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?