There's something very peaceful about an empty weightroom. It's not just the sound of the metal clanging against itself after a set, and it's not the fact that the mirror is vacant from all wandering eyes. Usually I wear headphones while I workout to drown out the heavy breathing of other lifters, or to keep their small-talk out of my thoughts.
Today I walked into the weightroom and noticed it was empty. Not a single person had a towel on a seat, weights on the bar, or a med-ball misplaced. Everything was where it should be and there was a beam of sunshine coming into the room, landing in scattered spots on the floor.
Not knowing where I should start first, I put my headphones in and stand in front of the mirror where the same rack of dumbbells exists in every weightroom worldwide. Deciding that it was too early for hard rock or gangster rap to get me through a workout, I slide on some Bob Marley for my warm-up. Most people assume that headphones should only blast very powerful music during workouts, in order to ensure that motivation levels stay high. But who's to say that Bob Marley isn't powerful enough?
So I grabbed a set of dumbbells and warmed up my rotator cuffs and shoulder blades. "Ya see, in life I know there's lots of grief, but your love is my relief." The song played on and I did some body-weight squats to wake my legs up. And as the music played on, the mood in the room picked up. No longer just a room full of metal, but suddenly a moving workshop had come alive.
I felt myself ease into the workout, knowing I could take it anywhere I wanted next. So I did a few hanging leg lifts, moved over to bench and set up my squat rack at the same time. But now I was ready for a little more music, so I turned to Mariana's Trench. Not quite a hardcore, punch someone in the face kind of sound but it was good enough to get me through the four sets of bench and three sets of squats that lay ahead of me.
"And I can feel the water changing me, it's changing me for good." A drop of sweat falls on the floor and I know its time to towel off. Even though nobody is there to scoff at a girl who actually perspires, it's still common courtesy in case somebody else walks in.
Feeling brave enough to workout without my headphones, I take a whack at going solo-- without the help of any genre. The calmness of the room overtook me a little bit. I felt like I was back in high school when our coaches didn't play music so that we could concentrate on the new lifts we were trying to master. But suddenly my focus sharpened and I was only thinking about my lifts, feeling every movement of each muscle. For the first time in a long time I could feel the benefits of my work right then and there, and not twenty minutes after when I am sore and trying to relax. I had almost forgotten what it was like to be so focused in on one act that it brings out all of these small details in the work.
Lunges with 60 pounds on my back. Suddenly, instead of just feeling my quads get tired, I felt my shoulder blades tense up to help my back stand me back up. I could hear my own breathing and how it changed with each movement. The serenity of the room elevated every sound I made.
I miss the days when I lifted alone, concentrating only on myself and not on the teammates surrounding me. Sure, we all help each other get through our grueling practices, but it's nice to just take it one lift at a time and dig deep into my own heart and soul and find that inner strength to finish on my own.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Whatever your faith, it's beautiful.
I've always felt a little lost when it comes to religion. Growing up, Church wasn't a mandatory thing, and when I went with my friends I just listened and went more just so I could spend time with them and their families. While I support 100% each individual's religious practices, going to Church or Saturday Services was never a religious event for me. And it didn't occur to me until middle school that that wasn't normal for someone who went pretty often.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
The end has come.
I won't necessarily call it the end because I know it's not really the end. Something inside is telling me I will be back, with certain people, or I'll at least be able to see them. I know I'm not finished learning from Rosine's plethora of knowledge and wisdom. And I know in my heart that the Three Musketeers will be reunited in Philadelphia, or in Miami. Part of me wishes it was easier to see everyone again, but nothing in life is ever truly easy.
It's raining in Paris today. Storming actually. The first relief from the summer heat in almost three weeks. Sure it rained a little one week, but nothing like this. It always seems like when I am sad to leave a place, the sky cries with me. And it's never just a few tears and then sunshine bliss part two. It's a day long event of torturous feelings, consuming the lives of everyone. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but what's Paris without a little drama?
I don't know if I can bring myself to truly believe I am leaving. Maybe it's because the end approached so quickly, none of the group could really grasp that it was in fact coming. We spent the last few days together talking about how our trip ended up circling back to where it all began.
"Tours", The Loire Valley, 2010
"It's so funny because this all started with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 strangers in front of the Louvre and now we're ending with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 friends in front of the Eiffel Tower along the Seine." --M.E.P.
I don't weep for leaving people behind. I weep for temporarily leaving people behind I have yet to even begin to understand. It only took a few weeks for me to fall in love with a few of them, but it will be months before we see each other again. And I can only hope that we do in fact see each other again.
Sure, I made a lot of mistakes while I was in Paris. Missed the last metro a few times, so I had to stay out all night. I slept through a couple of classes and even missed one small excursion so I could nap. But I know that I came here to figure out why I make the messes I do. I came here to understand myself just a little bit better, and to start to grasp the world around me just a little bit more as well. Not only have I learned a lot about how my mind works and why sometimes I make the mistakes I do, but I learned a lot about how the world itself functions. I could finally see how an entire city interacts, on foot, and I saw firsthand how strangers can become friends without doing so in the boundaries of a classroom.
I fell in love with a few new friends, an entire city, and a lifestyle I hope to always follow. When I arrived in Paris my heart was much smaller-- not Grinch sized, but smaller. And now as I start to leave Paris I know my heart has grown a tremendous amount. I'm not afraid to walk up to people and vice versa; I'm not afraid to be approached for directions, in fact I now welcome it. And after seeing how people suffer here, I have much for respect for the lives they lead and for the help they deserve to receive.
"La Fontaine a Saint Sulpice", Marche Bibliophile, 2010
Top 12 Events in Paris: (in no particular order)
1. Marching along the Seine at sunrise to lay down at Notre Dame.
2. Fireworks show at Saint Cloud
3. Lunches at Luxembourg Garden
4. Centre Pompidou
5. Sitting like school children in every Art Museum for Art History Class.
6. Street performances every night at Saint Michael's Fountain
7. Madame Mellado's grammar class
8. Playing/Talking in the forest at Chenonceau
9. Dancing late into the night
10. Going to Musee de l'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris with Rosine.
11. Shopping with Corinne on Rue Mouffetard
12. Sacre Coeur & Montmartre afternoon excursion
"Chere Rosine et Moi", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
To the beautiful city of Paris, you now possess a large part of my heart and even larger part of my soul. Take good care of it for me until I return.
It's raining in Paris today. Storming actually. The first relief from the summer heat in almost three weeks. Sure it rained a little one week, but nothing like this. It always seems like when I am sad to leave a place, the sky cries with me. And it's never just a few tears and then sunshine bliss part two. It's a day long event of torturous feelings, consuming the lives of everyone. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but what's Paris without a little drama?
I don't know if I can bring myself to truly believe I am leaving. Maybe it's because the end approached so quickly, none of the group could really grasp that it was in fact coming. We spent the last few days together talking about how our trip ended up circling back to where it all began.
"Tours", The Loire Valley, 2010
"It's so funny because this all started with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 strangers in front of the Louvre and now we're ending with just a couple of bottles of wine among 12 friends in front of the Eiffel Tower along the Seine." --M.E.P.
I don't weep for leaving people behind. I weep for temporarily leaving people behind I have yet to even begin to understand. It only took a few weeks for me to fall in love with a few of them, but it will be months before we see each other again. And I can only hope that we do in fact see each other again.
Sure, I made a lot of mistakes while I was in Paris. Missed the last metro a few times, so I had to stay out all night. I slept through a couple of classes and even missed one small excursion so I could nap. But I know that I came here to figure out why I make the messes I do. I came here to understand myself just a little bit better, and to start to grasp the world around me just a little bit more as well. Not only have I learned a lot about how my mind works and why sometimes I make the mistakes I do, but I learned a lot about how the world itself functions. I could finally see how an entire city interacts, on foot, and I saw firsthand how strangers can become friends without doing so in the boundaries of a classroom.
I fell in love with a few new friends, an entire city, and a lifestyle I hope to always follow. When I arrived in Paris my heart was much smaller-- not Grinch sized, but smaller. And now as I start to leave Paris I know my heart has grown a tremendous amount. I'm not afraid to walk up to people and vice versa; I'm not afraid to be approached for directions, in fact I now welcome it. And after seeing how people suffer here, I have much for respect for the lives they lead and for the help they deserve to receive.
"La Fontaine a Saint Sulpice", Marche Bibliophile, 2010
Top 12 Events in Paris: (in no particular order)
1. Marching along the Seine at sunrise to lay down at Notre Dame.
2. Fireworks show at Saint Cloud
3. Lunches at Luxembourg Garden
4. Centre Pompidou
5. Sitting like school children in every Art Museum for Art History Class.
6. Street performances every night at Saint Michael's Fountain
7. Madame Mellado's grammar class
8. Playing/Talking in the forest at Chenonceau
9. Dancing late into the night
10. Going to Musee de l'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris with Rosine.
11. Shopping with Corinne on Rue Mouffetard
12. Sacre Coeur & Montmartre afternoon excursion
"Chere Rosine et Moi", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
To the beautiful city of Paris, you now possess a large part of my heart and even larger part of my soul. Take good care of it for me until I return.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Last Full Day in Paris...
And I have two final exams. I guess it could be worse, though. We have our goodbye dinner this evening and tomorrow morning we head to Versailles to hang out together, but the next two days are supposed to be some of the hottest days in Paris so we'll see how that goes.
I'm very sad to leave Madame Mellado behind. She is a wonderful person, so full of spirit and everything wonderful. I managed to steal a few lessons from her though so I know my classroom will have a little Parisian flavor.
"Ou que tu sois...je pense a toi.", Salle de Fleurus, 2010
I'm even going to miss Art History. As hard as it is for me to follow the historical facts behind the works of art, I love looking at each painting and wondering at what point in life the artist was at when he painted it. It kind of fascinates me.
"You naughty, naughty girl", Le Musee d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, 2010
So while I'd much rather be playing outside or exploring a few more districts, I guess I could be content with spending time with the group and talking to my amazing professors one last time.
"Les Fausses Lunettes", Les soldes dans Rue Mouffetarde, 2010
Live it up, right?
I'm very sad to leave Madame Mellado behind. She is a wonderful person, so full of spirit and everything wonderful. I managed to steal a few lessons from her though so I know my classroom will have a little Parisian flavor.
"Ou que tu sois...je pense a toi.", Salle de Fleurus, 2010
I'm even going to miss Art History. As hard as it is for me to follow the historical facts behind the works of art, I love looking at each painting and wondering at what point in life the artist was at when he painted it. It kind of fascinates me.
"You naughty, naughty girl", Le Musee d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, 2010
So while I'd much rather be playing outside or exploring a few more districts, I guess I could be content with spending time with the group and talking to my amazing professors one last time.
"Les Fausses Lunettes", Les soldes dans Rue Mouffetarde, 2010
Live it up, right?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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
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
Saturday, June 26, 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
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.
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.
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