A Long Walk North

Late this afternoon I took a long walk to the northern edge of Paris. After yesterday, when I found myself amid throngs of tourists in the Marais, I felt the need to get out and away from all that.

I didn't get out until about 4:15, which, these days, is dusk, but sometimes the lights and colors are worth a walk in the dark. I headed up to the top of my street, Rue du Faubourg St. Denis and took a left on the Boulevard de Magenta. This took me past the Gare du Nord and up toward the Porte de Clingancourt. The Boulevard de Magenta is a 'grand boulevard' and at this time of day it was relatively quiet. From my street up to Barbes Rouchechouart the shops are mainly clothing: shoe shops, discount clothiers and close to Barbes, mostly wedding boutiques.

At Barbes Rochechouart there is a clothing store, Tati, that is, a 'grand magazin' for what we might call the regular folks. This part of town is populated mostly by Africans, and the further north one goes, the faces on the street are increasingly black. Unlike the grands magazins of the Boulevard Haussmann, where are the tourists go, this is a place for low cost clothing and shoes. The Metro runs above ground here, so I passed under it and headed north on the Boulevard Barbes. This street is wide and the crowds picked up here. For the most part, the shops are phone stores and more discount clothiers. At the Rue Ornano, I headed left, still going north to the Porte de Clingancourt.

Just north of the Porte is the Marche aux Puces (flea market) to which I have been a few times, both when I lived here and when I visited with Valery and Maddie in 2012. By the time I got there, it was really starting to get dark, so I turned right and headed up toward the Porte de La Chappelle. This was a long leg, and completely empty--I was the only one walking on the rue Belliard.

I turned right, back toward the center of Paris on the Rue des Poissionnieres, which runs all the way back down to Barbes. At first, it was a solitary walk, but after crossing the Rue Ordener again, it got narrower and much more crowded.

This part of town is almost exclusively black. In fact, I was the only white person I saw for a long time. At this time of the evening the street was thronged with shoppers, and the shops were all small food stores featuring mostly African and Haitian goods. There were a lot of clothing stores, shoe shops and a many small African boutiques, featuring brightly colored dresses, scarves and hats. Small hotels, restaurants with fogged up windows and tiny cafes line the street.

By the time I got back on Barbes, the street was completely crowded with shoppers and families out for a walk. Again, I was the only white face in the crowd. At Barbes Rouchechouart the intersection was so crowded that it was difficult to thread my way through, but soon enough I was back on Magenta and down past the Gare du Nord and home to Faubourg St. Denis.

This only took about an hour and a half, but it was fascinating, a reminder that Paris is full of much more than tourists. It was a relief to see real people going about their lives in a way that has been going on for centuries. One of the things I wanted to experience here was the 'real' Paris, and today, I got a wonderful dose of just that. I will start going out to the edges more often--perhaps I can make a full tour of the city from the 'outside' in the coming weeks, in spite of the cold and dark.

Winter in Paris

Well, winter has finally arrived here in Paris. The temperatures have been below freezing for the past couple of days, but at least it was sunny yesterday. After spending a few days indoors during Christmas, I got out for a walk and it felt good.

I have been in a bit of a down mood for a week or so, having stalled on what I hope will be the last (for now) version of Oui Madame. Of course, it has a lot to do with the light, but at least we've passed the solstice, so I can take some comfort from that. I do miss summer, among other things, especially my family.

I can also take comfort from knowing that this little struggle is far from difficult, considering what others have to endure. I noted, for example, that one of the two men crossing Antarctica, alone and unaided has reached his destination (https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/26/sports/antarctica-race-colin-obrady.html). The other man will reach his goal in the next day or two. I mention this because the burden of writing a screenplay hardly compares to what they've been through, and I should indeed consider myself lucky. The apartment is warm and I am well-fed.

In the news today is a story about a 71 year old Frenchman who is crossing the Atlantic in a barrel, so when I think about what he will go through in the next couple of months, again, I am not going to complain. I noted in the article (https://edition.cnn.com/2018/12/27/europe/barrel-atlantic-crossing-scli-intl/index.html) that his space is roughly the same size as mine, but at least I can get out and do not expect to get seasick!

Yesterday I went looking for a kosher deli, thinking that in a city this size, I should be able to find a good pastrami sandwich and perhaps a bagel, but alas, it seems not to be the case. I walked down to the Marais, which was known as the 'Jewish' quarter when I was here in the 70's but found it to be completely transformed into an 'upscale' shopping district. It seems as if this is all that's left in the new millennium, the same stuff that one finds in every city from Austin to Paris. A recent trip to Amsterdam revealed the same reality: Chanel, Gucci, Coach, The Kooples, Louis Vuitton etc, on and on. And it's all the same, derivative and repetitive, as if the imagination from the fashion industry has long been drained and with a purpose toward self-advertisement: wealthy consumers want to wear a brand, devoid of originality, simply proclaiming their excess assets to the world.

I have long wondered why people wear advertisements on their sleeve without compensation, but the way the major brands have evolved, that's all that's left and is perhaps the whole point. If you can afford Prada, you want everyone to know it. What's worse is the fact that these stores look not much different than Walmart, with racks and racks of identical clothing and accessories. I think if I paid that much for a dress or a purse or a suit, I'd want it to be in limited supply if not unique. But in store after store, neighborhood after neighborhood, it's all the same.

Having just seen a documentary on Paris haute couture, I realized that while Karl Lagerfeld may indeed be a creative genius, what becomes of his vision is just more trash, coveted but hardly valued except in the basest sense. It must be disappointing to him, I think, to realize that once he's let it go, the world will corrupt his vision by reducing it to the lowest common denominator, the sale rack.

Ok dear reader, just a little venting today. Tomorrow will be better, I am sure.

On Art

Art is human, the rearrangement of light matter (more on dark later) by humans.

This is an intentionally very broad definition.  This means that thought is art. In fact, it was the first art, a manifestation of what makes the human experience unique among life forms on this planet: consciousness. The fact that we alone possess this trait makes us unique is the basis for concluding that art is human.

If we begin within the brain and move outward, we can conclude that every action we take results in art. Our breath, our footsteps, our lives and deaths are all art. Of course, this means that most art is invisible, or at least so ephemeral as to go unnoticed--marks in the sand on the beach. Most art is never seen, lost in the very moment of creation.

This broad definition opens up the vector of thought about art to allow for more important questions than 'what is art?'. There are many such questions, some having to do with the purpose, or the value, or the need for art.

The most important question is one I have grappled with since I saw a painting by Monet in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge in 1976. I had never seen anything like it in my life, and thanks to my parents, it was hardly the first time I'd seen a painting. I stood in front of that painting for a long time--so long that my parents had to come back and get me.

Why? For a long time, I had no idea, nor did I think of it much. A couple of years later, I took a course on aesthetics and started the long process of thinking about beauty and art and the intersection of those two ideas. What is beautiful art? As so many have said, 'I'll know it when I see it' certainly applied to me, and I really tried to figure it out. What happened to me in front of that Monet?

It's happened to me many times since then, of course, which is why I now love going to museums and seeing art, new and old. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, when I am arrested by a work of art and stand transfixed by it, the feeling I have is a delight, unique and familiar all at the same time. A rush, brain on fire.

That rush is resonance. It is like a pair of tuning forks--one vibrates and the other responds. They resonate. This is what happened to me in 1976 and what happens every time I see good art. I resonate, I feel something physical that is so sensitive and unique that it can only be measured by human consciousness.

Physically, that force, that exchange of energy during this resonance is so small as to seem inconsequential, but the fact is that it is an exchange that is non-zero. Something happens, not always and not to all, but sometimes and to some people, there is an exchange, a 'real' physical exchange of energy when observing a work of art. Consider that the case of the Monet, it was light that conveyed that resonance, just a few photons, but enough to cause a chain reaction in my brain, leading to this very essay.

The question of what is beautiful art is misleading. The intersection of beauty and art is an interesting trap. I do not equate resonance with beauty because it leaves unanswered that key question of the location of beauty: In the work or in the viewer? It's a trap because the answer is: It's in both. And that seems too simple, an answer with no depth, like Schroedinger's Cat or the Particle/Wave duality. It's an answer but a non-answer.

So, my question is different: What is good art?

At first, this looks like the same question: beautiful, good, aren't they the same? Isn't beautiful always good and the other way around? A couple of thought experiments can set this assertion aside, but there is still the question: What is good? Specifically, what is good art? And why does matter that good is not always beautiful?

It matters because without trying to substantially define either good or beautiful, I can address the question I came for: Why did I resonate in the presence of the Monet? The answer is that I thought it was good. I may, at the time, have thought it was beautiful, but looking back, I realize that it was good. Or at least I thought it was.

The difference here may seem semantic, but trying to decide why I think a work of art is good. Basically it's a simple as admitting that you like it. In this way, I can see a painting and say that since it does not resonate with me, it's no good. Or at least, not good enough for me. This allows for the fact that some people resonate with some works and some resonate with others. The fact that these overlap fairly frequently is why we have art galleries and museums.

Museums in particular are evidence of this. The history and basis of museums is theft. We steal what we think is good and put it on display. To me, many things in museums are no good, but the fact that they are there is because somebody at sometime thought they were good enough to steal.

I think that when we talk about what makes a work of art beautiful, we are actually talking about what is good. Good is what we like. The lines, the color, the subject. We can say 'I love this line, or this color or this subject'. It's personal, but then, that's what we are experiencing, a personal resonance with art. It's always personal, even if we share that feeling with a million people.

Good art is what you like.

On Museums: Musee de l'Homme

I came to Paris to make art, but I also came to see art. Today I went to see the Musee de l'Homme.

It was a cool day, wet but not raining. I took the metro to Trocadero and got my first good look at the Tour d'Eiffel from across the river. It's a great place to see it and because of the weather and time of the year, there were relatively few tourists. I took the obligatory selfie and posted it then headed for the museum.

I got there about 12:30, but there was no line. It cost 12 euro, no discount for seniors. I paid for two things: The special exhibition on the Neanderthal and the the regular collection.

I went to the Neanderthal exhibit first. It was interesting, but reminded me of my earliest trips to the Museum of Natural History in New York (thank you Lynda), starting with a diorama and moving into a collection of bones, mostly skulls, and lots of reminders that though they weren't exactly human, they had a lot in common with us and probably interbred with us. Ok, got, we are all a little bit Neanderthal.

The exhibit varied between stuff, like bones and educational 'interactive' segments. I tried a few of these interactive displays, but by today's standards, even I know that they are dated. So, I cruised past this stuff, tried out a few of the video booths--which didn't work--and exited through the gift shop, warily eyeing the life-sized mannequin of a Neanderthal woman in 'modern' dress. Creepy.

Out into the atrium and cafe. I went back into the collection. Of course, I was going backward in the sens de la visite.

This part of the museum is what I really came for. Not the skull of Descartes--yes really it's there-- or Lucy--very small, missed it on the first pass--or the zillion stone implements. I enjoyed most of the latter, by the way, as they moved me closer to my objective: art.

This I finally found in a tiny gallery on the mezzanine. It was enclosed and dark inside so I could see and examine the treasures up close. This was, without a doubt, the best part of the museum.

I saw some of the earliest carvings and paintings ever made. It gave me a thrill, just to see and examine these rare and beautiful objects, so mysterious and familiar at the same time. The room was tiny, the objects maybe numbered fifty. But what objects. I doubt I closed my mouth the whole time, except when I was talking out loud with delight. There was no one else in the room at the time, whew.

It is part of my central thesis about art and aesthetics that art that resonates is good art. And so it was in this tiny gallery, with these objects that so resonated with me. I draw personal power from seeing these things, from the connection that binds me to them over deep time. They were made for me. That's some good shit.

Mind blown, I waded through the rest and made my way out the entrance back to Paris and life itself.

Old and New

Ah, what to do when I feel the need to write, but am not ready to haul out the typewriter? Write in my journal, of course.

Today dear reader, I offer some thoughts on Paris old and new, in no particular order, just the way they come up.

The old:

Dog Shit. Still everywhere. Watch your step.

Trash. Also still everywhere. It amazes me, often, on my walks, just how much trash people in a city the size and density of Paris can generate. Myself, I make a small (a gallon or two) sack of garbage every day. But everywhere on the street, I see trash. Cigarette butts, sinks, furniture, appliances and just plain garbage. And that's not even in the garbage cans, the ones that line the street at all hours of the night and day. The trucks seem to run continuously, but they hardly get one street clear before it's full again.

Bums: I saw my first Parisian bum way back in 1976, and they are still here. They sleep on the street, in corners and sometimes just right in the middle of the sidewalk. They shuffle down the street, accosting passersby and patrons in the cafes. There are at least two that I now recognize on my own street. I wonder how long they've been here, how long they will last. The Parisian winter is coming.

Beautiful People: It should come as no surprise, I guess, this being one of the fashion centers of the world, that people look so good, dress so well, just going about the regular business of life. Men in sharply tailored suits made of delicious looking materials. Women, in delightfully colorful and stylish outfits, carefully matched and combined elements. Shoes, oh man the shoes, on both men and women.

Traffic: Streets are congested, horns blare, drivers sit stuck behind delivery vans and people trying to park in impossibly small spaces.

The New:

Scooters: They are everywhere now. Just six years ago there were none. Now they zip along the bike lanes, in and out of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks and through the slow (and often stopped) traffic in the street. Once used, they are abandoned, often right in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, the riders all young and oh so stylish, likely on their way to some hip little cafe to meet their hip and good looking friends--see above.

Bike, moto and car self-services: In addition to the scooters, many places for these services have been carved out of what would have been parking places just a few years ago. Often--especially the car services--the spaces are empty, prompting me to wonder if they really have enough vehicles available that actually work. I've seen one bike parked in the storage area of my building every day, as if someone has figured out a way to keep it without paying.

Art: There has always been street art in Paris, but in the past six years, it has exploded. Murals, graffiti and stickers cover every square inch of many walls. Some of it is interesting, but for the most part, it's just dull and repetitive, as if the artists are trying to be the next Banksy, but can't figure out how to do that without just imitating. One the other hand, I did see my first Bansky a couple of days after arriving.

Diverse People. When stayed here in 2012, I could not help but notice the number of black Africans in our neighborhood. It seemed natural, though, as one of the streets near our apartment was lined with hair salons dedicated to blacks. Today, however, the number of black Africans in this neighborhood has increased many times over. Just a short walk up the rue Faubourg St. Martin in the late afternoon leads me through throngs of young black men, usually dressed well, leaning on storefronts, sitting on motorbikes and scooters, drinking, laughing and talking loudly. They are not at all threatening, at least not to me, but I have to wonder what they do for a living, where they live. Blacks are not the only diverse people, I see Asians, Arabs and of course, Whites.

Screenwriting

I am a screenwriter.

I have never had a script made into a movie, never sold a script. Hell, I haven't even written a script, but I am a screenwriter.

So far, in about three weeks of actual writing, I have gotten about one-third of my first script, Oui Madame, on 'paper'.

I have no idea if I will sell it; no idea if it will ever get made into a movie; no idea what it will be called if it gets that far. Geez, I don't even know if I will get credit. Maybe William Goldman will re-write it. Maybe it will get made. Maybe it will star Jennifer Lawrence, Helen Mirren and Daniel Craig. Maybe it will even be called Oui Madame. Nope. no idea.

I do know this. It will get written.

I have the story completely written. In my head. What I am working on now is getting the story out of my head. This is easier said than done, of course, but consider that before wrote I wrote a single word, I had been thinking about it for more than a year.

Many nights I went to sleep, thinking about how the story would begin, unfold and end. I spent a lot of time in traffic, commuting to work at UT, then running errands at Valentina's, thinking about this. By the time I had it fully worked out in my head, I started to think I was obsessed, and that if I didn't get it out, I'd just go crazy.

I decided to not go crazy, but in typical form, I decided to make a plan.

The Plan: 1) Move to Paris; 2) Write screenplay; 3) Sell screenplay; 4) Write another screenplay.

So, here I am, at step 2).

I have, as I said, written what looks to be about a third of the play. I've also spent a lot of time learning about how to write from online classes, watched a lot of movies (not one a day as I hoped, but at least 3-5 a week) and read a few books and screenplays.

Of course, that's like nothing.  It is nothing. Not 10,000 hours. Hell, maybe not even that many minutes. I know. Newb.

One book I am reading--of course not finished--is by William Goldman, who is recognized as one of the great screenwriters of the last half of the 20C.  He wrote The Princess Bride, which is the best film I have ever seen. It could have its own channel on TV. I'd tune in every day.

Goldman also wrote a lot of other screenplays (and novels, which he adapted for the screen). You look them up. This isn't a biography of Goldman.

Adventures in the Screen Trade is a dated book (1983), so a lot has changed since it was written. Some things have not. Hollywood still rules the film industry, and even though there are a lot more opportunities out there (Amazon, Netflix, etc) for new screenwriters than there were just a few decades ago, most Goldman's advice so far has been sound and encouraging. At least that's how I see it.

One of the most important things I have learned from this book (and Sorkin's class) has been that whatever I write, it will not be made into a movie.

It will certainly not be made into the movie that I have envisioned, not the one in my head, not the one hardly one-third written.

On the other hand...

If I am lucky, someone will buy this script.

If I am lucky, I'll get an agent.

If I am lucky, I'll get a chance to write my second script--the one that will win the Academy Award.

Ah. I am not in a casino, but I am gambling. I am gambling with the time, money and health I have left in my life. I am gambling with my family and friends. It's all on the line here and now.

So what will it be? Red or black?

Laundry

Dear readers, just a thought or two here before I eat. I have some pork chops braising in a tomato sauce on the stove, and I am about to watch the rest of a movie.

I didn't write today. Well, not technically. I did make some index cards for the next eight to ten beats coming up in the next scene of Oui Madame. Yesterday I finished what looks like scene 10. Onward tomorrow.

I wrote the cards while doing my laundry, which, although it sounds mundane, was a remarkable milestone for me today. Today marks the beginning of my thrid week here in Paris, and for the first time, I am starting to feel just a tiny bit comfortable. If that sounds like an exaggeration, it is not. Each day, I have had to face the uncertainty of where to be, what to eat, what to say. Each day has brought some progress on those fronts.

I know where I live. I know whether to turn right or left when I leave my building. That was the start. Then, I found a grocery store. The first one I found was a Franprix, just up the street. There I bought some of the basics on my first day, butter, salt, pepper and food for a couple of days and nights, some ham, can of tomatoes,a couple of pork chops and some hamburger meat. I also bought a six pack of beer (Heineken seems to be the cheapest) and a bottle of tequila. Hmmm, San Jose. Never heard of it, and it may not even be tequila, but it seems to work. Last week, I learned that the Monprix has the better prices and more selection. The I found a bigger Monoprix on the Boulevard Bonnes Nouvelles, just a block away. Little by little, I am learning my neighborhood.

Now I know, sophisticated Parisians and ex-pats 'know' that you have to have a favorite set of shops: boulangerie, boucher, primeur, epicierie, fromager, charcuterie, etc. But so far, and it's just been two weeks, Ihave found it easier  to shop at one of these little (by American standards) grocery stores.

As an American, I am used to things coming in packages, so it's not all that weird, and, other than meat and produce, most of the things I needed right away were more practical: dish soap, hand soap, shampoo, toilet paper, paper towels, etc. I needed all the spices, but so far I have only four: salt, pepper, garlic and fine herbs. I'll add to the collection as I go.

I have found a favorite boulangerie, and have been there enough times to  warrant a smile of recognition. The bread is fantastic and the croissants (au beurre) are delightful--I have to be careful not to crush it on the way back to my apartment, it's so light and luscious. The baguettes are perfect of course, and cheap, just 1 euro. One baguette lasts me two days, with Bon Maman cherry jam and butter in the morning, and with Nutella for dessert that night.

My next shop to frequent will be a charcuterie, but so far I haven't found one that I like nearby. I bought some packaged pate at the grocery store the first week but it was so bad I could not eat it. I want the real deal, and I will find it soon enough.

My first efforts have been to find myself in the neighborhood. I want to be able to walk in any direction for a few blocks and know where I am and how to get back. Then, I will gradually widen the circle and travel to some more distant spots.

I've been to the Canal St.Martin, a delightful place where I had lunch on a sunny Sunday. I thinkit was in week two that I finally ventured down to the Seine, down the Boulevard de Sebastopol, all the way to Chatelet and finally the Seine. It was beautiful, of course, the kind of deep green that comes with the late summer sun--in a few weeks it will be dark and grey.

I went down to the Seine again today, this time all the way down the Rue St Denis. This time I crossed the river. I walked across Cite, past the Palais de Justice and Ste Chapelle, ending up walking along the upper part to the Pont Neuf, past the fake booksellers where all the tourists stop to get that authentic Parisian souvenir. They also sell Eiffel towers six sizes and three colors. Sigh.

I headed back north again, toward that part of Paris I call home, the part that seems separated from all the tourism, though I know that's an illusion because I often hear English and German. And after all, I am just another tourist, here for a few months, not for a lifetime. But when I get to my street, I start to feel at home. I at least recognize the shops, the vendors and some of the waiters in the cafes--there's no connection other than in my head.

So that is why today, going to the laundry was so important. It marked another step in my attempt to create a routine, a pattern that will ease my fear and give me the strength I need to keep writing.

Where I live

Dear readers, both of you know, as I do, that I should be writing the screenplay instead of this journal, but I am waiting for dinner to warm up, I've had a shot, a beer and half a cigarette. As the desire to write wells up, so does the interest in dragging out the typewriter (my term for the PC I use to write the play) diminish, and here I am writing just to keep writing.

Of the three things I was most curious about discovering when I finally arrived here, at the top of the list was the view out the window. I was careful to choose a place that not only had a window, but which appeared to be well lit with the possibility, at least of a pleasant view. Not included in the photographs of the flat was the view, so I had good reason to be concerned. One flat that I looked at early on had the requisite window, and thankfully the landlord included a shot of the view, which was a wall. Not at all what I had in mind. Turns out, I got very much what I had in mind.

When I arrived last Monday, it was a warm day, and I hiked the six or eight blocks from the Gare du Nord, found the building an texted my contact to check in. Actually, thanks to the internet and my phone--wifi on the train from London to Paris--I had already checked in with her, but the time had come for me to meet her and ah, well, actually speak French for the first time in six years. It would be an understatement to say that I was nervous, even a bit scared, but I kept telling myself that's what I'd come for. Right? Right.

The text came in, "Vouz pouvez montez". Ack. I  crossed the street and said my first bonjour to the man standing next to the building entrance, whom I assumed (correctly it turns out) was the concierge (or guardien, as the sign says on the door of his ground floor flat, next to his horaires)
and  stepped inside the courtyard.

Actually it is more of a corridor, with three story apartments on both sides. Quickly, the address I'd been given by the landlord, Batiment 9, 3eme etage, became apparent. On the left I could see that the numbers of the buildings were going up, and soon I came to number nine. I am familiar enough with this part of living in Paris: one has an address, and then a sort of sub-address that enables things like letters or packages to make it to your door. I opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by exactly what I was expecting, a narrow staircase, with a stone first step and wooden steps up to the concrete landings, a cast iron railing painted gloss black and that smell. People. Food. Paris.

In 1980, when I lived a worked here for a year or so, I lived in very small flat. It was so small, that I couldn't even stand up in half of it. On the top floor of the building, it was just under the roof, so that the slant of the roof literally cut the space in half, vertically as well as horizontally. The two advantages (besides my own toilet and shower) were the two windows. One was one of those classic French windows that open up from about one's waist to the ceiling, opening inward to reveal a delicious view the city skyline. The other was what I friend of mine told me is called a, get this, 'vasisdas' because, I know this will sound lame, and no I haven't fact checked it, when the Germans arrived during WWII they occupied the apartments, and when they encountered the windows in the ceiling, that up up and are propped open for ventilation or opened fully to give access to the roof, the Germans asked, 'was is das?' I said it was lame.

Ok I digress. The current apartment has no wasisdas and has a non-sloping ceiling, but in many other respects it is the same. First of all, it is tiny. It was hard for me to grasp just how small eleven square meters actually is, but when I got to the room, my eyes were wide. I really thought I was in the wrong place, and the contact, Stephanie, saw my wide  eyes and asked me if anything was wrong. Of course, it was just the American in me, and it was hot, I was sweating having hiked up the three floors (83 steps) and terrified at the prospect of having to actually speak French.

Yes, it was the correct apartment, and yes, it is everything I expected and hoped it would be. The window looks out onto the corridor that I walked through to get here--building 12 is at the end, and it's lined with plants and flowering trees. The pavement is cobblestone, though likely from the 20C, and it's clean, light and quiet.

It's also just about twenty feet wide, which means that my window looks almost directly into my across-the-way neighbors on at least two floors. It also means that they have an equally good view of my apartment. Just today I learned while cooking dinner that one of my neighbors across the way is American--I heard her talking to her French husband.

I have actually met one of my two next door neighbors, Ahmed, who lives on the right. I saw but did not meet my neighbor on the left, who has the rest of the third floor. Today I heard her out in the hall, vacuuming, mopping and cleaning, but I was writing and wasn't inclined to greet her while she was at work. In any case, when she retreated to the apartment I set out for a walk and found that she'd put down three new runners on the floor. It's nice to have neighbors that care for their space. All I've done so far is stick a longhorn logo on my front door.

During the day, it's quiet, and at night, the familiar city noises come up along with the smell of cooking and music and tv in a dozen apartments. The courtyard is full of different kinds of light, smells and sounds. I love it. It's why came. Home. Paris.

PS - The other two things? Smell. Check. Internet. Check. 

First Week

Well, dear reader, if you are here, you must know where I am and why I am in Paris. I have just a few notes for this, my first full week.

My flat is tiny. There is literally just enough room for a bed, a table and me. That's enough, though, I am here to write. When I first saw it, the place looked much different than what I was expecting, but that's just the American in me. Now that I have been here a week, I've realized that any more space would simply be a waste.

The quartier is amazingly busy and diverse. I go out for a walk at least twice a day, especially now while the weather is warm and sunny. The streets are packed with pedestrians and the cafes are full. It seems like everyone is smoking, especially in the cafes. The people are remarkably diverse: Africans, Asians, Eastern Europeans and the occasional American like me. Bakeries, butcher shops and vegetable stores are abundant. I can chose from three of each, and that's just in a block two. The food is fresh and looks fabulous, though as I yet I have to go in most of these places, I know in time I will find the ones I prefer and go back until I am recognized as a regular. In the meantime,  I continue to explore and discover places.

Walking in Paris is an art form. One must learn to be quick and nimble, look down for dog poop, look up to make sure you don't run into or over anyone.You must be prepared to step into the street in an instant and return to the sidewalk in the same amount of time, lest you get run over by a car or cyclist. People walk, ride scooters, motorbikes and skateboards. Cars are ubiquitous, of course, but painfully inefficient--I pity the poor drivers trying to get somewhere.

I  haven't seen any 'sights' nor do I want to for a while. I saw the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame last time I was here, and I know they are still there. I've no desire to see them right away. What I want to do is figure out whether or not to turn left or right when I exit the building to get to the grocery store or the bakery. It's wonderful, actually, to have enough time here not to worry about seeing something--there will be time for museums and churches, perhaps. Maybe I'll just stay away from all the 'big' things and learn something about the little things, the shortcuts, the small restaurants, the cool cafes. One thing I see right away--I don't have to go far to see Paris.

I've begun to establish a routine, though it will take longer than a week to get there. Since I don't have to be at work at a particular time, it's a bit challenging to figure out what to  and when. Of course, it's also been an adjustment to sleep, but I think that, too will come with time.

I've been writing. I've already gotten a couple of scenes down and think I am developing some momentum. At least I find myself wanting to write--I was concerned that I would get here and just dry up, but that's not the case. The story is eager to get out and it just takes a few minutes to get it out every day. I started writing on day three, and so far I have managed to sit and work every day since.

I miss my family and friends, of course, but it's only been a week, and the newness and energy far outweighs any sense of loneliness. I suspect when sun disappears and the rain comes, it will be a different matter, but for the moment, I am quite happy, where I want to be. Home.

Provocation

Readers note: I wrote this months ago, but just decided to publish it today.

I have to take a few moments to try and put the events of the last couple of days in some sort of personal perspective.  I have not posted my thoughts publicly on social media, but feel that I  have to say something, even if it is only to myself.

I have been, to say the least, consumed by the terrorist attack on the newspaper in Paris two days ago. I saw a very small video clip, not ten minutes after the event had begun to unfold, and I've not been able to tear my attention away from it for long ever since.  Yesterday, as I read the same stories over and over on the BBC and the New York Times, I found myself wondering why it is that I find this so compelling.  Why, for example, wasn't I as concerned with the London or Madrid bombings?

It's possible that they simply happened at a time when I wasn't connected, but that's not it.  The truth is, I am a Francophile, and I feel a strong connection to the French culture and to Paris in particular.  Even though I am not French, and am several thousand miles away, I feel somehow that this is happening to me. In particular, I feel a strong desire to be there now, to go out in the Place de la Republique and stand with all those people, even in the cold, the rain and dark.

I recall how difficult it was to  live in Paris during this dark time, and how important the social life of the city was to me.  I was alone most of the time I lived in Paris--I can't romanticize my depression because it's what eventually drove me from the city.  Still, living there, going out and seeing other people and all the lights; hearing the sounds of the street mixed with constant, far-off sirens; smelling the exhaust fumes mingling with the smell of food--all this is part of the tapestry of memory that I wove during during those long-ago day, and something still retain today.

Seeing pictures of Paris always makes me nostalgic, but seeing the pictures of the Charlie Hebo massacre, especially the murder of the policeman makes me almost desperate to be there. Why, I do not know.  That's why I am writing this, hoping to find out as I work my way through it.

Last night, we had dinner with a couple who own a local newspaper.  It's an actual paper, printed and distributed in our area of town.  'Hyperlocal' is what they call it, and though it has an online 'presence' (which is to say, a website), it is an actual printed paper which continues to survive, even in these times when everything seems to have gone entirely digital.  As the co-editor of my high school newspaper now forty years ago, I would never have supposed that I might praise a local paper just for surviving. Oh, we saw the coming of digital journalism even back then, in 1972 (it was obvious even in the local newsroom), but the printed paper was such a permanent part of my life and culture, even though I had big ideas about the future of journalism I wouldn't have concluded that the profession was simply going to all but vanish in my lifetime.

Well, it hasn't vanished.  And even though hyperlocal journalism seems to be an important part of journalism in the coming years, we know that even hyperlocal news can go viral, and that the locality of the news has sometimes less impact than the perception of it's influence.  By this I mean that it easy to overestimate the importance of a bit of media and consequently overreact to it by becoming enraged. Just reading the comments on pretty much any website (that still allows them) will prove this point--it is only two steps from 'I don't like that' to 'You are nazi'.  Thankfully most of this rage is simply vented with key pounding fury, but occasionally, as we've seen, it provokes unstable and nihilistic individuals into violent action.

So should we refrain from provoking others?  Trolls clearly think otherwise. Personally, I find the activities of internet trolls to be among the worst possible uses of the internet.  Cats and porn notwithstanding, this whole provocation thing, starting with flame wars, moving to trolling and emerging as violent confrontations seems to be driving a lot--not all, or even most, but a lot--of the 'traffic' on those interwebs.

The hard part for me to reconcile is the fact that is seems like the writers at Charlie Hebo were acting like trolls.  It's fair to say that satire can actually have a purpose, but sometimes that purpose is just to offend and nothing more.  I am not suggesting that all criticism must be constructive, but seems to me that any one-way conversation (especially trolling) simply to exercise free speech is ironically bound to fail.  Something gets said alright, but no one's the better for it.  The 'talkers' in this case are simply being self-righteous and smug and the 'listeners' are hurt and insulted.

I am also struggling with the concept of provocation.  I find myself asking, what provokes, and why?  This is often--perhaps only--a personal question, but trying to answer it seems to bring me closer to what bothers me.  Ideally, I could not be provoked.  I would be to wise, to circumspect, too knowing to be fooled by provocation, no matter how flagrant.  In fact, it seems that the more flagrant the attempt at provocation, the more farcical it becomes, like calling someone a nazi because they prefer the toilet paper from the bottom. It's all a matter of degree from wherever you happen to start.  And some things, especially the little things, are provoking.

But what does that really mean?  Does provocation lead to violence?  Of course, not always.  Does it even lead to action?  Again, not always.  But it does arouse feelings, and these can cause us to react, or even just act.  I guess I can only examine this--at least here--from a personal context.

What provokes me?

This is actually an easy question. It's been the same since I can remember.  It's this:  someone telling me that they know what I am thinking and/or feeling.  It provokes me because I know it cannot be true.  Of all the things I know to be true, the fact that my thoughts and feelings are know to me first--and often to me alone.  If I share them, it's something else, but my thoughts and feelings are mine alone.  No one can ever know them but me.  It's not just a selfish feeling, though it certainly might be seen that way.  I see it as an immutable truth--it is clear that of all the things I know, and that of course is nothing, then then only thing I really know is just that, my sense of knowing nothing.  That's not a riddle or a paradox, just the hard edge of truth.  It cuts sometimes, so handle it gently.

I say all this to point out that provocation is not so hard, and it's not easily controlled or dismissed with a shake of the head and a knowing smile.  Even if you know it's just your button, it's still being pressed and that sets it off.  Is anyone immune to this?  Is anyone so controlled that they cannot be provoked?  If the answer is no, then isn't it just a matter of degree?  Isn't your ox the only one that matters?  The flame is there, already lit and ready to be fanned.

This does not excuse action in the name of provocation, however.  This is the classic defense of rapists, homophobes and racists--forced into action by relentless provocation.  It doesn't even have to be relentless, just timely, whenever the insult is perceived, and boom, the spark leads to the explosion.