Paris has magical powers

Firstly, I must admit to myself that I've let myself down by not updating my blog while knocking around Europe for the summer. This is partly to do with limited internet access and European computers, which, while usable, make extended typing quite the chore considering their tendency to szitch W zith Z qnd A zith Q.

It is also partly to do with the fact that I was frankly too depressed to write...even when I did have the time, ability and material for a solid post. There were the few nights in Venice when I went out with a group of absolutely insane and hilarious Indian-English girls. The day in Cinque Terre that I spent sunbathing and swimming in the Ligurian sea, feeling as though the Greco-Roman myths might come to life at any moment.There was the night I stayed out until 7 AM in Prague with a group of 6 Swiss boys I met at an underground bar. We climbed up onto a roof and watched the sunrise.

There was the night a friend and I crashed the Prague Quadrennial after-party at the National Theater, and I fell down a flight of 15 marble stairs after dancing and singing along to Czech covers of songs like "Say a Little Prayer for You" and "YMCA". It was both fun and horrifying. There were the evenings I spent with my hostess (a friend from college, who's lived in Prague for a few years) and her friends, which include Bosnian, Ukrainian, Iranian, and Spaniard expats, drinking and discussing international politics.

All this, and still I didn't write. The night before I left for my trip, a sneaking suspicion began to creep into my heart...what if, after months of planning and anticipation, my summer wouldn't be what I thought it'd be?
I wanted to go traveling again for a thousand reasons and for one reason: a night I spent in Florence, alone, 5 years ago, in front of an open-shuttered window of my room in the convent we were staying in. That night, my life felt so full of promise, of possibility. The night whispered to me that my whole life could be as equally magical, magnificent as that moment, if I just let it. God was with me, and I was the happiest I've ever been.
And my life went on and there were marvelous moments, and horrible moments, but always, I wanted to go traveling again. I thought that it had been the challenge of travel that had made me see life for all its potential adventure that night. Instead, I went adventuring again to find that the world is just the world. That the feeling of profundity, of meaning, has nothing to do with where I am or what I am doing, but with my outlook.
I wasn't that surprised. As I've grown up, I had started to suspect such, but I had hoped against hope that I could just go to a new place and it would shake me and...make me feel things, new things, wonderful things!
Instead, I had small flares of enjoyment, and overall, I was quite low. On my plane ride from Prague to London, I cried my eyes out, so bleak did the world seem. So empty and dull, so lifeless if no matter where I went, I would never feel wonder the way I did at 17.

So I didn't write, because I couldn't bear the idea of pretending I was having the time of my life, when in reality, I was miserable. I didn't want to tell the truth, for the simple reason that I didn't want to be a downer.

Everything changed when I got to Paris. The beginning was really in London, in a conversation with a friend and some reading she gave me to do. But it was in Paris, that some frozen thing inside me melted. I arrived on Bastille Day, to a city-wide party. A Parisian family is hosting me in their nearby studio, and from the first day, they adopted me as their own daughter. It was nice to be with a family again. Erich, Nathalie and their two sons, Ethan (7) and Samuel (13) had me over for dinner that first night, and then we went to see the fireworks at the Eiffel tower with what felt like all of Paris. In France, they play music to their fireworks, and the theme this year was From Broadway to Paris. My Fair Lady, Singin' in the Rain, and Sound of Music were just a few samples of the various selections. We chose a random spot on the coveted grass to sit, waiting and hoping the fireworks would not be behind the trees just ahead. They were, of course, and so as Audrey Hepburn's voice floated over us as the first bursts of light and sound went off, we rose with all of Paris from our vied-for place to run towards the bright colors, and I almost cried from wonder,from being alive in this joyful city, and I knew, that I would always, my whole life, be able to go to a new place, and it would make me feel things, new things, beautiful things.



If I knew how to edit videos on this french computer, I would. As of yet, this will have to do as is.

In the course of the last week, the grandparents of the family had me over for Sabbath dinner (obvi they're Jewish), and the Aunt and Uncle for a birthday party for "Le Grand Papa". To my surprise, they had a cake and presents for me as well. I was astounded at their warmth, their love for both each other and for me, though they barely knew me. Erich and Nathalie's niece, Judith and her boyfriend invited me to come with them the next night to see the Strokes at Le Zenith, one of Paris's largest venues. The other niece, Myriam and her boyfriend, took me to the Pompidou center for Modern Art for a day. As both an artist and violinist, Myriam provided an amazing insight to the Fauvist and Cubist works we saw...of Matisse, Kardinsky, Kupka, Brague, Miro, Dàli, Modigliani. Nathalie and Samuel took me to see Midnight in Paris, which, considering the amount of Lost Generation reading I'd been doing lately (all I read in Prague and London was Hemingway and Fitzgerald), resonated with me soundly.

I may not have traveled back in time in the last week like Woody Allen's nostalgic protagonist, but with experiences like these, I don't need to. From my cozy studio, late in the day, I watch the sun set behind Sacre Couer, and stand on my windowsill and let my thoughts traverse the rooftops of Paris and bounce back to me from the bruised sky, and I realize again and again that mystery is present, and I am young, and that my life is full of possibilities.

Analysis: Heros and Heroines

Last weekend I went on a silent retreat at Gonzaga called Montserrat. Most of the retreats at Gonzaga are held at the GU owned retreat house, Bozarth, which is this huge old mansion up Division near Whitworth. Bozarth from front faces what looks like a normal neighborhood, but from the back you can see that it sits on the top of this hill overlooking this valley of wilderness. All the back windows are huge so that you can grasp the beauty of the views.

The mansion itself is a hide n' seekers dream: there are secret nooks and crannies, closets that have weird corners to hide in, servants quarters, a library, an attic, a basement, and of course, a legend about a woman named Conchita who haunts the place (who murdered her lover, his wife and herself in the place) made up by enthusiastic Freshmen Retreat leaders decades ago.

Anyways. 10 of us were up at Bozarth for silent retreat last weekend. I went on a run on Saturday down the hill into the valley. There's this great waterfall halfway down, and I went off the path and trekking through the woods a little to get to it. Finally, a trio of fallen trees with moss on them stopped me...I couldn't go under or over, so I just sat on them watching the waterfall for a little bit. At one point I heard and saw two men go by on the path, and I just kind of stayed hidden, thinking of all the adventure stories I had ever read that would start with exactly that sort of scene.

As I ran back, I got to thinking about all those heroes and heroines I've read for so long and what makes me really love one. Some people call it spunk, and other people call it gumption. Theres a host of other words: spirit, pizazz, vivaciousness, etc. I always look for it in my friends, and obviously in guys.

I feel like people qualify each other based on their intelligence, religion, or their sense of humor, or their conversation skills. But when I'm looking to spend time with someone, whether in a book or real life, I'm looking for something beyond all that. (Not that those things aren't important.) I'm looking for that something extra. The penchant to be fascinated. A wide spectrum of interest. A big perspective...and still so much more. It comes down to one of those moments when I have to admit my sub-par abilities as an articulator, and admit that language, once again has failed to capture my meaning.

The really sad thing is that I know a good amount of girls with it, but much fewer guys. Maybe that's why a book is more likely to have female heroine instead of a hero. I've only met a few men that possess that certain something, and only once has it meant a meeting, a sort of partnership of those...somethings.

Maybe that's why I'm so particular about character development in novels and film. And even more particular in my personal life. I have high standards. And if I can't define what I want, how can I look for it?

A Turning Point

I’ve dreamt of certain things my whole life. Of an old, rambling house surrounded by the leafy green of overgrown elms and oaks, with a garden out back and a birch grove for believing in fairies. I picture myself inside sitting at a too-large desk within a warm and extensive library, working on the most fulfilling of projects.

I watch as I, linen-clad, armed with a canvas bag and a mother-of-pearl revolver, race from adventure to adventure, meeting danger after danger on the way, exhilarated and fulfilled from a life of one in a million lives.

Sometimes late at night, I imagine my future child in my arms. The gentleness of the small limbs, the round belly, the wispy hair. My chest aches for the weight of that little body, for the love that I can’t wait to feel.

When I come back to reality, I wonder if any of these images will ever happen. The crest of my life approaches and I actually have to do something, either make it a reality, or settle for something else.

Once I had a dream that I was in love. He and I were sitting, just trying to decipher a puzzle in our bed after our wedding. I don’t know anything else, I can’t even remember what he looked like, but I remember how it felt. A sweet calm, full of health and joy. In times past I’ve collected moments when life has handed me the same emotion, certain summers, weekends, lunchtimes and evenings full of laughter and guitar music, glasses of wine or a cold beer. Long conversations and several groups of friends for understanding, has been all I’ve needed to feel perfectly happy, the same as I did in my dream.

But age strips those times away and grants in their place a series of trials. Trials uniquely my own and, if bested, rewards me with those images I so carefully guard and so rarely take out to pet and muse over, for fear of spoil. Contentment becomes a thing of nostalgia and fantasy, available only when asleep or in an unknown and far-off future.
Warm summer evenings and carefree young cruising must be traded for responsibilities and independence. Friends, the savior of the young and the family of years, instantly becomes (with a hint of surprise and a touch of indignation) ...not enough. Not enough for the daily cares, and wears, and tears, and trials of life, real, honest-to-god life.

It's time for something more.