Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Spring......... Break!

Originally I wanted to take an epic voyage across Spain and Italy, but a wise friend suggested staying in France since after all, I'm here to be in France and to work on my French.  So far for me, France = Paris, and despite my deep-rooted New Yorker bias toward big cities, I know that there's more out there. Also, with only 1.5 months left before heading home, I would have hated to spend a third of that time in foreign lands. So... after a stressful couple of days booking train tickets and hostels, M (my friend) and I were off to see la France.

1st stop: BORDEAUX. Yup, as in the wine.
Bordeaux is gorgeous. We got out the train station and immediately I had to remove sock/sweater layers that Paris stiiiill required. The sun was strong, the boardwalks hot, the walk to the hostel not very far. We dropped off our backpacks and headed out on the town. My God, it was beautiful. There's a river that crosses through the city that adds to beauty. As do the 400 year old buildings.

And the super friendly people. And the ability to wear sandals after three months of boots in Paris!
As we were walking through the old village area, we happened upon a certain stone in the ground:


We were standing just in front of the house where Montaigne's Essays were printed! T'was very cool. Meanwhile, as I was standing upon this stone, my friend happened upon one of the prettiest little coffee shops I've ever seen. We had a cup of coffee while talking to the friendly owner and his wife. Just to give you an idea, here's a piece of the store's back wall:


Roughly translated as: "Nobles and traders are all here welcome, and can sit together without offense [...] to have a coffee far from noise and from blame.
Extract of the rules of coffee houses, beginning of 20th century"
!! What fun.

The auberge (hostel) was great - we met a really nice group of Brazilians (who have a special place in my heart from here on out, thanks to Aline). Shabbat was really nice - it was amazing to have walked around a city that didn't feel particularly Jewish and then to open a synagogue door to the sound of a room full of Jews singing Lechah Dodi. Moments like these have been among the most moving and impression-making. The locals welcomed us delightfully and it was fun getting to know some of the youth as well as the adults.

On Sunday we went to Saint Emilion, a gorgeous wine village whose first grapes grew in the 2nd century CE, and whose history begins in pre-historic times. Incroyable. 

IRUN/ SAINT SEBASTIAN
So apparently while we were squishing grapes in Bordeaux, someone was doing the same with the Earth and a volcano happened. We met people on the train who were traveling from Paris to Madrid in order to get home to the U.S. Oh, but that's because in conjunction with the volcano (say Eyjafjallajökull 10 time fast, or once), the French trains decided to go on strike. Luckily, M and I were headed to Barcelona. The only disruption we experienced was having to stop in Irun/ Saint Sebastian for a night. Considering that some people fly to Europe just to honeymoon in Saint Sebastian, we didn't feel too bad for ourselves. Gorgeous evening, waking up to the Spanish sun, 8am train to Barcelona.

Incidentally, M and I sat across from two primary school teachers.  Also incidentally, my friend and I back in Paris were working on a research project on diversity in Parisian primary schools, based largely on interviews with teachers and students. Bingo! The conversation that followed added about two pages to our final paper.

Next stop...

Sunday, May 9, 2010

"Israelienne"

...everyone thinks I'm Israelienne. I'm sitting at a bus-stop in Nice, France, talking to my friend in French when an elderly woman turns to me and asks, in Hebrew, "At medaberet ivrit?" (You speak Hebrew?) No, I said, taken aback that from overhearing my French she thought I was Israeli. Next I was amazed at the story she proceeded to tell me about her life travels through North Africa, Israel and then France. "Be a strong woman" she told me as I got off the bus. She'd experienced a fair share of hardships because her mother always told her that good Jewish girls don't speak up. I assured her not to worry.

But this type of episode is far from rare. Just last night my French female friend introduced me to some new people - already after "Salut, bon soir" (hey, good evening) they had me... or had me wrong. "You're Israeli?" "Oh, but you were born there?" "Fine, but your parents are Israeli?" Second generation American, mes chéris. "You're joking." No!

I'm at a pizza shop in Marseille speaking with a fellow customer and after one sentence, "we can speak Hebrew, it's okay." Okay, monsieur. Why not.

At the student center in paris, "No, you're not American." "No, you're lying." "Do lots of Israelis speak French?" Buying challah for Shabbat - "you're coming from Israel?" In shul Friday night, "You're Israeli?" No! No! No!

The funniest part? In Israel they think I'm French.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Ramaz Fame, Seminar in Leipzig

BERLIN

Very quick overview: personal tour of the city by community member including stop at the striking, moving, effective Shoah Memorial; stepping into the Guggenheim there where I asked if they had any remnants of my beloved high school art teacher's "Bible Stories" photography exhibit there... which they did! I bought a book with pictures from the exhibition - including photos of high school friends since we we had been the subjects of my teacher's photos. Unbelievable. Here's a link (mind the bad high-school haircut), including a photo of me and some friends posing as the jealousy story of Rachel, Leah, and Jacob; "Vashti's Blemish"; taking my headphones out to hear the "Revelation at Sinai." Click on "Divine Gestures" and flip through - you might recognize a face or two (A. Fish, J. Feldst...), or for the Ramaz-ers out there, a hallway or two http://rachelrabhan.com/Artist.asp?ArtistID=18308&Akey=Y2PRXC57.

...sleeping in the Midrasha/Yeshiva there (incredible entities!); Shabbat meals with the rabbi, more explanations of the German Jewish community; Shabbat afternoon babysitting the rabbi's adorable children in the park, growing quite attached to one another!; eating matzah and cucumber on the sidewalk; early train to Leipzig where we'd be contributing to the Pesach seminar there.

LEIPZIG

This community is incredible - their Jewish center was opened by Jews from Eastern Europe, some of whom learned about Judaism from organizations like YUSSR (Yeshiva and University Students for the Spiritual Revival of Soviet Jewry) and were thus inspired to help build Jewish life upon arriving in Germany. Many of the people we met only learned of their Judaism at age 7, 13, or later. My partner and I gave shiurim, led discussion groups, and fell in love with the people we met. By the end of the two days we spent with them, I truly felt that I'd bonded with many of the high school-ers and the people my age who run an integral institution of the German Jewish community.

During the discussion sessions, the high school girls I spoke with went pretty deep. I opened up the topic of the central importance of human-to-human interactions in Judaism, and was met with difficult, sincere questions: who says that the world was made for humans? Were humans God's mistake? What's a God? Simultaneously, my girls inspired me with their remarks about prayer - one said she feels God's presence most when falling - like a flash of "God's the only reason I'm ever breathing." Another recounted that she connects most to the prayer some say before going to sleep in which we verbally forgive anyone who may have hurt us that day - she points out the difficulty of saying the prayer with intention - do we really dispense of all grudges on a daily basis? What a hate-free existence - incredibly powerful but incredibly challenging.

Two of the girls I worked with walked me to the train station at the end of the holiday - they insisted on holding some of my bags and walking me to the door of my train car, waving as we parted. An incredible end to an incredible holiday, taking lots of memories, perspectives, and images home with me. Deeply inspired - not gonna forget this trip nor the people I met, stories I heard, or living monuments I saw anytime soon.

Germany, Family, Growth & Change

When my parents bought me a traveler´s backpack before I left to France, I bet they didn´t think I´d be filling it with enough kosher-for-Pesach candy to feed four German villages. Well I did. When I saw myself in the mirror before leaving my house, I laughed out loud at my image – my backpack extended from my lower back to a half-foot over my head. I had to bite my lip and stare at the ground as I walked to and through the train station because I kept laughing every time I saw people´s reactions to me. Parisians do not do bulk.

I'm heading to Hamburg, Germany, from which I will go to Flensburg to help run Pesach sedarim there. Next will be Berlin for Shabbat and Leipzig for the end of Pesach to participate in a Pesach seminar there. Can´t say much more about the trip cuz I just don´t know what´s gonna be!

The days before I left were stressful, culminating with my rushed packing – kind of like some other Jews who rushed about this time of year a while back – only I was on my way to Germany instead of leaving Egypt – and yes, it felt exactly like that.

I´m on the train seeing more of France than I´ve seen yet and ain´t she a fine patch o´ beauty! Seriously, I´m sitting here giddy that I´ll be riding over 48 hours of trains over the next week and a half. I'm thinking that a train ride is a very postmodern way to see a country. Whereas traditionally society tracks and emphasizes a certain number of histories, lives, personages, postmodernism (as far as I understand) suggests our ridding of such hierarchies of importance and recognizing the presence of multiple histories. There´s usually a good reason why certain sites become attractions, but perhaps seeing the countryside, the less universally recognized but equally French houses, skylines, and churches, are also France.

GERMANY
[writing from train to Berlin for Chol Hamo'ed]

SHABBAT IN HAMBURG –

I really did not plan to do any touring during this trip but once you´re here, you don´t have so much of a choice – new cities beg to be explored. Also, the guy with whom I was to lead sedarim is from Australia and thus made sure to see as much as possible since he´d traveled so far. I came with. In Hamburg, we walked all along the beautiful port and ended up at Beatlemania, or the Beatles museum here. Lots of fun.

Over Shabbat we got our first lesson on modern day German Judaism from the Rabbi, his wife and their many guests. On Sunday morning, we were off to Flensburg!

FLENSBURG


The kindest, most gentle-looking, Jewish-Abba-embodying man picked us up from the train station (who we later found out has quite a story of his own, as did everyone we met in Germany, inevitably). He took us to the Jewish community center where we quickly saw that it was not lacking in material objects, rather people to guide the use of the objects. The Russian women who run the center greeted us with a bouquet of flowers each, a sit-down lunch, and handed us pens and paper on which we were to write the schedule for the next few days as dictated to us, through a translator. This was just the first instance of the Russian women running the center with incredible organization, beauty, and dignity. We had a moderately coherent conversation in English, German, and Russian.

They sent us on a day-trip to Denmark the next day since Flensburg is right inside the German border, and we got to visit a camp where Danish Jews were kept (and not-killed) during World War Two. Again, this is just one instance of the overwhelmingly kind treatment we got throughout our time in Flensburg – the community members were so grateful that we´d come!

I stayed with a woman named Marie who spoke zero words of English and held me around the waist as we walked to and from her house each time as if I had broken my foot. Every time she did so I tried to imagine what my French friends would have done, but I went along with it because I knew that she just really wanted to take care of me. Every night, she asked me what time I wanted to be woken up and by the end, we had a solid set of hand motions that made for successful communication. Meanwhile, if in Dublin I suspected that my red-haired father who always says “Ladies and Gents” is secretly Irish, in Flensburg I began to suspect his German roots. Call me ignorant but all my life when he said “Good morgin!” I thought he was just, well, being my father. Just don´t tell me that there´s a place in the world where we pronounce the “k” in “knife.”

THE SEDER

…was really, really nice, albeit hours shorter than what I´m used to. We asked questions together, my seder-leading partner and I told divrei torah, an adorable child sang the mah nishtanah, and at the end certain people told us that this had been their first seder. It was incredible how many people attended - 60 the first night and 20 the second night - especially considering that many had work/school the next day. [The whole Jewish community in Flensburg - most of which is Jewish but also including non-Jewish spouses - is 80 people.] Everyone patiently sat through the process of my partner and I speaking in English followed by translations into German and then Russian.

On the second night, we began the seder by asking the attendees to introduce themselves and explain what Pesach means to them. Talk about exodus stories... more than a few people mentioned personal histories of leaving countries where they had been un-free. My partner and I tried to tell divrei torah about personal, psychological freedom because political, religious freedom was a delicate topic - many people still did not feel 100% free in their new country. It was quite a night - moving, intimate, bitter-sweet - and we went home feeling quite fulfilled, hoping that the Flensburg community felt the same.

We got personal tours of Flensburg from community members throughout the end of the first days and led programs for the few but adorable Jewish children there, and we left with gifts in our hands (and hearts) from the Russian women. 


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Cows, Pourim, and Dublin!

I have been so out of touch, taking notes on napkins and pieces of scrap paper from train stations all over Europe, but I´m finally typing it all out. I will summarize lots because there´s too much going on now to elaborate on the past! So here we go - snapshots, thoughts, memories that stuck:

SALON D'AGRICULTURE

In the words of my host mom – it´s the day when all the cows from France come to Paris. Picture lots of hay, lots of dairy products, lots of goats, and Sheilla walking through it all in her fur coat with her nose in the air to avoid the smells. Meanwhile Aline is sticking her nose right into those of the cows, getting her camera as close as possible to the action.

"POURIM"

Amazing costumes – Avatar, Obama, the works. Everyone was extremely welcoming and I met some people that have by now become close friends. I dressed up as a “Native American” - mostly because Sheilla gave me this amazing dress to wear but also because after the fact I realized the appropriateness. If the French were politically correct enough to refer to Indians as “Native Americans,” they might have thought my costume was funny. While picking up soft drinks for a Pourim Seudah the next day, the cashier eyed me strangely until she finally wished me a “Joyeuse Pourim.” Only in… Paris?

All together Pourim was a great experience – the only downside to meeting so many people during this holiday was that thanks to Sheilla´s incredible job doing my make-up (i.e. turning my skin 15 shades darker), many of peole didn’t recognize me the next time we met! Luckily my American accent served as the glass slipper to prove my identity.

IRELAND!

“Celebrating its 15th anniversary in 2010, St. Patrick’s Festival brings the nation alive, and promises six lively days and nights of free celebrations and encompasses a feeling of what it means to be or just feel Irish. We will be in Dublin and Limerick for the biggest and best celebration of St. Patrick’s Day in the world – join us!”

…well perfect timing then. I was in Dublin for the holiday weekend and it was like Christmas in New York. Everything green, everyone jolly, festivities everywhere. I was visiting my friend Shira who is studying abroad there and in addition to spending time with her, I got the privilege of a fantastic, personal tour guide. In just one weekend, she made sure I got to see most all the tourist sites – Trinity College and the Book of Kells, the many beautiful gardens, the Temple Bar area, and Kilmainham Goal, one of my favorites.

Also, she lives in this Bayit-like house (Jewish student home with people from all over doing all sorts of things), so I got to hang out with and hear the stories of lots of young Jews chillin' in Dublin. After spending the weekend dining with Chabad, praying at the first Ashkenazi synagogue I’d been to in a while and getting to know her darling Irish friends moderately well, we all went out together on Saturday night and had a euphorifically awesome time. There was also a group of British students at the house for the weekend which added to our bloody good time.

On Sunday we took a day-trip to a beautiful port town called Howth with one of Shira´s French house-mates (one of her three French house-mates, who helped me tremendously throughout the weekend with my French accent, God bless!). We saw seals, men playing Irish music, and lots of beautiful ocean.

The whole weekend was super refreshing – speaking English, meeting lots of young, interesting people, interacting with the Irish on the street, in cafes, and basically everywhere because they are some of the friendliest people I´ve ever encountered! I love Paris, but I wouldn´t say that openness and friendliness are its strongest qualities.

Lastly, and most humorously for me— so in Ireland we drive on the not-right side of the street, by which I mean the wrong side of the street ;). Fine. But then I kept noticing that the Irish do all sorts of things on the not-right side and though Shira is still skeptical, I´m convinced that it´s all related, and very funny. Their doors open the not-right way, and they even do the “bise” (double-kiss) starting from the not-right side! It was a bit confusing, and very funny.

So, after being very sad to leave Paris for the first time since the semester started, I was very sad to leave Dublin, which I´d grown to adore over the week-long seeming weekend. As I landed back in Paris, I almost wanted to cry as I thought of entering back into the land of French. But it was the kind of crying you do as you jog up a hill, or finish something excrutiating but that you know is good for you. Still, I was happy to be coming home, and happier still that it truly felt like home!

Monday, March 8, 2010

Family Matters

I walked into a CHABAD family's house on Friday night, greeted by six children who went from shy to burying me in questions and art-projects in about four minutes. I fell in love with them in about three. They were brilliantly creative - the oldest, age ten, asked me if I wanted to hear a story. Anyone who's ever lived with me knows that I love (bedtime) stories, whereby I was thrilled to listen. After the first child finished, the five-year old got up to tell his own story. I probably understood about 20% of what they said, partly because I couldn't stop dwelling on their impressive creativity and the French coming out of these payiss-laden heads.

At one point the five-year old asked me, "Tu es Chabad ou Sepharad?" (Are you Chabad or Sepharad?) I asked him if those were my only choices. But he definitely had the upper hand. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard him repeating after me and realized that he was mocking my accent! I was so impressed! To recognize my strange speech and identify it as that which adults call an accent, and then reproduce it - it was adorable and really, really funny. His mom, half trying to stop him, couldn't help but laugh throughout the night every time he started imitating me. He was great at it. Luckily, the eight-year old girl helped me with my pronunciation skills. Not "ruge," "roooouuuuge." (Or what sounded a lot like, "not ruge, ruge!") Then she read me her book about Jewish holidays. I might have been bored, except that following along was an invaluable French reading lesson! As my Rabbi from Riverdale told me before my year in Israel, young kids are the best language instructors. They love feeling like they have something to teach an adult - instead of getting annoyed or tired, they enjoy helping you with your accent, vocabulary, and even grammar - so everyone comes out a winner. Plus, unlike adults who can understand what you mean when you mis-pronounce or misuse words, kids simply have no idea what you're saying. They force you to find the just word and the perfect pronunciation. God bless them!

Speaking of God's blessings... I present you, ALINE -
Definition on thinkbabynames.com: noble, kind; precious; light.
Implications for my life: a new housemate, who happens to have all of the qualities listed above.
Three different girls lived in the second bedroom here before Aline - long stories and not mine to tell - but Aline is here to stay for a while. And I adore her. This is kind of awkward because she's likely going to read this, but in short - she's Brazilian, 27, and here to study, learn French, explore.

The first night she arrived, I couldn't believe my ears as we started talking. She's interested in economic development, did a masters in international affairs, and has an amazing taste in music, books, fun, life, etc. She's not Jewish, but extremely respectful of Judaism and religion in general, and she's become a pro at separating between meat and milk. We hang plenty and explore Paris together, and she's the last piece in the puzzle that's made my living situation optimal - Dieu merci.

We'll go to the open-market near the Bastille/our apartment, she'll (try to) cook Brazilian-style (delicious) rice, I'll lie on her bed while she works, listening to her glorious music in the really relaxed atmosphere of her room (which is always warm, partly because of her but also because unlike my room, hers actually has a fourth wall and thus retains heat...).

My host mom told Aline to go to a Purim party with me and I told her she's welcome but that she'd think Jews are nuts, after which she reminded me that she's Brazilian. Perhaps a few pictures from the Carnaval parade we attended together will help explain -

Aline in front of a sign for Carnaval.
I'm slowly learning to pronounce Portuguese like a proper Brazilian. "HEEo de jaNAAAAYrro."
(Also, the facial expression above is like Aline in a nutshell.)


Aline and her people ;)

Israeli dancers?

This is a classic me and Aline moment.
We're both looking around and then all of a sudden one of us is grabbing the other's hand - craziness surrounds and we, petite and good at squirming through crowds, find our way to the next adventure. Aline's probably telling me about "BrraZEEye" and I'm responding with some Hebrew idiom, followed by its explanation and some tidbit about a Jewish custom.

Meet crazy-eyes. I think she was shocked at all the weird costumes...
hmm...

And as if I haven't met enough people here who have taken me in as part of their extended family, my VRAI (real) PARENTS came to visit soon after Aline moved in! I won't elaborate too much, partly because I think their experience here was like that of my first week, which I've already described. They were constantly blown away by the beautiful, incredibly old buildings and the general quaintness of Paris, especially my quartier! They did lots of exploring and traveled to Lille, where they found my grandfather's shul and my grandmother's childhood building, from which the majority of her family was deported. My mom said that she wanted to ask someone there if they were the ones who had told the SS that the kids came back from hiding every morning and turned them in, or if they were the ones who had saved the kiddush cups.

On a lighter note, it was really fun hopping around Paris with my parents - I've rarely ridden the NY subways with them, and to hop around the metro and tourist sites was very pleasant. On their first night here, I prepared my first French meal with my host mom's help, complete with fresh products I'd bought at the open-market earlier that day and all of Madame's beautiful dishes. (Feel free to admire the gorgeous kitchen!)


We enjoyed an impressively coherent conversation that was a jumble of English, French, Hebrew and the occasional Portuguese. Everyone got along heart-warmingly well, and when I arrived home after walking my parents the awesomely-minimal two blocks back to their hotel, the dishes had been washed and dried.

More recently, Reid Hall organized a "COCKTAIL DES FAMILLES" where all the host families and their students congregated for cocktails, brief student performances, and comical interactions. We students enjoyed finally being able to put faces to the descriptions we'd heard  throughout our first weeks in Paris - any of us could have described the bathroom tiles, cooking ability, and accepted shower-length in the homes of each of the hosts there. (That's only a slight exaggeration.) I know that my characterization of my host mom didn't let the Reid Hall crew down when Madame walked in - with Aline who she of course brought as her wing-woman - in a leopard-patterned coat and shades. I believe the adjective "pimpin'" was used to describe her.

Meanwhile, Madame (who by the way, officially told me to call her by her first name, Sheilla), has recently inculcated into me her slammin' style. The other day, she walked into my room in a big, furry, eggplant - or a really furry purple coat. I only partly supressed my shock/laughter. Suffice it to show you the following pair of rockin' sneaks she bestowed upon me:


Golden.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Atelier (Workshop) Photo!

Below are some photos from my first ever photography excursion, led by Philippe Vermes, who's had pieces exhibited at numerous museums in Paris and around the world. He is a wonderful teacher, and guided us with the spirit and energy of a teenager throughout the Bastille area, down along a boat dock on the Seine, and through the rainy alleys of train-stations, statues, and kind men and women who engaged us for some words of wisdom about their favorite city in the world.

The first photos are my own, amateur shots. The second group are Monsieur Vermes' shots of us taking shots. With our cameras. Enjoy!






 



(and now for the master...)






 



Friday, February 5, 2010

Thank God (but only at home) for new friends, and for the warmest, most supportive administrations/shuls I've ever encountered

Does recounting life here necessitate my including the really embarrassing stories as well? Like when I went to 3 not-the-right campuses until I found the right 1? On 3 metros and 1 bus and 1 other mode of transportation? In 3 or 4 separate areas of Paris? For just under 2 hours? (Causing almost 1 teardrop?) Only to find out that my class starts NEXT week?
Fiiiiine.

My latest realization is that while I was initially embarrassed of my foreign accent and poor speech, my foreignness is actually my savior. I used to dread the moment, three second into any interaction, when my interlocutor realizes I'm foreign - but it's just at that moment when s/he usually smiles, replaces coldness and impatience with relaxed muscles and readiness to help, and either starts pointing, guiding, or drawing me a map. How very liberating, comforting, and helpful a realization. And asking questions usually results in interesting, if short conversations.

Anyway, I've officially finished the language practicum and my French is now perfect.
Hahahahahaha.
I told that to a French friend of mine (after a five minute conversation en français) and he laughed, so I'll let you decide the extent of my sarcasm.

Okay, now we must back up a bit cuz lots of shtuff has gone down - let's take it one by one:

CHABBAT PLEIN
There is a Jewish student center in Paris called le Centre (Edmond) Fleg, which slightly resembles a campus Hillel, but serves Parisian Jews ranging 20-30 years old. To my great luck, they had a "Chabaton" during my 3rd Shabbat in Paris. I and a friend from Barnard spent both Shabbat meals at the Center, where we made our first Parisian Jewish friends. Everyone was extremely welcoming - as soon as people heard we were foreigners, they came to our table to say hi and offer contact information. Apparently American exchange students are rare. I have to say - there have definitely been moments when I've thought to myself, "Okay, so that's why they say the French aren't warm," but for the most part, I've been impressed by just how welcoming people have been in so many different situations, which brings me to...

REID (Angel-infused) HALL
Reid Hall is the home base. Next week, I begin taking courses in the French University system. But for now, I have been basking in the kindness and warmth of the Columbia University staff at Reid Hall. I had expected that upon our arrival, the staff would not cuddle us too much - they'd remind us that we're in France now, and we have to learn to fend for ourselves. Well... I couldn't have been more wrong. From the moment I walked into the first orientation session, through personal advisory meetings and regular hall-way greetings, I am continually moved by the staff's support. Reid Hall houses numerous exchange programs, but the Columbia hallway is about 30 feet long. The staff somehow knew each student's name from the moment we arrived, and they are perpetually smiling, patiently deconstructing our French, and helping us figure out how we want to spend our time here. Further, there is tremendous support built into the academic program. We have tutorial sessions for our various courses, where we grow acquainted with research and paper-writing, French-style.

Reid Hall also arranged numerous activities for us to sign up for at our will. Conversation workshops to improve our spoken French, Photo and Plastic Art workshops with darling, talented teachers who of course greeted us not only with lessons but also coffee and delicious (-smelling) French cuisine. A night at the opera, the theater, etc. I signed up for (almost) everything.

ATELIER (workshop) CONVERSATION/
CHABAT CHEZ MOI (at my place)
Ummm, so most students dodged these ateliers, but I signed up for 6/6 cuz I needed the extra practice. Excitingly, I made some really fun friends - while I still have trouble asking the cost of a crêpe, I managed to get into some moderately heated political/religious discussions almost every session. Let's just say I was nicknamed "madame la rabbine de Columbia" despite being warned that in France, religion is only for the home. Perhaps that's why the friend (S.) who thus dubbed me also invited me to Shabbat dinner, which I attended after accompanying her to the shul of the only woman rabbi in France (I'm told). It happened to be ROCKChabat, which made for some delightfully beautiful tunes - Lechah Dodi to "Hallelujah" (Leonard Cohen) and Adon Olan to "Satisfaction" (Rolling Stones). Young French Jews singing Hebrew in French accents to Classic Rock tunes - goosebumps-inducingly beautiful. S.'s family was welcoming, interested, and lots of fun. Her 21 year old brother disagreed with all my previous interviewees and told me that indeed there are French television series worth watching (to help learn French). Later, S. helped me work on my French numbers. (Just to clarify - I skipped two levels of French, so while I can use the French subjunctive, saying "148" presents a challenge.) We counted (her practicing English, me French) from 1 to 1 million - obviously skipping around. She was great about it - prancing back and forth across the living room as I translated her English sentences back into French and simultaneously teaching me about herself, France, and even Zionism - "I was born in the year 1985," "the French Revolution happened in 1789," "Theodor Herzl wrote 'the Jewish State' in 1896," etc.

SYNA DES VOSGES
The next day, I decided to try a new "syna"(-gogue). As Madame (my host mom) always says, we have 10 shuls just around the corner - and while the one on rue Pavée is historically famous and on rue de Tournelles, breathtakingly magnifique, built during the Eiffel Tower's construction, I hadn't yet found one that quite floated my boat. And then I found Syna Place des Vosges. Place des Vosges is a gorgeous square park built by Henry IV, surrounded by a beautiful square building, two blocks from home, which I hear becomes Edenic in the Spring. Madame told me I could find an Ashkenazic shul somewhere in the square. When I tried to open the wrong door, an adorable pre-teen boy called to me. Upon finding out I'm new in town, he smiled and said "Wooow, bienvenue a Paris!"

Immediately, I felt at home. The Rabbi delivered a profound, text-based, relevant d'var torah, and announced one of his congregant's Bat Mitzvah. After services, I introduced myself to him and he assured me he'd guide me to other foreign (and French) students. Later, I returned for a short Talmud lesson, followed by afternoon services, and what turned out to be a Tu B'shvat Seder/Bat Mitzvah. Throughout my time at the shul, I felt as if I was part of a big Italian family. Everyone was SO friendly and warm! I'm looking forward to returning.

MY SHOTS AT MARRAIGE, KABBALAH STYLE
Later, Madame's best friend came over. This was a monumental occasion, for I had never met the face behind the voice she speaks to about 10 times every day (that is not an exaggeration, I don't really get it). She took great interest in my love life, and was all but horrified to hear that I'm a Scorpio. "C'est très dur, très très dur," she told me. Apparently I must find someone more "fort" than I (very poorly translated as "stronger"). I told her my name means "gentle," but I'm not sure that overrides the power of the Sign. Dun, dun, dun...  Still, we got along really well - contagious smile, gorgeous lipstick - she was a complete darling!

Anyway... I'm off to try Chabad numéro 1 and then back to Syna des Vosges tomorrow morning - Chabat Shalom!

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Angry about Haiti + rushed plastic arts workshop =



The New York Times compiled a disturbing, moving, painful montage of pictures from the week following the tremblement de terre (earthquake) in Haiti. Lots of people/newspapers here were talking about the earthquake in light of France's complicated relationship with Haiti. It struck me that people (myself included) always said it'd have been better to learn Spanish in order to communicate with impoverished people and countries, and that French is the language of philosophy and sky-pointed noses. And then I found all these videos of Haitians describing their experiences. Hearbreakingly, I understood their words.

The next day, I arrived at the Atelier (workshop) Arts Plastiques that Reid Hall had arranged for those interested. Our artist host/teacher provided all the paint, magazines, glue, and tools that we needed, and invited us to make art. As I looked through some of her art books, I kept seeing paintings of people, of bodies, but my appreciation of the talent and beauty was disrupted by images from the previous night. Bodies, arms, legs - they're not supposed to look like they did in those NY Times photos. Bodies are not supposed to be under buildings, mixed in with broken chairs and garbage and other people's crushed bodies.

I began to sketch some ideas, and then I picked up a science magazine. It was perfect. Somehow, discussions of race and medicine, of health care and nutrition advice, really resonated with my disorganized, not-yet-formulated feelings and thoughts. People can talk all day long about blame and responsibility, but at the end of the day, we're left with bodies, homelessness, new orphans, and a world that must figure out how to react.

So -
the form: collage
the material: decontextualized images and text
the time limit: Shabbat was starting in 1.5 hours.

I worked faster than ever before, producing something angrier and more graphic than I've ever made, after which I used a twisted paper clip to tear through parts of it. Of course, I was still deeply upset, but it felt good to get it out a little bit. Matte medium stuck to my fingernails and hands, I ran home to Shabbat.

 


 

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

If a picture speaks a thousand words, how many words, then, does a Monet speak?

"Are you Rabbi Joseph Brandriss's granddaughter?"
I think that was the first time anyone ever asked me that, especially since I infrequently encounter people who knew him. But when I walked into an unfamiliar French shul on Friday night, an adorable older man addressed me with that very question. The family I was staying with for Shabbat had told him about me, and we quickly got along. Taking me under his arm, he said he'd take me to Lille to visit my grandfather's shul and to meet a community of elders who knew him and his parents. At the Shabbat table in front of a house full of guests, my new friend recounted the d'var Torah (word of Torah) that my grandfather had presented to him some 65 years ago. Later, he offered to give me and some friends a private lesson in Torah and/or Jewish philosophy, and promised to introduce me to the young male (and female) Jews in the area.  He also assured me that I wasn't the only one who shed a waterless tear when we first met.

Okay, enough family history for now. The rest of this post shall speak for itself - partly because I just began a three week, three credit class, and it's a beckoning! But mostly because these pictures truly tell their own story.

In short:
Two of my dear American friends came to visit.  Over the course of the week, we went to Versaille, Musée de l'Orangerie (home to Monet's water lily paintings), a Jewish family that gave me a crash course in Parisian Judaism and all but adopted me, Haagen Dazs on the Champs Élysée....



Open Market in Versailles


Inside the Château (Palace) - Hall of Mirrors


Endless amounts of gold


Elisheva, Being.



Me, loving Montaigne 
[...key creator of the essay as a literary form! "Essay," from the French verb essayer = to try/attempt! Montaigne subscribed to Skepticism, and believed that while we could never know the final word on anything, we could make an attempt to broach any topic. Thus, the essay.]
[P. S. We weren't listening to the Shins or anything, rather a guided tour by the little men inside our headphones.]


Napoleon


"Whatever, I just came from the gym."

 
The Gardens!








[Sorry, I had to take a moment.]
Claude Monet





~ Good Night ~


Thursday, January 14, 2010

Not-complaining

They** say that when you go abroad, it's important to maintain:
1. perspective
2. a sense of humor

So here's to you, Columbia website: from the perspective of my grumbling stomach, I have not eaten since lunch and I feel like a punished child sent to bed without dinner. My sense is that it's humorous that my host sleeps in the kitchen/living room and therefore denies me a way to change the perspective of my estomac. Please don't tell my mother that I ate cereal bars for dinner, and to my mother, I'm on it... it's just that after studying the French list of kosher foods for about an hour and then realizing that anything crumb-producing or sugar-containing will be frowned upon, I came home almost empty-handed, -stomached, and too cold to care. I'm hungry for another cereal bar, but I wouldn't want to shock my system with this alien food - I'm pretty sure getting sick is out of the question in this très belle maison.

Meanwhile, I offer a toast to the French (though the French toast they offer me is in fact hard and not dipped in egg nor cinnamon). I hail them for severely limiting electricity and water consumption. From my experience, many American homes and institutions (myself very much included) display minimal awareness of that which lies beneath the surface of lights, heaters, and water faucets. We turn knobs and flicks switches without fully appreciating our effects on the environment. Here, the forces that be force the French to heed mère Nature because heating and electricity is very expensive and hot water is limited.

THAT SAID, I never fully lost my fear of the dark and I have split second nightmares every time I walk from the wash room to my sleeping room at night, since of course we're prohibited from keeping lights lit "superflously." On the bright (well, dark) side, I can't stay in the hallway for very long since it's unheated and I must watch that my toes don't freeze and stick to the floor. If they did, I fear that Madame would lament their clashing with the rest of the body in the painting outside my room (for whom I fear as well since she looks like she could use a sweater, or at least a shirt).

The other night, my friend described her poor relationship with a previous host mom, and I began to imagine a scene of an abroad student raiding his or her host family. I localized my vision, and immediately a picture of water puddles on counter-tops entered my mind. Now I ask you, what does the following say about the house/-keeping here: if my host mom walked into the wash room and saw water on the counter-tops, she would gasp and understand with certainty my diabolic intentions.

What I really mean to say is that I absolutely adore my host mom, and with every passing day we're growing to further get each other. She came home with an urn and havdalah candle for me, and when I asked to reimburse her she explained that "Hashem paid." I told her that I too appreciate Kabbalah, describing my unexpected appreciation of the Tania. She asked me if I have a fiancé in les États-Unis, and (unrelated?) offered me nail-polish remover for my chipped self-manicure.

And now, my most redemptive moment of the day: upon learning experientially and painfully repeatedly that I need to learn French and fast, I sought new, maximally enjoyable resources, whereupon I found [painfully adorable], [upliftingly pretty], and lots more. Watch out all ye mockers of my pah trey b'yen frroncez - Simba and Tarzan are my new primary sources of extra-curricular vocabulary and accent help. If you'd entered my room around 2am this morning, you'd have heard me repeating after them - C'est moi Simba, c'est moi le roi...


**Why hasn't postmodernism done away with the universal "they"? Do they all still share the same view? Didn't we kill the Father, Author, and Word? If there are a multiplicity of realities, how is it that they all agree?! Maybe they have some advice to offer the rest of the world, 'cuz who else in history shared such unanimous, harmonious opinions outside of them?!

Monday, January 11, 2010

Attractions, Distractions, World-Changing Actions

'Spoiler' Alert: The end of this post contains the reason I'm alive.

I jumped out of my house and into the streets. In my bag, a map; in my head, an intention to meet Paris. I ignored the former, but the latter guided me quite far.

I didn't want to go another day without seeing the Seine, and about 12 minutes into my walk, I found her. Three minutes later, I was standing in front of Notre Dame. Let me rephrase that: I live a 15 minute walk from Notre Dame! I marveled at the outside for a few minutes until adrenaline urged me to continue on. Someone had told me about Shakespeare & Co., a legendary English bookstore across the river, so I used it as an excuse to explore the area. I love the independence and freedom of having minimal work (for now), and of being a foreigner in a new city that demands exploration.

I LOVE walking the streets of Paris. And I LOVE that I don't have to take a camera anywhere because I can just revisit that Where! I love hearing French all around me (though I despise feeling excluded because of my weak speech). I love the cobble stone roads and that historical landmarks overwhelm this city, and I love that everyone is so damn stylish. I love that storekeepers and street-goers are mostly kind and patient with my embarrassing French, and I love that men (and women) greet each other with two kisses.
I find it weird - but in a loving way - that seats outside cafés face the street so that people just watch you as you walk buy, and that it's the norm for people on the subway to stare unabashedly at fellow riders.
I HATE that so many people smoke. I hate that there are so many homeless people (though I find it weird that some wear moderately nice jeans - pardon the crassness, but how French...). Simultaneously, I'm stricken by the abundance of people who appear middle to upper class, and wonder where the poor(er) live. I hate that the apparent lack of poverty makes me wonder where the poor reside; that I intuitively feel that there must be people suffering somewhere to allow for the formers' lifestyle. I intend to research this, and I'll report back with my findings.

Though I never found Shakes. & Co., I got to know the area surrounding (and within a 4 hour walk of) my home. On my way back, I got distracted by signs for further local sites. Before heading over to Musée Carnavalet, a museum of Parisian history a few blocks from home, I saw a sign for "Mémorial du SHOAH." I followed it until I found the museum, outside of which stands a wall containing a list of French "justes," or righteous gentiles. A few deep breaths later, and after scanning through a long list of names, I found "Jeanne Rousselle," the woman who saved my grandmother, one brother and one sister, during World War Two. Madame Rouselle was the head of a sanatorium for children with respiratory diseases. My grandmother and her sister posed as nurses and their brother as a patient. Another of their brothers was studying to be a rabbi at the École Rabbinique de France (Rabbinical School of France) and thus got to know the man who later married my grandmother. He escaped to Southern France but was then imprisoned. My grandmother and siblings used to save some of their food rations to send to him in prison, only to find out later that he'd died and they'd sent all the food for nothing.
 

 
Once, when the Nazi or French collaborators came to find hidden Jews at the sanatorium, they wanted to check if the boys were circumcised. When they reached my great uncle, one of the nuns said she wouldn't go near him because he was extremely contagious, but told them they could if they wanted to. The officers got scared, bypassed him, and thus he survived. When Madame Rouselle saw that my grandmother and siblings stuck to their faith and maintained Jewish practices - kashrut, Shabbat, etc. - she said to them, "You taught me to be a better Catholic." [This reminds me why I should take the time to understand the list of kosher food here, despite the overwhelming complications.]

Decades later, when my great uncle nominated Madame Rouselle to be one of the righteous gentiles listed at Yad Vashem, they researched her and found out she'd hidden and saved 57 Jewish children. For everyone's safety, Madame Rouselle had never told the Jewish kids about the other Jews living there with them.

My grandmother and grandfather (a"h) came to the United States and had six children, over 20 grandchildren, and as of late a handful of great-grandchildren. My grandfather served as a Rabbi first in France and then in Sudbury, Canada; Wassau, Wisconsin; Beacon, New York; Austin, Texas; and Silver Spring, Maryland, where he became President of the Washington Board of Rabbis. Even today, his shul in Silver Spring invites my grandparents' above-mentioned progeny to an annual Scholar-in-Residence Shabbat in my grandfather's honor.

Seeing Madame Rouselle's name on that wall was viscerally, emotionally, and mentally moving, and I remain amazed that I'm currently breathing, writing, and praying just seven minutes from the monument.

I am taken aback that the even nowadays, the Jewish Community Center here is called the "Centre communautaire de paris" and lacks the word "Juif" in its name because as a local Jew told me, "as it is France they cannot call themselves Jewish!!" But more on that another time. For now, I am contentedly exhausted from the day, and thankful for those who made it (and all the others) possible. As was written outside the museum,

"Devant le Martyr Juif Inconnu incline ton respect ta piété pour tous les martyrs, chemine en pensée avec eux le long de leur voie douloureuse, elle te conduira au plus haut sommet de justice et de vérité.

זכור את אשר עשה לך עמלק של ימינו אלה אשר הכרית גוף ונפש של שש מאות רבוא בני–ישראל תף ונשׁים -- ללא מלחמה."

 
 

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Second Impressions

I don't expect to continue posting this often, but since I hastily described my first impressions of and experiences with my host, I will hastily update them--

I ADORE her. She keeps a beautiful home, and has a particular way of doing everything, which I am quickly trying to learn. Though I'm sure she could afford a maid, we do our own dishes, take out our own garbage, and clean the (royal) tub and sinks after using them. She brings my slippers to the front door so that I don't enter in my boots, and she insists that we keep all lights and heat off when we're not in their direct vicinity. We eat simple, healthy food, and with it a fruit and this drink whose name I haven't yet caught but that supposedly puts one to sleep.
She is extremely DIRECT, as in straight forward, which is one of my favorite qualities in people. She is quick to solve emergent complications (vegetarianism, etc.), and expresses our solution in commands but ever so endearingly - "You will buy yourself two cheeses. You will use that to make sandwiches for school." She smiles infrequently, but that is somehow further endearing because it is simply her way, and she shows care in a subtler fashion. She is also deeply religious and ascribes many things to "Hashem's will," albeit without claiming complete observance.

I think my first mistake expectation-wise was that I thought - since after all I'm in a modern Western country - that Paris would not be completely different from New York. Well that is completely wrong and at times confusing, but overall amusing, informative, and enlightening. And with that, I bid you Shavua Tov :).

Friday, January 8, 2010

Première promenade parisienne

We arrived at my building - I couldn't believe I was going to be living there for the next 5 months. It's a beautiful, pre-pre-war building just off a chique (and Jewish) neighborhood. It also does not have an elevator, which is why I so greatly appreciated that the driver helped me carry my two 50 pound bags up the three flights of very windy stairs... until I realized they were the wrong three flights, and that he'd already driven off. While lugging my bags downstairs and then back up to the other 3rd floor, I decided that if I could pull this off (or rather up, aaaall the way up), the 10 page French paper I'd worried about writing could indeed be done. Well, we'll see about that...

Finally, I arrived at my host's door - my host whose physique and temperament I'd imagined as Meryl Streep's in "Julie & Julia." And then this small, prim-looking blond woman opens the door, kisses both my cheeks, and without a word, walks me down a neverendingly long hallway that leads to a quaint bedroom, bed made, with original cubist and impressionistic paintings on the walls. But I ain't seen nuh-in yet.

After placing my luggage in my room, Madame B. walks me further down the hall to a room that appeared a mixture of a dinner-party waiting to happen, an intellectuals-only cocktail hour, and the Louvre. The table was set with drinks and desserts, the furniture looked like it was just off the boat from an exquisite Sri Lankan textile shop, and the paintings on the walls made me debate going to a museum the next day.

So in this unbelievable room, I sit down. And then that's all I do, for the next 10 (very long) minutes. After a few small talk questions, my host mom asks (in French; she only speaks French) "Wait, didn't you say you've been speaking French for five years?" Eeek. I explain that my parole is not up to par, and that in my head, I know French. But better to show than tell...
I sat there in silence with little acknowledgment of me, or even much speech between the other three people sitting there. I had no idea what was going on, when I noticed a framed picture adorned with a shining candle and hypothesized that perhaps this was a memorial sitting of some sort. So you'd think I'd know better than to ask if she was hosting a "fête" (=party, or my generalized word for a gathering of people)...

But alas - cultural norms and abnorms. This greeting scorched me not with warmth, but later when I pushed on the half-open washroom door, my host invited me to brush my teeth with her, and she showed me three times how to flick off the bathroom light to make sure I understood... And then told me never to get soap on the marble sink or bath counters. (There are definitely those out there who will love/ laugh at this living arrangement for me. I feel like a princess in what might be the nicest apartment I've ever seen, but that comes with lots of "be careful"s.)

Friday, January 8, 2:39pm

FAUX PAS of the day (I imagine this will be the first of a series)-
Said: "No No No, I did not sleep well. But thank you for waking me."
Meant: "No No No, I am not still sleeping. But thank you for waking me."

Okay, moving on.
So as I was walking through the Old City, I mean le Marais (the Jewish quarter)...
Seriously though, it feels just like Jerusalem, complete with cobble stone roads, men on the sides asking if you're "Juif" (Jewish) and want to try using tefillin, falafel stores and bakery aromas on every corner. After a very kind cashier helped me buy "halla" and directed me to a store with grape juice "casher," I stopped into this Jewish book store and wooooow. They had every piece of great Jewish literature, only in French. The Kuzari, Maimonides' "Guide des Egarés" (Guide of the Perplexed), and books by "Philippe" Roth. I was smiling so loudly I thought the cashiers might hear me - what a warm welcome! I quickly used a Hebrew-French dictionary to check a few words I'd been needing, and then headed out.

On my way back, I saw signs pointing to "Maison de Victor Hugo" and "Musée Picasso"! Right here! Clearly, lots more to explore even within the close vicinity of my new home, but for now-
Shabbat Shalom!

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

From New York

When "going abroad" was still an abstract concept; before it meant barely understanding the conversation at dinner...

PARIS
I am about to venture into a great unknown. I hope to do so humbly, confidently, unapologetically, sensitively. Full of awareness and un-self-consciousness; boldness and openness. I am taking with me - as I always have - some STUFF of years past - pictures, quotations, scarves, friends, beliefs, fears, dreams, and leaving plenty of space to pick up some new ones.

I feel, excited, utterly excited, expectant, (congested,) un-met; hand held out to shake new hands, kiss new cheeks, and adorned with a fair share of butterflies - but ones that are flying quite peacefully inside me. I lie in a cover that put my pre-1st day of 1st grade self to sleep, using a Ramaz pencil on a drawing pad that my art teacher gave me after our class trip to Paris in 11th grade, with a night light given me to use in college by dear relatives who knew me as a teen. I feel these pieces diffused into me-
not weighing me down
but clothing me as I take off to a new unknown.

I hope to read English books and French newspapers, watch French movies & musicians & artists & children & slums & exhibits & people & fashion & prayer services & elders & nature & new countries & Jewish stories & world histories. Through plane and train, humble and vain windows, with coherent French exiting my mouth and good-looking French cuisine approaching it. Towns and gowns and whatever (iy"h) else.

GOD BLESS!