Paris Manif’

I think for any American studying abroad in Paris it’s obligatory to remark on the culture of social movements in France. Manifestations [protests] and grèves [strikes] are practically national pastimes. So much so that this tendency is frequently the butt of French jokes and jokes about the French – including France’s representation in Czech artist David Černý’s controversial Entropa piece.

The frequency with which lycéens [high school students] throw protests (like throwing a party…and skipping school at the same time) is certainly funny. It is equally frustrating how often the traffic on Metro and RER lines is perturbé [disrupted] due to grèves. It is nevertheless honorable that the French feel passionately enough about issues to take public action for change. Since the protest era of the lat 60s and early 70s, most Americans have become cynical and jaded (myself included…even at my young age). The French, while cynical and ironic in daily interactions, still seem to respect and privilege the art of the protest.

Although much different than the typical manifestations for workers’ rights or education reform (or against education reform, it’s often hard to tell), Paris has recently turned its focus to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Always a touchy subject, a recent pro-Palestinian demonstration on January 3 turned violent when protestors, among the more than 21,000 demonstrators present, took to burning cars, breaking store windows and looting.

Since then, protests have taken place each weekend as Parisians rush to show their support for Palestinians in Gaza.

When I received a warning in my inbox from the U.S. Embassy, advising that I avoid the pro-Palestinian demonstration that was to take place at 2:00 p.m. today in and around my quartier, I was more tempted to attend than discouraged from it. I did, however, have other plans for the afternoon and understood that in reality it’s best not to meddle with these types of things – especially in a foreign county AND especially one where racial and religious tensions are high.

On my way to the BiFi this morning, I did pass by part of the demonstration’s projected route. The C.R.S. vehicles lining Boulevard Montparnasse gave the normally lively and cheerful street an eerie vibe. On my short walk to the Raspail Metro station, I saw more C.R.S. vans and police cars than I could count. The authorities were clearly not taking any chances with the projected 15,000 “non-violent” demonstrators.

This scene immediately reminded me of October 17, 1961. On this oft-forgotten, sordid day in Paris’s history, Arabic-Franco tensions were infinitely higher. We were in the thick of the Algerian War, and the FLN’s presence in Paris was stronger than authorities would have liked. Likewise, Maghrébin [North African] immigrants lived in even worse conditions than today. The défavorisées [disadvantaged] banlieues were at this point literal bidonvilles [slums/shantytowns].

On October 17, 1961, a completely non-violent protest against a Parisian curfew directed solely at Algerians ended in tragedy when C.R.S. agents and police reacted severely and violently to stop the demonstration at all costs (Charles de Gaulle had given préfet of police Maurice Papon “carte blanche” to do so). Tens of thousands were arrested, hundreds were beaten and dozens of unlucky individuals were même [even] thrown into the Seine. Between 100 and 300 people were killed in the mayhem.

Thankfully today’s protest remained peaceful. But scenes of the present are haunted by the hidden truths of the past, and it is important for the French and foreigners alike to remember this tragic and sordid day that France tries so hard to forget.

Bienvenue chez les profs

Sunday, I was invited to lunch chez [at the place of] two of my favorite Smith professors. I have had the pleasure of working with and taking classes taught by my advisor Nicolas as well as his wife Fabienne, both French profs at Smith. Although they work in Northampton, they have an adorable, sixth-floor apartment in the 18e à Paris, where they spend their breaks and summers. They had always insisted that we meet up while they were in Paris, and Fabienne kindly invited me to lunch. I was a bit nervous about the encounter. When you consider my lack of people skills and their endearingly awkward comportments, I knew we were in for a show.

It was actually less awkward than anticipated, and I had a lot of fun. They are so sweet and encouraging and were very excited to hear any and everything that I had to say about Paris. We had a lovely French lunch of saucisse [sausage], lentils and potatoes, made complete with a bit of wine. Tea and treats followed.

After lunch, Nicolas had some work to tend to, but Fabienne and I took a lovely walk around the quartier [neighborhood]. I am always thrilled to discover new corners of Paris, and this thriving, diverse neighborhood was a great place to explore. En outre [In addition], Fabienne showed me the surprising traces of littérature and history in her own backyard. We stopped at the apartment building where – as Patrick Modiano learned – Dora Bruder had lived and headed past the commissariat [police station] where her parents had posted a notice in search of her. Later, we came upon the one massive entryway that remains from the luxurious 19th-centurey department store that served as the basis for Emile Zola’s Au Bonheur des dames.

It is that capacity for histories of so many eras to overlap, cross and dialogue on the present-day streets of Paris that I love so much about the city. And these traces exist in n’importe quel [any] quartier. From the Lutécien amphitheater to the remnants of Philippe Auguste’s city walls to the Boulevards of Haussmann and the traces of the Occupation, it’s all here. Two-thousand years of history surimposés [overlapping] on one moderne ville [modern city], and what a lovely ville it is.

Overall, I was very pleased to have spent the afternoon with Fabienne and Nicolas. Seeing their love and passion for Paris made me rethink my own attitudes. Am I spending my time here wisely? Am I living the Parisian life to the fullest? Lately, there’s been a tiny part of me that has been counting down the days until I get to return to the states. I’ve idealized the moments of reconnecting with loved ones, eating at my favorite restaurants, relaxing in my own room and enjoying free soda refills. But I forget how quickly this Paris experience is passing me by. And as soon as I leave, I know I will regret it and wish that I could come back…

Le Pouvoir de Prague

The second leg of our amazing Christmas-break trip was the stunningly gothic and utterly cinematic Prague.

A 14-hour overnight bus ride transported us across a large swatch of southern Germany, where we encountered some pretty great Germany customs agents. Sample interchange:

German border patrol agent (as he goes to open a bag): Is this your bag?
Czech man resembling every stereotypical Euro-trash movie villain ever (indignantly): May I ask you why you would like to search it?
German border patrol (deadpan): It is my job.

Managing to get a surprising amount of sleep on the crowded bus, we pulled into Prague a little after noon. After some major snafus in trying to locate our hostel, we eventually took the long way around and arrived at the Hostel Elf. Thankfully, there were no spinning elves in sight, but the place was pretty funky. The hallway walls and doors had been elaborately spray painted and the lobby’s leather couches were perpetually filled with characters whom Ben dubbed “degenerate hippies.” In all, our accommodations were pretty nice. The facilities had clearly been recently redone. Plus, there was a kitchen and free Internet at our disposal.

By the time we ventured out it was late afternoon and, with suitable maps in hand, we set out for town. I had to find a bank to change my Euros to Czech crowns, and we were, of course, in search of the ever-elusive dinner. I exchanged my money, and we headed into the Old Town section of Prague. There, we encountered a number of old-school Gothic buildings. They were each so striking, as historic artifacts of a time past and in their dissimilarity to the Haussmannian constructions that I have grown so used to in Paris.

We stumbled upon a Christmas market in Old Town Square. Still quite commercialized, it struck my as utterly tradition in comparison to the phony chalets erected on the Champs-Élysées. We strolled through the tiny, old streets of the medieval section of town until we reached the river where the beautiful Vltava and the vista of the illuminated Charles Bridge and Prague Castle gave us a wonderful first impression. We ended up finding dinner at a restaurant which could have been mistaken for a basement, or wine cellar, but where we were pleased to find English translations on the menu.

As much as I loved the exoticism of words peppered with V’s and upside-down circumflexes which resembled excited arrows bearing down on unsuspecting letters (sample word: Pražský hrad), I had no luck with the Czech language.

The next day was Christmas Eve and rather than take the time to relax while museums and most attractions were close, we decided to explore the city by foot. We walked – I should say hiked – for over five hours straight. But we did cover the whole city, including its parks and outskirts. Although Google exaggerates a bit because it cannot find the exact paths we used to maneuver through parks, this is a vague approximation of our trek.

From our hostel we headed off to the point on our map intriguingly labeled “Prague Metronome.” At said spot, we found, high atop a hill, a giant, working metronome. Curious, we climb up the massive set of stairs for a closer look. While the metronome, a modern sculptor’s 1991 creation as a replacement to a giant Stalin statue, was cool, it was the view from the hill that was breathtaking. All of Prague unfolded clearly before us with its colored rooftops and cluttered quartiers.

As the day unfurled, we visited the Prague Castle where we took a look inside St. Vitus’s Cathedral – you have to give props to the Bohemians for giving love to some of the lesser known saints – whose flying buttresses could challenge Notre-Dames’, and bought some postcards at a bookshop where Franz Kafka lived and wrote. The views from the castle were equally pretty, but crowded with tourists – we had the lookout from the metronome all to ourselves. Another perfect example of the tourist crowd-think mentality.

We fought the crowds down to the Charles Bridge, sight of a number of music videos and a climatic Mission: Impossible scene. It’s also old and historic and stuff. Afterwards, we made our way back up the hill. The road we were on became increasingly steeper until it terminated in another set of unbelievably long stairs. Although we were exhausted when we got there, Petrin Hill was a lovely – and deserted – park. I snapped photos of the scaled-down Eiffel-Tower copycat and the labyrinth, which was unfortunately closed. After a lengthy and disheartening search, we finally stumbled upon the Ukrainian, pagoda-like church that we had been looking for all along. Wet, cold and sore from all the walking, we decided to head home as night fell. We detoured past St. Wenceslaus’s – another one for you – Square and settled in for a cozy evening at the Hostel Elf.

Our last day in Prague was Christmas. We took the opportunity to visit the modern section of the Prague National Gallery, which happened to be open – much to the chagrin of the very bored museum guards. The place was immense, and we easily wasted the day away there. We finished off our stay in Prague by taking a walk through the Jewish Quarter, which we had yet not visited, and stopping at a café to use up our remaining crowns on some Christmas treats. The café may have been a bit “frou-frou,” but I was extremely pleased by my pancakes with yogurt and forest fruit. I imagine that Ben was equally sated by his hot apple pie and vanilla sauce. Plus, the café was broadcasted VH1 Classic on its flat-screen TVs. What’s better than some Toto “Africa” to cap a great Prague experience?

Prague was a wonderful palimpsest of histories from the Bohemians to Kafka to the Communists on which the present of an up-and-coming modern European city is being written. Although it may have worn us down a bit, Praha’s stunning vistas and dramatic spirit were unforgettable.

We bid our adieus to the Hostel Elf early the next morning and made our way – much more successfully this time – to the bus station to head off for Vienna.