Underneath the Sign “Life`s Good: A Stark Contrast

Still in the doldrums about the crappy ending of a fairy-tale Parisian romance. The best way to shake off the blues is to help someone else, so I washed my face and went with CC to serve tea to refugees at Port Chappelle.

Port Chappelle, in Northern Paris, is a hood that some consider a “no-go” zone for women. (See Note) Here thousands of refugee men, mostly Muslims from Afghanistan and Sudan, sleep under bridges and on the streets in squalid and unsanitary conditions.

They have almost no access to water, sanitation or food. The area is also home to crack addicts and hookers. Added to the mix is the animosity between Afghani and Sudanese refugees, which periodically leads to fights.

CC is one of the managers of Solidarithé, an organization that serves 600 cups of tea a day to refugees living on the streets, and provides information about where to find basic necessities, learn French and start the process of claiming asylum.

These are tough volunteers, working with tough men, in a tough area of Paris. The work is physically and emotionally exhausting.

“Nobody said it was going to be easy.” CC shrugs.

“But I get to go home,” she adds as we pass a junkie smoking crack, “It`s nothing compared to what these guys live every single day.”

I grabbed a trolley of tea supplies and set off, stopping a moment to watch two hookers fight. One of them, crazy-eyed high on something, leaps on top of a car stopped at the light. She jumps up and down on the roof, ranting and rocking the car with its frightened-eyed passengers. Their opened mouths make them look like fish.

My fairy-tale romance seems a million miles away.

All of a sudden, I am awake. Alive in every fiber of my being.

We set up and began to serve tea and coffee. Hundreds of refugees appear.

The survival of the men who live here lies almost entirely with volunteer and aid groups that deliver food, warm clothes, and medical supplies to the men.

They have lost everything. They live at the mercy of others. Most are young. PTSD is the norm. Nothing in their village lives has prepared them to survive on the streets of a city the size of Paris.

They miss home.

More than just something to drink, the men are hungry for any shred of normalcy, any social remnant from their past lives.

“Salaam alaikum” (Peace be upon you), they say politely.

“Alaikum salaam” (And upon you), we reply.

“Chai o gawah?” we ask (Tea or Coffee?), although we can guess because Sudanese drink coffee, while Afghanis drink tea.

“Shukran” (Thank you), they say.

“Afwan” (You are welcome), we answer courteously.

The scene on the street changes before my eyes as we work. The men stand around sipping beverages. I hear laughter. A guy comes up and asks me to check his homework from his French language class. Someone begins playing a musical instrument.

I learned something yesterday.

I learned how to pour tea with an open heart.

And that is better than any fairy tale.

NOTE: The “no-go zone” appellation is a controversial issue. Recently, two neighborhood associations, SOS La Chapelle and Demain La Chapelle, launched a petition asking the government to step in to reduce harassment and discrimination of women, petty theft, drug trafficking, the accumulation of garbage, and public intoxication in their neighborhoods.

The petition gathered thousands of signatures. Although neither neighborhood association is affiliated with any political party, the petition caused a political controversy.

Elisabeth Badinter, France’s highly-regarded feminist, weighed in. According to Badinter, there has been an “unquestionable” regression in the status of women in France, particularly in poorer suburbs. “Try going out in a dress in certain areas,” she said in an interview with Le Point magazine.

Refugee activists maintain that feminism is being used to hide what is, in reality, a racist, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim political agenda by conservatives.

Both sides have validity.

Meanwhile, the refugees languish on the streets. Being granted asylum can take years. Without papers, they cannot work, they are in limbo. The refugees don´t want to sleep under the bridges any more than the residents want them there.

Cooking Under a Dark Star

There are days when whatever I do in the kitchen is a disaster: souffles fall, the oven is set to broil instead of 350, a key ingredient is missing, the sink stops up, the dishwasher breaks, the kitchen curtains go up in flames.  At times like these I am cooking under a dark star.

The best thing to do is order a pizza.

I was cooking under a dark star on Friday at Le Cordon Blue.  My choux dough was too thin and oozed out of the pastry bag.  Before I could get the pastry bag back over the bowl, a dollop the size of a cow paddy plopped on my shoe.  The floor was a mess.  Greasy or wet floors are dangerous in commercial kitchens, so I had to clean it up.

By the time I got back in the game, I was behind.

I felt like Lucille Ball at the chocolate factory.

Next, I ruined the pastry cream.  Because I was worried about over-cooking the eggs and curdling the mixture, I pulled it off the f
ire too fast and it turned out runny.

There was no going back.  I had to start over again from the top.

It was humiliating.  The chef clicked his tongue at me when he passed.

At least the meringue turned out OK.  There are three types of meringue.  French meringue is made by whisking sugar into beaten egg whites. It is the easiest to make.  More difficult is Swiss meringue, which is made by beating egg whites and sugar together over a bain marie (boiling pot of water) until the sugar is dissolved, then beating until the mixture reaches stiff peaks. Italian meringue is the most difficult.  It is made by whisking a hot sugar syrup into beaten egg whites. Italian meringue is popular with bakers and caterers as it tends to hold its volume well.

I assembled my dark star eclairs.  Because the choux pastry dough was too thin, the douch never puffed up in the oven.  The eclairs looked like long flat tongues.  Since there was no place to insert the pastry cream, I piled it on top, then topped the cream with the meringue.

When I passed the blow torch over the meringue, I did it perfectly, just kissing the meringue with the flame, turning it a light toasty brown.

Until I set fire to the parchment paper.

I hope they let me back in class for a rematch…

 

View of Le Grand Palais from the Seine

After pastry class at le Cordon Blue, I spent four hours shooting the streets of Paris, mostly along the Seine, then went to a photography exhibit of work by Ed Van Der Elsken and IsmaIl Bahri at the Jeu de Paume.  Van Der Elsken is most known for his images of love, sex, art, jazz and and alternative culture in Paris.

THE GOVERNOR`S DAUGHTER, THE ART TEACHER, AND THE DONKEY

This is the story of Daisy´s mother Emma. Daisy is one of the owners of the house where I am staying.

It was the mid-40`s in Malta. The island, which was the strategic centerpiece of Britain’s navy in the Mediterranean, had gone through a rough time in the early months of World War II. However, Malta did not fall and the island became a key base for the Allied air, submarine and surface forces.

Emma was a precocious 13-year-old, full of life, with a mind of her own and a pet donkey named Belinda which she adored. Her father was the governor of Malta. The license plate of the family car did not have a number, it had a crown. (Check out the photo.)

A young soldier arrived on the island. His name was Donald. He was 23 and very handsome. Donald wanted to act in the theater on the base, but it was officer´s only.

And Donald was not an officer. He was a nobody.

Nevertheless, the young man persuaded the theater to allow him to act in a play.

He was quite good.

He could also draw.

The governor heard about the young man and hired him to teach his daughter how to draw. The young soldier was driven in the Rolls back and forth to the governor´s mansion.

Donald and Emma`s paths separated. Donald was deployed and Emma´s father was recalled to London.

Emma asked her father if she could bring her beloved donkey, Belinda to London. Absolutely not, he said. There wasn´t enough space and besides where on earth would they keep a donkey in London?

Using the best military strategy, Emma marshaled her forces.

She called her godfather, Admiral Mountbatten.

Her timing was perfect; Lord Mountbatten was planning to bring some of his ponies back to Great Britain. There was room for a donkey.

Belinda rode back to England on a destroyer.

Emma got married to someone else. Donald got married to someone else. But their paths kept crossing and they kept in touch over the years.

Thirty years after they met, Emma and Donald got married.

Emma was 43.

Sometimes you don´t find love, love finds you.

The Stories We Tell About Ourselves Form Us in the Telling

Whether written, oral, or in our thoughts, we are all story tellers.  The stories we tell are powerful.  If we want to change ourselves or our world, we must first change the stories we tell.

Where we begin our stories and end them is important.  Take this Chinese folk tale, for example:

A wild horse came to a peasant`s farm.

“Ah, such good luck”, the villagers said

“Lucky or unlucky, hard to tell,” replied the farmer.

The farmer´s son tried to tame the wild horse, but the horse bucked him off and he fell, breaking his leg.

“Ah, such bad luck,” the villagers said.

“Lucky or unlucky, hard to tell,” replied the farmer.

War broke out. Soldiers swept into the village, conscripting all the able-bodied young men.

“Ah, such good luck, the villagers said.”

“Lucky or unlucky, hard to tell,” replied the farmer.

It is said that where we begin and end our stories is the difference between a comedy and a tragedy.  The disparate threads of experience lack coherence until we put them into a framework.  Coherence is a key source of meaning.

Our stories are our personal myths, our “narrative identities.”  At a collective level, they become group identities.

When we want people to understand us, we tell them our stories; when we want to understand them, we ask them to tell us their stories.  Think about how many times you use stories to pass along insights and common-sense advice.

At a collective level, stories are our lore, our legends. They get boiled down to folk wisdom: “The right tool for the right job,” “Measure once cut twice, measure twice cut once,” “Take care of your tools and your tools will take care of you,” “This too shall pass,” “One day at a time.” 

Northwestern University psychologist Dan McAdams studies narrative  identity, the internalized story we create about ourselves.  Individuals make what McAdams calls “narrative choices.” These are the frames that imbue the story with meaning.

For example, two friends get lost in the woods for several days.  One person tells the story focusing on her resiliance and resourcefulness.  The other person tells the story focusing on being lost and fearful and all the times in his life he has felt that way.

In his research, McAdams asks research subjects to divide their lives into chapters and scenes, including high points, low points, and a turning points.  He has discovered that positive people tell stories about growth, overcoming obstacles and redemption.  They are the heros in their own stories.  Their stories go from bad to good.

The opposite of a redemptive story is what McAdams calls a “contamination story.” A contamination story goes from good to bad. People who tell contamination stories, McAdams has found, are less creative, contribute less to society, and are more anxious and depressed compared to those who tell redemptive stories. They are the losers in their stories, secondary characters swept along by fate and bad luck.

The stories we tell craft our identites.  Changing the way we tell our stories can change the way we think in fundamental ways.  Twelve-step groups are an excellent example of this process. Members are encouraged to share their experience, strength and hope, not their drunkalogues. In the same way, psychotherapists work with patients to rewrite their stories in a more positive way so that the patient realizes that he is in control of his life and that lessons can be learned from his hardships.

The stories we tell ourselves and others have a big impact on our lives. The impact of a story does not end with the meaning it creates. Ultimately leads to behavior.  By reframing our narratives, we can create a more positive identity and a more purposeful life.

What we think of ourselves is much more important than what others think of us.  When we tell our stories, let´s be more than just characters swept along by chance.  Let´s be the authors of our lives.  Let´s live big.  Share with me your experience, strength and hope and I will do the same.

 

Goals

A Goal is a Dream with a Deadline

I believe in setting goals.  To achieve balance, I set goals in sevan buckets: Intellectual, Physical, Creative, Spiritual, Community, Financial and Travel.  Within each bucket, I set SMART goals: specific, measurable, achievable, results-based and time-limited.  Every year, I make myself accountable to someone for whom I have a great deal of respect.  I also post my goals online.

Because a goal without a plan is just a wish.

And wishing is not my style.

On Saturday, my coach and I reviewed progress against this year´s goals.  Because I will be in Europe for the next three months, we decided that my goals over the next 90 days should be modified to take advantage of the opportunity living in Paris will present.

Here are my goals for Paris.

Intellectual

  • Keep up the Momentum in Spanish
    • Speak: participate in three meetup conversation groups a week
    • Read: Finish 6 novels in Spanish
    • Listen: finish one audio book, watch two movies a week in Spanish
    • Write: One page a week on any topic
    • Study: Study with a tutor twice a week (already booked), complete advanced Spanish Grammer, Irregular and Prepositions workbooks.
  • French
    • Speak: participate in two meetup French conversation groups per week, take advantage of other immersion opportunities.
    • Read: Finish 6 books in French
    • Study: complete French verb review and advanced grammar workbooks.

Physical Fitness

  • Walk
    • One hour a day
  • Workout
    • Join a gym (already located) work out twice a week
  • Dance
    • Join an ecstatic dance group, go at least once a week
    • Take two dance classes (dance center already identified

Creative

  • Shoot
    • Take my camera with me every day
    • Shoot at least 25 images every day
    • Shoot at least 10 images a week on manual
    • Work up at least 25 images per week and post
    • Complete book on Nikon camera
    • Complete book on creative camera techniques
    • Join a camera club in Paris (already located)
  • Write
    • Have a writer´s notebook with me at all times
    • Take notes about what I am seeing every day
    • Focus on building notes on Paris for later use.
    • Write two blog articles a week
  • Draw
    • Take sketch pad with me wherever I go
    • Draw at a museum at least once a week
    • Complete two drawings a week
    • Join a drawing group
  • Cook
    • Take three classes at Cordon Blue in French pastry, one class elsewhere on classic french sauces.  (Already paid for)
  • Visit
    • Museums the first Sunday of every month, when they are free

Spirit

  • Meditate: at least twice a week, once with a group, explore opportunities to take a class at a Buddhist sangha.

Travel

  • Explore a new location in Paris every day
  • Look for another house sit
  • Decide where to go in September (Shortlist: Housesit or go someone

Community

  • Visit friends who live in Paris
  • Meet new people, look for opportunities to house swap and house sit

A Moveable Feast

I am going to spend the summer in Paris.  It will cost me nothing.  I found a housesitting position for two months and bought the ticket using frequent flyer points.  I found a couple to sublet my house in San Miguel.

The money I save will pay for classes in French pastry and classic sauces at the Cordon Blue Culinary School.  Ernest Hemmingway said Paris was a moveable feast.  (I think Paris is a woman with flowers in her hair, cooking for her friends.)

 The last three weeks have been hectic.  House sitting opportunities tend to be spontaneous, popping up like desert flowers after a rain.  Home owners rarely post a position months in advance, so sitters have to be able to leave with very little notice.

I´ll sleep on the plane.  In the meantime, busy is my middle name.

I´m very close to fluent in Spanish and I don´t want to lose momentum. My Spanish teacher at the University of Mexico helped me locate a Spanish teacher in Paris.  I purchased workbooks and downloaded several novels in Spanish to read on Kindle.

Meetup is a great tool for travelers. On it, I found several Spanish conversation groups.  My Spanish teacher will be in Paris while I am there, so we´re going to get together, too.  I also discovered several French conversation groups, bought a review of advanced French grammar workbook and downloaded several French novels to read on my Kindle.

I love being bathed in languages.  You can never understand one language until you understand at least two.  Each one is a doorway.  Learning a language is not just about learning different words for the same things, but learning another way to perceive the world.  Language is as necessary as eyes for the traveler.

Technology has completely changed the face of traveling.  I found a gym around the corner from where I will be staying, took a virtual tour of their facilities and emailed them to see if I could get a temporary two-month membership.  (They said yes.)

My phone died, so this week I bought a new unlocked device that will work anywhere in the world. It has slots slots for two SIM cards.  The first thing I´ll do when I get to Paris is buy a French SIM card with a good data plan.

I used the time while I was getting my hair done today to program my phone, downloading skype, facebook messenger, whatsapp, a Paris subway map, a street map, a map of ATM locations, a compass, a currency converter, the Uber app, French and Spanish dictionaries and a translator. The translator interfaces with the camera so you can take a photo of a sign, translate it, and locate the place on a map.

I found a meditation group in Paris, several photography clubs, and was delighted to discover a rich selection of dance communities.  I decided not to take any art classes.  I´m tired of hauling around painting supplies and those awful rickety folding easles.  Instead, I’m bringing drawing supplies.  Some of the museums I discoverd provide folding chairs for artists.   What a great way to spend an afternoon!

The housesitting assignment is for two months, but I bought the ticket airline ticket for a return after three months.  I’ll be in the wind the last month.  Maybe I´ll find another housesitting gig.  Or maybe I´ll chill out somewhere inexpensive and write. Spain, Morocco, Turkey, Greece or Russia are possibilities.

I leave in four days. My chef´s knives have been sharpened and are in their roll.  My aprons are packed.  Life is a moveable feast.

The Eiffle tower.looks like it is made out of lace and steel.  Comme une femme, n’est pas?