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.