Night

Filmy curtains
made from the gossamer
of mosquito wings
swirl
like the hem
of a lady's nightgown.

Darkness,
but no sleep
tonight.

At least
the air is salt.
The night
too hot
too hot
but at least
not thirsty.

There is nothing
but nothing
like a night that is thirsty.

J'ai soif,
he whispered.
Toujours soif,
encore soif.
Marseille is salt
and heat
but not dry.

Sleep doesn't come easy
in the city
with a thousand
sins
and a single truth.

So I will remain
a servant of this night.
I will watch
the play of white
against a square of living dark
and wait
to fall...
if I fall
asleep.

The City of Sound

Marseilles is a controversial city, and a pretty awful television series. I am leaving for Aix en Provence tomorrow, concluding the first leg of my very first solo travel experience. I scoured the internet for travel blogs written by unaccompanied female travelers. I read countless articles about safety. In the end, I didn't learn anything new and it all made me rather paranoid.

So paranoid, in fact, that I stopped wearing earbuds while moving around, as was my habit in Strasbourg and Syracuse. I wanted to be aware of my surroundings, alert to possible dangers. In the end it was a good choice, but not for the initial reasons.

I mean, I don't know. Maybe those are legitimate arguments. In fact, I feel like I've read somewhere that earbuds make you more susceptible to aggression because you aren't paying attention, or something.

But before I get too sidetracked, let me explain why I found music-less travel rewarding. I can't pretend it was some earth-shattering revelation, but for the first time in a long time I was aware of the sounds around me. The laughter of children, the peculiar Marseillais accent, the sound of waves, the ugly things some men said to me in the street.

Marseilles came alive in the most mundane way possible. I saw the sun on ancient stone, I smelled the fish market at 9 in the morning, I tasted the anise-sweetness of Pastis. But without headphones to pass the time waiting in the metro station, I heard the young man next to me muttering to himself as he wrote a song about some girl in Grenoble. A girl with lips like vermilion and eyes like something from "une rêverie Marocaine".

I heard the creak of the ferris wheel at the water's edge of the Vieux Port. I heard the soldiers complaining about the heat. One of them called out to me in greeting, and he tipped his beret politely in response to my equally correct response. Funny, I didn't know soldiers talked to tourists. They never do in Strasbourg, anyways.

I heard the Americans. Whole droves of them, big and small. Californians like me, and from elsewhere. I felt a sense of solidarity to them, the Californians. It made me feel- strangely- a sense of pride, a sense of patrie. Not to America, but to California.

I heard a lavender merchant cajole an older couple from Boston into buying an entire basket of little sachets to perfume the wardrobe, and bottles of essence, to calm the nerves. I visited his booth later. He was very kind. We talked and joked for a long time- a good use of my French. I bought a little bottle of essence myself, more as a gesture than anything else.

From time to time, I noticed my own voice as I spoke French. It surprised me every time, to hear the certainty and confidence. Nobody knew I had only been learning since last September. A lady selling little bracelets asked, and was flatteringly shocked. I am very proud of how quickly I have picked up French. I may never pick up the art of French dressing, or French eating habits, or ever really be able to correctly handle my fork and knife. But at least I can speak the language.

It is late. I am tired from the sun and all the walking, not to mention my brief bout of food poisoning. And just outside my window, someone is playing the clarinet. A couple is arguing. A cat is yowling. Night magic.

Gourmandise à la Cynthia

I was trying to explain Pan Catalán to Claire. I gave her the words I could and  drew in the air with my hands. We had just finished a plate of endive apiece, Claire and I. Her window was open behind her, blowing the shy perfume of rain-loosened soil into the kitchen. I drained my glass of wine. Claire refilled it automatically.

“Tiens,” she said, setting it by my plate. “Fin, c’est très à la mode, t’as remarqué?”

“Pas trop…mais j’imagine, ouais…”

We had been speaking about des gourmandises. Claire said that in the last few years it had become very popular in France to have a platter of little desserts with coffee.  I said I hadn’t noticed it especially, but could imagine that being the case.  Couldn’t you? Couldn’t you see someone taking an espresso after dinner, feeling the smoky bitterness wash away the velvety taste of wine and duck? Punctuating it with something sweet? Little tastes to stimulate the palate without detracting from the tranquillity of the café?

Of course you could.

I once had something like that back home. Vietnamese coffee with strawberries cooked in maple syrup, with little almond cakes, with candied pecans, with mixed raisins. I described it all to Claire, who sat attentively before me. I explained that the strawberries were the crowning glory, the pièce de résistance. They were sliced and cooked in maple syrup with hints of lemon zest and pepper, topped with mint. I had demanded the recipe.

“Recipe?” my friend said. “What recipe? There’s no recipe.” But she wrote down what was in it, explaining that no two batches came out the same.

“Strawberries, maple syrup (I’ve experimented with agave. Don’t you make the same mistake) lemon juice and/or zest (or any citrus, really. Sometimes I don’t bother at all), vanilla extract (not if you have that cheap Costco shit. No buts, Cynthia), pepper (non-negotiable!), and mint for garnish (or cinnamon, rosemary, lavender, or whatever the hell else. Add nuts and I’ll kill you, though).”

The corners of Claire’s mouth turned downwards and she tilted her head pensively. You know the look. It’s the universal gesture of “ah, okay, not bad.”

“ Bon, j’ai tous les ingrédients dans ma cuisine, ” and she stood with a grin. I blinked dumbly back at her. Claire started pulling things out of the cabinets: maple syrup, pepper, lemons…

“Allons-y, Cynthia.”

“Maintenant?”

“Oui!”

“Maintenant, maintenant ? “

“Ben, oui!” Claire laughed at my surprise.

So we did. We sliced the strawberries with little paring knives against our palms. Claire drowned them in maple syrup and soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of it. Sweet, tangy  warmth, mixing with the quiet smell of rain slipping in from outside.

“C’est fini?”

I shrugged. The bright crimson of the strawberries had faded somewhat, and the syrup was bubbling.

“Pourquoi pas?” I said. Grinning, Claire switched the stove off and ladled the fragrant mixture into the two bowls I handed her. I ate mine with yogurt (soy, don’t fret!) and she ate hers nature.

It was good. The lemon added acidity to cut through the heaviness of the maple syrup, and the strawberries retained their freshness. The pepper was the snap, the vanilla the muted note of class.

“C’est bon!” Claire exclaimed. “Sucré, mais pas trop. Le citron est parfait…pas trop lourd…pas du tout. ” So we finished our dessert, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, and talking politics. Claire took out an old yellow notebook book to show me. It was a recipe book she’s had for over fifty years, since she was a little girl. It was filled with recipes, but also doodles, diagrams and notes taken by Claire as a child, Claire as an adolescent, Claire as a young adult, the Claire I know today. You could see the handwriting change, become neat, then extravagant, then elegant, then simple and clean. She flipped to a blank page, and wrote:

Gourmandise à la Cynthia.

 

 

Return to Strasbourg

It looks like rain. I have Claire’s umbrella in my bag, but if it rains like it did yesterday, I will have to move inside. The papers have been prophesying rain for a week now. Claire tells me that when it is warm and humid, people look for clouds above the Vosges Mountains. For days now there have been a whole army of them. They arrived yesterday, to occupy the sky above Strasbourg. Yesterday the air went from quiet to thunderous as we sat the little café by Place Kleber.


I said I would come back, did I not?


It is not supposed to rain until 6 tonight. Yesterday I did not have an umbrella or a jacket with me, so I walked from the party to the tram stop in torrential rain. I have missed this rain. It rained a while back in San Diego. I was away.


This morning I took breakfast with Claire. I have missed long meals, where forks scraping against plates punctuate lively conversation.


Bonjour, to the two men sitting at the table behind me. I can see on my screen’s reflection that they are reading over my shoulder. Ah, they are laughing.


You speak English? A little. Well, I must congratulate you two for you eyesight…the words on the screen are a little far from you.


I see. Non, Vous parlez bien anglais. C’est vrai. C’est vrai.


Anyway, I went to the modern art museum just near Claire’s appartment. I took the long way this time, looping all the way around. It was a morning for walking. Warm, but not too sunny.


I visited the new exhibit, lingering by my favorites in the permanent collection on the first floor. Antibes, Le Soir, by Signac. Der Wald, by Campendonk. Kandinsky. Everything Kandinsky.


Good-bye, Charles, Antoine. It was nice talking to you.

Nice, Côte d'Azur

Maybe the sun will stay here a while. The quad blooms with it, with grass and daisies and frisbees.

This Summer I will visit Lyon. Perhaps Lyon will be like Nice. Nice is the first city I visited unsupervised. It is so beautiful there, with its narrow alley-streets and palm trees. I was homesick there, because it reminded me so much of San Diego. I had not realized how much I missed cacti until our train roared past the shore and I saw them, standing lone and proud, among poorer grasses.

Nice really is not much like California, besides the climate. The people are different, and the sand is different. The beaches are made of rocks that hurt when you stretch over them. But the air is sweet and fine and salty, and the rocks slowly arrange themselves to the curve of your body the longer you lay there. Soon you are as one of them- a big, fleshy stone who has created its own hollow.


We rented an AirBnb- my first- up a goodly hill not far from the center of town. It was maybe ten minutes' walk from Place Garibaldi. It was funny to me that an Italian national would have his own square in a French city. But it was not that funny and maybe I was trying to show off my learning.

We walked twenty miles a day, to the beach, to Matisse Museum, to the market to buy fresh figs and tomatoes to eat with basil grown en plein air. C'est magnifique, mademoiselle! Regardez!

Nice is the closest I have been to Italy, and Hannah dreamed of Florence as we drank fine Italian red wine with dinner. Perhaps I will go to Florence this Summer too. I have wanted to go after reading The Enchantress of Florence, by Salman Rushdie, and hearing him speak about it.

San Diego nights are violet, Strasbourg nights are blue, and Prague nights are the blackest of black. But in Nice, the nights are golden. Warm, molten, sensuous. The waiters were better educated than doctors. One Signor Luca spoke French, English, Spanish, and Italian. He spoke the last with our new friend, whom we met while stuck in the castle, as he brought us our aperitifs, our arrabiata, and our limoncellos. Their voices danced, lilting like an Irish brogue, but smooth like a Colombian song.

I bought some soca to eat on the train back to Strasbourg.

We missed that train, so I ate it for lunch instead, inhaling the cracked pepper smell and wiping the oil off my fingers with a napkin. (soca is a chickpea pancake sold in Nice).

Anyways, we took the night train back.

Kitsch is in

The Lennon Wall is not hard to find, but we were confused by Czech street signs and  mulled wine. We overheard a group of Italians say that the Wall was just past the French Embassy. We agreed to look for it, and after finding it waiting stolidly for us, disagreed which direction to take from there.

Eventually we remembered that Prague has city-wide WiFi (although I only recall it working in certain areas). Anyways, we had a nice walk and we were not concerned that we were lost. And we realized that there's a sense of satisfaction in tracing a path with your finger on a map, or marking the whole thing up with pencil and imbuing that crinkled document with the scent of a coffee shop.

The light was nearly gone by the time we got there. At dusk, there were not so many tourists. I remember that we crossed a bridge with a silent, white-and-gray cat whose agate eyes followed us. There were locks clustered thickly all up and down the poles- paying respect to Paris, but in a fashion that is infinitely more practical. There was no danger of sagging wire here.

We were alone when we first approached the wall. The Lennon Wall is not very tall, and if not for the graffiti, would be quite unremarkable. The original portrait of John Lennon has long been lost beneath layers of paint and ink. I really did think it would be bigger. I also thought it was just a wall by itself; I did not think it would be attached to anything. In other words, I did not expect it to be functional as an actual wall.

It was funny. Not beautiful, not even a good symbol of protest anymore. It was to fight the coming of kitsch, but in its acquisition of status as a tourist destination, it has became an instrument of Kitsch. The Wall was supposed to be a canvas for the disillusioned and politically conscious youth to splatter their passionate outrage. It was supposed to be their space to decry the excess of the government, of the West, of wealth, of human conceptions of morality and justice.

My eyes traced a lopsided heart. "Marissa and Alex!! August 2015".

But, as Kundera said: "kitsch is an integral part of the human condition". Can we help our own inability to live in the extreme climate of awareness? Can we be held responsible for refusing to leave the warmth of illusion, the safe circle of indifference? Perhaps not.

We heard later that a group of protesters ("damned hippies," exclaimed a red-faced gentleman, throwing his scarf indignantly over his plump shoulder) painted over the messages and pictures because they were kitsch. Disgusted at the Wall's new role as a pawn of the tourism sector and loss of symbolic revolution, they tried to return it to its previous condition- a blank wall and a canvas no longer.

That obviously failed.

A group of American students came, armed with stencils and spray paint. They left behind an image of Richard Nixon, and an image of what looked like a school mascot. In fact, it was some feline animal that looked like every wildcat mascot I've ever seen.



We returned the next day after breakfast. It was a good time to go, although there were more people. There was even a segway tour (which, by the way, are everywhere). Why walk when you don't have to? Hannah has a horror of segways. I turned my face to the sunshine and laughed at her grimaces, listening to the man singing and accompanying himself on the guitar.

No need for greed or hunger
a brotherhood of man...

I wondered if he had children. I threw a few koruna in that man's guitar case and we left quietly for Malá Strana.

Budapest

I think little girls aspire to be princesses because they have an idea of power manifested as beauty, grace as elegance. To be a princess is to be revered. Exalted. Worshipped in the heaviest, earthiest sense of the word. Worshipped in a manner that defies the most sanctimonious braying of clerical authority. Worshipped for belonging to not only the cult of woman, but the race of deity. Somehow, all this is made vastly clear to a girl, a knowledge lost as the world's reality is impressed upon her more and more each day.

I had almost forgotten myself. I have not been a little girl for a long time. Like two weeks, at least.

I heard, after we descended the bus and began searching vainly for a taxi, that Budapest is most beautiful in the Summer. Imagine the city beneath azure skies, a sensual sun glinting off jewel waves, a warm breeze sighing in verdant leaves. 

It was December. We had come from Prague. Prague, that lovely city who wears a wintry morning like a lady wears a silk scarf. But Budapest is the morning, declining cover. Strange, how demure and yet brazen with nakedness. That is Budapest.

I was remembering thrones made of air and diadems of moonstones on the ruined walls of an old Hungarian castle. The view was a UNESCO world heritage site, which is silly somehow. But it keeps skyscrapers from popping up and ruining the skyline. 

There, the Danube flows beneath the Chain Bridge. There, the old quarter of Buda, with its winding boulevards and ancient winds. There, the Parliament building, with its flying buttresses. There, where we stayed in a beautiful Airbnb near the city center.

And I felt royal. The day was cold, and the scarf wound around my throat suddenly became chased with silver threads, pinned in place by mother-of-pearl clusters the size of my pinky fingernail. The cheap coffee in my hands became the richest, smoothest blend. It was all very romantic, I assure you.

Ah, Buda Castle. I dreamt about it last night, actually. And the silvery grayness of the sky, the cover of clouds, offsetting the sea of red rushing up that big hill with the statue of a lady holding a leaf/branch/thing like Rafiki holds up baby Simba that is supposed to remind people of their freedom. It is a funny story that Norbert told us (our tour guide, who introduced himself as Norbert the Hungarian, like the Hungarian Horntail named Norbert in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). It didn't feature in my dreams, because Soviets rather ruin the illusion of royalty. 

btw, that's a smudge, not a UFO

But for your information, that statue was erected by Soviets in 1945, to celebrate the Hungarian people's liberation from the Nazis and their gratitude to their Communist liberators. Then, after the fall of Communism in 1989, the city wanted to tear down the very kitsch reminder of Soviet influence, only the statue was so darn big that it would have cost an enormous sum to tear down. So, Norbert said, tapping his nose knowingly, the city came up with an ingenious plan to circumvent such obstacles: they covered the whole thing up with a big tarp, waited three days, and unveiled it as a new statue.

I think that is accurate. I scribbled some notes down in the margins of my map of the city. 

I would like to return to Budapest, and see it when the weather is warm, but there is something regal about it when the sky looks like snow and the Christmas markets sell hot, spiced wine. And because I first began listening to him while writing a paper on the imposition of religiosity on ethnic conflict, James Bay to me is Budapest. When I hear "Hold Back the River" I think of the red wine our hosts left us, and the bluey glow of this laptop, and the sound of its keyboard. I remember wet hair spilling on my shoulders, the fatigue of my eyes, the pages of National Geographic that papered the walls. 

Budapest is a city that by day reminds you of days past, and by night, makes you feel old, and grand, and wise. It is a city of dreams without substance, sparkling like diamonds. Perhaps I will go back when I am older and wiser and it will not be so. That is likely, for like a mirror, it will show you yourself.

Go to Budapest. Take the waters in the Turkish baths leftover from days of Ottomania. The food is cheap and very good.

Remembering Casablanca in Syracuse

Today snow fell in large clumps and it was strange. I am well used to snow by now, but still I ran and exclaimed jubilantly at the blemishes I made in what was smooth and white. We spun with our tongues out and roared when we caught some wayward snowflakes.


It is very late, so likely there will be less sense and more truth in what I am saying. I opened this document with the vague notion that I ought write about my experiences on my home campus, and also that I wanted to explain my little poem a little. It is not my intention to say anything against Casablanca, or Morocco, or Africa. My poem, however flawed, captures honestly how I felt in the moments after it all happened.

I did cry, and I did hate those men. I never thought of the difficulty of their situations, how the economic disparity created desperation that forced crime rates to rise. The iPhones they stole could buy groceries for months. I had 400 durham in the bag one man tore from my shoulder, but that is nothing. Forty euros, maybe. Funnily enough, I remember adding that little bag and its contents to my list of grievances. It cost me 9 euros, a not-quite-impulse buy from an H&M in Place Kleber. It was black, and the perfect size for going out. I still can't understand why its loss bothered me so much. It was as if the fact of taking it from me was stripping me of an externally imposed femininity that I held to nonetheless.

The man was small and nondescript. I never even saw his face, although he took little care to hide it from me. He hit me across the ribs with his crowbar- hard enough to bruise, but I knew immediately that they weren't broken. When he saw that I wasn't fighting back, he grabbed the bag, gave a jerk, and took off, the cheap strap flapping absurdly behind him. I watched him go. I don't know why I didn't try to run. I turned and watched another crowbar descend on my friend. I heard the thud as it hit her between her shoulder blades. Michelle screamed.

It seems almost ridiculous now, as I sit in my dorm, miles and months removed from that day. I feel safe here, and already the room begins to take on the familiarity of home. I have never dreamt of that night in this bed. It is too comfortable, that bed.

Morocco was a funny trip, because Fez and Chefchauen don't seem to belong with Casablanca. I will write more about them later, when I am more capable, and again, when I return to Morocco. But Casablanca was so strange because I never saw anything of the city. Only the train station, the walk to the Airbnb, and the little streets around it. We bought wine in a corner shop, and bread that we were thankful for later. We had come by train from Fez that afternoon.

I remember that it was 10 when we finally left for dinner. I wore my friend Anna's green sweater. She wore it just the other day, and I could not stop looking at her in it, remembering and not remembering. We went to some Italian restaurant, because it was not too far. Still, we had to take taxis. When we left, some five men followed us back in a car. I suppose you can guess all that happened next.

To add insult to injury, we were all immediately and violently ill afterwards. Food poisoning. So we never saw the beautiful mosque in Casablanca, nor the beaches, nor the markets. Non-Muslims are not permitted to enter most mosques, but this one in Casablanca was an exception. However, we were sick. Terrible stuff. Police swarming the apartment, asking me questions in Arabic and then French, about our passports, and to recount again and again what happened.

I remember waking up the next morning unable to move, sweating profusely. My head hurt so badly that it took all my energy to turn it away from the light streaming in from the window.

I am leaving out many, many details. I do not want to paint a bad picture, and one day I will write a post that presents Morocco glowingly. It is a wondrous place. It is hard for me to remember it all here and now. It is also hard to keep from submitting to MENA stereotyping. You know, the lurid descriptions of the mysticism of the Orient, the enigma, the seductive, beguiling sands.

Sometimes I am afraid to walk alone, or at night. During those few days in San Diego, I saw a man in my driveway and I was afraid. I had bad dreams for a long time, but that's life. We were not seriously hurt, and it was a good lesson to learn.

Go to Morocco. Go safely, and do not carry too many valuables. Let the mint in the tea soothe in the heat of midday. Let the Berber talk you into buying their wares- they are beautiful and stoutly made. I bought a rug as a gift. Dyed saffron and poppy.

I can hear the snow. Isn't that odd? It shouldn't be possible.

Good Night.

Casablanca

They came in the night.
They'd lain in wait,
planning and brooding
on angry stomachs

as not even rats can.

Men.
two, three, five,
(or so we heard)
who grabbed for us
and brandished rusted crowbars
and a knife meant
for chubby, childish fingers.

We fled?
We must have. 
We fled into brick and mortar
that welcomed us 
like the board welcomes a steak.

Like a dream, it was.
Yet it was not a dream,
for Casablanca is warm in my dreams.

And I cried.
Not as a child,
not as a woman,
not as an American,
not as the daughter of a fortunate man,

But, my God, I cried.
Inshallah, a cry I knew and didn't know.

I cried because they took my phone and my money.
I cried because strange men grabbed me
and groped for more things
they could take from me.

I cried because I was small.
They made me little again,
a child wailing for her mama
because men bruised her
and flung her aside.

I cried because I was scared
and never thought to fight back.

I cried because I couldn't stop 
once I'd started.

And an evil part of me
wished their mothers could see
how
low 
their
sons
fell
so that they would cry too.

The terrible weight of mortality,
I remember,
balanced on the point
they held against
Anna's green sweater.

I cried 
because I didn't want to play 
at being grown up anymore.

But now I do not cry.
Maybe the cameras will catch them.
Maybe even the police will help us then.
But maybe not.
Maybe there's no one we can trust.
Not even the doorman
who asked me kindly to sit,
and offered me Café au lait.

We will leave Casablanca tomorrow.

Home Again

February is fast approaching, and I haven't posted anything for nearly two months. I not only didn't post, I didn't write. Not once. I think not doing something is as habit-forming as doing it. Entertaining the idea is always much more strenuous than the act, and I think it must be like that for everyone. I was also afraid that I wouldn't be able to say what I wanted to, but that's never the point anyway. Words will come like rivers, jumbled and bold and unrepentant. I am finding that they aren't the ones I look for, but they'll serve all the better for it.



I often think of Strasbourg now that I'm newly settled into my dorm in Syracuse. The last 2 things I'd posted were about the terrorist attacks in Paris. The remainder of my term was shadowed by them. I did not go to Berlin the following weekend, and people were afraid. Stunned, but life went on. Strasbourg had its Christmas Market, and it was greatly reduced by cautionary measures.



I can't help but feel that somehow I didn't appreciate my last days as well as I should have. They say you fall in love with the first city that loves you back- not your family, but you. I miss Strasbourg so much that it must be true. I miss my friends, I miss hearing the guttural elegance of Alsatian French, I miss the serpentine curls of smoke from Claire's cigarettes and the way the smell lingered for hours by her chair.

Quais Rouget de Lisle

Sometimes when I can't sleep, I whisper the tramlines to the darkened room. F, Place d'Islande and Elsau. B, Hohenheim Gare. C, Gare Central. D, Poteries. And so on. I trace my path to my university building, lingering over the tram lines and stops, and the streets I walked on. We always met at Gallia. There was a bar near there, just along the river, that we went to every weekend in the beginning. Jimmy's, it was called. I never figured out who Jimmy was.

I'm not such a child that I don't see that I miss Strasbourg because it was the site of that terrible and beautiful uncertainty,when you are more adult than child for the first time. I'm not such a grown-up that I let this fact make me sensible. Frankly, I don't have a single sensible bone in my body.

Half Timber in San Diego

San Diego is the home I knew as a child, Strasbourg the one I knew as a changeling. There will be others, of course. But these nights, these are the two that make me lay awake and think and think and think.

In my little gray-blue room in San Diego I have a box stuffed full with train tickets and the set list from the Hozier concert in Amsterdam and maps. Brown paper from the markets of Nice all the way to Fez, holding figs and oranges with fleeting ideas scribbled on them.Even a coaster I stole in a drunken stupor from Oktoberfest. When I come home in March I will put them in order. You will hear then how Rue des Cordonniers looked those fine December evenings. But some things I have in this orange sketchpad, like the angry poem I wrote after being mugged in Morocco.

There are many things I never wrote down. The Lennon Wall, the towering irony of it all, and the first Cat Cafe I ever went to was in Prague. The Tower of London, paling to the wild Irish beauty of Glendalough. Some things I will never remember, and some have become part of me, mingling with blood and bone, like San Diego during a rare storm.



I think I will go back to France next year.

What is Pink?

There is pink, and then there is Pink.

Pink is the color of the wind when the sun sets on the French Riviera and the sky blushes softly at first, and then furiously. You have never seen Pink like this. Not when the all the world is drenched in its light, and the buildings bathe in it.

You cannot know this kind of Pink without having climbed to the Chateau de Nice first, to watch the sky burn. The cool evening air will soon dry the perspiration on your brow, and you will catch your breath after only a little while. No doubt Pink exists in many other forms, but I am not speaking of those pinks. I speak of this one, the Pink of the Bournes', that soft camellia flush.

There is a bottle of rosé in the fridge That, too, is Pink.

My Chucks

 ...climb enough staircases

to reach Heaven

and return with with a snow globe.

...step gingerly around puddles

only to sink unwittingly into mud.

The soil, you see, 

is soft and full of guile

in this part of France.

...collect lime dust,

as their owner 

counts the spirals 

in Jesus' robe.

...are removed with relief

Yonne

"I'll bet you've never seen a French hamlet before," our professor said. There was a rousing chorus of assent as we filed off the bus. My father came from a small village in China that I suppose could also be called a hamlet, but I'm not sure. It wasn't anything like what we saw as we stood in the gray light of Yonne, waiting for everyone to collect their bags from the underbelly of the bus.

Vezelay

After spending the day and most of the afternoon in Vezelay, we came here, to Yonne. What remains of the day is cold, overcast, and gloomy. A little while ago, perhaps at 18:30, it began to drizzle. It's still drizzling without any sign of increasing or decreasing in intensity. It's an earnest, steady addition to our day.

I cannot speak, as I've lost my voice sometime in the night. It's a good excuse. I don't want to talk much, and not having a voice is a very good excuse. When you can't speak above a rasp, no one tries very hard to engage you in conversation.

Yonne is a very small place. Boring, maybe. But it's beautiful. There are apple trees belonging to the street they grow beside. They are far from the orchards and so some of us leaned over the hollows and plucked a few choice fruits. The fields are green-velvety- or brown-freshly tilled. Yesterday was warm, when we were in Dijon, and earlier today in Vezelay, but now it's anything but. It's an exercise in getting acquainted with a dreary kind of beautiful.

I walked very slowly along the dirt roads, smiling to acknowledge my friends as they skipped gaily by. I would that I were alone in this place. It's peaceful, but not the kind that comes from roaring waves- the peace that I know. The silence is profoundly startling. And it magnifies whatever sound erupts from whatever source.

I think this is a nice place to be tired in. The idea of an idyllic farm life is inviting. I do not think that I need to tell you that this is a dream of Yonne that we see. I cannot know what such an existence is really like, and all I've got, really, is generalization and fantasy. Perhaps I'd hate it here. Perhaps what seems peaceful now will grow monotonous, for I think I need the roar of waves. Perhaps the dogs that come barking to greet us will grow less charming in time.

But it seems unlikely. And for now, the dream tastes real and I will leave and remember the lingering sweetness.

 

 

Dijon Stone

What is dirty here

is soiled from passing years.

And what is water-stained

has withstood tears.

What is whole 

fears

what is broken

and crumbling

and grand.

The stones of Dijon house 

what bleeds prayer.

Lindau By Night

One thinks Heidelberg by day-with its surroundings-is the last possibility of the beautiful; but when he sees Heidelberg by night, a fallen Milky way, with that glittering railway constellation pinned to the border, he requires time to consider upon the verdict.

-Mark Twain, "A Tramp Abroad"

We came to Lindau off the vast expanse of water that touched the soil of four different countries. We came as tourists have always come, in droves, beneath the blaze of Summer sun. My first impression of Lindau was favorable, if lukewarm. It seemed a nice little city, situated on a nice little bit of rock, with some delightful winding roads and such.

We made our way on cobblestone roads, and peered into brightly decorated shop windows. I grew more fond of it the longer we walked. I was altogether charmed by the way the city looked in the afternoon light, the buildings all painted colors I’d never seen back home. Even on the shores of Del Mar the bungalows dim beneath the faded brilliance of the hues seen in Lindau.

There is a main street, and several little alleyways and quaint little detours that beckon with the alluring promise of getting you lost. Don’t be fooled; getting lost in a place like Lindau is a feat of superhuman proportions.

I remember the art museum. A humble collection, it displayed the works of Emil Nolde, a German expressionist painter. I hadn’t heard of him before, but liked his paintings immensely. I do love expressionism, and I was thinking of bold strokes and outlandish colors when I stepped back into the the sunny square.

If I liked Lindau in daylight, I liked it more the lower the sun sank in the sky, and I liked it still more when it left altogether. How the lights of the city sparkled on inky waves in the harbor, how the strains of street musicians drifted- I imagined- even to the great stone lion we had paid our respects to, when the day was still here. By day Lindau was very pretty and by night she was all grown up, with a diamond lariat at her throat and diamond bobs in her ears.

After a fashion we walked back into the heart of Lindau, knowing that the pretty stores were all closed. If you don’t know the feeling of buying ice cream from a store on wheels and eating it as you walk along darkened shop windows, then I pity you. You do not know Summer. We came upon a little cafe and we went in, for one of our party was very much drawn to that elusive pixie, wifi. So we followed the bars on our phones, and entered, casting sheepish smiles at the hostess, who knew we wouldn’t be buying anything. I remember that there was a man with a little french horn who got of his bicycle to play for us. Back home I don’t think it would have been the same, but here, under the cover of a thousand stars, charmed as we were by a little German island, we stood and smiled and swayed to his song.

“I’m hungry,” Hannah said. And when she said that, we felt its truth in our own bellies. It was such a wonderful thing, to be young and hungry in a city that was like a young lady who dances in a yellow silk dress with cobwebby lace, and rouges her cheeks, and scrubs it off again. It’s only like this at night; in the daytime, no one ever remember that they are young and immortal. Those are thoughts that come with the sinking of the sun. In the day, we think only of the tiredness in our legs, the heat even in the shade of the Rathaus. There is no room for divinity.

Treat Yo Self

Nudity is a funny thing. In America, it's very in vogue right now to celebrate our bodies. We make grandiose statements about loving ourselves, or whatever. Yet when it comes to taking a good, hard look, how many do?

Let me give you an example. In some schools, girls are not to wear leggings, because heaven forbid a sweet young thing expose the line of her shapely leg and drive a gentleman to distraction. The underlying premise is that there is something inherently shameful about her body, something taboo.

What about when Grandpa digs out his old speedo to go for a nice stroll at the beach? Who celebrates that?

Caracalla is the building that's cut off on the left. 

I bring this up because yesterday we went to the German city of Baden Baden, about thirty minutes away from Kehl. "Baden" means "bath" in German, and Baden Baden is one of the many cities in the Black Forest known for its mineral baths. So we betook ourselves to Kehl and boarded a trailer of a train to Baden Baden.

Baden Baden has a great many spas that attract Germans and foreigners alike, but it was Caracalla we were bound for. I understand that Caracalla isn't as "authentic" of a spa experience as Friedrichbad, according to my host mother, and according to the Australians we ran into outside the train station in Baden Baden, but the thought of complete mandatory nudity is a bit intimidating, you understand.

Not that we didn't go nude.

No way to take pictures inside, so here's Caracalla from
outside, up, and to the left

The Germans have a magnificent attitude toward nudity: they simply don't give a damn. In Caracalla, the ground floor is a series of mineral baths constructed in some Romanesque bathhouse manner, complete with a marble statue of a full breasted Venus leaning over the pool. Here we shielded ourselves with bathing suits. We explored the indoor pool, which was very warm, and then moved outdoors, which had one very warm pool and one slightly cooler one. It was a mild day but compared to the heat of the mineral water, it was cold.

The pools are equipped with all kinds of jets and and fountains and clever little ramps and platforms for relaxing in. The water had none of the chlorine stench I had come to associate with swimming pools, nor did it give off the briny smell of the sea, which threw me off for a while.

After some stalling, we padded on bare feet back to the locker rooms and removed our suits as though removing armor before entering battle. It was a funny feeling. The way to the saunas was a winding staircase, and that second floor may as
well have been a nudist commune.

I mean it. Everyone was naked. Shamelessly, defiantly unclothed. I thought it would be uncomfortable to be naked in front of strangers but to my surprise, it was odd to be covered. So off came our towels. Soon we were as shameless as they. Perhaps you will think badly of me, but I enjoyed the sensation of being naked in a room of naked strangers. Although if you keep an open mind, you'll see that there's really nothing wrong with that at all. It's the most natural thing in the world.

The first sauna we went into smelled of something woody and musky that I couldn't quite place. It was so hot in there the air burned my nostrils when I inhaled. I laid down my towels, crossed my legs, and meditated. After a while (one shouldn't stay too long), I lifted my eyelids and peered into the darkened room through my lashes. I became aware of a man looking at me, yet there seemed nothing wrong in that. In what must have been another life, I would have been uncomfortable, but right then I was undisturbed. I simply closed my eyes again and forgot about him. After all, it is none of your business what people think of you.

The deluge of cold water that followed was excruciating, then refreshing. Alternating hot and cold temperatures is very good for you, you know. It stimulates the lymph system and really revs up the metabolism.

Then we hung our towels up outside of another room, and entered to a blast of steam. The last room was a kind of dry heat, but this one was so steamy that at times you couldn't see five feet in front of you. There are hoses that you must use to rinse yourself and the ledge off before you sit, presumably for reasons of hygiene. It was hard to breathe in there too, but unlike a hot and humid day, there was no worrying about sweat stains or sweating off your makeup. You are free to let your body sweat as much as it pleases, not that it waits for your permission. It really is a very liberating experience.

Then back to frigid water. My favorite part was the Waldsauna, or the Woodland Sauna, which is a log cabin outside a ways. It was 85 degrees. Celsius.

I still remember how it smelled in there, like oak and sandalwood and musk. My God, if I could bottle it, I would drench everything I own, every part of my body, in the stuff. Maybe I'll burn incense so that I can fall asleep smelling sandalwood, and let scent can perfume my hair.

There was an old lady exiting as we were entering and she smiled conspiratorially at me as she slipped past me. Her hand grazed my side from breast to waist and she didn't apologize. This wasn't a place for apologizing.

I paid thirty-two euros for a twenty-five minute massage (nineteen for the whole three hour session). Why? Read the title.

It was really weird at first, to have some German lady with winged eyeliner on point, massage me naked. As a general rule, though, if nobody makes a fuss, the issue goes away. It really isn't a big deal at all. She didn't care, I didn't care, my parents didn't care. I mean, they weren't there, but I'm sure it wouldn't have bothered them. (And now it's too late for them to care, if they were going to, haha! I love college)

Now that we know how to be naked, we plan to return to Baden Baden when the weather is colder, to try out Friedrichsbad.

Baden Baden, on the stretch of road between Caracalla and Friedrichsbad

An Espresso Comes With Uninterrupted Wifi in France

I feel like Hemingway, sitting outside a small cafe with an espresso by my wrist. Granted, it is an espresso, and not a gin martini. Ah, but it is only one in the afternoon...

It's a marvel how much attention the French pay to their drinks. They start with their aperitif, to be poured gracefully into long stemmed glasses. I don't know what good, practically speaking, having a drink before a meal does, if it aids in digestion or prepares the palette, or what, but it's an enjoyable thing to do. Therefore, the point of drinking becomes unimportant; only the act itself matters. It serves to accompany pre-meal conversation as the violin does the piano. Pleasure for pleasure's sake, delight in simple joys.

Let us not forget the wine that comes with lunch or dinner. (As far as I know, the French don't make a habit of drinking at breakfast) It is always carefully matched to the entree, the main course, the cheese and dessert. I take my meals with my host mother and another student who rooms with me, and we dine quite simply. I understand, however, that in restaurants, it is a common thing to have a different wine with each course. But then, that is not surprising because it is often like that in the states as well, in upscale places.

Yet it's different here. Each Riesling d'Alsace, every Pinot Noir, is as much a part of the company as the lady with pearls, or her brother the businessman. The swirl of the glasses- raise them delicately to inquiring nostrils- belong, have a place with the things spoken, and even more with things unspoken. That is why there is no rush. They do not, as we often do, eat hastily, for there is nothing so abhorrent here as rushing. How can one appreciate without pause?

After the meal, there is another drink. I don't know the difference between an aperitif and a digestif, except that one is before and the other follows the meal. I don't think they actually have anything to do with digestion.

Alsace is chilly this time of year (actually that's an understatement). It's barely September yet it's already too cold for t shirts and jeans. I mention the weather because I am inappropriately dressed for it. Regrettably, I finished my espresso some time ago, which means my last defense against the wind is gone.

The thing is that the weather here changes the way you or I change socks. At the drop of a hat the sun comes out and you're sweltering, or else it retreats among the clouds and your fingers freeze. I don't mind when it rains, but not while we sit here at the Bistrot et Chocolat.

Coffee is drunk so often that it's a wonder anybody can sleep at night. I've yet to have a bad cup, and I'm not convinced the concept even exists here. But really, one drinks a cup at breakfast, perhaps an espresso after the morning class, perhaps another with lunch, perhaps with the family after dinner. After the digestif, of course.

I must get to my reading now. Au Revoir.

Strasbourg When it Rains

I must again interrupt the narrative I set out to complete. This demonstrates a regrettable lack of discipline on my part, because had I not waited a month to get around to recording these things, there would be no conflict, and fewer details lost.

But anyways.

I will take up Salzburg where I left off, and hopefully insightful reflection will compensate for the weakened memory that's left. There's no help for it anyway, because now I must write about Strasbourg, where I am to spend the next four months.

I did not like Strasbourg in the beginning. As the train left Switzerland, I watched the skies warm from gray to something sunny. But as the clouds parted, as Basel blurred into Colmar, Mulhouse, others, I felt myself go cold. (I will go back later and tell you about that trip) I felt myself unwelcome in a strange place.

Let me present you with a comparison. If Munich is the girl who smiles at everyone and wears her emotions emblazoned on her sleeve, then Strasbourg is the one who averts her eyes and walks swiftly past those she doesn't know. That is my impression, anyway.

I was very tired, and I regretted leaving home. Not unexpected, I think. But don't worry, first impressions are rarely dependable; I warmed up to Strasbourg soon enough.

I arrived at the gates of the Syracuse Center breathless, watching my taxi drive off like a child abandoned. Then I entered a room full of strangers, most of whom already knew each other, having traveled here together from the states. It was very stuffy in the room, I remember, and I arrived after they'd already begun. Everything was dreamlike, nothing felt real.

And then it began to rain. Gently at first, and then enthusiastically enough to drive some of us beneath the cover of umbrellas. Not I, as you must know. Bareheaded, I walked along a mass of ponchos and umbrellas and coats. It hadn't rained in San Diego for a long time. The water cleansed the air, purified our breaths, soaked my hair.

I hate to sound like a hippie, but that's when things started looking up. It's not that Strasbourg changed how she was, but that I got myself a new attitude about the whole thing. It really is a lovely city, especially when it rains.

Excuse this post, as I'm sitting in a youth hostel in Lindau, Germany, and I'm very tired. Actually I'm tempted to delete this whole thing now (quit while you're ahead, you know), but I don't think I'll ever be able to make it better. I'm already beginning to forget how I felt then, and being exhausted, my narrative is less burdened by any conscious restraints.