Giving Thanks to God At Midnight

Tonight, there was a birthday party for Ben, the only boy in the group. He's a very interesting person, a good singer and actor, very good at French, Jewish and exploring secular quakerism. I stayed a little longer than expected. It was past 23h00; all the stores had closed, and the restaurants were wiping off their tables and stacking their chairs. 


Before we went our separate ways, Tiffany and Leslie gave me a quick self-defense 101. At around 23h20, they headed back to the Maisonette and I trekked back here. I gripped my keys in one hand, my cell phone in the other. And I was praying all the way. I was scared. 


I had one more corner to turn when I heard a thick untame "HEY!" and drunk giggles. At first, I thought it was coming from the shop I was striding past. Then all of a sudden, something smacked my forehead from above and fell to the ground. Thinking that a pin had pierced my skin, I gently touched my forehead but found no injury. Two more attempts. They missed. Still, they continued to laugh the loser's laugh. I was shaken; I was furious; I wanted to curse the hell outta them, give them the finger and shout 'up yours, you f***ing immature a**holes,' but I didn't. I walked on as the hoarse cry and boozy laughter of bystanders strayed away behind me like lost sheep.


As I entered the apartment, the noise grew louder and louder. Were they outside? Or was it in my head? 


Immediately, I ran to close the window and draw the curtains. I opened up iTunes and started my favorite Christian songs. 


I wondered for a moment why God hadn't protected me. But, in fact, He had. They were on the third/fourth floor and not nipping at my heels. They hadn't dropped a brick on my head, dumped alcohol out the window, or spat at me. And, I was literally 30 seconds away from my apartment (although 30 seconds had never felt longer). I wasn't injured. I wasn't close to death. I was merely close to mockery, and my pride hurt.


Death didn't come knocking on the door tonight. And, thanks to Jesus, it never will. I'm still alive and always will be. I have, live, experience, cherish life, life abundant, and life eternal.  


Thanks for your prayers. God is here. He is alive. And He is moving. Fast.

Aix-static!

After 3 hours on the TGV, we arrived at beautiful Aix-en-Provence on Friday afternoon. TGV stands for "Train a Grande Vitesse," which basically means "high-speed train" or, more literally, "train at great speed."

Aix is a captivating city, with mediterranean-style architecture and designs focused on yellow, brown and okre and squeaky wooden window shutters. Between 9 and 12 each morning, vendors nimbly set up tents and stalls to market their fresh fruits and vegetables and just-baked bread. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, more vendors come into town and construct their own make-shift stalls of flowers, soap, jewelry, clothing, shoes, bags, books, and music. The town is hardly silent. The hum of villagers fills the town like steam covers the mirror while I take a shower.

The streets here are narrow and slanted with a confusing yet quaint gridlock-less structure. Cars and motorcycles beep their way through, parting the sea of pedestrians carrying plastic bags from Monoprix or simply a baguette from the local bakery. Street signs are nailed high up into stone walls, while an ancient fountain spouts effervescence in the centre of the square. Here, getting lost is simply an excuse for exploration. 

Already, I've discovered another Christian library behind the large three-floor Monoprix, as well as La Corbeille d'Orient that sells a wide range of Asian ingredients, including my favorite type of vinegar (Chinese black vinegar), soy sauce, Chinese white rice, and thin wheat noodles. I boiled some noodles and mixed them in with stir-fried eggs, tomatoes, spinach, and chopped-up frankfurters. And of course, I added some soy sauce and Chinese black vinegar, as well as sugar and salt. It was marvelous, if I may say so myself.

I thank God SO SO SO SO much for blessing me with a HUGE apartment. It is a space for two students, but I said that I wanted to live on my own, so Madame put my name in the studio lottery, and I was randomly (or not so randomly in God's eyes) gifted with this ENORMOUS space. I have two beds, which I pieced together, as well as a long futon (which the French call "clic-clac" because of the sound the metal makes when one is pulling out the bed), a wooden table in the middle of the room and four chairs, very contemporary drawers and closet, a kitchen with an oven, 6 stove-tops, a microwave, a kettle, a large fridge, and another table, and a restroom with heating. The girls who lived here before me left me a warm and welcoming message, as well as lots of information about the city and its outskirts, stationary, books and dictionaries, pots and pans, cutlery, hairdryer, ironing board, irons, vacuum, lights, phone, Wi-Fi, storage space, a large rug, a clothes rack, mini-Christmas trees...I could go on and on. My first evening here was a night of discoveries. It felt like Christmas all over again.

In addition, the girls in the building are also Wellesley girls who were here last semester. They have shown me around everywhere, including a very serene park with mini waterfalls and a verdant horizontal and vertical expanse. They told me where the cheapest bread is, where the cheapest croissant aux amandes (croissant with almonds) is sold, where the Chinese shop was, where I can buy my minutes for the cellphone, and advised me about interactions with the French as well as their ups-and-downs here. Thankfully, it has mostly been up! 

Classes at the Fac (abbreviation for university here) start tomorrow. My first and only class tomorrow is the Anthropology/ Ethnology of France, which will last for 3 hours from 10h00 to 13h00 and take place in a large amphitheatre. Please pray that I'll be able to fork up conversation with some understanding and social French students before and after class, and that I'll concentrate on the material during class. 

Today, I took Tiffany and Audrey (a Harvard student) to a morning protestant service called Le Chemin. It is similar to a pentecostal service: a lot of prayer, speaking in tongues, and centered on the power of the Holy Spirit. I was moved by the worship, as well as touched by Jesus during Communion. Speaking of Communion, the bread was absolutely fresh and the wine was definitely NOT grape juice. Afterwards, we turned around to speak to the two people sitting behind us, who - by divine coincidence - happened to know Madame! What are the chances.

In the evening, Tiffany and I went to ICCP, an English-speaking international community of believers. The pastor just happens to live opposite me on the very same street! What are the chances.

Aix Awesomeness #1: All shops close on Sunday. It's like the whole town takes a Sabbath together. Streets are abandoned except the occasional grunt of a motorcycle and the few followers of Jesus Christ fighting the wind on their way to God's house. 


The best is yet to come!

Quick Sketches

Subjectivity
Friday afternoon trip around Paris. First stop: Beaubourg contemporary art museum, Centre Pompidou (closest Metro stop: Rue Rambuteau). A young lady sits with her legs crossed on the cold stone ground blowing into a long didgeridoo and hitting its side with a wooden shaker. She, who could very well be part of the exhibition, attracts a lot of foreign and domestic visitors. We catch her just as she is finishing her last song. Her lip is violet.


Once inside, we follow the crowd up a broken escalator to the second floor, where an exhibition of an imaginary children's play-space in 2050 draws whispers of awe and confusion, while an innocent contemporary compilation of xylophones serenade us in the arriere-plan. 


Outside, a Gypsie handing out ads catches Tiffany with a soft heart and begins begging her for money. "I'm pregnant, please help me," she moans, pointing to her stomach, her eyebrows bent in an upside-down "V." Tiffany  dives into her wallet and searches for some coins. But the lady points to an ad and asks for more. Her camarade soon approaches me with her own stack of ads, her stomach bulging with a young miracle inside. With my heart stuck in a paradox of sadness and skepticism, I avoid all eye contact, quickly shaking my head in reply: "Non."


Rarity
Next stop: Champs-Elysées. On our way to the Metro stop, Tiffany gasps. "Librarie chrétienne"!I sI France, according to my French professors, is hardly what one calls a "religious" country. Few people feel a sense of belonging to a certain church, and even less live out the true Gospel of incarnation. So, imagine our disbelief as we stood in front of the humble hole-in-the-wall bookstore, our jaws anchored to the narrow Parisian pavement. 


We entered in awe, as if entering God's house. Immediately, I start humming to the chorus of the song, albeit in French...


Saviour, 
He can move the mountains,
My God is mighty to save,
He is mighty to save.


A middle-aged lady of African descent starts humming too, as she stands on the opposite side of the waist-high bookshelf. I look up at her to smile, but she continues to flip through the array of booklets. I smile to myself.


I spent a long time at the CD section, searching ravenously for worship music to feed my famished soul. A week without music is a week without food. If music be the food of love, play on. Of course, love not so much in the romantic sense here, but love that is God. 


But alas! Abundance in rarity - what to choose? I fork up enough courage to look over at the young man next to me with cool dreads and open my mouth. Finally, I give up my pride: "Excusez-moi, monsieur." During the next few minutes, I learn the names of the most well-known French Christian artists, and he learns that Chris Tomlin is extremely well-known in the U.S.A. 


I thank the lady at the cashier for this amazing bookstore:
"C'est rare en France, hein?"
"C'est vrai," she nods.


Begging
We take the Metro to the Place de la Concorde to see the Obelisque and L'eglise de la Madeleine (Metro stop: Concorde). We observe the Arc de Triomphe in the distance and soon begin our pilgrimage up the Champs-Elysees (French Fifth Avenue).

As I peer into the classy glassy boutiques, I see him, his back the shape of the crescent moon, his fingers wrapped tightly around a wooden make-shift cane, his legs bent in the wrong direction. One step at a time, he manouveurs his way against the flow of the mob. Then, he stops. 

I hate the way he stands in the middle of the pavement, where everyone can see him like that, where everyone bumps into him from left and right, where everyone looks at him but no-one sees him. 

My legs carry me through the current of the crowd, and - before I know it - I find myself standing at his side. My hands extend towards him with a "Pink Lady" apple that I packed in case of emergency (that is, constipation). "Voulez-vous une pomme, monsieur?" He looks up at me, then at the apple, and takes a moment to lean his entire body on the short wooden cane, before gently accepting my offer. As I turn to leave, he lets out a quiet cry that spins me around like a baby's sniffle pulls the mother's heart strings. He shifts his weight again and points up. Starbucks.

He shows me the three bronze coins in his ungloved hands, asking me to help him buy a cuppa coffee. In defense, I raise my hands, cozy inside two layers of red cotton gloves from Christmas, and give him a below-par rebuttal: "Il y a une pomme." He doesn't give up so easily and keeps begging. I don't give up so easily either and keep repeating that there is an apple (as if he were blind), all the while speed-walking far far away.

Outside cathedrals, museums, high-end Fifth Avenue stores, coffee shops, chic restaurants with glass windows, train stations. Gypsies. Handicapped. On their knees. Heads lowered. Do we know the colour of their eyes? The shape of their nose? The sharpness of their cheekbones? Do we know who they are?



Do we want to know who they are?

Reims

Pronounced [hanz], Reims is a city located two hours north-east of Paris by bus. The Notre-Dame de Reims is a magnificent cathedral, where numerous French kings were baptized and coronated, up until the late nineteenth century. A tour through the cathedral is like a tour through a free art gallery, the best exhibition of which is the grand collection of different countries' artistic representations of the Nativity Scene. 

For lunch, we stopped off at L'Apostrophe for a three-course meal. For my entree, I chose rabbit with caramelized red onions and a glazed salad, accompanied with freshly-baked baguette. For the actual meal (le plat), I chose salmon baked in foil with rice. For dessert, I decided to try du pain perdu with custard and ice cream. Literally translated, it means "lost bread," so-called because it is no longer fresh and thus cannot be served as is. Instead of throwing it away, the not-so-fresh bread is baked with raisins and raspberry filling until golden and served in a large bowl of custard with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, pistacchio shavings, and sifted icing sugar. I topped off the afternoon with a medium-sized cup of tea (which, by the way, came with a piece of dairy milk chocolate). Definitely worth a taste. Or two. Or three. 

In the late afternoon, we visited a large wine cellar, which from the outside looked like a castle. We descended a long flight of stairs into the large cave and took a guided tour, in awe of the carvings by the artist Nablet and furrowing our eyebrows at the contemporary pieces. After a long ascent that left most of us out-of-breath, we were treated to a glass of champagne. D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S. If you get a chance to taste Brut Royal Champagne, you should be careful - you might drink too much of it. 

I slept like a baby on the way back. 

Rollercoaster Parisien

Ever been on a rollercoaster ride? Ever tried looking at the buildings and trees and people flying by? This week, I did.

Since my last entry, I have set foot in Paris' oldest and most hidden streets, visited the Latin Quarter (Le Quartier Latin), stood outside the oldest cafe in Paris, endured the bitter wind to capture the elegance of the Louvre at night, walked with my mouth open through the Palais Royal, leaned against a bridge overlooking the Seine, sat in on an extended French/Latin mass at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, risked my life to snap a photo of the Opera house, dragged a shopping basket around the two most ubiquitous French supermarkets (Carrefour and Monoprix), and spent the equivalent of $10 (5 euros) at a photo booth at the local Metro stop. I have stood in front of such masterpieces as Le Venus de Milo, Les Noces de Cana, Le Victoire de Samothrace, and of course the Mona Lisa. I have strained my neck by looking up at the gold painted ceilings of the Opera House and the Louvre with their stone reliefs of astrological signs, age-old tapestries, and grand portraits of ancient architects, artists, narcissists, pessimists, philosophers, idealists. And I've only got lost about 5 times a day.

In addition to daily group excursions, a lovely old man called Monsieur Philippe Boyer guides us through a rapid yet detailed discourse on French literature starting from the Medieval period. Today was only the third day, and we are already half-way through the Renaissance. We've read excerpts from major works, such as a 12th century love poem called A la douceur du temps, and Perceval from the chivalry period, and more love poems from the Renaissance, such as Odes a Cassadre. Our reading for tomorrow is called La Princess de Cleves, the only and the greatest work during the Classical period.

Monsieur Boyer lectures extremely fast for two hours each morning, from 10h00 to 12h00 (the French use military time). But what makes his speech more incomprehensible is that he only speaks through one side of his mouth. His lips on the other side are pursed together possibly due to a stroke or, according to Tiffany, due to the lack of teeth. Nonetheless, he has a quirky sense of humour and an abundance of knowledge and passion for literature. French professors teach with an unconcealable passion. Such passion alone is enough motivation for me. On top of that, I love reading les poemes d'amour - for some reason, even the worst writer in the world will find some of the most beautiful words on earth to express his adoration and yearning for his beloved.

****

Each student has a weekly allowance of 300 euros here in Paris, and an additional weekly allowance of 50 euros for transportation and tickets to museums, concerts, and the like. And of course, I've done a little shopping...

Countdown of the top 5 most expensive things I've purchased so far:

FIVE

What: 1.046 kg of apples ("Pink Lady"s are very big and very crisp)
How much: 4,13 euros
Where: My favorite place in France - fruits & veggies market

FOUR

What: 5 passport-size photos
How much: 5 euros
Where: Metro station photo booth (there was an adjacent hot chocolate machine - I refrained)

THREE

What: Croque Madame* + salad + fries + hot water** + funny waiter
How much: 10,80 euros without tax and tip***. 15 euros with.
Where: Cafe Panis across from La Cathedrale de Notre-Dame

TWO

What: Brown knee-length boots
How much: 30 euros
Where: Nameless street shop near La Sorbonne

ONE

What: 2-in-1 converter-adapter
How much: 52,90 euros
Where: FNAC Digital, Blvd Saint-Germain****


* Croque Madame: fried egg on top of melted cheese on top of smoked ham on top of brown toasted country bread
 ** Hot water costs 1,00 euro
*** "Le service" or "Le pourboire" - you give however much you want.

**** Either buy an adapter/converter in the States before you arrive, or go to Darty (across the street)

I spend most of my money on groceries, as I cook lunch and dinner for myself and Tiffany and for other friends in the group. Watching mum cook over the years have served me well - stir-fried eggs and tomatoes with vinegar, stir-fried cabbage and tomatoes with vinegar, stir-fried eggs and cucumbers with vinegar, noodle soup with eggs and tomatoes and cabbage and vinegar, stir-fried noodles with eggs and cabbage and cucumbers and ham and vinegar (we have little ingredients to choose from). So far, the feedback has been:

"HmMMMMMmmmm"
"You're going to be a great housewife"
"You're going to be a great wife"
"You're going to be a really good mum"
"WOW"
"Oooh vinegar"
"You're such a good cook"

Thanks Mum!!! =D

****

Social problem #1: the French like to smoke.

Paris Sweet Paris

Home sweet home. After a 1 hour flight from Houston to Dallas, a 4 hour flight from Dallas to Boston, and  a 7 hour flight from Boston to Paris, I have arrived. My roommate Tiffany, is one of my closest friends at Wellesley, and we made our own dinner last night with another Wellesley friend and a girl from Harvard. I made noodles with eggs, tomatoes, and cabbage, and Tiffany grilled some chicken nuggets. We are staying at the Hotels Citadines, an apartment-style hotel with a small kitchenette and a bathroom. We didn't need to buy any cutlery, bowls, plates, or anything to cook with. All we needed was our own ingredients, such as oil, sugar, salt, and - always for me - vinegar. We bought these at a supermarket called Carrefour close to our hotel, as well as some fruits and vegetables at the night market, which reminded me of Beijing. Actually, many things here remind me of Beijing: the night market, the skyscrapers with fluorescent lights, this apartment-hotel...even the Carrefour because there is one right in front of my parents' apartment in Beijing. The Chinese call it: jia le fu, meaning home-joy-blessings. It really means "crossroads."

*****

I've been trying to be more French in the way I act, observing and then imitating. The line for the checkout was really long last night, and as I was waiting, I tried to stand like the French, with my stubby nose pointing towards the ceiling. But then I realized that all the French people around me weren't standing like that. In contrast, they were fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughter, workers, vendors, white-collars, blue-collars. They were people doing their weekly shopping, tourists unfamiliar with everything around them, or exchange students studying the beautiful French language. And I, I was a foreign student, not American, not completely British, not completely Chinese, and definitely not French. But I assumed something of the entire French population that is just as wrong as someone assuming that Christians are just Bible-reading self-righteous ignorant converters.

Before entering the country, I expected the French to be as hearsay had warned me: rude, chauvinistic, egotistical, ignorant, arrogant, provincial. Even our first meeting here was a meeting about "l'homme francais," skills to be street-wise (walk and don't stop in streets; don't smile at guys because they'll take it the wrong way and think you're interested...), and the sky-high prices. But last night at Carrefour, I was taken aback by the people here in Paris. Of course, it's a big city and diverse people come and go, so the residents are used to broken French. All the same, the shopkeepers, handsome young man selling shrimp, the bakers, the butcher, the Arabic at the candy store (yes, there is a Haribo candy store here with Bounty and Twix and fizzy cola bottles and fizzy apple strings -  I took a time machine back to my childhood), the taxi driver with a funny sense of humour, the guy at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame who threw up his hands during mass, the hotel receptionist who was patient enough to listen to my question in broken French, and of course, Madame Egron-Sparrow, the director of the program who celebrated our arrival with a savory traditional dessert called galette des Rois and a few drops of throat-burning (or stomach-warming) champagne - all remind me of home.

*****

The best memory so far has to be tonight at a restaurant called Cafe Panis (panis: bread in Latin). Our waiter was special. When we told him that we would be studying French in Aix-en-Provence, he said: Aix? That's the countryside. Paris is a city. It's better. It's the best.

When I asked him if we could take our leftover food with us, he said: No. I said: never in France, or never in this cafe? He said: the French throw everything away; they like to waste things. Sorry. That's just the way it is here. I said: Oh. And then he said: Just kidding.

The food was absolutely heavenly. I ordered a Croque Madame with salad and fries. A Croque Madame is ham (jambon) with melted cheese and a fried egg on a toasted piece of brown country bread. He handed us some tomato ketchup, but I wasn't sure what it was (it could have been chilly sauce like at chinese restaurants), so I asked him. And he said with a smirk, "Ketchup. It's not blood."

We told him that he should become an actor. He said, pointing to a young waiter next to him, "Not me. He's the actor." I said: No, I don't believe you. He said: Yes, really. Jean-Luc Godard.

Jean-Luc Godard was born December 3, 1930.

We tipped him well.

*****

Anyhoots, we have 2 weeks here. I wish we could stay longer, but I'm sure Aix will be just as - if not even more - exciting. We have a French literature class each day starting from tomorrow (10h00-12h00) and dinner with our director on Friday and some excursions to operas, museums, cathedrals, museums, old hidden streets, cathedrals, museums, gardens, the Louvre of course. Tiffany and I plan to go to the Eiffel Tower tomorrow.

Many more adventures to come...

Please pray that I'll get over the jetlag tonight!