Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad!

La Virgen se esta peinando, Entre cortina y cortina, Sus cabellos son de oro, El peine de plata fina...Pero mira como beben, Los peces en el rio, Pero mira como beben, Por ver al Dios nacido" - you know I had to quote this, it's my favorite Christmas carol!

This will be a very short Christmas story, as most of my posts have been lately, because I am tired and it has been a whirlwind month.

Because I did not have enough money to go home for Christmas, I went to visit family friends in Spain. It goes without saying that I had no reason to complain and was incredibly grateful, but more so than this, I was touched by the small blessing that it was to spend Christmas with people who were like family. Our families have known each other since before I was born, and they lived across the street from us in Cuba…now, much like us, members of this family are spread all over the world (Canada, Cuba, the US, Spain, Germany). I first went to Murcia, where Anita, Mario and their daughter and my friend Maite, welcomed me with open arms.

Murcia, which is located on the southeastern part of Spain was extremely warm in comparison to Paris, and more much interesting in terms of natural beauty since it is surrounded by mountains and built on a fertile plain that is covered with citrus and olive orchards. There is not much to see in the city, but what tourist attractions existed, we saw. We went to the outdoor holiday market, walked around the Gan Via, visited the Plaza Cardenal Belluga, walked along the Glorieta, and saw the Catherdal itself. I was pretty tired, but Anita was highly excited about having us two girls home, so we both had to rouse ourselves from work-induced stupor and go sightseeing. In the end, it was absolutely worth it! My favorite spot in Murcia was the Sanctuary of the Fuensanta, Murcia’s patron. It is located in the mountains and there is a small café where the four of us sat, sipping café con leche, and looked at the city.

Noche Buena [the 24th of December] was spent at a friend’s restaurant, in the company of 20 or so rowdy Cubans doing the things that rowdy Cubans do. Despite certain moments of obnoxiousness, the food was delicious and it was nice to be speaking Spanish for the second consecutive day! Then, the son of the hostess took Maite and I out on the town until 4am….suffice it to say that in Spain, much like I had been told but had refused to believe, people start their nighttime festivities at 1am, so it virtually impossible to come home before daybreak!

On the 25th, having spent 2 days in Murcia, Maite and I parted for Madrid, where she only recently moved from Germany. I stayed there until the 30th, greatly enjoying the company of Maite, with whom I have been very good friends since childhood, and her roommates, whom I immediately took to. Diana, one of the roommates, even cooked me a special meal for my last lunch!

In Madrid, I tried to do a lot, but, still being tired, was set on pacing myself well. Since my favorite thing about a new city is just walking around and seeing it, I did a lot of strolling down the Gran Via, calle de las Huertas, and especially Paseo del Prado. I also went to several art museums, of which I can say that the Museo Nacional Reina Sofia was my absolute favorite. In fact, I can say that it is one the best museusm I have ever seen which, taking into account how many museums and galleries I’ve been to, is quite a compliment. Aside from housing a lot of Dali’s, Picasso’s “Guernica,” and a bunch of other renowned paintings, it also has rooms upon rooms of contemporary Spanish artists that I would not normally be able to see in person. Incidentally, it also has one of my favorite Picasso paintings, the unfinished “La Salchichona” (1917) which looked better in person than I has imagined was possible.

In general, Maite and I explored the city together, and it was wonderful to have more time to catch up with her. I will not go into too many details, you can just click on my pictures if you want to see what I actually did, however, let me finally mention that I met up for tapas with my best friend from Mexico, Diana Pineda! We had not seen each other in 12 years, but had managed to keep in touch via letter and emails since then! Not only were the tapas delicious, but it was also wonderful to see the twenty-two year old woman standing in from of me and still be able to pick up pieces of the ten year old girl I’d listened to that first Shakira CD with.

And so, after a great trip away from Paris, I returned on the 30th and, not surprisingly, since that has been the theme of the last several months, felt at home, even with the thongs of tourists invading the city for New Years.

December in Paris

Ogilvy Christmas!

Mid-December witnessed one of the most clichéd and amazing experienced of my time in Paris: the Ogilvy IBM team holiday party. The first portion was a traditional Christmas dinner at an English pub. The food was good, the beer was flowing, and the Secret Santa gifts were quite creative, but the highlight of the first half of the day were the Christmas carols. My boss, Tonya, had instructed everyone to choose a song in their native language and sing in groups according to nationality. The Germans, of course, came fully organized and prepared with placards so the audience could join them, prompting jokes about German efficiency, as usual. The Americans sang a hilarious version of Rudolf the Rednosed Reindeer, and the “Commonwealth” team joined in with “Silent Night.” Many more followed, of which I partook in both the Spanish and Russian versions. Interestingly enough, it was quite humorous because the Spanish version was an upbeat happy song [my favorite Christmas carol since the age of 10…my family detests it because I start singing it nonstop right after Thanksgiving….and in college, I sing it to them over the phone] about fish jumping from joy at the birth of Christ…whereas the Russian one is a sad one about a tree being cut from a forest to be used for decoration. So incredibly telling of the national characters, no? [Look at my photos for December to see some of these antics captured on camera!]

After a hearty lunch, we headed off for the second portion of the afternoon: bowling!! I, who had never bowled before, absolutely loved it! In a very French way, everyone drinks wine while they bowl here so the bowling gets progressively funnier and more dramatic as the sets go on….let’s just say it was a very enjoyable treat!

Events!
I went to an Orishas concert with Gladys and Asia and it was one of the best concerts I have ever attended. It was held at Elysee Montmartre, which is one of the most famous music venues in the city....and Orishas is a group of Cuban musicians based in Spain…they combine traditional salsa, guaguanco, son sounds with less traditional sounds like rap, reggae, etc. The result is an incredible fusion of sound that I could not help but dance to!

In terms of ballet, I saw different ends of the spectrum this month. First, I went to see “The Nutcracker” at Opera Bastille and was thoroughly disappointed in the performance. However, when I saw “Paquita” at Opera Garnier with Elana later that week, I was floored by the emotion of the performance, the precision of movement, and the costumes. I think this may be in part because it was not choreographed by Noureev [like “The Nutcracker”] and I have never really liked any of his pieces.

Two other noteworthy sidenotes in this [very short] summary of December:

a.) I thoroughly explored the Marais, both by myself and with Elana. I really like the general feel of the area, despite hating shopping, AND I found a delicious crepe restaurant! I also visited my boss’s boss’s stepson’s perfume boutique [did you follow those degrees of separation?]…let’s just say that the names of the perfumes are more than a bit risqué.

b.) Elana and I went for dinner at Laduree. We were sitting calmly, minding our own business, when the couple next to us paid and left, leaving TWO perfectly normal maracons intact on a plate. After much debate [not internal, but between Elana’s manners and my hunger], I reached over and ate them. Classy, right?

Rollercoaster

Lyrics: "Late in the summer children run without clothes, Chill of the winter not far down the road" - Jonathan Rice

On Monday, my grandfather died. My father’s father, whom I barely knew. Partly because the emotional and physical distance and mostly for base, selfish reasons, I wondered how much more shit [excuse the language] would keep happening this year, but I knew even before I completed the thought that this should not be about me. This, of all things, a death, should not be about my weaknesses, my pains, and my difficulties. And so, for the sake of my father and our family, que en paz descanse. And the rest of us step forward and stay grateful, or try to as best as we can. This whole "getting up after the fall" thing is becoming a bit of a habit this year. I'm wondering if at a certain point one ceases to turn the other cheek, to place one foot in front of the other until walking becomes familiar again.

On a different note, I went rock climbing with Jay, who keeps promising to bring me a piece of some “incredible” baklava from some hole-in-the-wall establishment around his apartment. Needless to say, I have yet to see this heaven-sent carbohydrate. However, I will say that Jay, who hails from San Francisco, is an excellent climbing partner, and the gym here is not just huge beyond anything I could have conceived, but also full of incredible climbers. In my ignorance, I had expected the French to be a little too…well, French…to want to get their hands chalky and their muscles strained, but, as has been the case many-a-time here already, my biased preconceptions were shattered. For those of you have been to Interlaken, the rock gym here, is a combination of that atmosphere and a bit of that setting [the tables look strikingly similar] and a normal rock gym, except very, very, very high. Jay is very good, and I am improving, which brings me to my final point on this topic: I think more people should climb, for it really is one of the only things I have found that people of completely different skill levels can do together! One cannot have a running partner if your pace is two minutes apart, or seat a novice in front of a trained rower [poor chap is going to get his back bruised by the oar within the first two strokes (did I just say “chap?”)]. But with climbing, I can belay for Jay as he lunges from one side of the wall to another, and he can belay for me as I meticulously make my way up some much easier route. How friendly, no?

On Wednesday I went to a cocktail party and movie screening for the Young Democrats Abroad. Yes, that is correct, I said Democrats. Do not be alarmed, I have not suddenly become a liberal, I just decided that I was open-minded enough [open-mindedness as a conscious decision? Probably not] to accept an invitation to such an event. It was held in the apartment of some fancy person who had massive portraits of themselves and their daughter hanging everywhere. More precisely, pop-art style portraits of the daughter and [surprise] a really small dog [insert eye roll]. What was I getting myself into? The wine was good, the eggnog was ok, the company was tolerable [except for this one girl I met whom I really liked]; in short, the only surprise of the night was the short film. It is called “Red State” and basically follows a California liberal as he drives through, as was to be expected, red states and asks people why they voted for Bush. The guy himself was disarmingly honest as he interviewed all sorts of people and later confessed that though still confused by their voting behavior, the experience had taught him not to objectivize entire groups of people. My chief complaint with the film is that it showed only religious conservatives [and slightly crazy ones at that], ignoring completely the percentage of the population who votes conservatively for fiscal or other reasons. Other than this, the Young Democrats’ laughter at certain religious comments, ignorant [of science] though they may, was highly disrespectful and unnerving.

On Thursday, Chine and I went to a gospel concert. It was being held in Ste Germain des Pres, the oldest Church in Paris…though it is far from the most beautiful, it has quite a lot of charm. The performers are called “Gospel Dream,” they are French, and, as can be gathered from the name [I will not insult your ignorance any further], they sing gospel music. And wow, there really are few things I enjoy as much as a good Gospel choir, though I must admit I have been spoiled by Kuumba [a huge gospel choir at Harvard] concerts. This was much smaller, much quieter, the colors were more muted, and the repertoire less creative [the Kuumba direcor, Sheldon, rewrites and composes a lot of songs for them]. Despite this, it was only in relation to Kuumba that I had any grounds for dissatisfaction, so I dismissed all such thoughts, and set about to clapping, singing, and swaying along. It was nice to sit in a church, pray quietly, and have music waft over you. Let me just say this now: if by some miracle I were granted to ability to sing, but I could only pick one song to sing, it would probably be “Amazing Grace.” My favorite moment of the concert was when the choir sang the South African National Anthem, and Chine and I just looked at each other and sang along to the one song no one else in the audience knew. Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrica...

After this, we headed down some winding street and ate some of the most delicious crepes I have had in this city. Mind you, I have eaten my fare share of crepes here [my parents would probably argue that it has been more like three people’s shares], but this place was in-cre-di-ble. And they had cider! I was as happy as a clam…if clams had digestive systems, I guess. More than the food, it was just great to catch up with Chine, since she had just spent a week in Strasburg and I had a variety of random and anecdotal things to share.

And now, for two random notes:
Forget cultural reforms, forget curbing transportation strikes and pension plans, forget tackling immigration. I need Sarkozy to tell French men to please, for the good of all of us whose personal olfactory boundaries are crossed time and time again, LAY OFF THE AXE. How much spray a single man’s pores can absorb had been a mystery until now, when I can say, having ridden on subways, walked down streets, and sat in public spaces with representatives of said gender, that the potential for absorbency appears to be limitless. In other words, it is absolutely ridiculous how much these people smell, no, reek. People please, the AXE effect is not real; women will not jump you in elevators and undress as you walk by [quite the opposite actually, judging by some of the frowns I’ve seen]. For the good of mankind, just wash your hair, put on some deodorant, and get yourself to work in an ironed shirt – that last bit would probably be more impressive than any combination of AXE shampoo, AXE body wash, AXE spray you can concoct.

And secondly, though I would not dream of naming any child of mine Olivier or Laurent [we all know my children will have enough reason to think me insane without having to resent an obnoxious French name], I have discovered that I love pronouncing such prenoms! Say it with me now, Olivieeeee. Oh, just rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it?

Pendant le week-end

Lyrics: "Turn around take a good look now 'cause I'm leaving" - Graham Colton

This weekend saw a solidifying of what I love about this city: conversations. Or rather, what I love about the life that I have come to find in this city, but that I am certain, exists elsewhere in the world.

On Friday I joined Asia and Jose and spent some time wandering around the Louvre. I find it difficult, and Asia agrees with me, to visit museums with friends, because you spend more time talking than admiring, and there is always an implicit pressure that doesn’t allow you to just stare at a Vermeer for 30 minutes. In any case, we wandered for a bit, then headed out to the Quartier Latin, buying two bottles of cheap wine along the way [2.8 and 4 Euros, respectively]. On the way, we stopped at the Great Mosque of Paris to buy some of the most finger-lickin’ good baklava I have ever tasted.

We had dinner at Evan’s apartment – pasta with a delicious sauce that reminded me how much I love zucchini. This was my first time meeting everyone other than Asia, but, as has happened everywhere I have been here, I felt instantly welcomed. After dinner the night turned to be one of the most enjoyable ones here, as we sat in a the cloud of smoke that usually accompanies late-night gatherings in Paris, drank Stella-Artois and debated, in a cockeyed mélange of French and English. We talked about politics – both national and global – philosophy, cultural identity. We debated not along left vs. right or correct vs. incorrect, but about the actual definitions of the ideas that bolster such breakdowns. It was a stripping to the raw ingredients of moral and intellectual debate and, despite being partly lost during the French portions, I felt immeasurably alive sitting in such company. We were a Pole, a Brazilian, a Dutchman, an American, and myself, haggling out the fine points of La Republique. At one memorable point, we also listened to what John Mckenna would probably classify as “undergound hiphop” – clashing, powerful rhymes based on politics or true stories, set to inspiring classical backdrops and elaborate beats. It was incredibly intense, beautiful, unexpected for me, especially because of my limited exposure to the genre.

In short: the night was a great combination of the disarmingly mundane and the thankfully exceptional.

We wandered outside, walking up the alleys of the Latin Quarter to buy a crepe, chatting along the way about topics as varied as freedom of speech and monogamy. Then we came back, because it was too late to take the metro, to talk some more, listen to Evan play the guitar, and fall asleep, sprawled across couches and mattresses, floating entities in a darkened room, breathing hard from a long week, a long day, an even longer night. Before finally falling asleep,

I realized that these are the experiences that had kept my mind unquiet for a while now, anxious with the distinct hunch that somewhere, someone was having the kinds of conversations that I wanted to be a part of….with people who pushed and pulled my logical mind and required me to defend my convictions, with people who made me feel ignorant in the most wonderful of ways [the kind of ignorance that opens your mind to the possibilities of new knowledge]. I have no doubt that they are simultaneously happening back home, in small college dorms, on rooftops, at Sunday brunches [and probably, thankfully, with less cigarette smoke], but for now, they are here in Paris, with me. And I feel lucky.

AND THEN:

Saturday witnessed lazy morning coffee around a crowded living room table. And coming home to run errands and buy groceries. And a long run around Parc Monceau.

On Sunday, I just wandered around the city, since I like Paris in the rain. The other day Asia described it as having a magical moment around every corner, and though I frowned at the use of the word “magical,” I agreed with her that there is something inherently Parisian that escapes even the most general definition. Sundays in Paris are lazy, family days, when all the shops are closed, and it takes an hour to get a cup of coffee at a café. In part, this is meant to prepare you for the coming week, but mostly it is a slowing down of the heartbeat of life, which runs so wildly here on Friday and Saturday nights. And walking these streets this Sunday, especially in the rain and listening to Graham Colton and Jack Johnson, was peaceful, even as halfway around the world a myriad of loud and important things were happening.

Sinead had invited me and her friend Hannah for brunch at her apartment and, as has happened often lately, we ended up sitting on her carpet, eating homemade crepes, and talking. Another breath of fresh air. Six hours later, we had barely moved.

Thankful

Music: Graham Colton

Anesha came to visit for Thanksgiving!!! Despite the reality that we were both somewhat tired and sleep-deprived, it was simply wonderful to see her after almost a year!! It was also great to have her here to share my first Thanksgiving away from home! Luckily enough, we were invited to Thanksgiving dinner at the apartment of someone who works at the US Embassy. And so, my first Thanksgiving abroad [probably one of many over my life], was spent in a beautiful apartment, eating absolutely delicious traditional food [the pecan pie was heavenly], and discussing a wide range of topics with interesting expats. We finished off the night with a sip of cognac and headed off, Anesha and I carrying a bag of generous leftovers!

The next day we took the opportunity to explore Montmarte, walking around the hill, going into Sacre Coeur, visiting the Salvador Dali museum [he really is one of my favorite artists], walking around the area. The last remaining vineyard in Paris is located on the hill, and we also visited a museum about the zone. Despite enjoying the day, I was not particularly impressed, especially in comparison with some of my favorite areas in Paris. We came back into the center of the city in the afternoon, had a dinner of crepes at Place de Clichy, which is always alive with cars, lights, people, and music, and headed out to Café Universel for a night of winding down with a glass of wine and live jazz.

The next day we started off by visiting the Rodin museum, which I personally enjoyed because it showcased so many of his works, that I was able to finally give specific meaning to the ambiguous admiration I have felt for him as a sculptor. He loves horizontal lines and very curved backs, and the movement with which the bodies in his sculptures connect to each other, regardless of whether it’s two hands, two faces, two backs, is charged with the electric of real human touch. After this, we walked over to Dome Church, where the King moved Napoleon’s remains from St. Helena nineteen years after his death as a gesture of reconciliation. The church is an impressive, gilded building in the middle of Les Invalides, designed and reserved for the Sun King. It still retains much of its regal feel, especially since Napoleon’s presence adds a degree of somber formality. Napoleon’s remains were placed in a series of coffins, the outermost of which is made of a beautiful red stone. In addition, the altar is breathtaking, the marble statues are imposing, and there is a striking inscription that quotes from Napoleon’s will that he wished to be buried near the Seine, close to the Parisian people he loved so much.

Afterwards, Anesha and I walked around the arrondissement, taking a walk to the Eiffel Tower which, coincidentally, I had yet to visit. We crossed a bridge to Trocadero, where we bought not one, but two crepes each. And then, after a day of touristic exploration, we split up: Anesha to go see the Louvre, and me to trek to Bellville to buy green plantains. In a couple of hours, we met up and headed to Bourg-la-Reine where, with everyone’s help, I prepared a Cuban “feast” for the ex-roommates, complete with fried plantains, white rice, garbanzos, fried pork, mojo de ajo, and a salad. Surprisingly, they are every last piece, which I took to be a great compliment!

And then, after a couple of days of late-night catching up sessions and Paris wanderings, Anesha went back home, returning both of us to our respective realities: school and work. As for me, I began another workweek, but this time significantly more tired than the one before [read: I am too tired to make this post anything interesting and am instead, resorting to a mere retelling of the occurred].

November, short version, Part III

Announcement: I, Natalia Martinez, ate beef on Monday. Considering this is the second time I have eaten meat since I have been in France, this is quite the occurrence. Granted, it was a tiny portion at an overpriced Chinese restaurant, but it was still, essentially and purely, beef. Chris, whom I met in Geneva last summer and who came from Prague to see me for the weekend, took me to dinner after work. Then we walked around the Champs-Elysees, catching up, and enjoying the cold Parisian night.

Other highlights have included, but not necessarily been limited to:
a.) Wine and cheese party with the roommates in Bourg-la-Reine. A lot of wine, a lot of cheese, a lot of bread, very good music, and 45 people stuck overnight in the suburbs because of the transit strike.
b.) Nina, Heike, Heike’s sister, and I went to an International Photo Exhibition. It was a great gathering of hundreds of galleries from around the world, exhibiting all kinds of photography. It was actually overwhelming to have so much variety in a single location, and after a couple of hours walking around, I could barely remember which galleries I had liked. It was generally very enjoyable though and I saw some photographs, the composition of which, was truly inspiring.

On a different note, I finally moved out of Bourg-la-Reine! I will really miss living there, dinners together around the table, entire days spent listing to David’s music blasting throughout the house. I feel incredibly blessed to have met these people, to have had the opportunity to live with them, and be welcomed into Paris through the doorway of their home. However, now I am living about 15 minutes walking distance from work, which is a blessing in a city like this! It’s a small studio on a 6th floor [with no elevator]…I’m sharing it with Goga, a hyperactively lovable Polish 30 year old. My bed, much to my father’s chagrin, is quite literally a mattress on the floor under a window the looks out onto, again quite literally, an ugly rooftop! We have two beds, a table, a bathroom, a small pantry, and a miniature cooking area, but it’s clean and organized [no surprise there, coming from me]. It’s also about a two minute walk from a Russian Orthodox Cathedral and less than a minute from a beautiful park where I run in the mornings. The walk to work is itself quite pleasant, as I get to see the city beginning to stir, and occasionally stop into a boulangerie and buy a croissant. For lack of a better description, it’s my favorite way to start a morning.

Coincidentally, the move has also allowed me to start running again. Park Monceau is a very famous and beautiful park in Paris, and surrounded by very exclusive apartments, it is an oasis of green in the middle of the 8th Arrondissement. I run in shorts and a sweatshirt, no matter the cold or the rain. I need it, partly because it’s a complete reversal of my usual mode of functioning: it keeps my body in motion, but my mind at peace [whereas my body is usually stationary while my mind is wondering in 17 different directions]. Running provides a release in the middle of my day, my body pushing against the cold, against any possible pain [it is difficult for me to run outside because of a calf injury]. It does not matter if all I have eaten that day is oatmeal because I have no money, or that I’m far away from home, or that I just worked 11 hours; all that matters is that I have things to be thankful for, a cold chill creeping up my body, and music blasting from my headset.

Strikes: We had transportation strikes for nine days. In other words, 1 in 4 metro trains was running, if that. The trains that were running, were packed full of people, and the streets, filled with drivers who usually take public transportation, were alarmingly hectic. The general mood was crazed, since it took people hours to get to work. Unlike the strike that happened more than 10 years ago, this one was doomed from the relative beginning because 80% of the population is in favor of Sarkozy’s reforms, whereas before they were in favor of the unions.

Work is still going well. I have been getting more responsibility in certain aspects of the new campaign launch, so I am trying to use the opportunities to learn as much as possible. I have met some of the other interns, which comprise a fun and relaxed group of twenty-somethings. We meet for drinks about once a week, usually for a Guinness at a nearby Irish pub. Sinead, who studies at Oxford, is a breath of fresh air in the office, and Philippe, with who I quite literally exchange “The Life Aquatic” quotes by the water cooler [cliché and all], is a blessing = he lent me the second season of “Arrested Development,” which I have been watching whenever I get a chance. Amazingly, I still laugh for minutes on end at some of the jokes.

Tres French experience: I had dinner with Chine and Asia [friends from Harvard] in Chine’s apartment. It consisted of multiple kinds of cheese, a loaf of bread, little sausages, oranges, and two bottles of white wine. We sat on the floor, ate, talked, and laughed; after a long work day, it was incredibly refreshing.

November, short version, Part II

Music: The Album Leaf

I am writing in a rush and do not have time for long explanations or descriptive ramblings, so here goes a very, very short update.

Elana and I attended a concert at the Englise de la Madeleine. This massive building was first designed to glorify Napoleon’s army and with its Neo-Classical style, is one of the most beautiful churches I have yet to see in Paris. The concert included an inspiring sung rendition of “Ave Maria,” and a great performance of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” among other things. Most striking was the contrast of the musicians, gently swaying with their violins, and the large statue of Mary Magdalene being carried up to heaven by two angels that stood directly behind them. Earth and sky, human and stone, music and faith became inseparable.

The next day, Elana and I met up to continue my exploration of St. Germain des Pres. Mostly, we visited de Musee D’Orsay, which I thoroughly enjoyed. In particular, I got to see one of my favorite Millet painting, several of my beloved Degas pieces [though not all because I did not get to the bathers section], and some of Van Gogh. I also had the opportunity of learning more about artists I was not too familiar with. Sidenote: I love audio guides! One of my favorite things about this museum is that, especially in its size and distribution, it is not overwhelming; in addition, the architectural contrasts that its old “train station” interior allows for are very aesthetically pleasing.

After this, we visited St. Germain des Pres, which is the oldest church in Paris, bought yet another crepe from a street stand, and embarked on an exploration of the local contemporary art galleries. The area is known for having plenty of these, but my favorite by far, was the Galerie Breheret, where I uncovered an artist whose use of color and shape was, for the first time in a long time, refreshing. His name is Guy Charon and apparently he was recently [several years ago] added to the list of French Masters [this is a book which documents painters and artists of French origin who have earned the categorization of “master”]. His canvases seem almost like a caricature of real life – with thick outlines, bright colors, and blue shadows – but I like them precisely because they do not seem like simplifications to me at all. They have deliberate warmth in their point of view and posses an obstinate desire to show the smallest details as beautiful, alive, full of color. Examples of his work, for the curious, can be found here: http://www.galerie-breheret.com/CHARON07.htm

We finished the day by having a tasty but much too expensive dinner at Café de Flore, a renowned little spot that JP Sartre used to frequent. Located on the Blvd. St Germain, it is in the very center of this lively and beautiful area of Paris, and worth the money if one does not go there too often. This area also has incredible street performers on weekends, which creates an atmosphere that, like I mentioned in one of my October post titled “I need more hard rain and good music,” reminds me that Nietzsche was very much correct in stating that life without music would be an error.

November, short version, Part I

Lyrics: " I find it magical, I feel like I'm loving you in 1963" - Rachael Yamagata


The first weekend in November was a four-day holiday in France, in honor of the religious “All-Saints,” which is a much nicer thing to celebrate than Halloween. My body was still adjusting to the new time zone, but I put forth my best tourist effort. The highlights of the weekend were, in no particular order:

1. Seeing the Gustave Courbet exhibition at the Grand Palais with Elana [friend from high school]. I knew very little about Courbet before, but seeing the range of his works, and especially glimpsing several of his renowned canvases first-hand, solidified my respect for him. Courbet was quite the bad boy of the times, it seems. Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

2. Ladurée: prior to seeing the Courbet exhibition, Elana and I had a three-hour lunch at Ladurée on the Champs-Elysees. Ladurée is a “luxury” bakery, pastry shop, tearoom. Call it what you like, I was there to try the double-decker macarons which are now a staple of Paris, but which were originally invented by Ladurée chefs. Lunch was not too expensive, but it was absolutely worth every penny. The macarons, in particular the ones with pistachio or black currant, were mouth-watering, melt-in-your-mouth sugary pieces of heaven on earth.

3. I saw everything there is to see on Ile de la Cite, the island on the Seine where Paris began as a small village before Caesar conquered it. I was lucky enough to sit in on mass in Notre Dame! After, I enjoyed a nutella crepe at the beautiful Jean XXIII square behind the cathedral, surrounded by rows of yellow-leafed trees around an elaborate fountain. Following this, I went to the Memorial des Martyrs, a minimalist memorial commissioned by Charles de Gaulle to commemorate the deaths of the French men and women who were deported to Nazi concentration camps during WWII. I then walked to the year-round flower market in the area, briefly checked out the Palais the Justice, and spent a long time inside Saint-Chapelle, mesmerized by its thin columns and magnificent stained glass windows. It’s been hailed as one of the great architectural masterpieces of the Western world and I could see why: you literally felt lifted towards the sky. I also visited the Conciergerie, which housed over 4,000 prisoners during the Revolution. Both Marie-Antoinette and, ironically, Robespierre, saw their last days here. I ended the day by crossing Pont Neuf to St. Germain des Pres, a different area of Paris and, after walking around for a short bit, setting up at Les Deux Magots, a famous café that Simone de Beavoir and Hemingway used to frequent. I sat outside, as dinner alfresco is one of my favorite things [there were also outdoor heaters], enjoyed a small meal and a fabulous dessert, sipped two glasses of white wine, and read Dostoevksy. I was alone, surrounded by the clinking of utensils, the laughter of those crowded around small tables around me, the fast walking of people by the restaurant – sometimes, it’s one of the best feelings to see yourself alone in the masses, to be caught somewhere both far away and a touch away from life. In short, it was a splendid couple of hours.

4. Elana, Farryl, and I attended the BNP Tennis Masters finals! I arrived early to (masterfully) scalp cheap tickets, and enjoyed the game, despite its early end. Rafael Nadal lost in two sets, which, for someone who has seen him play on televised matches on multiple occasions, was highly disappointing from me. Disappointing is probably a euphemism. And he wasn’t even injured this time, like when he lost at the US Open to Ferrer. In any case, he came in 2nd, so I resigned myself and enjoyed the experience.

5. I had a dinner with a friend from Geneva that turned into sexual harassment. No need to delve into this highly unpleasant and angering experience, but allow me to point out that the food was incredible, and one of the only times that I would have beef in all of November.

6. I visited the Pompidou with Nina, one of my roommates. I walked through only one floor and rather leisurely, because I do not want to rush myself when it comes to museum exploration in Paris. I want to catch the smaller things, to be able to remember them. Modern art is not exactly my favorite area of artistic exploration, but there were certain pieces I really loved. One of them: http://picasaweb.google.com/nmartinez17/LeapOfFaithNovember/photo#5129866370530737010

That one week in October

Lyrics: "I don't want it all, all I need is a little bit" - Madeleine Peyroux

I arrived in Paris towards the end of October, despite having had the original intention of arriving here at the beginning of September. Having missed several events I was really anticipating, such as a grape-stomping and a famous horse race, I hit the ground running and tried to make this city my new home. At home, I was welcomed by the roommates with open arms while I searched for an apartment closer to the center of the city. David slept on the couch for close to three weeks so that I could have his room, which I believed I have thanked him for to the point of irritating him. I began work the day after my arrival and was shocked to discover that I work about a skip and hop away from the Arc de Triomphe. Yes, correct, off of the Champs-Elysees, pretty much the epitome of tourism and Parisian wealth. Upon walking out of the metro stop, I was visually assaulted by the largest Louis Vuitton store I could imagine [the flagship]. No exaggeration, the 7 or 8 storied building made me feel like the apocalypse was coming, heralded by an invasion of ugly little brown bags.

I got over the location [probably desirable for most, but somewhat distasteful for me] when I actually got to my office and found that the people I would be working for/with were incredibly refreshing, lively, and international. My direct team consists of Sean, who is from London, Brendan, from New Zealand, and Mia, from Serbia. Officially I am an Assistant-Account Executive, working on Brand Management, and my client is IBM. On my very first day, Brendan sent out an email to all of the Brand Management people across Europe, introducing me as the “new member of their team,” an email to which, the heads of these accounts across Europe, actually replied. And thus, the first [of many] times I called our agencies in London, Frankfurt, Rome, or Moscow, I was greeted by excited and friendly “Hello Natalia, how are you!?” In other words, it would not be an exaggeration for me to say that it was great. Because it would be somewhat unprofessional to discuss what I do at work in detail in such a public forum, I will leave it at that.

Within my first week I realized that I do like advertising, at least enough to look into it more. This is partly driven by my interest in cross-cultural psychology, which is very relevant to the field, and by my desire to do pro-bono advertising work. More so than just donating to a charity or sympathizing from across the ocean, I would rather actually participate in something that could drastically help, for example, an immunization campaign in Cambodia, or encourage HIV testing across South Africa. This will come in time, obviously, and has absolutely nothing to do with the launching of IBM’s new campaign in the first quarter of 2008.

Sidenote: my lunches have been delicious. Seemingly random little cafes around my work have led me to discover absolutely mouth-watering sandwiches. I also appreciate that portions here are smaller, so I can feel guilt-less in having a daily dessert!

In addition, I love the commute, despite the fact that getting from the center of Paris to Bourg-la-Reine takes over an hour. I absolutely relish the time I get to spend on the train, watching strangers begin or end their day, listening to Madeleine Peyroux , Buddy Guy, or Yann Tiersen and setting their movements and expressions to music that only I can hear. I feel like an accomplice of both the dawning day and the closing evening - both welcoming and releasing people, escorting them for part of their journey to work, their families, friends, or lonely apartments. It is a gift, to be granted this kind of observation, and I do my best to neither overlook nor underestimate it.

The roommates took me out for drinks on Tuesday and I discovered that for non-students, going out on a weeknight is actually feasible. Once over this pleasant surprise, I had a great time. Then on Thursday [my 5th day in the city], we went dancing for Nina’s birthday. The place is part restaurant, part dance club, and 15 Euros gets you a meal, unlimited champagne for an hour, and entrance to the dancing area. The great aspect of this is that it is specifically labeled as an “After work” activity, meaning that it starts at 7pm and ends at around 1am, giving everyone plenty of beauty sleep before the workday. It was fun to dance again, and with such a large group of people.

On Saturday, Nina, Heike, and I went to Café Universel, which is a small jazz café with no admission charge and live music. The performance was legitimately inspiring, and as I swayed and tapped to the rhythms of jazz, I wondered where these little places are in Cambridge and how come I had not visited more of them. The girls’ night out was great, sipping wine and listening to a great singer. I started to feel more at home in this city. Thomas then picked me up and we headed off to a party on a boat [not a boat party, but a party on a boat, because the host actually lives on a stationary boat on the Seine]. Again, everyone I met was incredibly welcoming, despite the fact that everyone here has asked me my age within 10 minutes of meeting me; apparently, they think I am 24 or 25, and are always surprised to discover that I just recently turned 21.

So far Paris has been very different from what I expected. It is a lot less cliché than I had been told. This may also be because I have come here full of the optimism, cheer, and nervous expectation of someone closing their eyes and jumping into dimly-lit water. I am lucky because most of the people I know here are French or have been living here for an extended period of time [which is not a privilege study abroad students have], so I have felt immersed in a different aspect of the quotidian routine. Most of the people I have met have been kind and friendly, and the city in general has a very unique air. In some ways, it makes me miss St. Petersburg; in others, Boston. And in many ways, it is distinct from anywhere I have ever been. In part, I believe this is because when in Florida I yearn for the cold, grey sadness of fall turning into winter. There is a depth of conversation that is facilitated by the bad weather, a feeling of human connection that is brought about by walking to and from places as opposed to driving. I feel tied to people, tethered to life in places like this, and I do not feel that in Florida and did not, to a certain extent, feel this in Shanghai. I need places that are temperamental - quiet and loud, achromatic at times and vibrant at others - not a single long day of warm beaches or nightlife or shopping. St. Petersburg is that to me, as are Beijing and Boston, and now, Paris.

Untitled

New drawing, done partly in preparation for next summer, partly because I missed the grind of graphite. I miss art. I miss photography, and dreams of Dali, and quiet hours staring at Pre-Raphaelite red-haired models. I miss reading about art, and knowing why something is in a gallery because I remember the story behind the piece, the artist. I am forgetting things, facts, links. I am hoping to gain some of this back in Paris.

Lemme at 'em

Lyrics: "Sentir...que es un soplo la vida, que veine anos no es nada, que febril la mirada, errante en las sombras, te busca y te nombra" - Carlos Gardel

I flew from Miami to Boston to Paris on a Saturday. On the way, I slept little, made friends with my neighbors, and ate the sandwiches my father had prepared for me, a food-exchange ritual we have engage in every time I have traveled in the past three years.

I was as usual surprised at the kind of clothes people don on trans-oceanic flights, which caused me to dwell on my own attire (sweatpants, sneakers, tee, baseball hat). Interestingly enough, I thought about the baseball caps I wear regularly: my white Boston Red Sox one, and my red Swiss flag one, purchased at Balmer’s Youth Hostel in Interlaken, CH despite the price hike. I thought about the simple message I was sending going abroad with my baseball caps: I’m an American.

This past summer, at the Great Wall of China, when our small group was getting ready to toboggan down the side of the hill, a guy – white, late-twenties, slightly arrogant – approached us with the confident swagger and smirk of a die-hard athletic fan, drawn by my Red Sox hat. He was from Manchester, HN, and aside from strange, slightly hitting-on moments, we had a pleasant conversation, interestingly enough because he made a Red Sox comment that I, despite my relative derision of baseball [see previous post about Dontrelle Willis], could reply to [it was a small miracle]. My knowledge of random New Hampshire trivia may or may not have also kept the conversation afloat [Thanks to Katie, I was able to shamelessly mention the Fishercats!]. In any case, there I was, in China, signaling that I was American so blatantly that I might as well have had a cross-forehead tattoo of Britney Spears. For someone who during the summer of 2006, in Switzerland, would pretend to be Russian or Spanish or anything but American, I surprisingly didn’t mind this representation, mostly because since then I have learned to dissociate certain negative opinions about certain “American” things from my actual feeling as an American, despite the fact that I consider myself more Cuban, Russian, and to a certain extent Mexican, than American. Conclusion: the feeling of belonging somewhere – unlike genetics – is not a zero sum equation. I can’t make a whole with 5 genetic halves, but I can create a single identity with four or five or infinity different feelings. Excuse the self-quote for a moment, but this is how I described my family in my college essay, “From each country we have enriched more than our palate; we have gathered the only wealth that can truly be defined as human – an acceptance of the ineffable interdependence between hope, hardship, joy, pain, and survival – and harbored it in our hearts as more than just memories.” And that is how it felt for a moment on that airplane.

And so there I was, preparing to face the French with my Red Sox ha squarely pulled halfway over my eyes. Lemme at’em. It also occurred to me that even if I wear my Swiss hat, I would probably still be demarcated as an American. Who, other than US denizens, wear baseball hats with as much frequency and poise? In my Swiss hat, I would just be filed into a slightly different category: “American who has traveled” as opposed to “American who likes baseball. Typical.”

We flew into Boston Logan, and I could see the New England homes, nestled on uneven ground, the water, darker than in FL, the small inlets dotted with little white boats, and that random small island I always see when landing at Logan, covered in orange, and red, and yellow – the colors of the autumn I missed. I realized then that “home” really is a relative term. It can mean your childhood house, it can bring thoughts of your parents, it can be wholly concentrated on a single person’s love, on meeting your neighbor every morning when you get the mail. And in that instant, despite the many versions of “home” I’ve felt over the years, Logan was home. This airport, which has always been my gateway to Boston, the city I love, this airport made me smile with familiarity, with expectation. I knew I’d be back in February, and I could always depend on it being the beginning of months of surprises, of discoveries, of explorations of the MFA, of walks down Mass Ave, of my slightly unhealthy fixation with Nantucket, of winter and spring and fall. Trevor came to see me at the airport, and just spending a couple of hours chatting by a Dunking Doughnuts was enough to make feel more comfortable heading off halfway across the ocean on yet another leap of faith.

Later, I arrived at Charles de Gaulle and to the surprise of each of my new AAcquaintances [a play on the word acquaintance and the fact that I flew on American Airlines, humor me for a second], I set out alone with my not-so-light suitcases. CDG is an interesting mix between the Frankfurt airport, which I detest, and the Sheremetevo airport in Moscow, which I love only because the long queues signal to me that I have returned to Russia and am welcomed.

This just so happened to be one of the final days of a French transportation strike, which made, well, transportation, incredibly difficult in and around Paris. Eventually, a nice middle-aged Australian couple and I made it onto a train and headed into the city. They were to be my companions as we made it through the mess that was Gard du Nord that Sunday morning, helping me with my luggage, and laughing hysterically after one, no, two, of my suitcases, literally rolled all the way down an escalator. Moments like this made me feel like I was trapped in some kind of amateur undercover shoot for a Japanese game show that follows idiotic tourists around as they make fools of themselves without any assistance or incentive.

On the train home, I also had an encounter with a French man. Do not let the word “encounter” build this up to any more than it was: I asked [in French, may I add] for help with one of my bags, he obliged and then, sitting across from me, asked what I was doing after I dropped off said bags. A shady French man, really? Already?

After two hours in transit, I arrived at Bourg La Reine, a suburb on the southern side of the city, woke David up, and had him drive over to pick me up. Having never met each other, it proved to be quite the humorous encounter: slightly inebriated, not shaved French youth meets slightly hyper, very Americanized twenty-one year old. And then we went home.

The roommates, which I did not meet in this order are:
1. Nina – mid-twenties Journalism student from Germany studying abroad for a year. Makes incredible garlic bread. Boyfriend: Alex; occupation: something to do with Audi.

2. Heike – mid-twenties German girl getting her Masters at the Sorbonne. Speaks Arabic and Persian in addition to perfect English and French. Her boyfriend is a dentist in Egypt.

3. Sebastian: 24-year old graduate of something having to do with “engineering, biology, computer science.” Known as the father of the house and nicknamed by everyone as Putch; me as Putchy. Completed and sold, along with David, software that he is now living off of for a couple of months. Trains for several hours a day for an international grappling competition that will be held in Paris in December. No girlfriend.

4. Julien: Also 24 years old. Also a graduate of some kind of mathy, science field. Has started a business called “Pump your bike,” the purpose of which is still unclear. One of the only people I have met who is always smiling. Girlfriend: nice, but kind of shy.

5. Thomas: 24 years old, from the south of France. Graduated from mechanical engineering but now wants to become a pilot. Along with Putch, spends hours training for the aforementioned grappling competition. No girlfriend.

6. David: 23 years old [the baby, after me]. Competes in biosynthetic competitions. Designs software for wine export companies. Studies biology and physics and engineering. Is permanently playing music. No girlfriend, mostly because of his questionable antics at parties.


Within a couple of hours, there we were, all seven of us sitting around the kitchen, cutting, slicing, cooking together. Then we sat in the living room and ate, toasted, talked. There was a great feeling of ease, of comfort for me, to have landed in a household where cooking is communal, where, without having ever met me, they welcomed me as a 7th roommate within the first hour. At night, in celebration for Nina’s birthday, we ate a delicious tart that Heike had baked with apples from the backyard, drank wine, and sang. David and Nina both played the guitar in the candlelit living room, and I just sat, cross-legged, until the wee hours of the morning, singing to mark my arrival into Paris. At one point, we all repeated, progressively getting louder:
“Country roads, take me home To the place, I belong; West virginia, mountain momma; Take me home, country roads…”

And there was that word “home” again. And after a full day of thinking about it, of wondering and preparing myself for what would be the beginning of all of a lot of hard work until June 2009, I did feel at home. This, at least for now, was home, even if in a couple of months it changed, because home was not, for once, my physical location; it was, instead, a calming down of my mind and heart, which had been wandering for a while now, a blissful satisfaction with the present instant.

Adventures Nextdoor

The day started with me dealing with insane highway rush hour to get to downtown Miami by 9:30, at which time the French Consulate opens for visa consultations. Halfway along the drive, I remembered why I hate driving downtown, because the combination of Hispanic drivers, permanent construction, and general insanity is always a sure recipe for frustration. US1 and Brickell Avenue are not, I repeat, not, my friends. The visa matters went very well, especially because the wonderful Catherine Petillon, who helped resolve my application issues all the way from Washington D.C., was actually in Miami this week, and I got to thank her and creep her out by furiously shaking her hand in person.

After this, I had a little time to kill, so I embarked on a brief but memorable Miami adventure. First, I stopped to have some coffee and empanadas at a random Cuban timbiriche, where I chatted and surprisingly played a quick round of Qubilete [an old Cuban game involving dice, which he was very surprised I knew] with an old Cuban man and his ten-year old grandson, all the while discussing why and how come Fidel was still alive. Then another man referred to me as “La Rusita,” meaning “the little Russian” and gave me a brief lesson on the history of my own countries and the alliance with our “Soviet brothers.” The coffee was delicious: strong, sweet, a jolt to the system that American coffee, despite my love of hazelnut-flavors, does not provide. I also had not consumed coffee in months so after a while I began to feel my heart pounding its way out of my chest cavity. My right arm was also shaking slightly on the wheel of my car. Oh caffeine, so healthy.

At this point, I decided to enter a promising establishment. It’s name? “Coin Laundry of America.” This could not possibly be a regular coin laundry, like the many I’d seen when we first came to the US and lived in that small apartment next to the central Florida International University campus. This was the Coin Laundry of AMERICA, people! Inside, old Cuban ladies eyed me up and down, one of them making a comment about how I as just “skin and bone.” Did I want some rice? No, thank you. One of them reminded me of one of my favorite people, Laura Noya, or Tatica as I still refer to her when I write her letters or call her in Cuba. She obviously had horrible arthritis, as Tatica does, but, fully decked out in curlers, some kind of bathrobe, and plastic flip-flops, was slowly making her way from the washers to the dryers. I offered to help and soon we were having a conversation about the small coastal Cuban town of Jucaro (which to her surprise, I had plenty of information about), and mangoes that grew in our backyard, and her grandson traveling to Venezuela as a doctor, and me somehow remembering certain parts of Havana. She spoke in a fluid and hurried stream of words, like most Cubans, forgetting the final “s” in words and mixing in random exaltations.

From here, I proceeded to meet up with my parents and take them out to lunch at Houston’s in Aventura, a restaurant that for some unknown reason, I have a particular predilection for. It was their 31-year anniversary [not of marriage, but of meeting, which they believe is a lot more significant]. So there we were, waiting for our table for the promised twenty minutes, which turned more into thirty. Approximately five minutes into the waiting period, in walks a rather tall, rather bulky man, clad from head to toe in athletic gear and carrying a small child in one of those baby-carriers [I’m not sure what the appropriate name is]. He put his name down on the waiting list, walked over, and sat down in the only available seat, which just so happened to be next to moi. And here is where this man’s pleasant lunch with his daughter started to sour. I, known to begin conversation for no particular reason and without any incentive to do so, proceeded to strike up a conversation by complementing his daughter, who was quietly sleeping at her father’s large Nike-clad feet. He smiled, looked at me rather strangely, but said thank you. I continued, asking for her name in what I believed was an innocently amiable manner. Soon enough, the two of us were calmly discussing his wife’s name, which is Natalie, and making all sorts of pleasant small-talk. I had played with daughter when she woke up, we laughed about a comment he made about some woman’s oversized nails. Then, THEN, he asked if I was a student, I answered, and, in return, inquired about his line of work. Here, prepare yourself, because everything goes down hill “real fast.” The conversation went as follows:

Me: “Yes, I’m a college student. I’m just taking a semester-off so I’m currently at home. What do you do?”

Stranger: “I’m in baseball.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Stranger: [looks confused, laughs] “Why?”

Me: “I’ve always found it to be a little boring. I know it’s just my personal opinion, but I have a hard time watching a full game.”

Stranger: “I feel you. But it’s a different when you’re playing.”

Me: “Yea, I’d assume so. Do you play or are you a manager or something more… administrative?”

Stranger: I’m Dontrelle Willis. I pitch for the Marlins.

[Pause. Long pause.]

Me: “Oh!! Wow, ok I’m sorry! I don’t really follow baseball, as I said, and since I spend most of my time in Boston, I know even less about …. South…. Florida…. teams… um… Marlins.” At this point, my struggling happened because for a second I had forgotten if the Marlins were a Miami team or a FL team. Shame on me. Then, because I thought that I had said something grammatically and/or syntactically flawed, I proceeded to try to correct myself by saying, “Not the fish…I mean…the team….I mean, yea that’s obvious. Ok you know what I mean? I’m done.” All the while, I am clearly flailing my arms in the kind of gesticulation that usually accompanies my explanations, which, when dealing with establishing the difference between Marlin-the-fish and Marlin-the-baseball-team did not prove helpful and only made me look more idiotic. [Note to self: Who says, “You know what I mean” to a NBL starting pitcher? I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself].

DW: [Laughs] “No it’s ok”

Five minutes later, my family was seated, and I left Dontrelle – Mr. Willis – alone with his daughter Adriane, or Adrianne, or Adrianna, I have no idea how it is spelled. And my day in Miami was over. I was ready to head back to the United States.

I need more hard rain and good music

Lyrics: "But if you go carrying pictures of chairman Mao, You ain't going to make it with anyone anyhow" - The Beatles

Nothing exciting to report so I will revert to my all-too familiar habit of bullet-pointing [this is a fabricated verb]:

a.) Milestones reached: For the first time in 13 years I have managed to do a split. Amalia Hernandez, the founder of the Mexican Ballet and the cantankerous, positively insane woman who I had the honor of calling “teacher,” would surely be proud, and so am I. It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get the muscles stretched that way again and the process reminded me of afternoons at her house, standing by the bar and watching spots of light dance across the floor, envious because all I was doing was my 100th plie. Or the Palacio de Bellas Artes, with her yelling somewhere backstage. I shouldn’t have left ballet with the childishly simple excuse of “it’s not fun”…it’s a beautiful art of body and soul. On another note, I ran a 6-minute mile. For the first time in quite some time I felt like what Mike Markowitz still refers to as a “beast,” though we both laugh about it. I had forgotten what track spikes felt like, wrapped tightly around your foot, almost willing your leg upwards with a Hermes-like weightlessness.

b.) I had a run-in with a key lime pie. Or rather, I tried to make one, but put in entire eggs instead of egg whites, and forgot that Cuban condensed milk is a lot sweeter than American condensed milk [of course, we Cubans have a tendency of taking things like "sweetness" or "grease" to unpalatable extremes]. The end result: a much too sweet, but still edible dessert, and a lot of jokes at the dinner table.

c.) Highlights: I saw “Across the Universe.” Aside from being an aesthetically pleasing spectacle, the movie moved me with its music. At points, the entire theater was singing and stomping to Beatles classics, which I didn’t mind anywhere near as much as I do those people who clap at random jokes in the middle of a packed theater or my one-time experience at the Rocky Horror Picture Show in Cambridge [Tom, back me up on this]. I actually enjoyed it and joined in. Driving home on the Turnpike and listening to a different kind of classic – Joshua Bell – I smiled to think how much of our lives is set to music. [On a sidenote, I wondered how much of my personal liking of the violin is narcissistic, since it's the instrument that most resembles the human voice]. In the past I’ve argued that music has taken away the natural ups and downs of our emotions, leaving us with a finely tuned escape permanently blaring from our iPods. Music can create little ersatz bubbles for us to walk around campus, permanently submerged in a stimulus other than our own thoughts. But oddly enough, on the drive home I felt that my faith in music had been restored. In fact, I felt a bit like Jack Kerouac (to name a figure that is period-appropriate), making rhythm with random words and streaming thoughts, half-accidentally showing the world that music is created everywhere if we just stop long enough to find a beat. And so as Nietzsche said (and later John Stamos, of all people, quoted), “Without music, life would be an error.”

d.) I’ve been thoroughly reviewing my Libertarian views, especially when it comes to the world economy. More to come on this later, if I ever actually get somewhere.

e.) Last night was restless, which is not particularly unusual for me. I woke up from the torrential downpour outside and cursed the alarm system that wouldn’t let me open my window for fear of waking everybody. I’ve concluded that the indoor spaces of houses should be more fluid with the outdoor ones. Windows and doors should be open. Damn alarm systems shouldn’t be in the way of me getting my hands wet with rain.

f.) I’m drawing again. Kind of. I have nothing to say on this other than how amazing it feels to grind charcoal on good paper.

g.) I want to be across the ocean already, so I can stop writing boring accounts of movies and random days, and start doing, watching, looking.

Chinese names

I just thought I'd put it out there that these are the names of some of the students I met while I was in China. Though most of them get assigned an "English name" by their teacher when they are much younger, some of them later decide to change them, with varying results.
CASE & POINT:

Caesar
Johnson
Helen Bill
Riancy
Jazz
Eagle
Rainy
Mercury
King
Jet-Li
Cream
John Rambo
Voldemort [there were two of these and both were girls]
Ink
Forest
G
Rossi
Lupin
Chilee
Alou
Melly
Neo
Why
Show
Orange
Blue Sky
Armstrong

P.S. The drawing to the right was a gift from one of the students, Lynn Ye, thankfully not featured in the list above.

I am a Physicist's Daughter

Lyrics: "And the songbirds keep singing, like they know the score" - Eva Cassidy



If we’re to look at everything as a fraction of time in a long chain of events that eventually add up to a sequence and a result, then even the single, smallest deviation can lead us to a drastically different end. This is called the butterfly effect, one of the most well known parts of chaos theory, partly because of that whole butterfly-flap-its-wings-and-a-tornado-occurs-around-the-world hypothetical and Ashton Kutcher’s Oscar-winning [not] performance in a movie bearing its title. This kind of thinking has often driven me to think about my parents – who met at random in a movie-ticket line – or decisions my grandparents took during WWII in Russia, or lucky yes’s and no’s along the way of life, and try to map out what my alternate present would be like if those things had been tweaked along the way. In a very Jorge Luis Borges kind of way, I’d be interesting to see that garden he writes about where every path separates and all the infinite possibilities of one’s life are happening simultaneously.

I’ve thought about this recently because I’m caught in a wonderful moment of observing people I’ve known for years fulfilling the dreams I heard them talk about behind a school desk, at a sleep over, over coffee, in Harvard square. At each stage of my twenty-one years I’ve been lucky enough to meet incredible individuals, and to watch so many of them presently take flight makes me so deliriously and sentimentally happy that it’s almost too dramatic to admit. The oxymoronically predictable uncertainty of chaos theory has led most of these people to pursue their dreams, adjusting them as time or opportunity saw fit, but steadfastly walking in that direction anyway. Bankers, lawyers, Olympians, philanthropists, pastry chefs, mothers – it matters little that we all shared a similar point of origin, because now we’re spread out all over the world and in all walks of life. And as long as we’re still holding on to each other – through distance, through time – I couldn’t be happier.

It occurs to me that this is what we are for each other, a person we meet at a crossroads, before each moves on, hopefully blessed and enriched by the other. I have a friend who just got out of the army, one who is married to a priest and just gave birth to her second beautiful daughter, and another who is touring in a band in Spain. At the same time, I know people who have wanted to be doctors for years and are now entering Medical School, who are pursuing a PdD, or writing books, or applying to graduate schools. In the tiniest moment of daydreaming that I am frequently caught in, I can think of goals that are being achieved and decisions that are being taken, of passions that are being realized and ordinary paths that have been tossed overboard in favor of unconventional ones. And that, according to Frost at least, will hopefully make all the difference.

It seems somewhat silly to be happy simply because people are doing what they said they would, but I like this notion of defining “success” as the “reaching of hopes.” When it comes to growing up, and the decisions and responsibilities it incurs, I think of how little we truly know about the larger paths we’re taking, but how blessed we are to have a full life to question and search. We shouldn’t be limited by uncertainty, but should instead welcome its power. My rudimentary understanding of chaos theory (which is to say what I know from random reading of Richard Feynman and wikipedia) has taught me that:

a.) In uncertainty, there lies limitless potential.
b.) There are no ordinary moments.

And that is my little, rambling, naïve, slightly incoherent, optimistic twist on the unavoidable reality of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle of Quantum Physics - you can never tell with 100% certainty where you (or an electron) are or will be – and the opportunities that come with this freedom. If nothing else, considering how much change can occur in our lives from a single alteration has reminded me that the laws of math, physics, and chaos are not just something we memorized in high school.

This is Not A Pipe

So I'm stuck at home waiting for the fabulous French Labor Department to do their job and finish sending me my paperwork. I'm wondering how much of the effort it took to get this internship and how much of the effort it will take to survive for five months on below minimum wage has actually been worth it. More importantly, I'm worried that I may not have the necessary wisdom to know when to stop pushing and find a Plan B. How much of my stubborn refusal to give up on this or the South Africa/Rwanda project, is actual belief/courage and how much of it is simply blind stupidity? I guess I'll know after the risk is taken.

Carly is setting off for Senegal today, to work with a great organization called Tostan. After I saw her yesterday, a quote by Henry James popped up, "Evil is insolent and strong; beauty enchanting but rare; goodness very apt to be weak; folly very apt to be defiant; wickedness to carry the day; imbeciles to be in great places, people of sense in small, and mankind generally, unhappy. But the world as it stands is no illusion, no phantasm, no evil dream of a night; we wake up to it again for ever and ever; we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense with it."

I noticed that James says goodness is weak and felt enraged. Weak why, because it is tempted, distracted away, torn by force? For me, goodness is what I see in friends who set out to the ends of the earth armed only with dreams, hopes, and passions, in people who turn the basest human drives into constructive energy, in what reflects in the eyes of the faithful, in the resistance against one's personal vices and the vices that consume the world. Goodness is not a frail, submissive ally of truth; it’s an ardent warrior! I see goodness as neither abstract nor passive, I see it everywhere, fighting in small, barely-noticeable ways to grab permanently onto the human soul. And if it wavers in this fight, it is from exhaustion, not weakness. Perhaps my definition has become too broad over the past several months, weathered a bit by pain and touched by growth, but I'd rather have a simpler [in the good way], more inclusive criteria than a selective, high-brow categorical breakdown. Then again, I also clearly lack all of the answers, as is evidenced by the title and my partial agreement with Magritte that, no matter how hard you may try to portray something in painting or in writing, you will never fully succeed in defining the real thing. It's always going to be an inferior, grayer version, much like my definition of goodness pales in comparison with goodness itself, whatever it may be. One of my favorite quotes from George Santayana comes to mind, but I've already quoted once so I'll restrain myself.

I was cleaning [not a surprise] part of my closet several days ago and found an article I had written in high school for our Yellow Press magazine. Despite its exaggerated language, bothersome didactic tone, somewhat cliché phrasing, and bad philosophical simplification for which Thomas Paine would surely have smacked me upside the head, I found myself smiling. The piece was about students not paying attention to the world around them, or the news, or human suffering [very original, yes I know]. The concluding paragraph was as follows:

"Anyone who lives submerged in the endless repetition of the hours, the minutes, consumed by the innate knowledge of this emptiness, and finding neither a way to differentiate between the days nor to unite and mold them into a worthy and sequential series, is devoid of the emotion, desire, and passion that make up the pulp of life. “Carpe Diem!” I feel like screaming. Follow a life, any life, every life. Question like Socrates, or with truths, statements, actions. Existences should not disintegrate to complete monotony and unawareness of the outside world, to supine ingestion of our media’s mindless and biased drivel, for when the time does come for death, we should hope to waste away surrounded by almost anything but the overpowering, hollow ring of an empty room and a life brimming with forsaken thoughts."

In some ways it's simultaneously sad and wonderful to see the things that have changed since I was 17. But in more ways it's great to be reminded of the things that have circled around and risen up again.

Summer at Home: The Gifts I Will Give My Children

Music: Feist

The summer started with a bang, coming home in the middle of the semester to finish answering a bunch of health questions and take over the house because my mother would be leaving for two months to handle the arrangements of my grandfather’s death. The health concerns were cleared by the beginning of May after some other procedures and a third biopsy. I mourned my grandfather the best way I knew how: I prayed, I remembered, I selected the good memories and ran them through my mind, like images on a movie reel, and made conscious notes-to-self of lessons I never wanted to forget, of things I wanted to teach my children. Of all my family members, he is the one that was the closest to a lovable quirky caricature – stubborn beyond reason, hard-working beyond exhaustion, repetitive and paranoid after living through WWI, WWII, and the Cold War, uniquely Russian in many ways. He bought me my first cat, he taught me how to know when a squash was ready to be eaten, where mushrooms grew in the forest, how to properly insulate a greenhouse, and how much sugar to put into the making of blackberry jam. He also taught me how to argue, how to resist, how to yell, which are skills that, despite their negative connotation, have been and will surely continue to be, useful. He was the only grandfather I’ve known and following his stoic example, I dealt with his death as a fact, not as a calamity. His life had been long and interesting, and I was here, to remember it and tell it for him.

In the middle of all the things that fell apart during those spring months, in the middle of sleepless nights and exhausted mornings, I needed to keep my body moving and my mind alive. As always, running was the lifting force, both physically and emotionally. In its constancy and predictability running makes me feel at ease in what is really a furious battle against myself, mind over body, soul over mind. I run against all the enemies I can see in my own mind, all the ones I imagine, and all the ones I’m trying to forget. A George Sheehan quote comes to mind, "On the roads, I can see truth revealed whole without thought or reason. There I experience the sudden understanding that comes unasked, unbidden. I simply rest, rest within myself, rest within the pure rhythm of my running. And I wait." But, surprisingly, biking did as much of this for me as running. Having just learned how to bike (Thanks Nancy!), I got home, almost immediatly bought a bike, and rode it every single day for the rest of my months at home. The things running would exhaust and wear down, biking would let float up and refresh, even in the moments of my most furious pedaling. I also convinced by father to run a couple of 5k events with me, which we both grew to love. You’re surrounded by hundreds of people at 7am, running simultaneously with them and alone – it’s cathartic, really! In the second race, I placed fourth in my age group, but it was not the ranking that was the most rewarding. After the run, you go to breakfast with strangers, you are showered with water by the fire truck that comes out specially for the event and splashes kids in the middle of the street, and it doesn’t matter who finished when because everyone is tired and everyone is happy they did it. It’s an incredible way to start a Sunday!

Continuing my pursuit of energy-consuming activities, I managed to convince Jason and Seb to go kayaking one day, in what proved to be a hilarious adventure [see the pictures]. More importantly, I got into trap shooting. Yes, with a shotgun. Yes, Natalia Martinez with a 12-gage shotgun. I only shoot trap, not skeet, and I find the concentration required to shoot the little flying orange ball – that moment of silence when you just have to learn to feel when you should shoot – to be exhilarating! I also was lucky enough to meet Steve, who is one of the kindest human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Steve is a sixty-something incredible shooter with a white mustache and a loud laugh who volunteers to teach people on the last Saturday of every month. Not only did he lend me his shotgun twice, he also gave me shells, met me in the middle of the week, and generally was as helpful as he was genuine and funny. It takes time to improve, especially for someone as hand-eye-coordination challenged as I am, but it was about time I did things because I liked them, even if I was not good at them! So I’ve improved, enjoyed the process, and taken Seb and Joanna to learn. In short, I’ve had fun with it and, in not having an intense, perfectionist attitude, have been rewarded.

Also, accompanied by my good friend Allison, I ice-skated almost every Thursday. Upon discovering the inferior quality of the funnel cake at the ice rink, Alli and I also decided to make our own. I cannot speak for Alli, but I actually got to feel quite comfortable on the ice. On one occasion, when I went alone, I saw a father and a daughter come in. It was obviously a treat for her and he sat in the stands and watched her as she slowly made her way along the boards. I skated several times past her and offered to help. We spent the rest of my time skating, hand in hand, falling on each other the several times she tripped, trying to keep a rhythm she could follow. She was scared of falling and I remembered that feeling all too well. I knew what it was like to need a hand to hold, I remembered a bit too vividly the safety of that other body following yours. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t doing any skating of my own, or practicing the things that Sasha had taught me [keeping my feet straight, lifting my back leg straight up, etc]. She needed me more than I needed to improve. We met the week after for another couple of laps, and when we got off the ice, her dad came up to me and thanked me in Spanish for helping his daughter. It really had not been a great effort on my part, as I would have come that day anyway, but he reminded me so much of my own father, his expression was so simple and happy, that I felt my eyes watering as I shook his hand and assured him, for the 10th time, that there were no thanks needed. I guess it kind of felt like an odd circle, a moment frozen in time: I had just helped myself, I had just made my own father happy in such a simple, pure way.

Interestingly enough [and ironically in some ways], I also climbed this summer. “A lot” would be a gross exaggeration, but enough to understand it much better, to respect the skill and endurance involved, and appreciate the unquestioning kindness of the people I met. My only problem is that it is not an activity one can do alone. My most memorable snapshot? There I was, on that damn problem again, the one with the protruding lip at the top. I had managed to get up to it every time, but then, I was supposed to hook my left foot up, out, and around, so it would be above my head and on top of this piece of horizontal wall. Then one hand was supposed to reach out and grab a hold, while the other elbow pushed off and, after a moment in mid air, I ended up on top of the diagonal slant. This had yet to happen. After many attempts, sore fingertips, pants covered in chalk, there came a moment where, dangling from one arm, I hoisted my leg up, moving my hand at the same time. It was a single motion that seemed to come from somewhere outside of my tired body. And there I was, on top, three moves away from finishing. My calves were shaking and I was seriously sweating, but when I came down, everyone at the gym was looking at me. The guy at the front desk, who had remembered my name from the last time, clapped and laughed, the intensely buff nurse I’d seen almost every time walked over to tell me how she had been right in telling me I could do it, and the group of guys who had gotten there thirty minutes earlier and had seen me struggle the entire time, smiled and jokingly said, “Finally!” I shook my head, laughed with them all, and said, “It was about time!!” And yea, it was about time, for plenty of things. It was great to be welcomed by people whose names I didn’t even know, to be helped and guided in a task I was clearly new at, to not be asked why or what or how come. Tara was an incredible belay partner and later in the summer, Carly jumped up to accompany me, and Masha even trusted me enough to let me teach her how to belay! I went on to purchase my own shoes and now, as I head off to Paris, I’ll be borrowing a harness for my expeditions with the Paris Rock Climbing Meetup Group. Who would’ve thought!?

Aside from this life of mediocre exploration, I tried to read as much as possible and focused on my bone marrow objectives. I ran a drive at University School [my high school] and worked with another group to organize a series of events to target Hispanics in my county. This group was particularly dysfunctional, so the events have yet to happen, but in the process I found myself placed on the Board of Directors of a local Non-Profit, giving presentations about the importance of registering for the registry and the power of a single individual to save another. It felt good to have found something I truly care about, not just a cause I think is interesting or would love to contribute to; this is something I connect with, I feel with.

Let’s also not underestimate the positive effect that work can have on clearing a mind. I was interning at an incredible asset management firm, where the work was almost as interesting as the people were wonderful [which is to say, both were great!]. To my own surprise, I found the research I did interesting and wished I had had more time to continue the projects I didn’t get to finish. And the people, especially Donna, brightened every day, without fail. I’m still not sure how much finance and I have in common in terms of a long-term career, but I was pleased to find that I genuinely enjoyed certain aspects of it.

Three of the other highlights of my summer months were Becky’s visit, my frequent seeing of Carly, and the dancing Marcelo took me on. Becky flew down from Washington and I was more than happy to host her, take her around, tan…her company added a much need component of wit, humor and intelligent conversation to those first weeks of summer! In all, it was a great weekend of driving, tanning, exploring [need I remind her of the hospital parking lot tour?]. I also had the pleasure of seeing Carly several times while she was down here from Boston, to go to the beach and catch up, hear about Senegal, plan ahead, etc. Aside from great conversations, great reminiscing, and even greater looking ahead, Carly took me on my first motorized boat ride. There we were – Carly, her father, and I – on the intercostal, waving to the other boats, sipping margaritas, and to my own surprise, I felt at home in the twilight and on the waves. Where has this been all my life? How stupid I’ve been, afraid of water, afraid of boats! I almost smacked myself but didn’t want to ruin the afternoon. On the dancing, not much can be said, other than it was an incredible series of nonstop hours where my mind cleared and my body exhaled and I let my soul take over and feel the music.

On a bad note, I had a massive car accident on the highway, which will only be mentioned briefly. In short, I spun in a circle across three lanes of Miami highway traffic, before I crashed, first with the front, then with the entire driver's side against the concrete barrier. And yes, the other idiot just drove away. And yes, the car was totaled completely. Miraculously, all I had were burns from the airbags, a spinning head, shaking hands, and another problem to add to the running list of the last couple of months. Allie drove to sit me with while I shook on the curb and some incredibly nice guy stopped and called the police and explained that I wasn't driving with excessive speed and that some crazy man had swerved behind me.

Side note: I’ve learned this summer that I love asparagus and that I make really good tuna steaks.

Then I went off to China. And on August 20th, I went straight from the airport to Key Largo, driving into the night and seemingly away from civilization. This was a much-needed vacation for both my parents, who were emotionally and physically exhausted for different reasons. I was just happy to be by the water again. Our week in the Keys can be summarized as follows:

a.) We ate incredible food. I had amazing Dolphin, Yellowtail Snapper, and Grouper and discovered how much I do love a well-cooked fish!

b.) We slept. A lot. And I read, a lot.

c.) I took my parents canoeing, trying hard to remember my Outward Bound skills and wondering, for the nth time this summer, how I became the one showing people how to do things!

d.) We saw pictures of Fidel and Hemingway. Everywhere. The former we dismissed; the latter we discussed. I admire certain aspects of his life, though I only like several of his works and think he was crazy politically.

e.) I convinced my father we should snorkel and now we’re both hooked! The coral reef was beautiful, first of all. More importantly, the world is so quiet underwater, everything is still, at peace. To see your hands underwater is to see them anew – everything is floating, held in time and space. It was an incredible discovery for me, who has always been afraid of ocean water, of fish, sharks, giant squid, imaginary beasts, tidal waves, and anything else that could possibly be hidden under those waves and/or written about in a Jules Verne novel. I did wonder why my fins were neon green – would this not make it more likely for the animals I had spent years being afraid of to…well, devour me? There’s only one person I could ask who wouldn’t laugh at me, so I kept this question to myself. Also, apparently sharks have very bad vision.

f.) I wrote a lot in Spanish. Things just sound better in this language, especially when there’s a feeling hidden in your words. El anochecer. La marea. El abrir y cerrar de las puertas. My mouth moves in a different way, my lungs exhale differently when I speak Spanish. I was happy to get that feeling back, I hadn’t written that way in a while.

And now I’m heading off to Paris, still half broken and half lost, but half alive and half smiling [Yes, that’s four halves…follow the idea, not the math], to work, to learn, to find, to wonder!