Oh, where to begin? Let's start with Versailles.
Finding myself in desperate need of walking shoes, I decided to visit Versailles on Saturday afternoon to blend a trip of utility with aesthetics. I did not visit the Palace of Versailles (yet). The town of Versailles, though, is not to be overlooked; it is a town truly fit for a king. Today, the wide streets, absence of traffic lights, and gorgeous buildings all conspire to allow one's imagination to conjure visions of yesteryear's carriages, noblemen, and peasants navigating their lives alongside the magnificence of the Palace. Thankfully, I not only had lovely scenery for my shoe hunt, I also had the biggest outside bazaar I've ever seen. (In English we'd call this a "flea market", but I can't bring myself to use that phrase and "Versailles" in the same paragraph. Just can't do it!) The quest for shoes was easy once I found the bazaar. In fact, I even managed to negotiate the price of the (two pairs of) shoes in French no less! Feeling high from my bargaining and French speaking abilities, I felt compelled to celebrate such a historic feat-- and spent a portion of the saved money on ice cream! Homemade, delicious ice cream on a hot Saturday afternoon in the middle of the town of Versailles. With two new pairs of shoes. Tres bien.
Still high from my Versailles excursion, I made the trip back to Saint Cloud in time to assist Anne with dinner, as she was hosting a sizable dinner party that evening. The evening was lovely, but any remaining pride I felt from my triumphant French bargaining was obliterated by my utter inability to follow any of the conversations at the dinner table that evening. I dined with nine 50 something’s (maybe 40 something’s), an experience not entirely foreign to me, but had no means with which to engage in any meaningful conversation. I would have felt ridiculously silly, but my dinner companions were kind and sympathetic, recounting stories of their days trying to learn English, and admitting that sitting at a table (whether for dinner, business meeting, etc) with six different conversations being conducted concurrently in a foreign language is one of the most maddening and frustrating experiences. (Maddening, sure.. but I was thinking more "depressing" and "hopeless").
Before the dinner party was in full swing, I did manage to have an enlightening conversation with one of Anne's guests (in English) who wanted to share with me one of the most striking differences between the French and Americans. The French man (whose name I did not catch) immigrated to France from Italy with his family when he was a boy. Even though his original background, native language, and features are Italian in nature, he considers himself fully French. To better illustrate his point, he referenced Italians who immigrate to America, stating that those people may maintain their mother tongue, uphold their native traditions, and settle in homogeneous communities, but that they consider themselves "Italian Americans", and usually talk about “Italian pride”-- whereas in France, an immigrant wouldn't consider him/herself "Italian French", but simply "French” with “French pride”. In France, he contended, immigrants are expected to assimilate entirely to their new country, and embody an authentically French persona- to adopt the history, the language, the secularism, and other cultural staples. I inquired as to whether this expectation of immigrants contributed to the tension between the French and the Muslim community residing in French-- and he explained that the Muslim community’s resistance to true assimilation in France is exactly what is causing the tension between the two parties. The easiest and most obvious example is the banning of the burqa in France: the man said that the French collectively accept the wearing of the burqa as it relates to the Muslim religion, but that something so unauthentically French needs to be restricted to the home and private affairs, and should not be present in public life, as it undermines and dilutes what it is to be French-- a major part of which is being secular.
Paris enjoyed beautiful weather on Sunday, and so I spent the entire day and evening walking along the Seine. I visited the Maison Européenne de la Photographie, which, like most museums here, has an incredible discount on admission for those younger than 26 years-old. The museum featured a few good exhibits - most notably the Ara Güler exhibit, but had too many environmentally charged exhibits for my taste. The environmentalist agenda appeals to some, but I find it particularly dull, especially when it intersects with art. Environmentalism in art strikes me as being hostile and angry, neither of which are attitudes I want to be bombarded with when strolling through a museum. If environmentalism is your cup of tea, then you would enjoy the exhibits currently featured at the MEP. Personally, I’d rather use public transit, plant a tree, and spend the rest of the day at the Louvre.
On Monday, Lou asked me to accompany her and Anne to Horse Ball practice. Lou learned how to ride horses at a young age, and has recently started playing a game called Horse Ball -- sort of a mix between basketball and flashball on horseback. At one point during the game, a group of small ponies from a neighboring pen escaped, sending a pack of seven year-old French kids into a frenzy, shrieking, and running at full speed to chase after the ponies. The seven year-olds, although the same size as the ponies, did not meet with much success. Thankfully the dogs managed to round up the runaway ponies. I had a good laugh at the whole ordeal.
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