Top Moments of 2007-2008

• Victoria Marathon 2007: last 2 km of the race. By this point struggling. Everything hurts. Feet, stomach, butt, thighs, head. And my right knee is throbbing and clicking ominously with every step. Trying to keep the self talk positive. Still smiling? Still smiling. But also half crying. I catch up to a sprite looking young woman. Her face expresses what my own body is telling me. You’re crazy. Stop this. Deep in the hollows of that-something-inside I find some strength. I say ‘Great job! You’re doing awesome! Almost there. You can do it’. She smiles at me; the best smile, says ‘You too’. The words of support reflect back at me. There is hope. A wave of renewed vigor crashes upon me and I am overcome. I run harder. I can do it. Joy. Finish.
  
• The red ribbon I wrapped his gift in around his index finger.
  
• First week in Lyon playing games with future friends. Dan, Davide, Paulo, Fabio, Alexis, Louise, Emilie-anne. The dorm room is ripe with the excitement of new worlds found. Unchartered universes sit patiently waiting to be discovered within each of us. We are courageous explorers come to converse, share and exchange. It is a Saturday night but we are here drawing up new friendship maps. We act, we sing, sometimes we dance, we memorize international swear words. We are in love with potential.
  
• ‘Loving life’ with Jamie and laughing our butts off about it.
  
• Doing nearly impossible intervals into the sun setting on Vancouver skyscapers at Spanish Banks. Dreaming the running dream with Katie.
  
• A perfect day spent with Emilie-anne and Louise touristing in Lyon. Wide-eyed with an endless list of sights to see and an empty Sunday to fill. Riding the ferris wheel and feeling like big adventures were about to be had.
  
• Botayoning on the banks of the Rio in Sevilla and meeting Kirsten’s incredible new friends. Laughing. But mostly seeing Kirsten so happy in Sevilla. And being reassured that I will always share in her happiness.
  
• The look on my mom’s face seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
  
• Ben wondering why I can’t come home now.
  
• Talking about language and books and everything interesting with Dan.
  
• Looking forward to lunch with Lauren and Katie on Thursdays. Katie’s stories. Lauren being her amazingly awesome self.
  
• Playing rhetorical games with Brendan. Would you rather…
  
• Getting bold new french haircuts by Vladimir.
  
• Making delicious crepes with Emilie-anne and Louise.
  
• Being in Barcelona alone eating ice cream in front of Sagrada familia. Knowing that I can do anything I dream.
  

Paris

Paris: city of light. Paris: city of love. Paris: city of art. Paris: city of bohemians. Paris: city of fashion. Paris: city of millions. Paris: city that never sleeps. Paris: city of history. Paris: city of Parisiens. Paris: city of old. Paris city of new. Paris: city of parasites. Paris: city of next season. Paris: city of swarming. Paris: city of people.

Coming from a background of limited city exposure it is truly remarkable when you come to a certain realization. A certain realization that a city is not just it’s buildings, it’s roads, it’s parks, it’s population, it’s neighborhoods. When you strip away the urban sprawl, the traffic jams, the congestion, the intimidation-factors-for-a-small-town-girl-in-a-big-world, what is a city? Fundamentally, a city is its people. A city is its culture, its history, its evolution. And each city, as I am discovering, has its own unique circumstances that surround its development to create a unique and endearing persona.

I think the reason my fate is so indelibly intertwined with Psychology is I am deemed to wonder why a person is the way they are. What specific circumstances surround that person to make them the way they are? What context, what history, what potential shapes that persons psyche? It’s fascinating. And I suppose it’s the same for a city, magnified. The way the people contributed, contribute and will contribute to their lives in the metropolis mould the city’s psyche.

In Paris I was struck by the city’s circularity. Geographically, Paris is built in a circular fashion. Louise and I spent twenty minutes looking for a circular point in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. The circular point in the cobblestone square represents kilometre zero. All of Paris’ landmarks are measured against this physical dot. We expected it to be obvious, a beacon, an over-exaggerated, over-photographed tourist location as so many of Paris’ other important attractions are. After a thorough search we finally found it; a subtle disc in the ground maybe15 centimetres in diametre. In the crowded square tourists were stepping on it, not noticing the important landmark under their feet, distracted by the gaudy, gothic-inspired church façade looming above. But there it was. Imagine, everything that is Paris falls upon this point. It is the centre.

Historically Paris was founded because of its optimal defendablity. The river Seine splits around Isle de la Cite creating what is essentially a natural and convenient moat. I suppose over centuries the city grew out from this defensible island. Musee d’Orsay, the Louvre, James Joyce, l’Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, Picasso, Dali, the Renaissence, Sartre, le Palais Royal, le Moulin Rouge, Monet, Manet, Cite International, UNESCO, Paris Fashion week; all grew out of this centre. Lately perhaps Paris has become defendable against itself.

The Paris metro is a supremely odd place to be. True to the golden rule of centrality, of circularity, every line careens away from the centre; snaking out from the middle as if it was the city’s collective neuron firing to the beat of the work week. Like a good idea, it fires strong and long, over and over. I have a vivid memory of a poem I read in the 5^th grade; the lesson was onomatopoia. The poem portrayed the Chicago subway as a monster; screaming and thundering around corners; careening to an irritable halt and spitting out the swarming passengers like a bitter taste. In the Paris metro this poem was brought back to me. A neuron pathway that had not been lit for 10 years was suddenly aflash. The Paris metro is a monster. It is Medusa’s subterrain hair. Wild and savage beasts circulating by the metronome of the man; mechanical serpants trained to abide by the city’s schedule. They howl their pain in the depths of under-city tunnels; screeching plaints of metal on metal.

If the people of Paris are masters of this monster; en tous cas, it was their good idea, each Parisian is like a parasite feeding off the macrosystem of the city’s infrastructure. Simultaneously controlling the beast all the while lost within its giant barbarity. They are impotent as individuals against this Frankenstein but immeasurably potent as a collective. Converging on the centre, the randomness of their comings and goings becomes remarkably methodic.

So what is this? This massive tangle of history, of centrality, of monstrosity, of human evolution, of parasites disguised in Prada. This is couture and this is culture. This is the centre.

Printemps

Printemps means spring. Printemps is also the name of the great French department store.

After my French course on Friday I decided a little people watching was in order. In Lyon it is beginning to feel like spring and Friday was a particularly lovely day for sitting outside and having a café and a patisserie on a park bench. I procured the necessary items: a delicious pastry filled with cream and coated with granulose sugar and an espresso from a quaint side street bakery and an “American style” bagel café respectively (for in France everything is sold separately).

Next I installed myself on a wooden park bench carved with pleasantries like “Tiphaine, je t’aime” and “Sarkozy est un voleur”. In Lyon, the general practice is for businesses is to close down for a lunch period from 12 o’clock to 2 o’clock. An American in France has a difficult time conceptualizing such a lazy lunch. After two weeks of barging into stores during this grace period and interrupting les temps de repose I feel like I am finally learning to take it easy for those 2 hours. It’s still a mystery to me what most workers do during this time, it appears some of them stay around their shops to deal with unaccustomed Americans but otherwise it seems to be one of the many unsaid rules in France to stay away between 12 and 2.

Consequently during the lunch break the overall pace of the city slows to a graceful meandering and people walk around the squares window shopping, buying baguette sandwiches and sitting on park benches eating patisserie and drinking espresso. Rue de la Republique is the main thoroughfare that bisects the Presqu’ile. It is wide and devoted solely to those who walk. Pedestrians rejoice. It connects all the major points of interest on the Presqu’ile from Perrache, to Bellecour, to Hotel de Ville, to l’Opera (and that’s as far as I’ve ventured but there could be more). And therefore Rue de la Republique has all the fabulous European shops one could hope for.

My chosen park bench was idyllically located on Rue de la Republique facing a groundfloor shoestore, upperfloor Spanish style apartments. Off to the right was the carousel. C’est juste comme ca en France, there are carousels in the street, that’s just how it is. On a park bench, in Lyon, it felt like spring.

People in France are complex. They are incredibly practical whilst being superfluous. They are kind and sincere all the while being snobbish and precocious. They are rational and irrational. They are a nation of contradictions. For example in France you can walk into a store and buy a cellphone in a matter of 10 minutes but to get the internet takes 3 weeks (and counting) of hard labour (sense the bitterness). People are generally very happy and law abiding, I think that this comes from the 5 weeks of vacation every French citizen is entitled to each year (everyone), but then again every day as I walk through the metro station I feel the ominous presence of the national army. They walk around with their fingers on the trigger of their rifles; keeping the peace. It seems to me that the army would have better things to deal with than the possible mental breakdowns of it’s citizens in train stations… um, like war perhaps? It seems to me that someone with 5 weeks of vacation a year would not have a mental breakdown in a train station. Besides they are more likely to be on vacation than in a train station.

It is a well-known fact that the French are very fashionable and I will attest that it is indeed, very true. Oh so true. Every single person is dressed incredibly well. It is as if Coco Chanel, displeased at the aesthetics of post-revolutionary France, decided to dress the entire country. Everyone, from the very old to the very young, from the rich to the beggars on the street is dressed impeccably. And there are no exceptions; since I’ve been here I’ve been looking for someone, anyone wearing a pair of sweatpants, I would even accept a leisure suit on a Sunday. Maybe catch someone out of the corner of my eye running out to get the paper. But no, the best I’ve come up with was a pair of track pants and they were nice and the guy looked Japanese. Everyone is a la mode. And this is the source for a contradiction that I am still having a hard time relegating in my mind. Clearly the French are spending a lot of money dressing themselves. Likely they are spending a large part of their income, the other part being devoted to Mediterranean vacations. This leaves a lot less capital to spend on fancy houses and cars. Which seems to be evident: the French live very simply. For the most part they live in studio apartments, townhouses, and small homes without yards. They drive very small commuter cars. Unlike most North Americans who strive for a bigger house, a bigger, faster car to measure success and happiness; the French would rather wrap themselves in the latest Jil Sander scarf and head to Corsica for a beach vacation. An interesting difference.

To demonstrate my point about France’s relation to fashion I will tell you about my visit to Printemps. After consuming my light pastry and struggling through my bitter espresso I decided to take a stroll through the great department store. I suppose, if you insist on an example, Canada’s The Bay would be something like France’s Printemps. But not really. I entered into the hats and scarves section. Every hat, every scarf was unique, creative and exquisitely made. Then I walked through the purse section. Much the same except in various shades of dead cow. Up one floor into the makeup section: so clean, so elegant. Up another floor and into the clothes. And the shoes. And the dresses. Sigh. So much attention to beauty; so much attention to exquisiteness; it distracts from reality but oh so easy to surrender to.

It was the perfect finish to the perfect French après-midi. I felt euphoric. Perhaps it is a positive sign that I am integrating into French life that a department store full of expensive things could incite this reaction. But I know it’s a bad sign for my budget.

“Truth is beauty, beauty truth. That’s all ye know on earth and all ye need to know” – John Keats

The Language Fac

It’s All Talk

An inherent fact about immersing yourself in a language system different from your own is that you begin to think about the importance of language and the value of clear communication. As a person interested in linguistics I have committed much time, not to mention money, thinking and learning about the nature of language. But what we theory is often removed from what practice. So here I am practically practicing my French.

Dan, my fellow UBCer, and I got to talking about language the other night. He mentioned a friend that he has in Montreal who is a true language innovator. The friend is just a regular Joe Blow. Joe works in a video store. But he is a master of language: he is constantly using language creatively; making up new words and combining them in unique ways. Hmm, I thought. I said “ And this Joe, he is a popular guy?” Yea, of course. He has a lot of friends. People in the streets of Montreal are always coming up to him and being like “Hey Joe”.

This got me thinking about language and power. Here is my line of thinking: for me, aside from opposable thumbs and being able to walk upright, language is what distinguishes us fundamentally human beings. Our ability to communicate our deepest, darkest thoughts coherently is the basis of human intelligence. And the sharing of these thoughts has allowed us to evolve to who we are today (iPod wearing, cyber chatting, blogging bloggers). Language constitutes culture. Here’s where the power thing comes in. Forget what expensive university degrees or how much money you make, if you are able to contribute more to your language system by being a language innovator then you are shaping culture. And thus you command more power in your society.

Maybe I’m off track. But to me it makes a bit of sense. Who do we give power to in our countries? Our governments: our Prime Ministers, our presidents, our dictators even. Now think about how much work goes into creating their image through language. They have speechwriters, public speaking coaches, creative propaganda, publicists, hell, the last time I saw Bush speak he was wearing a headpiece so that his behind the scenes think tank could control his every word so that he wouldn’t look stupid. All of this, in the name of propagating a clear and coherent message to the voting public.

If that doesn’t work for you then think about other cultural figureheads. People want to hear quotes from celebrities, for example Paris Hilton with her phrase “That’s hot” or Victoria Beckham with “Major”. Ok that’s a bit of a stretch, you say, and it’s true these people’s fifteen minutes are almost up. But thinking about stars with lasting power: songwriters, movie directors etc. They take their culture filter it and then return it back to the audience in a new way. They have the power. And it’s all about media, media, media. Talk, talk, talk.

Ok so here I am in France. Because my francais is not very good, is it harder for me to affect the culture? Do I have less power here than I have in an English speaking country? Probably. It sure feels like it. I feel like I am adrift on a tide of words. Every day I am hearing and learning new things. I am contributing less but gaining more. Works for me. Although ultimately I don’t know if I could ever live permanently in a country where the language was different from my native language. Maybe.

I’ll leave this unfinished because I’m at a loss for words. C’est tout pour maintenant.

A bientot.

Ex ohKatie

Bonjour

It is 1:39 here or as the Europeans would say 13:39 and already today I feel like I have accomplished a lot. This morning after very little sleep (stupid jetlag) I had my petit dejeuner at the hotel. It was quite good. Although I poured hot cream over my cereal instead of the intended cold milk. After my ‘nuit blanche’ I decided a coffee was in order. It was quite bitter. I suppose I expected it to be sweet and fresh like the coffee we had in Mexico… sadly it was not. Although perhaps before I denounce my café drinking hopes I should give French coffee a second chance at a more refined establishment.

Late at this point I rushed out of the hotel and walked to Lyon 2. I thought it would only take me 15 minutes but unfortunately I forgot to account for the ‘getting lost factor’ that seems to be occurring a lot. On two out of two of my ventures out into the city I have succeeded in getting lost. It seems as if by sheer luck (and maybe a little savvy) I end up at my intended destination. Oh well! Make note though, the French seem to have different priorities in designing their cities and university buildings. Maybe in order to expand upon millennia old streets you have to employ a touch of creativity… or maybe it’s just a French thing to have the administration office of your university in the basement. In any case I managed to get to administration albeit a 5 minute cushion period. I have to say it’s a bit refreshing for me to be lost and late, I pride myself on an impeccable sense of direction at home. Really gets that hydrenilene going.

I managed to register and obtain my student card without too much problem. I am now insured medically, personally and residentially (all of which I am already covered by in Canada… but apparently I need to share a bit of my money with the French government too). Whilst waiting in one of various lines I also managed to make a friend. Her name is Gabriella and she comes from Sao Paulo, Brazil. It’s funny because as I asked her the default questions about where she was staying, where she was going to live, etc. she was in the same situation I was. She was staying in a hotel and was also going to be living in Residence Andre Alix and was also worried about signing in tomorrow with our busy day. We both agreed the first stop was to go to the international relations office and get our contracts and thus began our quest together.

In broken French and English (I wish I knew some Portuguese) we managed to accomplish quite a bit. We got residential insurance, made photocopies, bought tickets for and then deciphered the bus system and went into Old Lyon to see the residence. Later we agreed we would see each other tomorrow at the residence at 8:00. She was really a lovely girl. She kept coughing and when I asked her why she said she wasn’t used to the cold climate. Cold! I could have gone out with no jacket today. The French seem to agree with Gabriella though, walking around all wrapped up in their long coats and scarves! Haha. It was weird for me being in a situation where I felt so compromised and so desperate to make a friend. But we bonded over our common predicaments. I hope we can be real friends after this confusion abets. Oh in the Insurance office I also saw this girl that I had met in passing the day before. Shab I think it is. She is from London and is very nice. Hopefully we will be friends too. I will see them tomorrow.

On our bus ride up from the Presqu’ile to Old Lyon where I will be living I began noticing the many splendors of this city. Funny how the company of a friend can help ease your mind. And how a stranger can become so much like a friend in a matter of hours. Lyon really is very beautiful. Very European with small alley-like streets that twist and turn like a labyrinth through time. Grand villas on the hills look out over the city and tucked behind them peek the steeples of old churches. There are walls creeping with vines not greened yet by the spring and charming cafes on the street corners. The Residence Andre Alix itself is a series of probably 60-70’s style government buildings. There was laundry hanging out some windows and people had put their perishables on their window ledges like it was a refrigerator (haha). Not much to look at but the amazing thing is that these new-ish buildings are tucked amid ruins of red brick walls that I imagine are centuries old. Some of the admin buildings are still housed in the old buildings. I don’t have much information as to the history of this yet but more on this later.

It’s incredible, as I sit here in the library to write this I am looking out over the Rhone River. It meanders through the city calmly or probably rather the city meanders around it. I haven’t quite determined the feeling of this city yet but so far it seems to embody the serenity of its river. It feels safe. The traffic is not bad. People walk. And no one seems to be too rushed or stressed. Across the gentle river lies the Presqu’ile where I see Old apartment buildings. I still cannot believe that people get to live in their charming innards; they can look out their tall windows and gaze out over the Rhone and the red tile rooftops of the city. Beyond the apartments I know there is the centre where I got lost yesterday, where stores like Yves St. Laurent and Christian Dior operate next to the likes of the Body Shop and carts that sell crepes in squares that house old statues and have carousels. On the other side of the Presqu-ile the Saone River runs until its peaceful waters meet the Rhone’s at the south of the almost-island and join together like two lovers embarking on their honeymoon to the south of France. Beyond the Saone the land rises and this is where Old Lyon is. Where I will live. Through the library window I see the huge Byzantine style church and the metallic television tower overlooking the city. They are large and I imagine rather obtuse landmarks to some, but to the unfamiliar eye they are magical.

In the very foreground, the French people walk, bicycle and drive their tiny cars (seriously not a truck in sight). All I will say now is that with few exceptions the French are a very kind and accommodating people. And fashionable. And they don’t line up; you go into an establishment and they’re all scattered everywhere and then by some secret code that I am not yet aware of they exchange meaningful looks and the person who’s turn it is goes. They are complicated, these French… like all people… and I suppose it is unfair to stereotype but I will… eventually… not now, otherwise this will be far too long.

On that note that is all for now. Soon I will write more.

Love. Love. Love.
A bientot.
Katie

PS: I think I will make a blog when I have the chance next

Here I am

“Wherever you are, there you are”- Anonymous

Voici. Here I am. Well, nearly. It began yesterday afternoon. Which current local time tells me was, in fact, this morning. Here I am several time sectors east of my comfort zone. My body aching against it’s abrupt aerodynamic removal from Pacific Standard Time where it has lived, more or less, for the past 21 years. Here I am. In Denmark.

In transit. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. In a blacktop cab, in the front seat, two of my besties J and M in the back seat, my vacuum packed suitcase in the trunk.

“To the airport today, Miss?”

“Yes”. To the airport. Because today, (or tomorrow- depending on what time zone you’re browsing from) I will go to France. This is where it begins.

But I suppose it began earlier. Much earlier…

Discovery Passage Elementary. Campbell River. 1994 (or there abouts). Here I am. In second grade, Miss B(ee)’s class. Today we are having crepes as a celebration of the completion of our unit on France. Monet, Manet, Matisse, Renoir, Eiffel Tower, Paris= France. In retrospect, I suppose it’s rather remarkable that a 7 year old would be able to describe the context for Renoir’s “ La riviera”. Or make the distinction between Monet and Manet (a difficult contrast for someone who has just learned how to read Go Dog Go). Perhaps that is why we are celebrating.

There are a fanfare of toppings for our crepes; blueberry, strawberry, peach, whipped cream. It is sunny, I remember. Probably late spring. I know it is spring because the door is open and the sunlight is streaming in over the crepe fanfare spread across a long table. I am wearing a red French beret borrowed from my Grandmother. I feel sophisticated. On that day the crepes were enjoyed topped with sweet confections. I think there was croissants too.

On that night the enjoyment resolved into a 7 year old word called “updog”. The dog landed in just-in-case ice cream buckets placed next to our childhood beds. Food poisoning. Half the class. Maybe it was the croissants. Maybe not. Maybe it was the crepes.

Perhaps it was then. Perhaps it was before. Despite the terrific re-tasting of the crepes, despite what most psychologists might predict as a plausible case of “conditioned aversion” I still liked crepes. I still liked France. I had caught the bug.

South-West Marine. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. In the cab. Look at the enormous old houses. Multi-million dollar listings. Vancouver has changed. Then I think about how I counted thirteen cranes in the mouth of False Creek on Friday. 13 cranes picking at the teeth of Vancouver’s past. For the sake of the Olympics: the future. The cab driver gestures to the flat plains of the Fraser delta and claims it is one of the largest archeological excavation sites in North America. A cabbie with an anthropology hobby. Now, he says, they are extending the paved section of Translink’s headquarters to make way for new busses. He starts telling me about middens (mittens?) excitedly. And his basket collection. He looks me in the eyes. Uncomfortably long. Oh my god look at the road!

Airport. Vancouver. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. Goodbye friends.

Flying. Seattle-ish. Yesterday afternoon. Here I am. Goodbye trees. Goodbye mountains. Goodbye ocean. Goodbye Canada. Goodbye familiar.

Hello adventure.
So here I am. Airport. Copenhagan. Sometime. Anytime. I might as well be a 16th century explorer in reverse. Or Amelia Airheart flying into the Atlantic abyss. Here I am blissfully sailing into the unknown. To the history of me meets France. Looking to learn a little something about future me. And perhaps getting a little revenge on the French for the crepe incident. My seven year old self is simply delighted.