Spirit and Beauty and Sadness

A concert was cancelled out of respect for the recent attacks: "We send our love and prayers to the people of Paris." Reading the sentence makes me feel sick. Bombings happen all the time in the Middle East, in some city whose name I can't pronounce, killing some people whose lives I can't relate to.

Americans have always had a romantic conception of Paris. It's the city of light, the epitome of culture. Those of us who are lucky enough to have spent any time there remember only the tremendous spirit and breathtaking beauty--even in its faults. In Paris we have been happy. In Paris we have been spirited and beautiful.

That the people of Paris need someone's love and prayers is upsetting. This happens in the Middle East, not in Paris. This attack is personal. It hurts in the way that penetrates and lingers.

I remember Valentine asking about the méchants. I gave her a hug and false promises of safety.

Victor Hugo wrote in L'homme qui rit, "La vie n'est qu'une longue perte de tout ce qu'on aime." Life is nothing but a long loss of everything we love. Paris will rally and the pain will become motivation, but this weekend we have lost a bit of something we loved and the only thing to do is to hug each other and to lie to each other that things will be ok.

The Inevitability of Gentrification

When I was very young, climbing was a sport reserved for the dirty, unconventionally-employed people who were looking for a way to be in touch with their bodies and with nature. I guess you might call them hippies. That all started to change with my generation of climbers.

I tied my first figure eight knot at the age of six at Planet Rock Climbing Gym in Pontiac, MI. The people there would eventually become my family but I had no way of knowing that as I threaded the rope through my full-body harness. Back then the employees were taught by real experts. They were real experts. They cared so much about climbing (almost every single one of them is still involved in the community) and they already knew a lot before starting work. There were two general categories of people who came into the gym: those who were there to say they had tried it and those who were or would become completely obsessed. I personally was a member of the obsessed camp. The sweat and tears, long hours on the road and on the rock, bloody fingers, bloody knees, victories, and defeats have without question been the defining force in making me who I am today.

Fast forward almost 20 years and I'm finding it harder and harder to relate to other climbers. Nowadays chain gyms are filled with a new category of climber: the lunch break workout climbers. From what I can tell, they're in there because Zumba didn't sound extreme enough to their tech office friends. They're following a trend, not an obsession. While I'm happy (or should be) that this means that beautiful training facilities are popping up everywhere and climbing is now very accessible, I'm upset that it's changing the environment of the crag and the gym into something in which I have no desire to take part.

These lunch break climbers are seen simply as a good source of income to make improvements to the gym. Time isn't invested in them to make them productive members of the community because they aren't really investing anything in return aside from their monthly dues. These are the people who overestimate their abilities and get themselves into trouble on the rock. These are the people who don't follow etiquette and alienate seasoned professionals. But it's not their fault. It's our little community that's to blame. The grungy few that populated the climbing gyms when I was young make up the climbing elite now. I don't just mean the people whose faces cover the magazines or those who win the competitions, but the ones building gyms and pushing our sport behind the scenes as well. We were just a bit too greedy, seeing the opportunity to step into the limelight and taking it without consideration of what might happen to us if we did. We built new facilities with outrageous entry fees and found out how to get the most members while spending the fewest resources to train them. We televised competitions and asked huge international companies to sponsor them and us. We stopped being a little community and started being the place people go on their lunch break because Zumba didn't sound extreme enough.

I miss the days when I could walk into almost any gym in the country and run into someone I knew. Now even in my home gym I feel alone and out of place. When I look at the person on the wall next to me I don't see a fellow obsessor, I just see a stranger. San Francisco may be at the extreme end of this gentrification of climbing, but I'm afraid the rest of the country is heading in the same direction.

I'm not sure we can turn back now. The people in charge are committed to making climbing an Olympic sport, to having a gym in every suburb with a Starbucks attached to the gear shop and a line out the door at noon every workday. I want to be angry at someone for taking my safe place and turning it into something so industrial and impersonal, but I can't blame anyone because in their position I would have made the exact same decisions. It's so hard not to be blinded by fame and money.

While all of this is happening I find myself in the position of the lunch breaker in another arena. I came to San Francisco willing to pay the absurd entry fee. I know I won't stay here, I'm not committed or obsessed. I'm just here for now because some other city didn't sound extreme enough. My friends are moving here, too. It's a bit of a fad for people my age to come to the Bay Area, get a job in tech, and go to climbing gyms on our lunch breaks. I feel guilty but at the same time I know it's not my fault. It's the old San Franciscans who allowed this to happen, right? They took an inconceivably large check in return for their home and found themselves surrounded by well-dressed strangers who don't care about them. I don't know what will happen to San Francisco or to the climbing community in the next 20 years. It's hard to believe that one person can make a difference in that path anyway.

(and After)

After three days of buying the wrong tools and then the right tools and finding time to assemble my bike before and after work it's finally ready. In an attempt to fit in I bought a fixie. It's a hipstery cream color with dark mint wheels and white accessories. I lug the bike down two flights of stairs and push it through the front door of our apartment building. It's heavier than I want it to be.

On the flat along the ocean I check the brake again. It doesn't work very well. I squeeze it all the way and feel myself barely slowing. Dragging my foot along the ground seems like a much more efficient means of stopping so I consider taking my bike back to my apartment. But if I go back I'll surely be late for work.

At the park I turn uphill and ride past the polo stadium and people walking their dogs. The grade is gentle enough for me to climb with my single gear but steep enough that I'm exhausted, red-faced, and sweaty when I arrive to work. I should have gotten a real bike.

A few hours later I'm faced with the thought of riding back downhill with no working brake. I adjusted my bike to freewheel so I could coast; there would be no stopping with the pedals. Having some spare time, I walk my bike toward the park, then out of frustration start riding the brief uphill. I stay on for some mellow descending, using my right shoe against the pavement as a brake. My back heats the leftover pastries in my bag even though I'm moving barely faster than a walking pace.

Between the timid half-riding and walking down the steepest hills, I arrive at the Outer Sunset avenues and exit the park. From here it's all flat but I stay a few streets up from the beach for a better view. Riding through the alphabet, past Irving, Judah, and Kirkham, I note the way the smell of pizza penetrates the wet beach air.

Finally at Taraval I turn to the ocean. The three businesses easily accessible to us have burned to an unrecognizable state. I guess today was a doozy. But none of this makes me unhappy: I live on the Pacific Ocean and ride my hipster bike to a job that I enjoy. San Franciscans are welcoming and encourage sincerity. There are few social rules here to limit self-expression. You can make mistakes and learn in a relatively judgement-free environment. I don't know if I'll live here for just a year or for five, but I can already tell it will be hard to leave.

L'Appel du Vide

The invisible arm is pushing me again. Over the edge and down to the cars below. The conversation is good, the night beautiful. And yet that little voice in my head screams at me to jump off the roof, my splat on the sidewalk just another "pop" amongst all the other celebratory explosions of Independence. I sit down, safer from myself with more surface area on the solid tar.

I've always had a vivid imagination; always felt like I was seconds away from doing something drastic. It's a terrifying feeling but you learn to cope by staying away from 23rd-story balconies and distracting yourself when near traffic. I know that l'appel du vide, or the call of the void, is also why I was able to move to the other side of the planet and leave everything I knew, so I accept the bad for the benefits it offers me.

But now I wonder about the benefits. If jumping off a building is necessarily bad then how is killing your old life for a mysterious new one necessarily good? Of course I've grown as a person, but I left the greatest time and people so far in my life for a place that left me miserable and jaded.

And now I face another crossroads. The voice is telling me to run to California. But this time there's another voice too--the voice of reason, perhaps--that tells me to seek redemption and happiness where I know it exists.

Life back in the States is strange. I have a great story to tell but it's too exhausting to relive every time I meet an old friend, or a new one. What have I been up to during the past two years? I'm not even sure where to begin. "And you?" I almost feel guilty for asking. No one can match my story. It's the devil on my shoulder that's made me what I am today, but at what price?

So I'll let the arms carry me once again to California to try to squeeze yet more from life, but this time I'll be cognizant of the angel on my shoulder, too. Maybe there are many ways to live life to the fullest.

The Calm Before the Storm

Around me everything is still. The sunsets grow lovelier every night, the children's dinnertime screaming has been replaced by quiet presentation of drawings so I won't forget them. It even seems like half of the residents of my apartment building have gone to their summer cottages à la campagne. But inside me the storm that has been brewing for the last few months is reaching its breaking point.

Ask me about receptor-mediated endocytosis. Ask me about how entropy changes when a protein folds. Let me tell you about the role of telomeres in aging. I've never worked as hard for anything as I've worked for the MCAT. Partially out of boredom but mostly out of fear, I've come to know even the most complex biological concepts like the back of my hand. Am I proud of this? I don't know. College-Miura would have called me a poser, a try-hard. Why put effort into something you're not truly interested in? But now-Miura knows what it means to work hard even when she doesn't want to, and why that's so important.

The first clouds will appear tomorrow night when I anxiously try to sleep before the big day. I'm not scared but I am excited to finally put to use all this knowledge I've attained. The next week will go quickly while I say goodbye and deal with all of the stuff I've accumulated. I wish I could just leave everything and start new. Before I know it I'll wash ashore in America, wander around from east to more east to all the way west. Then I'll go to work setting up a new life, perhaps the most daunting task in my near future.

I hope the transition back to being in the States won't be as hard as I fear it will be. Where will I find good bread? How long will it be until my brain starts to function in English again? Will I be able to keep my mouth shut when someone mispronounces "crêpe"? Probably not, I never could before. Of course I'll miss Paris. Living here was a dream come true. But now it's time to go make the next one a reality.

I'll see you soon,
Miura

10 Things I've Learned in France That Probably Won't Apply to Real Life Ever

Living in Paris has been wonderful. But sometimes I can't help but feel like I'm not exactly living in the real world. Don't get me wrong--I love French people-- but occasionally I have brief moments of clarity where I realize that their behaviors aren't exactly... how you say.. normal. Of course all of the observations here are generalizations (and all generalizations are wrong) that probably don't apply to many or even all French people. But they're patterns that I can't not notice. So without further ado here are 10 things I've learned in France that probably won't apply to real life ever:

1. If You Can Get Your Car There, You Can Leave Your Car There

Parking in France is like being in a Nike ad: you Just Do It. Is your car halfway on the curb? Great! That means it's not in the middle of the road. Are you preventing another car from leaving its spot? No problem.. First of all he'll be happy to have an excuse for being late to work. Secondly, what an asshole! He shouldn't have parked there! Is your vehicle pinning down a human being? Well, maybe fix that.

2. Do Whatever You Can to Make Sure People Know You're Not Trying

This may seem like a contradiction, but let me assure you that French people will do anything to make it look like they're not trying. Whether due to malnutrition or general attitude problems, not having the energy to completely button your shirt/pull up your pants/try a sweater on before buying it to see if it fits/etc. is normal (herein lies the secret to French fashion: it's important to always have at least one article of clothing haphazardly draped across your body like "I thought about dressing myself this morning, but eh"), and if you do these things you will look like a try-hard.

3. Having Good Posture Is Not Cool

This goes along the same lines as #2. You wouldn't want to put too much effort into having healthy spine positioning. Sometimes I wonder if the slouch is the French mating call when a pack of adolescent males passes by in the midst of a contest of who can make the best upside-down "J" with their vertebral column. (N.B. This rule applies except if you find yourself in a ballet class, in which case TUCK YOUR GODDAMN PELVIS UNDER YOU CAVEMAN)

4. Americans Are the Worst

THE. WORST.

5. Not Working Is an Important Part of Working

Maybe even THE most important part.. The waiter will consider bringing you your check once you have bothered him at least twice about it, sat to think about your disruptive behavior for a good 30 minutes, and already missed that show at the Moulin Rouge. A monthly paycheck isn't earned without at least the consideration of a strike and this idea is lurking the back of every French employed person's mind at all times.

6. Deodorant Is Optional

Are you going to perform a highly strenuous physical activity in a relatively small, poorly-ventilated building on a warm day? Sounds like the perfect opportunity to skip the deodorant and make sure everyone is aware of your presence! Seriously though, I will never understand this one. I have literally had to exit buildings, leave elevators prematurely, and request new seating because of some French guy's musk.

7. The Food Isn't Disgusting, You're Just Uncultured

What, you don't like ground-up fattened-duck liver? Does the gelatinous inner portion of a bone not sound or look appetizing to you? Has your enteric nervous system begun the process of reverse peristalsis (that's upchuck for all of you non-scientists.. see, I'm getting the attitude thing down already!) at the thought of consuming a single snail, not to mention the five others that come with that appetizer? Well any français will tell you that with enough garlic anything tastes good, and if you can't appreciate the delicate aromas then why don't you go back to America where you came from?

8. Nobody Takes the Bus

If you're cool you take the Métro to work. If you're really cool you ride to work nonchalantly past centuries-old national monuments en vélo. And if you're indescribably next-level cool, you swoop between the Peugeots and Citroëns on your moto. Nobody takes the bus.

9. Wine Is Appropriate at Any Time of Day

Do I need to explain this one?

10. The Parisian Sidewalk Is the French Version of the Colosseum

There are few arenas more savage than the Parisian sidewalk. If someone is heading in your direction there are a few important steps to take in preparation: First, be sure not to make eye contact as this might send the wrong impression to your opponent, as if you give a single shit about them or something. Of course, if you do, don't let it change any of the following steps. Second, find the exact middle of the sidewalk and establish your line of attack. Finally, follow through and do not ever give in to the Other. This is both a contest of brute strength and one of stamina. Whoever remains on the sidewalk at the end wins. This becomes much easier if you have friends or multiple children to back you up because, as you know, multiple people can simultaneously block a larger width of the sidewalk than one alone can. I have a theory for why French people love to carry baguettes under their arms, and it has nothing to do with dinner.



Anyway I hope I haven't offended all of you. Or maybe I do hope you're offended, I don't know any more.

à la prochaine,
Miura

Lost and Found

Another city. It's beautiful, just like the one before and just like the next one. Different, of course, but beautiful just the same and by now my ability to appreciate the differences is saturated to the point that even Asia looks like Europe looks probably like Australia and I want to go home. The life of a vagabond is surprisingly unrewarding and passionless. I don't know if it's a defense mechanism or just the result of overstimulation but I can't feel any more. It's so so beautiful and yet I feel nothing except the feeling that I should be feeling something.

I used to leave the house every day hungry for adventure and often returned empty-handed and frustrated. Now I wake with no appetite, stuff down as much as I can, and go to bed early.

Sometimes I remember the old me and I miss her. The new me is responsible, punctual. But jaded. I don't know where the creativity used to come from but that part is long dead.
How will I go back to America knowing how to pronounce Uber and not be an immediate outcast? If nobody understood me before they definitely won't now. But still I want to go home.

Baltimore burns and I read about it in the news. I should be there to help fight and to help clean up afterwards, but instead I'm taking a walk in this goddamn beautiful city, eating another piece of honey-soaked baklava that doesn't taste nearly as good as it did in Dearborn, spreading myself yet thinner over the globe.
Which movies came out last week? Last year? Which songs are being blasted in the frat basements and who is blasting them? I don't know and I don't care.
The call to prayer is wallowing from the minarets twice as old as my country and I'm looking for a WiFi network--more out of habit than necessity--to no avail.

Everything I miss about America can be classified as a little thing: paying with a credit card, crunchy pickles, conversations about the local sports team in line at the grocery store, the most ridiculous friends you can imagine, free water, singing in the car. But in the end all those little things add up to something quite big.

I'm tired of analyzing and questioning and still not understanding. I'm tired of fearing that tight bonds might do so much more damage than the weak ones. I'm tired of people asking where I'm from when I just want to fit into somewhere and be a part instead of an other. I'm tired and I want to go home.

(Con)Temporary Life

Paris is a wonderful place to find inspiration. It lines the streets, hangs in the morning fog, and escapes from between the lips of the statues on the églises. The city awakens the artist in even the most pragmatic among us. To be able to profit from such surroundings I am grateful beyond words. I may never be as happy with a city as I am today and every day in Paris.

Unfortunately I know I'll have to leave soon. My future and Paris are not compatible. I'm not sad--it's impossible to be sad here. I'm overjoyed to have had the chance to experience it first hand, to have walked along the Seine, to have scoffed at tourists, to have been a Parisienne, however briefly.

I sometimes wonder if it might be somehow even greater to share the beauty with others. Every time I consider it I'm not sure. It can't be put into words or pictures or anything else people can understand and so in a way the experience of Paris is a very personal one. Anyway I remember too well the pain of leaving good friends and will avoid that for a while.

But a temporary life is difficult to lead. I haven't settled because I know I'll just as soon be unsettled and maybe it's easier this way. To love unconditionally is to be hurt, because no one is unconditionally good. But the avoidance of social masochism attracts enough other types to compensate and more. I feel guilt daily that I should get to live in paradise while anyone anywhere suffers. Why our places are not reversed I do not know. What I did to deserve this life and not any other (which doubtlessly must be less fortunate) I ask myself constantly.

Some day soon I'll awake from the dream. Will my legs still be sore from the hours on the cobblestones? Will my mind still itch with unrealizable potential? Time will answer these questions and more.

Yours for the moment,
Miura

Nothing New

Sitting down with pen in hand (I’m old-fashioned that way), 
Muse in mind, and distractions at bay, 
The ink flows freely but into ruts etched by Poe, 
Whitman, Yeats, and Cicero.
Lines that honor simplicities of youth–
Favorite snacks, the first lost tooth–
Bring no novel revelation 
Not first described in Eve’s temptation.
To convey pain in life, love, and all the rest,
I produce noisy reflections of the masters, at best.
So many men have walked the earth,
What can my simple observation be worth? 
Each new connection a thousand times made 
Not only by poets but by farmers, kings, and men on crusade.

Tired, I search for any relief
From my need to express an equally tired motif. 
Never can I think of anything new;
What good is this depression-inducing IQ?

But wait–a thought–could it be?
Finally a worthwhile soliloquy: 
Everything you feel’s been felt before, 
Sung in songs, passed down in lore. 
The beauty of man is not what makes us unique. 
It’s a small standard error; it’s a tall global peak. 
The best way to be happy with life, you see,
Is just to take comfort in uniformity. 

The Man in the Phone Booth

My alarm is going off again, how? It's 7:15 and I drag myself out of bed, quickly get ready, and head for the métro with a snack in hand. Every lurch of the train gives me anxiety since we were trapped in the tunnel for 2 hours last weekend. At Saint Lazare I switch to the 3. An RATP worker stands at each door and together they do a choreographed dance as soon as the buzzer sounds to turn and block the crowd of people pushing to get in. Once on the second train, I work my obliques by trying not to fall on any of the strangers also crammed into the car. This and the flights of stairs to my apartment and to the girls' will be my exercise for the day.

The women wear red lipstick and knee-high boots with 3-inch heels and the men carry intricate leather briefcases. I wear jeans and Sperrys. Everyone wears a scarf. There's no room to read a book so we all just stare at each others' reflections in the windows like zombies. In the mornings there are no interesting people to watch. 

"Porte de Champerret! Porte de Champerret." It's a woman's voice and the intonation is the exact same as it is for every other stop. Upwards the first time and downwards the second, even the announcements are artistic in this city. "Attention à la marche en descendant du train." Thank you, friend.

I never notice the man in the phone booth on the way to the girls. Sometimes I take a different train that drops me closer to their school, and sometimes I'm just too tired.

Their mom is already gone by the time I get there. Éléonore tells me she's only been sick one time in her entire life because she only eats vitamins for breakfast. I don't believe her but I do see Sam's herbal teas around the kitchen and her energetic personality when she comes home at night and wonder if I'm not doing myself a disservice by eating real food for breakfast. Jean-Baptiste puts his suit coat on and heads to work with his baguette and nutella, wishing us all a bonne journée. The girls aren't allowed to eat candy, but a "milk product" (i.e. nutella, kinder bar, flambée etc.) is required at each meal of the day, for health.

We play queen for a while and then we play cat for a while and then I make an excuse to not play cat any more and go make myself a coffee. Éléonore brings out the Mikado sticks and proceeds to cheat for an hour and then claim herself the victor. All of my other sides have to tell my competitive side to shut up. I excuse myself to start making lunch. I can use anything in the frigo to make them lunch or dinner, although the girls only like chicken nuggets and pasta with ketchup. Lunch is much more relaxed than dinner because I don't care if they take 2 hours to eat. In fact I prefer it because it means less time for me to entertain them. In the afternoon we go to the park. I'm freezing but they're having fun so we stay for hours. My feet hurt from walking so many miles over the weekend and I long for an adult to talk to. But we're the only ones at the park these days. 

Back at home the exhaustion sets in deep. The girls have their snack. I fall asleep while reading a story and Valentine slaps me in the face. I fall asleep again. She slaps me again. They beg me to use their tablets and I have to say no, although I wish I could say yes and take a nap. I am the slave of the possibility of the nanny cam, whether or not it actually exists is irrelevant.

Finally it's shower time. This is always a struggle. First they don't want to get into the shower. Then they don't want to actually wash themselves. And finally they don't want to get out of the shower. I always get sprayed with the removable shower head at least 5 times and threaten not to have a bedtime story at least 10. 

The girls play a bit longer while I make more chicken nuggets. Dinner time makes Éléonore rowdy for some reason. She always ends up yelling about a revolution and standing on her chair. I use the little energy that remains to ask her to stop, and then to tell her to stop. Valentine takes forever to eat and I have to threaten the story several more times, but eventually they both take their milk product and their chocolate square and go to brush their teeth, which will take another 20 minutes.

The story ends and then the bed time rituals begin. Counting the doudous, making sure they're all in place at the head of the bed (except that one, he goes on the floor), des bisous for every day of the week, for every hour of the day, for every year of my life (I'm glad Valentine can't multiply yet), and finally the lights are out. I wait downstairs, just trying to stay awake, until Sam comes home. She asks me how the day was while she removes her knee-high boots. I wonder if she reapplies the red lipstick during the day or if she's just superwoman. 

On the way back to the métro I finally see the man in the phone booth. I had forgotten about him since yesterday but he'll stay in my mind at least until I'm boarding the second train. He never asks for anything, he just sits there on his garbage bag of belongings. Some days he has friends over. Sometimes he has a beer. He seems to be happy. I wonder if he wishes his home had a bathroom that wasn't actually the Subway bathroom next door. Or walls that weren't made of glass. In a way he has more than I do--he has a space that is his (nobody uses a phone booth these days), he has friends who visit, he has time to do as he pleases. In many more ways he has much, much less. 

Once down in the métro the people-watching can commence. Some days it's a well-dressed but extraordinarily drunk older person yelling philosophy. Some days it's a young foreigner doing card tricks on his friend's lap. Eventually I hear my cue: "Gaîté! Gaîté." Walking home from the stop I pass the police station and several sushi restaurants I've been meaning to try. I climb the stairs and enter the flat and my room. If I'm lucky it's not 10 o'clock yet. Time to check my email and take a shower before collapsing in bed. A few hours later the alarm is ringing again.

Soon vacation will be over and we'll get back to a more regular schedule. I hope I'll still be breathing. 

10 More Foot Muscles You Didn't Know You Had

Walking to the dance store I had a feeling like today was going to be great. The sun was shining, the cold had retreated just enough that I was comfortable with my jacket unzipped (still wearing my écharpe though, we must remain civilized).

I stopped at the bank along the way to pick up my new bank card. After 1.5 years in Switzerland I still hadn't succeeded in opening a bank account. I was laughed at, lied to, given paperwork and false hope. In France it took one try. I went into the bank, I got an account. That easy.

The dance store was filled with experts. Four of them for one of me. They got me all set up for my first class and showed me how to stitch the élastique on my chaussons. The woman who rang me up (with a 10% discount, might I add) walked me to the door and wished me luck. Smiling like a fool, I walked on to the dance school. While crossing a bridge by the Louvre I was passed by two policemen on rollerblades (the first of at least 10 people I saw on rollerblades today, I can not get enough of this city). I walked down by the Seine as long as I could before turning toward the school.

Once at the front desk, signing up for the class was straightforward. The school was in a cute little courtyard in an exciting district. Afterwards I walked by the Centre Pompidou and even listened to a few people from Greenpeace asking for monthly donations (I normally run away from those people as fast as I possibly can). I had a latte in a Costa while getting a bit of work done, then took the métro to the climbing gym.

After climbing I picked up some avocados (I am all about avocados these days, they are freaking tasty) and headed back toward the métro to go home. My ticket wasn't working and before I could figure out what was wrong, the woman entering the turnstile next to me had pushed one of her tickets into my hand, "tiens!"

1st position? I would soon learn, no

At home I made some dinner and got excited for my dance class. Maybe I took a few selfies with my chaussons, maybe I didn't. That's for me (and the NSA) to know. When it was time to leave I put my dance stuff in a bag and headed for the Vélib station outside my apartment. I biked leisurely about 20 minutes to the studio, where I easily found a free Vélib station to park the bike.

I went to reception to ask where the class would be held. The man there directed me where to go and told me that the locations are normally posted in the vestiaire. As I was walking out he yelled, "attends!" and gave me a coupon for a free spa day (what?!?? I've never been to a spa) "because I have a nice face" (naturellement en français).

Throughout the class we all played musical Evian bottles and were verbally abused by an impressively flexible aging woman. At one point she pretended to hang herself with a sweatshirt when one of the men in the class got the choreography wrong. It was marketed as a class for "débutants" but either I'm naturally horrible at dancing or the other students had been doing it for a while. As with most things, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two.

I can lift my leg about a foot off the ground at most when it and my body stay straight. I can stand on my toes for about 15 seconds until my calves start seizing. 3 moves in a row is already way too many for me to remember.

At several points during the class I remember thinking, I am so bad at this it's an insult to the art for me to continue. Just as I would finally start to get the hang of one exercise we would move on to something equally difficult and confusing. By the end of class my legs felt like they had been run through a meat grinder. Just standing was painful, not to mention prancing around on my toes.

On the bike ride home I laughed about how terrible I was. Normally if I'm not good at something naturally I give up and try something else. But lately I've been realizing that even though this makes me really good at the things I'm good at, it also makes me really bad at the things I'm bad at. So I've been seeking out activities that push me out of my comfort zone, like learning to play the guitar. Anyway I'm determined to stick with this ballet thing until the teacher asks me to stop. And then I'll find another teacher.

I hope you guys are living your dreams because I certainly am and let me just tell you it is amazing. The world is so huge and diverse there's no reason you can't find something that makes you happy.

au bord de la Seine

The Childhood Day

I've woken up and wandered downstairs. My dad is asking me if I feel taller and you know what, yes, I do feel taller now that you mention it. There's french toast on the table and I drench a slice in the fake maple syrup that I love. It must be winter but through the windows behind where my mom sits I see a fuzzy green color.

Now in the basement, mom and dad are tiling the floor. Mom adds texture to the walls by wiping a sponge across the wet paint. A millipede scurries across the finished floor and I spot a chipmunk in the window well, which dad rescues with a towel.

For a moment I'm at preschool. There are people everywhere and based on the expressions on the other kids' faces I feel like I should be scared, but I'm just curious. Everyone has a box with a change of clothes. Tony has a stutter and Heather hides under a chair with the front page of Ellen magazine covering her face. We sit in a circle and a nameless child snuffs out a candle after walking around the globe. We eat cookies.

I'm back at home and I'm running laps around the backyard. Mom is timing me. I'm listening to my Puzzle Place tape in the attic and coloring. I'm driving the car down the driveway from dad's lap. I'm getting free pudding from a factory tour and ice skating all by myself.

These aren't all the memories I have from that point in my life, but they are most of them. When I recall a single one they all come streaming out like long-suppressed tears. It seems crazy that so many years can get boiled down to such condensed moments, to a single day that was my childhood. It feels like it wasn't so long ago, but 20 years, that's a long time. 20 years from now will I remember my time in Europe as a tiny string of moments? Which ones will remain? I've already lost so many.

Dinner with Geneviève

Wednesday is my free day so Geneviève took me to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants. It was just at the end of the street across from our building but at her glacial pace it took us about 10 minutes to walk there. The restaurant was contained in a small room that featured what I personally would call "crap" but what some more enlightened people might call "art" covering every inch of the walls. The 5 tables were waited by a single woman who also cooked and ran the bar. When we arrived Geneviève and the woman greeted warmly and exchanged small gifts.

I was told I had to try the aubergines, so I did, and followed them with a chicken dish. Geneviève took her usual. She also ordered a half-liter of Bordeaux which I was happy to taste but which she ended up doing most of the work on: "je bois comme un trou," I'm drinking like a hole, she repeated many times throughout the dinner.

She told me stories about herself as a young woman, about her children, and about her life. She too lived in Switzerland for a time, just after the war, and it seems that this is the period in her life that generated the most interesting memories. For example:

The Good Lord came down from heaven to see how things were going. He found himself in Switzerland. Spotting a farm, he realized his thirst. He approached the farm and the farmer greeted him, 'good morning, my Lord.' 'Good morning, farmer! What a beautiful country you live in. And such healthy animals. It seems you lead quite a nice life.' 'Yes, my Lord. Is there anything I can do for you?' 'Well, I'm quite thirsty, might you have a glass of milk?' 'Of course, that'll be 10 franks.'

She told me she hadn't been able to tell most of her stories about Switzerland to anyone, not even her children, because she knew they wouldn't believe them. We tried to explain the Swiss to ourselves. We failed. Of course there are exceptions, but an incredible lack of suffering removes the Swiss people from the common experience the rest of us know as "life," we decided. I realized that not once did I see a musician trying to eke out a living by playing in the Zurich street. Nobody ever asked me for money. "Il faut prendre chaque opportunité de souffrir du monde," Geneviève told me. One must take every opportunity to suffer at the hands of the world. This will stick with me for a while.

Geneviève never wanted to have children. In hindsight she realizes that it was her husband who wanted them, and her biology that allowed her to concede. But having children changed her mindset completely. It was just another way in which she suffered at the hands of the world. And she became a better person for it.

The food was nothing special but throughout the meal I saw more and more of myself in the old lady sitting across the table from me. At the end she had a chocolate mousse and I an espresso and then we walked back slowly, her arms grasping mine for support the entire way.

I'm still annoyed when she interrupts my studying to tell me a story, or when she asks too many questions about my dinner. But I try to remind myself that she's a human being who's lived a lifetime of adventures and that I need to respect her.

The Old and the New

The old lady who rents me a room in her apartment emerges from her quarters wearing just a towel. This is not something I ever hoped to see. She asks me if I'm eating breakfast, which clearly I am. She asks herself what she wants, perusing the fridge. Her eyes land on my hummus. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" she demands, bewildered by the off-white paste that's surprisingly not foie gras. I try to explain and she pretends to understand. "Bon appétit," she says, and I am thankful for the unusually short duration of the conversation.

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Valentine tells me she wants to take her own shower like a real adult. I'm not sure she realizes yet that adults tend not to spend half of their shower time washing and brushing pink plastic ponies. In the end she has dry spots and soapy spots on her back, and the removable showerhead has spent as much time pointing out of the tub as it has pointing in, but she has taken her own shower. Does she want to dry herself, too? Of course not, she doesn't know how to dry herself. And she wants to be carried from the tub to the bedroom. S'il te plaît.

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Geneviève, the old lady, walks past my room. I make the mistake of smiling. I'm halfway through an MCAT Biology practice set, but now I will listen to the summary of her 7 children's lives for the next 30 minutes because.. how did this come up again? I try to laugh when I'm supposed to but I'm quite annoyed. It is nice of her to offer this room for rent, fully furnished, I remind myself.

le petit déjeuner Parisien

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Eléonore starts screaming as high and as loud as she can. Then it's Valentine's turn. They both break out into giggles. I mention the neighbors to no avail. I tell them I'm old, my eardrums will pop. My grimaces give them even more of a reason to continue. I would be more angry if not for the fits of laughter in between. Who am I to punish fun? To quicker remove the innocence of childhood? The walls are thick, the neighbors can't actually hear. It's only me who suffers. I tell them each to give it one more go, everything they've got, before bed. The sting of death lingers in several hair cells in my inner ear. I didn't need to hear that pitch, anyway.

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Geneviève's son comes over to help move the frigo back into the kitchen after the painter has finished. The man is as old and unfit as Geneviève herself, it seems. I offer to move it. I know I could be done in a few seconds. But he groans and moans for an hour getting everything into place.

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on peut aller au parc?

On warm days we go to the playground after school. I sit with the other nounous and try to learn their African dialects. I watch a 3-year-old dressed like a rock star, overcome with glee at having just hopped on one foot. She experiences a fit of joy that in any adult could only be attributed to extreme intoxication. A relatively older boy flies his toy car around, explosions of saliva erupting from his mouth. Two others wrestle and roll on the artificial ground. A fourth glides across the playground on his three-wheeled scooter. He moves slowly enough that his sister can chase him on foot. She touches his back and he stops to look around. He catches her devious smile and points, angry-eyed, straight at her. How dare you touch me, his expression screams.

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I am in the prime of my life, I suppose. Old enough to function on my own and yet young enough to function on my own. Understanding the world as it is today, I do what I want, for the most part. I learn. I remember. And I live both the life I dreamed of and the one I won't regret on my death bed.

A Short Message from a Droplet of Flesh

I'm in Paris now. In the quatorzième. What a time to move to Paris. The military rifles displayed by the gendarmes who litter any and all public areas stare me down as I walk to the métro. I pass a woman who is Charlie Hebdo. I pass a market that is Charlie Hebdo. I pass a billboard also claiming to be Charlie Hebdo.

Valentine, the 4-year-old, asks me about the "méchants." She asks where they go if they don't go to paradis. She asks if a bonhomme is killed by a méchant, and at the same time the méchant is killed by the bonhomme, where does the bonhomme go? I have much more difficulty answering this question than I did any posed at my master's defense.

With adults the questions are easier. Just mention coming from Switzerland for immediate sympathy. Sympathy, that's not a word I've used much in the past year and a half. Boy, how things change. I'm just a droplet of flesh being pushed this way and that by the social currents, each adjective I use to define myself is a new dimension in the state space of life.

What am I doing with my life? Bah, the currents will decide. The currents will push me where I need to go. No use trying to live against them. I'll submit some applications and put on my biggest smile at the interview but in the end it's all up to the currents. There's no such thing as lost. You are where you are and wherever that is it's definitely a place that one can be so you might as well make the most of your time there. Check as many items off the bucket list as you can before you find yourself somewhere else.

Why do people put up with unhappiness? That feeling that something could be better is enough for me to leave everything I know. I guess most people are neutrons, unaffected by the changing currents. But I'm more of an electron. A fleshy, nerdy electron.

For now my main job is to think and to explore. To regain my sympathy and to tick off the list. I am not Charlie Hebdo. Who I am can't be described in 4 words, or in any number of words for that matter. By the time I got halfway done trying the description would have changed anyway.

I think soon enough I'll be ready to go home. The meteorologists predict a tsunami heading for America and its spacious grocery stores and banks ready to accept what little remains of my money. It will be nice not to have to apply to live somewhere. Why does anyone have to apply to live somewhere? Because he was born on the wrong side of an imaginary line? That's stupid if you ask me.

Well that's all for now, à la prochaine, whenever and wherever that might be.