Wednesday, October 6, 2010

12:45 PM

Sweden? / Norway?

Bus on a highway

The train took us from Stockholm to Karlstad. Then, for some reason, we had to jump on a coach bus which goes direct to Oslo. So right now I’m on said bus zipping through the countryside on my way to the place I’ve been most eager to visit.

There’s little to tell of yesterday. I went to the National Gallery art museum and had an excellent time. Those audio guides they offer, you should always get one. They provide some really interesting insights to many of the paintings, often discussing important symbols in the painting you would otherwise (unless very highly educated in fine art) not know about. Especially in Renaissance paintings there’s a lot going on that at first, or even a second, glance you wouldn’t notice. You can have a girl just, y’know, chillin’ in the frame, and you think, “Oh, cool, she looks relaxed,” but now, she’s doing a whole bunch of things at once. Like she’s got her foot on an open book, she’s holding a blank page, there’s a special brooch she’s wearing, there’s a dog at her feet, and she’s glancing off-frame—and each of these things means something. Really interesting.

I got to see the Rembrandt self-portrait, as well as Manet’s “Parisian Lady,” among a wide variety of other extraordinary work of art.

I finished at around four, even though the museum was open until eight, so I went and got some food and went to the National Library where I did some Norwegian studying. Nothing more to tell, really. Not the most exciting day, but very relaxing.

As I headed for the train this morning I noticed something further about the Swedes that makes them seem so much like Americans (or New Yorkers, at least). Beyond the buildings, beyond the layout of the cities and towns, beyond their style and attitude—they move like Americans.

I’ve noticed, as I think I mentioned earlier in London, that in Europe I have difficulty moving through crowds. With them, against them—it’s all but impossible. From London to Paris to Munich, I found it always challenging to even walk with the crowd, much less against it.

But, this morning, at Stockholm Central, at rush hour, I was faced with an onslaught of Swedish business-people, flooding off the commuter trains at me, with the entrance to my platform behind them. It was until this point that I had been taking my ease of movement in Sweden for granted. I started walking and, as I would in Grand Central, or any other major city hub, quickly made my way through the crowd. The Swedes, like Americans, move like water. I was a pebble and I glided right through—no one stopped, everyone bended this way or that, myself included, in that wonderful unspoken commitment to getting where you need to go that all decent commuters engage in.

An as I sat on the train, and once again watched the city melt into suburbs, melt into the countryside, and marveled at how incredibly similar it all was, I think I’ve come up with my personal theory on why this is (possibly reinforced if I notice something similar in Norway). Scandinavians and Americans are pioneer people, alone in our own lands separated from the rest of the world. The Scandinavians have not had strong governments for very long—in fact, for not much longer than Americans. They are trapped up here in the frozen North as America is trapped across the Atlantic. Their history is rough and uncertain, as American history often is. We are two very separate nations placed in very similar situations, and what has come of it? Two peoples, indeed different in their own way, but incredibly similar as well.

I think it may be the lot of a people separated out from the central community, and facing a challenging landscape—the Australians, the fifty-first state of America, I noticed, are much the same.

That is all for now. I shall take some time to absorb some more Norwegian vocabulary and hope for the best.

Monday, October 04, 2010

8:50 PM

Östersund, Sweden

In the train, at the train station

I need to write this while listening to music in headphones since, for the second night in a row, people seem to have decided that the night train is the best place to have loud discussions. L’sigh…

I really want to jump right into today’s event’s, but, I suppose, in the interests of not confusing myself and the reader, I will start back in Stockholm, yesterday.

It’s strange—even from the train entering Stockholm I could already feel something very familiar, an American-ness in its aesthetics. The suburbs were laid out in strikingly similar fashions (from what I could see from the train) and the homes themselves seemed to be identical to the ones I’ve known all my life. This sense of parallel societies did not pass—throughout Stockholm, and even (perhaps, especially) up here in Östersund, I found myself experiencing a world that was—in its apartment buildings, its highways, its wharfs, its shopping centers—incredibly American.

Well, to be absolutely truthful, I hesitate to say that Sweden seems American. Perhaps it is the other way around. Sweden has a very strong Ikea-pride. It loves it’s national home furnishings mega-center. During the day I attended to a museum that covers the history of Swedish society from around the 1600’s. The first and last parts, covering nearly (I’d estimate) a fifth of the whole exhibition, was on Swedish home furnishings. Everything from chairs to tables, cabinets and shelves. The development of the modern apartment was shown in its evolution over the last two centuries. An entire exhibition was devoted to household plastic goods, with a focus on the 70’s.

Even now, as the train passes through suburban/rural mid-Sweden I am both comforted and unsettled by how easily this could be a ride on the Hudson River Line of Metro-North, or perhaps a drive through Binghamton.

But, when you consider the significant emigration of Swedes to the US and the US’s importation of Swedish goods, perhaps the similarities are not quite so unlikely as they at first seem.

Moving along: I love how the normal greeting here is, “Hei-hei!” Seriously! It’s like being greeted by happy-go-lucky kids or something every time you walk into a store. Honestly, if in America everyone at the store was forced to say, “Hi-hi!” they’d be (or at least seem) less unhappy. C’mon, how miserable can you possibly be saying something like that?

Okay, Swedish food. Um, fish. So I’ve had a salmon quiche and a sandwich with some sort of salmon spread. Oh, and they like cucumbers with their fish it seems. And let’s not forget about the hot dogs! Again I must make the comparison to America, except that in this case something I would consider truly American does not exist in the States, but is right at home here in Sweden. You take a grilled tortilla, throw down two scoops of mashed potatoes, a hot dog or two, some ketchup, mustard, and anything else you like—and then you eat it. Seriously, how did we miss that? It’s like KFC’s Famous Bowls thing, but in a tortilla…with meat! Heavenly, seriously.

The city of Stockholm itself is very nice. Clean, friendly, well laid out. But, once again, uninspiring. I don’t find myself with that oh-so-necessary internal conflict of, “Should I go here? No there! What about that place? Oo, this alley looks cool,” that goes along with an incredible city like Paris, and in many places London. Stockholm is a very orderly city, and I suppose that’s okay. I’m going back for a second day, now aren’t I?

I went to the Nordiska Museum—the one I discussed about society’s history—and the Historiska Museum, which was excellent. I went late and didn’t really have enough time there. I learned all about Swedish pre-history, and much about their Viking period, and a bit of what followed. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to explore more in depth.

I wandered around a bit after that and then headed back to the hostel (ON A BOAT!) to gather my things and do a quick bit of internet work. Then I was off to the train for some much needed rest (amidst the chattering of inconsiderate persons).

I arrived in Östersund at about 6:30 AM and hoped off the train into the early morning cold. I whipped out the scarf and hat and set off, map newly acquired, in search of adventure.

I had circled a few sights I wished to see and so crossed a foot bridge to a town across the water where it was said that there was a rune stone, the northernmost one in all Sweden. I wandered around for a bit, searching, until I finally asked at a supermarket. The kind cashier pointed across the street to a complex of buildings. Skeptically I went in that direction. In the middle of a series of short, white buildings I spied a large stone standing straight up in the grass. I couldn’t believe, it, and didn’t until I finally got in front of it and saw the strange Nordic writings. A tiny, ancient ruin, left untouched as it was surrounded on all sides by modernity!

I decided then to explore this area a bit more, and after winding my way through some suburban streets I saw what looked like a path leading up a mountain—so I took it. I ended up on a hike to the top of the mountain with splendid views of surrounding Sweden. But, again, I was shocked at how familiar even the nature seemed. I felt that had someone put a picture of Binghamton, or the Hudson Valley in front of me, and a picture of the part of Sweden I was looking at right then, I would not have been able to tell the difference. Very strange.

On the way down I found an abandoned cabin, and an odd little, out-of –the-way café. Finally back on the road, I witnessed the Swedish national cross-country skiing team already in practice for the winter, using skis with rollers on them!

As I made my way back to Östersund I walked along the black sea water, as close as I could, the spray from the lapping waves hitting my face. It’s inexplicable—out here, in this Scandinavian place I feel more comfortable with the cold, and with water even. I feel very comfortable even. There’s something about Viking artifacts, Viking literature, and the Viking environment that absolutely compels me, draws me in. Is there some sort of genetic bonding here? Check the records!

Next, I took a walk down main street, and over to the Sami cultural center. I wanted to learn more. During the time I spent at that societal history museum in Stockholm I learned much about the indigenous people of Sweden (and Norway, Finland, and Russia), who are called Sami (formerly, Laps). These indigenous peoples, like the Native Americans and the Aborigenes, have been heavily discriminated against. While they have not, apparently, been the victims of genocide or anything quite so vicious as the fates of the indigenous of Australia or the Americas, they have suffered their fair share of hardship, owing to unfortunate prejudice. Why does this always seem to happen? Why does the native population of a land incite such negative feelings in the invaders?

Anyway, after that I made my way up to the university grounds where I wandered around for a bit, feeling very drawn in by the inherently academic nature of everything. I forced myself away and visited the town library which was absolutely stunning—lots of open space, green plants decorating the open areas in a really spectacular way. I checked my e-mail and moved on.

Next stop was the local art gallery. It took me ages to find it, but eventually I did and tried the door. It was locked, but I rang the bell anyway. Two guys came to the door and I explained that I was there for the art gallery I had read about. They said it was just a short film and they weren’t starting for another two hours, but they’d put it on just for me if I’d like. Sure, why not? I entered the huge warehouse space and sat on a blanke and watched a very strange film called Revolutionet. It was about fifteen minutes long and featured a series of people sunbathing. Super-artsy.

I then made my way over to Jamtil, the open-air museum featuring Swedish life throughout the ages. It was a veritable ghost town so I left rather quickly and went back to the university where I inquired about studying there (they have an incredibly enticing way in which their studies are organized in each semester) and then went to a desk at the library to just read and take notes (soooo relaxing. Just what I’ve been needing).

Knowing Norway is just around the corner, visiting the university, and travelling around meeting new people and seeing old places is really helping me get my head even further set on my shoulders. It’s reinforcing many of the ideals that I developed over the past year (and especially the summer). I’m becoming much more confident in understanding what’s important to me, and what sort of things I enjoy.

This is also something of a difficulty in that while I understand that I want a life in the academic sphere, I’m not sure what part of that sphere I wish to rest in. I listen to my science podcasts and I’m torn towards research (again, I know). I visit the museums and I want to explore archaeology (again, I know). I listen to the languages around me and work to communicate in as many as possible and I want to study language (who’d’ve thunk it?). I read the literature in my bag and I want to find out how to become a palimpsest specialist.

At the least, I know that I want to study in Norway (even if the country does not meet my expectations) because the education itself is free. This means I can spend time exploring my interests a little further (although I sincerely hope to have much of it sorted out by the time I finish my travels. Once I have explored the Mediterranean area I will sit down and try to work out all my conflicting thoughts). Of course, in order to study at the undergraduate level I need to learn Norwegian. German or French (or even possibly Icelandic) would be more useful in the long run, but to make these short term plans work Norwegian is necessary. Hey, at least it’s the easiest language for an English speaker to learn!

Hopefully, when I’m about one month from being done with my travels I’ll start looking for a job in Norway. Then I’ll have about half a year to explore my interests while I work and build up my language skills in preparation for applying for a specific program.

I have but one rant to end this entry: shopping as a tourism prospect. Seriously, how much shit could you possibly need to buy, how much space do you really need to fill, that you have exhausted all retail outlets in a hundred kilometer radius of your home and must fly overseas to a big city, from which you must take a train to a small city, to do more shopping!? C’mon! It is not a wonderful thing that a happy little town like Östersund now has an H&M. What? The fifty H&M’s near you weren’t good enough?

Saturday, October 02, 2010

4:47 PM

Sweden

Train from Copenhagen, having just crossed onto the mainland.

The rest of my time in Innsbruck was lovely. I spent pretty much the rest of my time just wandering around and enjoying the town. My train ride to Copenhagen was nice as well. I was, at first, in a compartment with a woman who spoke virtually no English, yet insisted, for a good five minutes, on talking to me. Eventually the shrugging and lack of response must have clued her in because I was able to spend the next three hours in peace, reading.

Eventually our train was practically taken over by a travelling class heading home to Hamburg. They were chatting away in German and I mumbled to myself, “I’m so confused.” One of them heard this and asked, “You’re English?” “American,” was my reply. Well, that was it. They grabbed some friends from the hall and began talking to me excitedly in English. One of their friends sat next to me, one who had spent a year in Colorado and was apparently quite enthused to use her American English again.

It was very interesting to listen to the girls chatting in their native tongue, because I’ve noticed more and more that the young people of the world act all the same. Their words are different, but their intonations are the same, their frantic gesticulations the same.

Anyway, I was eventually allowed to go to sleep (after much discussion of our respective countries and their related benefits/drawbacks, and my German prasebook with its occasionally funny translations). At some point I awoke to a dark and empty car. I stretched out and fell back asleep, not awakening again until there was sun and many fields around me. Soon the fields gave way to endless ocean which we travelled across on a bridge for at least fifteen minutes before entering a tunnel beneath the water.

When I finally disembarked from the train and set out into Copenhagen, I was pleasantly surprised. Much as had happened when I had first set eyes on Paris, I got an immediate feeling of both comfort and excitement from the city I was in. Copenhagen is truly lovely. I wish I could put my finger on what makes it so much more wonderful than Munich or Berlin, but it is. To an objective eye it may seem much the same as those other cities, but this Danish gem is something else altogether.

For one it has the distinct sense of being “put together.” It’s a town that knows what it’s doing—where, when, and why. I wandered through their bohemian neighborhood, along canals, small shops, and charming buildings. I made my way through the quiet city center to an old fortress standing since 1663 (I believe) and still in military operation today. I wandered back through the streets, through a highly commercial center, out into a park, and back to the train.

I didn’t really want to leave.

For a town that blends the contemporary with the traditional, they do it very skillfully. It’s something Munich seems to be trying to do, but failing in my opinion. Perhaps I will return for the Tivoli(?) amusement park’s Halloween set-up!

Anyway, now I’m on the path to Stockhom, Sweden. I’ll spend the night there and then hopefully have a place to stay in Oslo for tomorrow night. Norway is so close.

Something I’ve noticed about Europe as a whole, now: they really like their graffiti. It’s everywhere on this continent, in every town, on every surface. But it’s some sort of high art, functioning communication here, even in some of its most obscure placement, unlike in NYC. The designs are detailed, intricate, and, frankly, beautiful sometimes. They are, at other times, loud. They say something short and powerful, and often in a place that forces you to imagine the vandal was in possession of wings.

And, finally, I think I am beginning to understand a fundamental difference between Americans and Europeans (or, at least, Northern Europeans, since I have not been to the south yet). This is the reason that I think Europeans, at least the one’s I’ve met, are so desperately in love with America. We Americans—we live out loud. We are fucking loud. And expressive. When you walk through the shopping district of Munich or Copenhagen, there is a soft murmur of activity. Not so in the States! In America there is violent laughter, shouting, running, pushing, screaming, fighting, yelling, and a whole range of extreme bodily expressions. When a group of Americans get on the train, you know. They’re the ones shouting down the length of the train, “Hey BOB! This first class or second? What? NO! We’ll get food later. NO BOB! No we can’t just sit in the food carriage. BOB! Just find our seats okay? And where’re the kids, for Christ-sake?” The only people who seem to compare are Italians—but, then, what did you expect?

Friday, October 01, 2010 (Part Deux)

11:30 AM

Innsbruck, Austria

Bench near the Bergisel, overlooking the city

Ah, so here is a taste of the inspired! Little Innsbruck, a small city in Austria, near the border to Germany—only a two hour train from Munich. Innsbruck is a quiet place, the only sounds are the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional church bell. No one honks, no one crosses until the green man lights up. The buildings are, for the mostpart, what I expected from Germany. Small, multi-colored, and charming. There are a few bad apples here and there, but it’s to be expected in this modern world.

I am sitting up near the Bergiesel, something, I believe, from an old Olympics that was held here, or near here. In front of me I can see at least a dozen church spires, and the orange tops of countless homes. The city is centered at the base of a mountain, the domiciles quickly becoming fewer as you get away from the city center (which looks, from here, to be only about 1-2 kilometers in diameter). So the city rushes back at the mountain and then tapers off at it’s base—you can imagine the city itself struggling to climb, reaching out house-fingers to grasp higher and higher. Some green pastures are occupied, and you can see further homes scattered into the mountain, until, to my right, what looks like a small village makes its final stand against the broad natural impediment to further expansion. This small village stops just below the cloud line, then there is a thick swatch of grey-white clouds, and finally, towering powerfully over everything else rise the mountaintops, capped pristine in snow. It’s as if they rise higher than heaven itself, the way they soar beyond the clouds—it’s almost like a surprise when you see them peeking out.

The mountains must turn up at an incredibly steep angle at that last point where the village ends. It looks less like a mountain and more like extraordinary city walls. I want to walk across town and ascend. There’s little else I can imagine at the moment but scaling its bold face. Now I think what wonderful things must await me in Switzerland!

In my wanderings here I went into a church at random. The outside was plain, and I was unsure whether to even bother. But indoors was a different story! Elaborate paintings covered the ceilings and the walls, nearly a third of everything was either clad in, or made of, gold, and the sheer variety and intricacy of the carvings was heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

Going back a little further even, the train ride was magnificent. It’s too bad that I’ve been spending so much time on night trains. The countryside truly is a wonder. Although I imagine that if I had the opportunity to see everything all day, every train ride, my urge to hop off the train into a strange small town would be uncontrollable. It’s true what I’ve been told! There are quaint little villages, almost all of them (which I passed) having castles or some Medieval thing of the sort in their area. I’ve half a mind to jump a train going back Munich-way and stop off at one of the towns just to see a ruin or two.

Friday, October 01, 2010

7:20 AM

Munich, Germany

Train car at the HBF station, platform 15

The train to Berlin wasn’t bad. The seats didn’t recline, but I met some very nice people. Two girls from a small town in Germany and one French girl travelling from her home in Paris to study in Germany. Of course, it didn’t help that there weren’t any outlets in that train—so my laptop was dead (no studying for me).

When I got to Berlin I left the station, looked at a map, and set off in search of the wonders of Germany!

Yeah. Not really. Berlin’s not much of a town, in my opinion. I wandered through a bunch of neighborhoods, becoming bored to my bones. I felt all that Parisian inspiration just evaporating. I focused myself on finding the remnant of the Berlin Wall. After about three hours of searching through the city I found it. It’s called the East Side Gallery, apparently. It has murals painted all over it on one side. Meh.

Berliners’ really like their graffiti it seems. It’s everywhere, covering subways, monuments, and schools. You can’t turn around without seeing some guerilla art. But the city seems like it’s fit for that. It’s very urban, uninspired in its architecture and unmotivated as cultural center. (I will grant that it was cloudy and rainy that day, but it can’t be much better in the sun)

I’m also finding that everything I thought about the French, is true about the Germans. The French are lovely, warm people, and fairly English-literate as a whole; Germans are rude, curt, and don’t seem to know a word outside their own language. And, as far as the language goes, I expected to love German and hate French, but now, at the end of my German travels, it’s most definitely the other way around.

So utterly bored was I that I went to the train station three hours early and sat around reading the whole time (and being accosted by the local variety of homeless). The station was absolutely freezing, and the train itself was only marginally better (at leas this time I had a reclining seat).

The next day I arrived in Munich and set off for The Tent. By the time I got there and forced my way through a freezing shower, I realized that I don’t think I’ve ever been so consistently cold in my life. With weather like that, perhaps you can understand the German temperament.

I made my way to the Oktoberfest grounds, which were astounding. It was like a huge carnival! Lot’s of games, rides, noise, and, surprisingly, kids everywhere. The beer tents seemed almost an afterthought. I went into a few of them, but I was uncertain as to how the whole operation worked, and what to do since I was alone. The tables were filled with people, some were reserved, there were beermaids rushing around, but I didn’t know how to get a drink from them. I cursed myself for not having researched it better before leaving.

I went back to The Tent and did some internet research, and tried to find a group to go with. I found a tent that was most frequented by the youngsters of the world, and set my sights on grabbing my drink there. So, back to Oktoberfest at the Hofbrau-Festzelt. I found some standing room there and I asked one of the people standing there how to get a drink. He kindly told me that I just ask a beermaid to bring it to my table number. So I stood at his table and asked the lady to bring a beer there.

I was introduced to his friends: a cohort of excitable young Portuguese girls, one of which had a very strong love of quoting Friends and other classic American sitcoms. The company was amusing so I spent the day with them. I only had two mugs of beer (and half of another), but since you can practically shove your head into one of them it’s a bit more extreme than I’m used to. As the night wore on I quickly became aware that I was extraordinarily drunk, agreeing to attend these girls back to their home in a town two hours away by train and then promptly losing the group in my drunken dizziness. I wander around the carnival grounds for a while longer and then…well, to be honest I’m not exactly sure. I got home just fine though! And the next thing I know I’m talking with some Oxford double-PHD student or something. Nice guy. And then I’m strapping my passport to my body and crawling into bed.

The next morning my head was pounding, but I forced myself up and to the store for some fruit juice and water. Replenishing my body, but still in significant pain, I set off in search of the soul of Munich, and therein hopefully the redemption of Germany from my poor experience thus far.

I went down the streets, looking around—it was all well and good, but somehow it felt uninspired and inauthentic. I ate lunch at the Augustiner Restaurant and enjoyed some Weisswurst and minced veal lung. The seat you with other people, and the Germans there were nice enough to show me how to properly eat the sausages, which are brought out in boiling water in a goblet. You cut open the skin and peel it off, then dip it in a sweet mustard and chow down. Oh, and veal lungs: very tasty.

I’m starting to feel like Anthony Bourdain, travelling around wherein the sights become secondary to the mission of acquiring authentic food at any cost.

The waiter was a pretty cool guy, if looking a little crazed in the lunch hour rush. When I asked for water he says, “Vis poppers? Or visout poppers?” Took me a minute to figure that one out.

I went on through a famous courtyard, to the archeological museum, to the art museum. The art museum was excellent. I turned around at one point and saw Albrect Durer staring me in the face. The self-portrait of Durer. I better get used to it, being in Europe and all.

On my way back to The Tent I met a New Yorker, and she introduced me to her friends (more New Yorkers and Connecticutians!) and I spent the night with them (went back to the Augustiner and the fairgrounds). Munich is more or less that same at night. Disappointing. Yeah, it looks nice, but it’s missing something. I don’t know what.

Oh well, on to Innsbruck, Austria! My feet are killing me, but I think they’re getting used to it. My back too, from carrying my bag all day (I seriously need to get rid of some books). My boots are getting really worn down, the heels are nearly gone. And my left knee keeps getting this strange warm feeling every once in a while I’m walking. A bit worrying. I should probably let it rest more today.

Ah, and about not looking American: I think the leather jacket, for some reason, makes people see my nationality very easily. I put it on, people assume I’m American—take it off, European.

Anyway, I’m headed to Innsbruck, even though I’m not exactly sure what to expect there. I don’t know anything about it, except that I’ve heard the name before. Then I’m considering beginning my Scandinavian journeys. But we’ll see where I am in a few days.

Monday, September 27, 2010 (Part Deux)

Monday, September 27, 2010

6:07 PM

Paris, France

A park along the Rue Saint Julien Le Pauvre

I had to end my last journal entry rather abruptly as a rather sketchy looking man came over to me as I was writing. He put out his hand and I assumed he was another beggar, so I just ignored him. But suddenly he started talking.

“I no speak French. No one likes me. No one will help me.” I wasn’t sure what this was about now, and the bleeding-heart that I am I looked out of the corner of my eye at the man. He took this as an invite to sit down. Dark skinned, thinning black hair, I thought he was Middle Eastern at first. He smiled at me and I responded with a very wary, uncertain look. He continued to talk, clearly under the impression that I spoke only French and he seemed content to just talk. I carefully put my laptop in my bag and my notebook in my jacket, scanning his person for any signs of a weapon. He seemed harmless enough, but he wouldn’t go away. “Um, how in French? Moi no speak French.”

I was foolish enough to respond slightly to him by which he determined that I could speak English. He began to ask me questions, my name, where I was from. He answered me in kind, taking my hand and pressing it to his forehead at each divulgence of information. His name was Nathan Sama, forty years old, from Sri Lanka, a Tamil. Then he explained his plight. He apparently had been in jail for three days and the French police told him to leave the country. He has a visa for England but needs a stamp. I didn’t really get this until the fifth time he told me, ending each exchange with, “You help me,” then looking away, smiling, pushing a brown tooth back into his gums, and then giving me a very creepy sidelong glance. I finally figured out that he wanted me to go to the post office and get the stamp for him. Not wanting to get involved in international legal problems I quick gathered my things, said I had to go, and left, his, “No one likes me. No one will help me,” fading into the distance.

Yeah. So, that was interesting. Where was I?

Ah, yes. In the next days I did indeed go to see the Eiffel Tower in all its Parisian beauty. It’s massive and looks so much larger, heavier, and stronger than it does in pictures and film. I went through the catacombs of Paris, where bones are stacked like bricks, and skulls make patterns in the wall of death. It’s all strangely beautiful—but, then again, I enjoy the macabre. The stone walls were sanded smooth so that they almost looked fake, like painted arches. The bones were stacked without cement—I lifted a leg. I stared into cracked skulls and the places where eyes used to be and thought about what this person thought about. This person who was surely a peasant. I looked at the legs and thought about the bodies they held up, the ancient Parisian roads they traversed. All that life and history, endless and meaningless in those labyrinthine halls.

Then the gift shop where I believe I put my camera down as I was taking it off my belt—and never picked it up again. Yeah, it’s lost at the moment. I tried visiting the store the past few days, but it was always closed, so I left a note today, asking the owner to e-mail me. Maybe I’ll hear from him, maybe not. All in all, I think it may be a blessing in disguise. I was starting to spend too much time behind the viewfinder of the camera. I need to just wander and allow the scenery to soak into me without thinking each moment, “Should I take a picture of this?” Well, now I have no choice but to enjoy each thing for what it is. Cest la vie, right?

I explored the Egouts de Paris (the Sewers of Paris), which was an incredibly interesting, albeit disgusting little museum. It was in a real working sewer! With womens’ period pads and shit and cigarettes and everything just floating by!

Speaking of shit and piss: I really hate the European convention of saying, “Where’s the toilette?” It’s a bathroom, people. Be polite! Seriously—in no other way do I feel my American-ness so much as in when I have to ask for a toilet.

Anyway, I also visited the Saint Sulpice church of Da Vinci Code fame, explored the Petit Palais, the Arc d’Triumphe, and the Champs d’Elysees. My host for the last two nights was incredible. She took me out to Paris, driving me around the Peripherique, and took me on a tour of the commercial center of Paris. I ate a crepe with ham, cheese, and mushrooms, and we saw a film, “Miral.” At her place we drank wine and discussed English and French. A lovely girl, by the name of Julie Degand.

I feel that I am surely leaving out a bunch of things I wish to write about, but I imagine that they will com back to me later.

I’m discovering even further my increasingly strong desire to learn languages. It’s a very powerful pull at the moment, and I want to explore it further, see if it is a passing interest, or one that requires my full attention. I am still very focused on Norway, but now I can see myself in Paris, too. I look at French, German, and Norwegian, and think of all the incredible doors that would be opened to me. Science, or academics? I am still plagued by this decision which needs to be made. So much fascinates me, and I’m not sure if these journeys help or exacerbate the problem!

Tonight I leave on a night train for Berlin. I will explore the city there for the day and then leave on a night train tomorrow for Munich for two days of Oktoberfest. So now it’s on to studying German for a few hours in preparation of my arrival in Deutschland.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Monday, September 27, 2010

4:05 PM

Paris, France

Sitting along the Seine, facing the south face of the Notre Dame cathedral

At the base of the Sacre Coeur I was first introduced to Parisian marketing. An African man (Nigerian, I believe) walked up to my side and slipped a piece of string around my finger before I knew what was happening. I looked at him, bewildered, as he began to twist the string. I shook my head and gave my most convincing “Non!” He replied energetically in French. I shrugged and shook my head as he tried again. When it was clear to him that I was not a French-speaker he looked very surprised. “Italiano?” I shake again, trying to walk away faster. “Español!” I shook my head again, making this man clearly very confused. “British,” he asked, finally, seeming very unconvinced that I might be from some English speaking country (this pattern repeats throughout my entire trip—Italian, Spanish, British—suggesting that I do not give off the much dreaded American vibe). He grabbed my elbow and slipped the string back on my finger, saying, “Is for the church!” I took it off again, a little more forcefully now that I had the time to get my wits about me, and said the always useful line, “I’m from New York.” The man backed away immediately. At least one place in this world harbors a reputation for non-gullible tourists.

I quickly made my way up the stairs—at least two hundred if not many more—and feasted my eyes on the stunning church, egg-shell white with half-egg shaped spires. As I turned around I saw all of Paris, and much of France, laid out before me in the morning haze. Already I have the feeling that I may never live in the States again if I can help it.

I entered the church and was nearly breathless as my eyes absorbed the beauty of this mammoth construction. The walls are painted, the columns and ceiling carved, giant angles watch over the service, four of them hanging from the corners of the congregational seating area. It is almost enough to turn an atheist devout.

I left and descended once more into the streets of Paris, the tiny worn-stone streets where pedestrians mingle with cars and three card monte is played with abandon on the road as the scent of bread and roasted chicken and fish and chocolate and gasoline and urine mix with the sounds of hawkers shouting and knives cutting and bags crinkling and French being mumbled between couples. The curbs are lined, thick, with cigarette butts. There are a surprising number of Chinese and Japanese restaurants. There are no mimes.

I was already hungry and kept my eyes peeled for a small, local-looking patisserie to enjoy my breakfast from. I found one on a side street and entered, crucial phrases in French locked in my mind. I felt butterflies as if I were to go on stage before an audience of thousands. “Bonjour! Je voudrais un quiche.” She asked something that I think had the word “Jambon” in it, so I just nodded vigorously and waited to see what the register said. Euros dropped in the kind shopkeeper’s hand I bid her, “Au revoir!” and set off in search of the Parisian landmarks, my spirits lifted considerably by the successful exchange.

After a bit more walking (nervous crossing the streets as I had become accustomed to British traffic patterns) I found myself unexpectedly before the Louvre. I whipped out my camera and walked through one of the arched entrances, spying just a bit of the glass pyramid at the end of the walkway. Camera ready, poised for an excellently executed photograph of the Louvre’s trademark structure, I pressed the button as the battery died.

Groaning, I fiddled with it for a minute, trying to suck a bit more energy out, enough to take the picture, but to no avail. Perhaps this was a good thing. It would allow me to do what I had always intended to do: focus on enjoying the world around me with my own eyes, and not through a lens.

I had arrived late in the day and so decided to put the Louvre off for another time. I continued my walk south, crossing a bridge to the south bank (I think I got that right) in search of Notre Dame, whose bell towers I could glimpse just a piece of from where I was. Halfway across the bridge my eyes fell on the top half of the Eiffel Tower, rising up out of Paris, over the building tops, proud. I stopped, dead in my tracks, and I swear a flood of emotion swept over me. I truly am in Europe I realized. This truly is Paris. This is the grand tradition I have always dreamed of. My chest tightened as my attention focused—the sound of the Seine beneath my feet, the pedestrians around me, the Tower in the distance. It was so incredibly real, and yet almost painfully surreal.

I gathered my wits and finished crossing the bridge, sure to see the Tower in all its glory before the day was done.

I stumbled upon the Shakespeare and Co bookshop my bus-buddy had informed me of, and I spent a good while browsing and reading in the store, finishing by asking the owner, Sylvia, about the opportunities for young writers to stay there in exchange for two hours of work. She said it was true but that they were full up and to try back next week.

I crossed to Notre Dame and experienced its gargantuan magnificence. I think the real charm of Notre Dame lies in the incredible intricate detail that is carved into almost every stone it seems. The outside is marvelously sculpted, as anyone can see from photographs, and as I can see now, as it towers above me across the river. And the interior does not disappoint.

After the cathedral I went back to the Latin Quarter and wandered through the streets, trying to make my way to the Eiffel Tower. Along my way I passed so many booksellers it was near unbelievable. All along the river as small stands of books (and I mean all along the river). On every street there are one or two or three booksellers. Old books, new books, chain stores, secondhand, music books, esoteric, art, history, English, philosophy, you name it. Heaven. Truly heaven.

Eventually, as the sun began its downward path in the sky I came upon a garden. I thought it was one garden, near the Tower, and, excited, I quickly walked along the edge to find my way to the Seine to follow that a five minute walk to my target. When I got out by the Seine I realized that something was wrong. I checked a map and realized that I had been turned completely around by the streets of Paris and had walked about two hours in the wrong direction. Well, I gave up on the Tower for that day and walked all the way back to Monmarte.

In the next days I saw many other things.

**Entry was interrupted here. See next entry for details*