Intro to Paris, over books, wine, and food

The semester at Central European University technically ended more than two weeks ago, and with my arrival in France yesterday morning, the nearly two months of traveling around Europe has officially begun. Most of that travel will be in France - hence the blog title change - where I begin in Paris, hosted by a friend whose host is kind enough to lend me a room. I have yet to get to know the septuagenarian who owns this apartment and who speaks little English, but this room is telling: shelves upon shelves sag under books on Rodin and the history of film, or by Hugo and Verne, or a translation of Gulliver's Travels that reminds me I need to reread this favorite; cupids and curlicues are carved into the ceiling and walls, and against the walls sit/hang black-and-white photos (I can't tell if they're aesthetic or historical), a Klimt-like painting of a violin in a kitchen, a red-and-yellow Soviet tapestry bearing Lenin's face; I write by the light coming through the double glass doors that open out onto a balcony, which overlooks Boulevard Voltaire in the 11th arrondissement, and by the light of two lamps made by their owner out of whiskey and champagne bottles; the best part are things like the lamps all around the apartment, knick-knacks he has made out of metal or wood or simply picked up off the street.

The fatigue and disappointing weather limited what I did yesterday, but in the evening, friends new and old put together a simple dinner and our conversation for those more than four hours hinted at things to come: fashion; school; living with French speakers, while in Hungary we lived with people from our program; organic and genetically-modified food; wine; France's protest culture; the Algerian War; colonialism; movies; differing views on hygiene; religion.

After a few days here, the plan is to move gradually south, hitting Lyon and Marseilles in the coming weeks, before heading to Berlin, Geneva, and then back to Budapest one final time.

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Reading: Kafka, The Castle
Listening to: Lily Allen

Here comes the rain again

I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the solar eclipse on Friday, but it was clouded by a thunderstorm that came and went throughout the weekend. By no means was the storm record-breaking, but it was the first time I saw the streets really flooded on the way home. That makes travel especially difficult for people on motorbikes, not just because they have to drive through oversized puddles, but because they have to set foot in them whenever stopped at an intersection.

Small shops are flooded relatively easily, which I think has something to do with the way they're constructed: most don't have traditional doors, but an opening where the front wall would be (think shoebox) and a gate - some like garages, others like the springy argyle pattern of doors on old elevators. So on the way home I saw people scooping up buckets of water from their stores and dumping them out on the street. Yesterday, people were doing something similar at the flea market. The one I visited was lucky to have one big roof, but rainwater was funneled through pipes that stretched from the roof to spots throughout the market, so women were using big bowls to catch the runoff from the spouts.

This morning I remembered to grab my poncho, just in case. The skies aren't looking good.

Just along for the ride

Just as Michael Scott ‘loved’ the New York subway, I like the motorbikes (xe may) in Saigon because they take to people of all walks of life – or rather, all types of people take to them. On the street, I pass by motorists in pajamas, jeans, slacks, dresses, business suits, and ao dai. I admit the image is comical; I’m reminded of the days of old when scooters were popular in America, as was footage of businessmen scooting to work. But I doubt anyone cares about that here since few can afford the four-wheel alternative.

Another image that comes to mind: China in 2003. But instead of protection from SARS, Vietnamese drivers wear face masks as shields against the dust and smog. I’ve been fine without the coverings, and actually I wonder why more motorists don’t wear eye protection, which in my experience would have been more useful against the pollution. It’s also common for women drivers to wear arm-length gloves as protection from the sun. I’d like to think they want to guard against cancer or the heat, but no, women just hate getting dark.

Still, everyone’s a slave to the elements. When it rains, out come the ponchos. There are even ponchos made for two, I guess to make it easier to transport another person on the xe may. But even after the rain subsides, beware: a motorist sped through a puddle next to me two nights ago, leaving most of the puddle on my right half.

Whatever the weather, heat is a concern. As if the humidity and triple digit temperatures weren’t enough, the main source of heat is your xe may and those around you. Vehicles anywhere can get oppressively hot, of course, but it’s much more noticeable when you’re waiting at a light, wedged in the middle of a pack of xe may without car doors to keep out the heat of other engines. Then again, whether in motion or stopped at a light, you’re conveniently close enough to hold a conversation with your friend on the xe may next to you.

I have to say the worst thing about xe may, or any vehicle in the city, is the never-ending beeping. I thought Times Square was bad, but drivers here seem obsessed with honking at other people. They beep when the light changes. They beep at pedestrians. They beep whenever they exhale. It makes me wonder, what would they do if someone just did away with all the horns?

Stairway to heaven

When I was nine, maybe younger, my nanny asked me if I might like to give God a try. She was Christian and didn’t try to persuade me, just told me about him and about praying and crossing myself. Who knows what made me give in – maybe the shiny cross she gave me. I wore it for a few days until my Buddhist cousin saw it and cried, “Do you know what that is?” while removing the chain. That’s pretty much the extent of my contact with God, and anyone who knows me would be shocked to hear that I even got that close.

But a couple days ago I got much closer, right up to the foot of the man himself. On a mountain in Vung Tau, a resort city two hours away from Saigon, stands a 100-foot statue of Jesus, holding out his arms as he surveys the laity 600 feet below. “You know,” my coworker Nguyen said after I saw the icon for the first time, “there were some Boat People who escaped Vietnam a few decades ago, and when they returned, they built that statue as a gift.”

There must have been something in my face because she asked what was wrong. “Nothing. I just think it’s silly of them to take up public space like that. It doesn’t just belong to Christians.”

The next day we made our pilgrimage to the man upstairs – up a very, very long set of stairs. I went for the same reason I would stop to look at a car accident, but in fact if there were nothing up there but an abandoned car I’d still have gone for the sake of climbing the small mountain. The trek was tiring, with plenty of landings where we could rest and gaze down at the town, at the sea that turned into sky, and at the progress we’d made. Like holy harbingers, clusters of statues would occasionally greet us, as if to say: almost there.

The actual statue at the pinnacle of the hike was flesh-colored, domineering, and anticlimactic. I might have been more impressed with a golden calf, but it wasn’t really Jesus’ fault; he had to compete with a breathtaking view. On one end I admired the coast packed with ant-sized beachgoers and grasshopper-sized palm trees curving around the peninsula. I knew I was looking at something so many others must have seen in brochures. On the other end was infinite water and sky. The sight alone made me feel weightless, or as if I were filled with nothing but that floating blue.

Jesus compensated as best he could. Tourists were allowed to climb inside the statue like they would Lady Liberty, either to the balcony built into his robe, or farther up to his outstretched arms. Earlier, when my boss had told me people could do this, I’d asked, “Isn’t that a little sacrilegious?” Little did I know there was a sacred screening process. You cannot enter the body of Christ wearing shorts, skirts, or tank tops, and you must leave your shoes and water bottles at the opening. I wasn’t disappointed, but I felt bad for anyone who’d gone through all that trouble just to be turned away at the gates.

So we'd faced our maker and by providence no one was smote (smitten?) by lightning. Then again, we did get caught in the rain on the way down, Mr. Pina Colada would be happy to know. If it had come just five minutes later we would have been dry in a taxi, but I’m glad it happened. We were only a few flights from the bottom when I stopped to enjoy the wind that was picking up. On the horizon, the same wind was bringing in clouds and, to our amazement, we could see them raining into the sea before the storm reached us seconds later, the sky still light. We ran to a tunnel for shelter and did what was only logical while waiting out the storm. We ate ice cream.