The spirit of protest

If I'm lucky, I thought, maybe I will get a taste of the demonstrations for which France is known. Columbia - which had its share of civil disobedience in fall 2007 when students went on a hunger strike against the university's lack of diversity - warns study abroad students to avoid similar conflicts in foreign countries. They have reason to fear, as even during the protests at the G20 summit in London, heralded for exemplifying nonviolent resistance in the civilized world, a nearby nonparticipant died of a heart attack after being shoved by police.

Here in the northern port of Boulogne-sur-Mer is the closest I've come, as fishermen have shut down the harbor (among others along the coast) to protest quotas on cod and sole. According to the New York Times, "fishermen have resorted to dumping fish that they had caught overboard before returning to port because of the quotas." It reminded me of summer 2007, the only time I've been fishing. Off the southern coast of Long Island, we had to throw a lot of fish back into the water because they were too small according to fishing regulations, although I did win a prize for catching the biggest fish that day.

News crews stand out in otherwise quiet Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mostly they sat around waiting for something to happen, but it was slightly ridiculous to do man-on-the-street reporting near the beach, filled mostly with English tourists. But at least now that I've seen the crowded harbor and smelled the salty waters hitting the beach, I can understand why anyone would visit this small town.

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Listening to: Bee Gees

The dangers of travel

My number was up, and today I learned what it is to have a stalker. In his Pumas, jeans, and white collared shirt, he might have even been younger than I am. At a time when I could not have predicted it - as I walked along the tourist-dotted harbor in the direction of the beach and in late afternoon - he began to follow me. I noticed his stares but was initially just annoyed to be near this obstinate-looking punk whose blond shaved hair was beginning to grow out. He was more subtle than to mimic all my movements and would stop from time to time to keep pace, but I hoped he just happened to be walking the same, popular route. Instead, when I got to the beach, he sat down the same two places where I sat down, so I'd had enough. There was no more question.

The options ran through my head. I wanted to strangle him. Or go up to him and say, "Stop following me!" But he probably didn't speak English and I don't speak French, which was likely why he singled me out. What I liked about the more cosmopolitan Paris was that I didn't stand out as much as I did in Budapest, but in little Boulogne-sur-Mer, I was a sore thumb with a bright red jacket.

I left quickly, dreading the sight of him each time I turned around. How could he be so stupid and overt? And even the busy streets were not enough comfort. What if he followed me all the way home? I considered calling the international emergency number, 112. Maybe there were cabs (unlikely). Maybe I could have stopped someone else on the street or in a shop to tell him the problem, although I don't know what that would have done. Ultimately I settled on the bus stop, asking some high school kids if there was a bus going where I was headed.

I met Alexander, the only one of them who spoke English and French (his dad on one side, his mother on the other). Though he didn't know which bus to take, he and his girlfriend Cindy offered to walk me home when I mentioned the stalker, whom I didn't see from that point on.

How much has changed from yesterday's sun to today's rain.

Old friend in an old town

Boulogne-sur-Mer, along the northern coast of France, has a population of as much as 100,000. A friend I haven't seen in over two years teaches high school philosophy here, and within minutes of meeting at the train station yesterday, we were discussing educational systems and climbing the hilly roads to his flat as if the two years had been two days.

"If you look out this window," he said once we reached his place, "you'll see the town's only two attractions." To the left, a cathedral I hear every hour, to the right, a belfry indicating the castle and walls that surround the old part of town where he lives.

If my writing professor allowed me to use the word, I would call the day perfect. In a rare move, the sun showed its face, so we picnicked around the corner, on a grassy hill inside the walls. I am but shouldn't be surprised at how old the town looks, with typical cobblestones and uneven streets and low houses. I didn't stop for the museum inside the castle, but saw my first moat, which I guess is one of the reasons tourists actually come here, to my surprise. There's even a tourism office, er, booth, but Iohan says even a town of 100 has that. He adds, the tourists are often British because of the historical relationship and because England is supposed to be so close one can see it like Alaskans see Russia. And then there are those who swim the English channel.

We lay on the grass and under the bright sun, which would have been unbearable if not for the wind that passed over at just the right times. We ate and talked physics, politics, and inescapably, philosophy - Kant, Hegel, Pascal, wrapped around our own meandering thoughts. This is the turn our conversations always take, clearly because of his profession, but has it anything to do with the culture, too? It is not as if, in the United States, high school students are required to take philosophy courses.

Then he graded essays while I sat on the ledge of the wall in a familiar scene: reading (in this case, finishing Kafka) as the sun sank over the water.

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Reading: Borges, A Universal History of Infamy
Listening to: Carole King