much to drink tonight."


"Fountain at Luxembourg", Parisian Gay Pride Parade, 2010

My childhood is always calling.

I say hi to people when they step on to the metro. I look at them with girlish wonder, trying to figure out where they've come from and where they might be going. Maybe if more people in the world would just listen to their inner child they wouldn't be so grumpy, so afraid to open up.

The ultimate childhood called last night.

The fountain at Saint Michel was filled with rose scented bubbles. And everyone, I mean everyone was running around, throwing bubbles at each other. The funniest group of people out of everyone was a mother, possibly grandmother, her two black cocker spaniels and a four year old boy. At first the dogs, who were hooked to a double-leash, got away so the woman chased them part way up Boulevard Saint Michel and left the boy to play with the bubbles. When she got back, she tossed one of the dogs in to cover the black coat with the white foam. When the boy got a little smart and tossed some bubbles on her, she coyly led him over to the fountain...and pushed him in! His look of utter astonishment wil never fade from my mind. And what followed his look was even funnier, the woman ran away, giggling, leash in hand, to hide from the boy who had already scooped up an arms' full of bubbles snd was on his way for retaliation.

If that wasn't the perfection example of giving in to a childish urge, then I don't know what is. I only hope to maintain my childlike spirit for as long as possible, playing pranks on my friends and family, seeing the beauty in everything in life and never stopping my search for happiness.


"Running Child", Centre Pompidou, 2010

Nostalgia.

The phrase "wake up slow" has never really been something I understood. Sure I sleep in sometimes, but I never really allow myself to just lay in bed and absorb the world around me. This morning, however, I was greeted with a beautiful beam of sunshine around 8 am. It wasn't the kind of sunshine that blinds your sensitive eyes upon opening them. The rays were gentle, warming and beautiful. I turned to look out my window and saw the day had already begun, but there were no hustle and bustle sounds outside. There was a calm, serene feeling. So I moved myself a little bit to let the sun rest on my face, and blinking a few times I wondered if I looked like a Black and White actress who had just been awakened by her true love. Batting my eyes like a starlet, I smiled and turn over on my side to feel the sun on my back.

Facing the corner, I saw the sun didn't just stop on the small of my back, it was shining over me, projected onto my white wall, broken into little drops of sunshine as it came through my lace curtains. Moving my body once a little once more, I felt my face illuminate and I smiled again, falling back to sleep.

I wake up an hour or so later, and realize it's Saturday. If any day is a perfect day for waking up slow, it's Saturday. My agenda for the day, get lost in Centre Pompidou and look at every piece of Modern Art that catches my eye. The other piece of agenda, capture every moment of Parisian weekend life I can. There's less than 7 days left in my adventure, and while I've taken full advantage of every opportunity that has come my way, part of me thinks there is still more to be uncovered.

I won't lie and say I'm excited to return to the states. Sure, I'm excited to see my friends and family, and play with my dogs, but as far as living in the U.S. goes, I can't pretend like I feel at home there anymore. There's a major difference in feeling accepted by your friends and family and feeling at ease in a city surrounded by strangers. I could never leave my family behind, but I didn't realize how differently I live my life compared to the people in Miami. The University is great, but I realized that I constantly tell myself the fast paced life of Miami is too much for me, it's not my style. And then I just kind of laugh it off and move onto a new subject. But I can't keep ignoring that. The drivers are not nice, you can't stop and talk to a stranger for more than 30 seconds to ask for directions, and you certainly can't just spend 2 hours in a little restaurant with a friend. And I can't think of many places in the U.S. that you can do that.

I love my country, and I love the people in it, but everyday I am here, I realize there was a huge piece of me missing. It's the piece I've been searching for since I was old enough to make my own decisions. The piece of me that's been missing this whole time is a connection with other human beings that's more than just passing each other by on the street. I'm not saying the French are the most friendly people in the world, but people aren't afraid to ask you for a lighter, a cigarette, which metro is closest, etc. People in bars are genuninely interested in what you're doing in Paris, what kinds of things you've done. There's no one way street here, everything is personal and shared.

Okay, so not everyone here is as peace and love, recycling is awesome, and free-spirited as I am. But they get it. They don't mock it, and they see the genuine love in my eyes when I talk about my tattoos, or when I talk about political issues in America and attempt to explain how not every American agrees with the war. They can see a more passionnate side of a younger person, and its refreshing to be valued as an equal here, and not a minor, or just a student with sometimes radical beliefs.

I know I said I would try to find myself along the way, and I knew that was a bold statement to make with just 5 weeks to do so. But looking back after only 4 weeks in Europe, I really have found myself. It's not just wishful thinking when I say I want to change the world one heart at a time, it's a creedo. It's my creedo. And I think it is safe to say I have sufficiently started that process here in Paris, with my own heart and maybe a couple hearts around me.

To the Americans who I've been so lucky to meet, I hope we can stay in touch. And to the Parisians I've quickly become great friends with, and who look out for me at night, or who smile at me when I walk by the fountain, I hope I can look back at these places in a year or five years, or thirty years and know that I changed their life for the better, and they changed mine as well.

Noontime next Saturday I will be making my way to the airport, with a tear in my eye and a bag full of memories.

9am treats.

Picture it: Boulevard Saint Michel. A two-way street comparable to any urban city. There are strings of cafes, "do-it-yourself" shops, boutiques, and of course little markets or grocery stores. The market I stop in at every morning is what most people here call "The Arab". Not only do I myself find that title extremely offensive, but it's clearly politically incorrect. I understand the joke, or the stereotype, but it doesn't make it right. So, I will just call it my friendly Boulevard Saint Michel fresh-fruit market and petit grocery store.



Perusing the outdoor market baskets, I pick up my usual, a Gala apple and maybe a peach or two. I've gotta stock up on cheaper-priced snacks for the day ahead of me. I notice the wind pick up on this chilly Parisian morning so I quickly choose my fruits and step into the little store, eyeing the candy to my left while greeting the dark brown man to my right, behind the counter, with a friendly, "Bonjour!"

I set down my fruits and tell him, "C'est tout!" when a little girl catches the corner of my eye. Very innocent in nature, of course she is afterall a little girl. Probably about four years old, wearing two curly shoulder lengthed dark brown pigtails, which complimented her dark skin and deep brown eyes. A splash of contrast hits my eyes when I notice her bright pink shirt and electric blue leggings. Clearly someone's mom knows how to dress their child.

But today it wasn't a long stare or a playful smile that caught my attention, it was the chocolate flavored popsicle she was sucking on...at 9 in the morning. I checked my running watch to make sure it was for one, still working and two, to see if I was running late and somehow it was already noontime. No-- it was definitely 9 am. She stared straight up at me, and never once removed the plastic wrapped popsicle from her mouth. I'm not sure at what point she dribbled a little onto her shirt, but I assumed she was just saving it for later.

I knelt down to her eye level, so as not to appear so looming and "scary" in my colorful Parisian scarf, jeans and bright yellow tank top. I softly asked her, "C'est un peu tot pour la glace, non?" She smiled and giggled a little and she turned away and ran behind the counter. I assumed she ran to hide behind her father, who laughed as well. Peeking her head from around his back, the man gave me my total and as I pulled out my credit card-- no cash, he said, "Il faut payer 10 euros minimum." Damn. Gotta buy cookies or juice, or something.

So I ask for a minute while I pick up a few things I think the group at school will like. And like a good little watchwoman of the store, the girl followed me around the two aisles, popsicle in mouth, to ensure I didn't steal any of the precious goods. I grabbed a carton of my favorite cookies and a new juice I hadn't tried before; banana, strawberry & orange, with skim milk blended in too. When I caught glances with the girl, she ran into the other aisle, her giggles trailing behind her. I dumped the goods onto the counter and hoped it would be enough. But suddenly I felt a little breeze, not from outside on the street, but from right behind me. And the little girl whipped herself around me and back behind the counter again.

I waited for her to pop her head out from behind son pere, and when she did I stuck out my tongue to strike back. She removed the popsicle, only for a second, to stick her tongue out too. And when the man told me I still needed another Euro, I said, "Ah, what the hell, it's 5 o'clock somewhere" and turned to grab some French candies. I figured if she could eat sugar this early in the morning, then I could too. When in Paris, right?

So I knelt down once more and told the girl to enjoy her treat and I would enjoy my bonbons on the way to school. I collected my things and started to head for the door, wishing the man behind the counter a wonderful day and hoped he would stay warm. The little girl in the pink shirt and blue leggings followed me to the edge of her father's store, sucking silently on her popsicle, watching as I left to start my day. Little did she know, I left a little piece of my childhood with her as I pulled out my sugar coated candies, looked into the sky and breathed in the bright blue sky.

Centre Pompidou: Modern Art Collections

Les Promesses du Passe:

I don't think people give Modern Art enough credit, myself included. I think it's probably because the art itself requires a tremendous amount of understanding and reflection. The same holds true for other forms of art. The relationship between the artist and the movement at the time are completely intertwined. Because Modern Art can have so many topics or faces, it is much easier to ignore the artists' thought processes, than to take a minute and recognize the artist has an opinion, and a strong one at that.

Every movement of art has at least one thing in common...they were dictated by present day events, or maybe events that just recently took place. If an entire country faces new political structures, or harsh economic conditions, of course the ideas of teh people will change. The politically active will strike or speak out, the writers will whip out a pen or open their MacBooks...and the artuists will-- create, whatever they want. They all sit back & reflect, decide their opinions and choose a side, yay-or-nay. Then, they get to work.

Some choose to capture the moment and let the viewer decide for themselves, while others take the more active role and put their entire sources of energy into a piece that a view might not even like. But the point is not for everyone to like a novel, an article or a black and white photograph, the point is to express and to express true to one's own thoughts.

And while I think speaking to one another is pertinent to understanding another human being, languages will never be Universal", but artwork certainly can be.

***


Tous Ensemble, 1995

"Painting is not a metaphor for internal life. That is something I don't want from painting. In a way, it is rather a commentary on the world that I see. I would like that my paintings offer someone outside of myself the feeling of life's possibilities, that it awakens the energy to face, to confront things. There are all these roads, all these possibilities available. Except that each painting is nevertheless closed, isolated." --Shirley Jaffe

***


#172- Gallieni, Marie-Noelle Decoret, 2000

Black & White Photography.

Simplistic in nature. But it calls for a deeper thought process, one that makes you fill in the blanks to see the whole image. It may lack in color detail, but it calls more attention to the story beneath the image.

***


My Flower Bed, 1962

"Le seul moyen d'echapper a ces choses-la, etait tout m'interrogent sur ce qu'elles pouvaient etre, de les representer visuellement" --Yayoi Kusama

Those Familiar Baby Blues

There are few things in life more comforting than a big pair baby eyes staring up at you from inside of a stroller. And when those happy, sparkling eyes are paired with a toothless grin and a sometimes stuck out tongue, the combination is impossible to resist.

Today when I stepped on the Metro at Chatelet to go to Centre Pompidou, I noticed a younger woman struggling to get situated with her normal sized red stroller. The baby inside was fussing a little, but nothing alarming. So she bounced the stroller a little bit to get him to calm down, and she tried to hang a jacket over the edge of the stroller to maybe block whatever was in his visual perameters-- just typical Mom things to do to make your baby calm down. I hadn't seen her little boy yet as the stroller was facing away from me, but I could tell by his soft whimpers and almost playfully toned cries, he wasn't a pain in the butt baby I've seen a lot of lately.

But soon a few more passengers stepped on, politely moving past the woman and her baby, never looking into the stroller to note the precious cargo eyeing every one who passed by. A few bumped the stroller and quickly said, "Pardon" or "Je m'excuse" but after that, their days continued. The paper still had to be read, a metro-appropriate novel was flipped open, and iPhones were pulled out for entertainment. Since this was the first stop on the Line 11 Metro at Chatelet, I assumed a lot of the passengers had a long way to go.

When the doors shut, the Mom had the opportunity to resituate herself once everyone else had either taken a seat, or who, like me, grabbed onto a pole and just eased into the ride. As she moved the stroller around, I subtly changed my position on the train so I could peer inside to get a look at what was making such cute sounds.

I peeked around the corner of the stroller cover and was greeted by these large blue baby eyes. But these weren't just any blue eyes. Most of the time, when someone says "baby blue" you think of a very light, but brightly toned, blue. Almost like sky blue but with more color variation because it's an eye. These were not baby blue. Well, they were baby blue, but not baby blue. Instead, they had this richer quality to them, with subtle hints of grey and darker blue. But the grey helped maintain their lightness quality, rather than being a darker blue like most adults have. They were simply gorgeous.

After already being thrown off by him having such mature looking eyes, I realized the metro had suddenly become much quieter when we locked glances. His mouth closed, and he just breathed softly. Of course I smiled a little, wondering how this baby could stare at me for so long with such amazement. I couldn't tell if he was a subtly flirting baby, or if he was intrigued by me, but I could tell he was deep in thought. So I stuck my tongue out and watched as he opened his mouth a little bit as if to mimick my motion. Not quite to that age though. So then I expected a little giggle, or something along the lines of flirting. Instead he just closed his mouth again and recommenced the stare.

Almost afraid his mother would think I was staring at her child for too long, I looked away every few seconds, all the while the little one maintained his stare. I couldn't help but think it was a sign, and a great one at that. You can't ever go wrong with a pair of baby blues, so it must be a great sign. And I know in my heart it's a great sign I can carry with me.

And like I said, there are few things more comforting than a pair of baby eyes, and while that's true-- there are few things more inspirational than a sign of fate on the metro. The metro stop I got off at approached far too soon, because all I wanted to do was figure out what he was trying to tell me. But I decided I had figured out enough, waved to him goodbye and wished his mother good health as I stepped off the train and into the Parisian wind. I knew it would be a great start to an even greater afternoon.

Good ol' baby blues.

Les Langages

Since I've arrived in France, I've made every effort to communicate with the French. The language barrier was very hard for me in Austria, and I felt very much like an outsider. I could tell when a restaurant owner grew frustrated with me and I didn't even know how to apologize for not understanding him. But in Paris, I've been able to introduce myself, strike up a conversation and even dive into a rather intricate discussion. I've talked about my tattoos, discussed President Obama, and even asked people what they think of America. Sometimes it gets me into trouble, but we can usually come to some sort of agreement that not all Americans agree with the war and the world-wide destruction our country is causing on a daily basis.

But because I can communicate here, I can make it known I'm not just a loud tourist, drinking at the cafes with my friends. The French are able to see I am a student, diligent in my studies, and willing to learn about the culture. And while the men here are much more forward with females than in the US I've been able to handle myself. And in Austria, if the men had been the same way, it would have been much harder to do. I love being able to understand other people and hear their thoughts on the world and the latest news.

On the buses, the metro, and in the streets I pick up little tidbits of conversations, and while I don't always understand the idiomatic and slang phrases, I can get the jist of the conversation and be able to form my own conclusions. Yesterday I heard a bunch of Italian women speaking at the bus stop, and all I wanted to do was enter the conversation and see what they were talking about. I'm sure some of it was about me, because I saw four or five of them looking at me and then talking. Whatever. Let them talk. Either way, I was inspired to further my knowledge of languages.

The past few months, after working at Ponce Middle, I wanted to learn Spanish so I could communicate with my Hispanic students in the future, but now moreso than ever I want to study Spanish, and Italian so I can travel to these countries and understand the people. German isn't as beautiful, but I'm confident that if I study hard enough the language itself won't be that hard to learn.

I try to live my life through understanding other people, and if I can't communicate with them or don't follow what they say, then I miss a large amount of their being. Something else to add to my life's goals.