le retour

Dear ones,

I've gotten many a request in the past week to compile and write something to the effect of "33 things people who have lived abroad know to be true," "10 ways living in France changed your life," or my personal favorite, "I've got 99 problems and French bureaucracy only accounts for 67." My time in Strasbourg came to an end yesterday, so trust me when I say that I am with you. I wish that I could wrap up my entire eight months in France with a witty snapshot of gross generalizations, which have the good intentions of being personal and sentimental, but in reality is overly simplistic and empty. I wish that I could articulate how trying to cancel the contract on my phone leads me to believe that Dante's fifth circle of hell is actually the SFR customer service center, or adequately describe the sincerity with which I hugged goodbye two boys whom I've had the pleasure to watch grow up this year, or the feeling of tristesse that hit me suddenly upon walking out of my café for the last time.

Instead, I can only tell you that the process of unpacking this experience, literally and metaphorically, will happen in stages and it may be awhile before I have any real perspective. So, I'll do what I can. I'm finishing up the French life with a weekend in Paris that, so far, has contained everything that I consider to be so attached to my Parisian identity. I'll leave you now for a stroll down the Canal St. Martin before heading off to meet some friends and then see the Balanchine/Millepied program at the Paris Opera Ballet. Tomorrow brings new surprises and treasures to be discovered with good people and, in a little over 48 hours, I'll be touching down in the States.

A très bientôt, mes amis!

Love, Doria

p.s - ok, fine.  Here are some silly lists for you:

10 Things I will miss about Strasbourg:

• Cafés and the habitués (the regulars) whom I've come to know this year.

• Walking everywhere.

• Independence.

• The river Ille, especially the passerelles lined with willow trees.

• My friends and adoptive families.

• Speaking word poetry aka French. For example, did you know that a little milk to put in your coffee or tea is referred to as "une nuage du lait" -- a cloud of milk. How perfect is that?

• Stopping every few feet because every building and street corner is beautiful and deserves a moment of appreciation.

• Alsatian pride. I never tire of hearing the joy and pride with which native Alsatians will toast their region and slam Paris.

• Being the anomaly. "You're American? NO WAY!"

• Feeling lost and found at the same time.

10 Things I will do immediately upon arrival in California (in order):

• Cry. No shame, I can't help it. Girlfriend is gonna be tearing up starting over the Sierra Nevadas. I don't even want to know how it'll go down once the Golden Gate Bridge is in sight. Sorry not sorry in advance to whoever is sitting next to me.

• Turn on the American cell phone. Call me :)

• Say "pardon" and "merci" to all the wrong people including random customs dude, lady whom I am trying to pass on the moving sidewalk thing, and also to the poor kid I practically run over because I see my sister.

• Hug it out with the family Charlson. The crying will probably recommence about now.

• Eat a burrito.

• Ask to drive home from the airport. (Yes, obviously I ate the burrito in the airport. What else is baggage claim for? ).

• Be denied my request to drive home from the airport because of lack of valid documentation, jetlag, and also because I haven't operated a car in eight months.

• Go home and hug the puppies!

• Remind myself that I love the puppies, even though I hate dog hair on all my clothes.

• Sit in my room, on my bed and sigh of too much happiness and contentment.

une noisette (hazelnut)

Buried deep in the menu at my usual café is la petite noisette. Less recognizable than the café au lait and fussier than its brother, the espresso, the noisette is highly underrated. For those of you unfamiliar with her, the noisette is an espresso served with a spot of milk about the size of a hazelnut. There's something about the metaphor of the noisette that resonates with me recently. Perhaps it's the particularity of the specification -- it must be a hazelnut-sized drop of milk. It's so French. I think, though, that it's the idea that something so basic and routine (the espresso) takes on an entirely new identity with just the slightest addition, a  literal drop of change.

I've been negligent in the maintenance of this blog and a lot has happened in the last month. Here's a brief summary: My Passover celebrations were the stuff of stories for years to come (have you ever been to a Seder conducted entirely in French that ended at 3am? Yeah, I didn't think so). I checked something major off of my life to-do list with a trip to Amsterdam. Amsterdam was the only city that I was determined to visit this year and I was lucky enough to have been able to experience it with two of my best friends, Charlotte and Rebecca. Highlights included biking through the blooming tulip fields on the outskirts of the city, having a week immersed in beautiful art, eating terrific food, walking through exquisite gardens, and just spending some time with these women whom I miss dearly and live on separate continents from me and from each other. I've entered the final phase of my work here in Strasbourg and am attempting to get as much finished as I can before heading back to the States. While the writing itself is moving slower than I would like, I have been doing a lot of reflecting and reframing, and I am hopeful that you will enjoy the final product. The past two weeks have been full of incredible people. In addition to being in Paris last week to celebrate a friend's birthday and say goodbye to my friends who are based in our capital, I've had a series of incredible conversations with a new friend who has rejuvenated my passion for my work and for that, I am so grateful. As I begin to wrap up my life here in Europe, I couldn't imagine sharing one of my last weekends with anyone other than Hannah and Christine who are friends from Stanford and make life infinitely more joyful and beautiful. So, now you are updated.

In two weeks, I'll be touching down in the Bay Area which astonishes me for many reasons. For the most part I can't contain my excitement (a late-night viewing of the Princess Diaries was almost too much for this SF addict), and I also can't help but wonder how the rest of the people in my life have been living this year. Having kept in touch with many of the people whom I hold most dear, I am not too concerned about fundamental changes, but what are the little things that I've missed while abroad that have altered them and placed them on a slightly different path? What are their noisettes? What are those moments/events/instances in my life? Can I even pinpoint them? A concept upon which I've been reflecting a lot this year is the creation of "points of reference." Commonalities such as shared histories, trajectories, values, friends, etc. make points of reference rather easy: "Hey, remember that one time at the beach when you stepped on a jellyfish?" If you were there, the emotions and sensory details of that moment instantly spring to life and can be overlayed onto new experiences. What happens, though, when there are events that are so nuanced that points of reference are obsolete? In going through my journal from the year, it's interesting to see how many moments were minute and yet profound. I found thoughts and experiences that I never shared with anyone that I dismissed as minor that ended up being recurring themes and points of reference for myself.

Yesterday, I started preparing to pack up my home. I gathered all the letters that I've received this year, and realized how much more vulnerable we are when we write. I am so appreciative of the authenticity and the exposure that it takes to write a letter and fill it with the things that make up one's day, no matter how mundane. It is in these letters that I feel more connected to those moments that we tend to overlook but contribute so greatly to who we are. I am excited to reconnect with you all in person to try and better understand those drops of life that magically turn our days from espresso into noisette. 

With love and the hopes of a coffee date in California, 

Doria 

next year in...?

Hello Friends,

Tonight begins the Jewish festival of Passover -- the holiday lasts eight days and commemorates Moses freeing the Israelites from the bonds of slavery in Egypt. As with most Jewish celebrations, Passover can be summarized with the cliché: "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat!" However, for me, Passover has always been so much more than a holiday, it's been a commitment to remember the past and to actively participate in making the world more free and more just.

Each year, we are obligated to retell the story in its entirety: the bitterness of the oppression our enslaved ancestors felt at the helm of their masters, the story of Moses as a humble leader, the plagues sent upon the Egyptians to sway the Pharaoh, the exodus and journey from captivity to freedom, the joy and sweetness of liberty. The more we tell this story, the more it becomes cemented in our psyches. The obligation to retell is entwined with the necessity to remember, to make personal our shared history, to prevent other injustices from affecting other people. As familiar as these themes and this story has become, I will admit that it is sometimes difficult to really put myself in the place of the ancient Hebrews, to really feel like it is my journey and my escape to freedom, from my comfortable house in California.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware that Passover is my favorite holiday. Not only because I have a thing for ritual and tradition (Passover is full of extensive preparations relating to the special dietary needs of the week, cleaning, the festive meal, etc.), but also because Passover is a time of reflection and contemplation of ourselves and our impact on society. I love the retelling, and aim to use social justice and relevant societal flaws to bring meaning and empathy into the joyous familial celebration. The food doesn't hurt either. This year marks the first Passover that I have ever spent without my family in my twenty-two years and to be honest, its bittersweet. While I am thrilled and honored at the opportunity to spend this holiday with families who have generously and warmly welcomed me into their homes, I cannot help but to wish I were with my own friends and family singing about the four sons to the tune of "My Darling Clementine," laughing as my mother bringing herself to tears by eating a whole spoonful of horseradish, and leading the kiddish over the first cup of wine.

This year brings yet another new dimension to the holiday as I have been studying, and will be spending my seders, with families who have experienced their own exodus. Willingly or not, the people whom and the community in which I have spent the past few months immersed has experienced the trauma of leaving their native land and relocating in the hopes of finding a better life in a new country. In my growing collection of oral histories, the significant majority express a longing and nostalgia for the past and communities in which ways of life were dictated by religion and family without complication. Passover is always a time to use the past as a lens through which to live in the present and future, but it seems real here somehow in a way that I can't quite place. I have been warned that the seders in which I will participate tonight and tomorrow are a bit "old-school" (that would be a direct quote from my French friend, S) and are almost the same as the way they are conducted back in Morocco and Algeria, as if that were something for which she needed to apologize. However, for me, it seems only appropriate that Pesach is celebrated with one foot in the past and one in the future. To remember is to move forward.

Unlike years past in which I dictated my liberal, modern, feminist seder, this year I will be participating in two Orthodox seders. I recall discussing Passover over Shabbat lunch a few weeks ago and the table being shocked at my commentary on the controversy of placing an orange on the seder plate to represent women. The idea of a cup for Miriam in addition to a cup for Elijah was ridiculous and unnecessary. So, I am embracing the world as it comes to me and will do like the Strasbourgeois via North Africa do. And, lucky you, you are the audience for my social action commentary this year.  Each year, I like to focus on four areas to which I want to draw attention, areas in which I want consciously act and to learn more about in the coming year and discuss them during the seder. I encourage you to think about your four issues and I would love to hear them, if you'd like to share. If I were at my own seder, I would dedicate the customary four glasses of wine in the following fashion:

1. For years the Jewish people were enslaved because of their religion and their identity. For all those who are persecuted, shamed, abused, and exploited because of their race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, and religious affiliation, I dedicate this first cup of wine. 

2. Passover necessitates the reading and retelling of the stories of our ancestors. Our traditions live on both orally and through the written word; however, too many in our world do not have access to safe, basic and equitable education. I dedicate the second cup to the continued fight for the freedom and the right to education for all. 

3. Liberation of the body is not the same as liberation of the soul and of the mind. The stigma surrounding mental and psychological disorders such as depression, bi-polar disorder and eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia can be so paralyzing that one feels captive within themselves, unable to seek help or discuss their medical concerns with friends, family, or health professionals. I dedicate this third cup of wine to those struggling with mental illness, to those professionals who work tirelessly to treat and bring attention to mental health, and in the hopes of changing our society to effectively treat and support those who, at this moment, cannot help themselves. 

4. This week marked the 20th anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda and tomorrow is the first anniversary of the Boston marathon bombings. The history of the Jewish people is not the only narrative marked by unspeakable pain and atrocities. As a commitment to those who are victims, to all those who have been lost due to senseless hate and violence, including those killed in Kansas City yesterday, I use this fourth and final cup of wine as a commitment to speak out against injustice and to create peace through love and understanding. 

Jews traditionally end the seder with the phrase, "L'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalayim -- next year in Jerusalem!," with Jerusalem traditionally representing the Promised Land, the return to Zion, the notion of the Jewish people all celebrating together and a sense of unity and of freedom to partake in these traditions openly and with passion. I encourage you all to join me in the exercise of thinking about ways in which to create and promote freedom and unity within our own communities so that next year we can all, regardless of tradition and religion, celebrate in our "Jerusalem" together.

Wishing you all a chag sameach v'kasher, a happy and kosher Pesach. Sending all my love from Strasbourg,
Doria

piège à touriste

My dear friends,

In the blink of an eye, March has turned into April and with it, blooming life abounds. Having spent most of my life in San Francisco where the seasons are fog and no fog, to have the opportunity to live in a place that experiences visible change with the passage of time is something extraordinary. I write to you today from my favorite café-boat on the river Ille watching La Grande Cavalcade (known to me as "random Sunday in April giant parade") pass us on the quay. I found out through much prodding that the parade is Strasbourg's version of carnaval; however, the abundance of witches and wizards in the procession may lead one to think it was just devised as an excuse to reuse the Halloween costumes from last year. No matter the occasion, there are hundreds of adorably costumed French babies and children, lots of confetti, and colorful drummers passing by, which makes this a good day!

The title of this blogpost, piège à touriste, translates to 'tourist trap.' It refers, of course, to the kitschy, overpriced souvenir shops and restaurants usually near major attractions that deliver inauthentic, often disappointing, shadows of their intended purpose. I believe, though, that people can become tourist traps as well. With merely two days in Paris, what does one do? Well, you have to do the Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame. The Louvre. Eat a few crêpes. Drink coffee outdoors while looking chic. Walk a lot. Get yelled at for being a dumb American because you asked for ketchup... you get the idea. So, how do I, the member of the party most familiar with Paris, not fall into the same problem of skimming the surface of this place that I adore with canned speeches about the history of France since the Revolution, walking the same routes with different people, pointing out the same street art and making the same once-witty comments about the differences between the French and Americans?

I was fortunate enough to have spent the majority of the past month with other people -- friends and family who generously graced me with their presence either here in Strasbourg, in Paris, or in various other places between the two. I've been thinking of how one could play with the semantics of them being guests versus visitors, of me playing tour guide or host, or of us being, simply, travelers together -- does that change the dynamic or mindset of a reunion or meeting? In terms of experiences, does it mean that someone shares and someone receives? Are memories being shared or created with equal measure for both parties? Does it matter? It does to me. Let me state for you my first world problem: I do not want to set foot in the Louvre for a very long time. I've determined, though, that with the right people, no matter how familiar one is with a place or a concept, visiting or re-visiting that known thing becomes new and exciting once more.  I've found that the most rewarding and fulfilling moments I've had in the past few weeks involved diverging from the path, ever so slightly, so as to engage the familiar in a different conversation. For example, I've been to Sacré Coeur maybe ten times in the past two years; however, before two weeks ago I had never been with anyone to whom being in this extraordinary holy space meant anything. The conversation that ensued about religion and spiritual practice (both comparative and personal) changed forever the way that I will enter that place.

I've been thinking a lot, too, about how the concept of home. What does it mean that I'm sharing my adoptive home with the people from my "real home"? Can I call Strasbourg my home? And, the constant conversation that I have with myself every time I'm in Paris: could I make this place my home? It's been a long time since I've read an essay that resonated with me as much and, raised as much thought, as "On Not Going Home" by James Wood. It's long, but I highly encourage you to read it and I will throw in tea and cookies for you, if you're willing to talk about it in person. I will share with you one quote upon which I've been ruminating:

"When [Wood, a British ex-pat] left [England] 18 years ago, I didn't know how strangely departure would obliterate return: how could I have done? It's one of time's lessons, and can only be learned temporally. What is peculiar, even a little bitter, about living for so many years away from the country of my birth, is the slow revelation that I made a large choice a long time ago that did not resemble a large choice at the time; that it has taken years for me to see this; and that this process of retrospective  comprehension in fact constitutes a life - is indeed how life is lived. Freud has a wonderful word, 'afterwardness', which I need to borrow, even at the cost of kidnapping it from its very different context. To think about home and departure from home, about not going home and no longer feeling able to go home, is to be filled with a remarkable sense of 'afterwardness': it is too late to do anything about it now, and too late to know what should have been done. And that may be all right."

Not going to lie, as beyond excited I am to return back to California in a few short weeks (eight, if you're counting), I'm preparing myself for the inevitable: that the home I left will, in many ways, be different from the home to which I return. We shall see whether I experience "afterwardness" from my decision to live in France, to move to Providence in September, from all of the cumulative life choices that I've made to this point; however, I am confident that it will all be all right in the end.

With love,
Doria

Six-bucket well as seen with Hannah (Obernai, France)

Market bounty (Dijon, France)

Family comes to visit! (Strasbourg, France)

Hospice (Beaune, France)

bouger - (v.) to move, to shift

Hello, dear ones and happy March! I hope that the sun has greeted you, wherever you are, as warmly as it greeted me this morning. Spring is indeed in the air, and with it, much anticipation for change and growth.

It's been quite the month! In the past few weeks, my future has become much more certain which is at once liberating, comforting, and terrifying. It also provides the type-As like me with a definitive goal - something against which I can measure growth and divide up my energies and priorities. As promised in my previous post, I have made serious efforts in the past month to refresh. Beginning with the Fulbright mid-year conference in Paris, I was lucky enough to receive feedback on my research thus far from incredible academics who I hope to one day call my colleagues. To say my work here is independent is, well, a gross understatement. With little guidance from anyone, it was important and necessary to hear that my questions and struggles are ones that will not dissipate with increased levels of education or years of experience, but are ones that define my profession. Learning that it is how and when to work through periods of uncertainty that distinguishes people in academia, not whether or not uncertainty presents itself, was immensely valuable and something that I know will manifest itself frequently.

February was also a month of transit and movement. The concepts of travel and transit have always fascinated me, and I appreciated the suggestion that I write about and reflect upon the opportunities and the freedoms with which I explore this crazy planet. My relationship to movement, as defined in its broadest senses, comes from a few sources: somatically and artistically, through the world of dance; historically, through the refugee status of my maternal grandmother and the constant wanderings of my father, as a child of the military; and, currently, by being a foreigner who loves to adventure and whose work involves delving into the histories of those whose movements were restricted.

I have now started the portion of my research that involves conducting oral interviews of North African Jews in Strasbourg. The woman with whom I spoke this past week is 73 years old with graying brown hair and eyes that shine with a delightful mixture of enthusiasm, love and a tiny bit of mischief. She is vivacious, brilliant, and has a laugh that is mesmerizing. Not to mention, she's a great storyteller. Throughout her interview, she would make the comparison between her life and my own "We grew up in a completely Jewish world, not like you in America," for example. Thérèse invited me to celebrate Shabbat with her family last night, and we were able to finish a conversation we started during her session about aspects of her life in Marrakech for which she is nostalgic. She mentioned being in close proximity to her family, the sense of community that existed in her neighborhood that somehow hasn't translated exactly to her life in France, her grandmother's cooking, etc. I asked her, too, what she did not miss about her childhood and she responded in one word: flexibility. She explained that her society was rigid, both within the Jewish community in terms of religious practice, and also within the broader Moroccan community with the restrictions placed on Jews and also on women. Thérèse was supposed to work as a nurse in Casablanca, but her father wouldn't let her live in a city by herself as a single woman, so she was sent to live with her sister, who had already immigrated to France, as she continued her studies. Throughout our discussion, Thérèse talked about her immigration to France not as a defining moment, per se, but as the beginning of her life independent from those who would limit her mobility and her freedom to be herself. Yes, she remains incredibly close with her family, but being able to pursue a destiny different from that which her father had foreseen and prescribed (he wanted her to be a nurse, she is a retired anthropologist) literally released her into herself.

In addition to being a shot of humility and gratitude (um, hello, it's an amazing thing to be able to decide to go to Luxembourg on a random Tuesday and actually have the opportunity to make it happen), my interview has helped me to think about how and in what ways the notion and desire of freedoms shifts as we grow older. At this point in my life, taking advantage of these opportunities seems like the right choice for a lot of reasons. And also, when I'm settled and no longer nomadic, perhaps the choice of where to make my home and build my family will be enough. I wonder in what ways our journeys of personal freedoms overlap and in which ways they are vastly different. If you would like to share, so would I...

In thinking about my remaining three months here on this continent (for now), I am on a mission to acknowledge, recognize, and create those moments that release me into myself. I don't know the forms in which those moments will present themselves, but I promise to share them with you when they do.

Until then, I am sending you my love,
Doria


P.S. -  In case you were curious, my friends, here is February by the numbers:

8,658 miles traveled.
   2 planes
   2 trams
   11 trains
   14 taxis
   19 buses
   33 subways
67 hours in transit.
2 countries and 4 states visited.
2 SIM cards used.
29 reunion hugs received and given.
0.5 matzoh balls eaten.
37 coffees consumed.
1 nose re-piercing obtained.
3 air mattresses slept on.
6 beautiful valentines celebrated.
5 live performances attended.
290583* calories burned from laughing.

*This number cannot be verified. But the number > hella. 

rabbit rabbit (good luck for a new month)

good morning, my dear friends,

i have come up with a term which i am enjoying thinking about at this very moment in time: curated memories. being immersed in the world of sociology, history and memory studies for the past four months, the idea of memory as a construct is not new. in many cases, we remember what we choose to remember in the ways that best suit the narrative that we create for ourselves and each other. i've been thinking about art and performance as a platform for the curated memory: the selection of certain events and stories to be presented in a way that emphasizes different characters and aspects - distorting reality in some ways, and making it more truthful (whatever that means) in others. while i don't mean to correlate this blog to any type of artistic outlet, this blog post aims to highlight the past three weeks in ways that will allow future me (and you should you randomly look at this blog in 10 years) to acknowledge some of the difficulties that have arisen this month -- to think about my time here in a more honest and holistic, rather than idyllic or romanticized fashion. here it goes....

january was a hard month for me. the most difficult in recent memory, actually. with so much anticipation about the future and so much work to be done in the present, i found it difficult to focus. being away from my friends and family felt more acute somehow, once routines began again and we all delved back into work and daily life. i've felt distanced by others and i've simultaneously been pushing away and isolating myself. research has been going well, progress is being made, and yet it still feels fuzzy and abstract. my plans for my life post-france are anything but solidified, and the desires of wanting to control my future are impeding some of my experiences in the present.

i don't know, perhaps you were one of the many people who woke up on january 6th (the first monday of 2014) and were dreading it with all your might. the idea of going back to school or work, dieting, having to "make good" on all of those new year's resolutions you drunkenly scribbled on a cocktail napkin at 11:45pm on dec 31 at the urging of your NYE date whom you wanted to please, was daunting and both under- and over-whelming at the same time. maybe you were the complete opposite and sprung out of bed that monday excited about the potential that this new year contains, ready and thirsty for the next steps. and then, there were people like me - those who found themselves in between mourning a terrific year, meaningful holidays, and wonderful experiences now in the past. and yet, you know, all the while,  that the world will be just as good, if not better in the upcoming months as long as we acknowledge and take ownership of our role in making it great.

i am not one to create new year's resolutions. i am one to plan and work and plan and work and plan and achieve what i set out to achieve. the fact that my future is so unclear is not unusual for someone of my age and place in life; however, it's an uncomfortable and vulnerable place. it's interesting, something that i've noticed as a cultural difference between france and the united states takes place with a primary interaction with someone. in the states, one usually asks within the first two minutes, "so, what do you do?" - here, that's not the case. in conversation with one of my friends here, she reminded me that it's not what you do -- it's how you do it with, with whom, and for what reasons. as much of my identity to this point has been linked to academics and academic success, it's scary to think that my life will turn onto a path with which i am unfamiliar and, very likely, unequipped. i guess that's the point though, right? we become familiar and we adapt.

so, with the first twelfth of 2014 completed, i vow here in front of you all that february will be different and with a renewed spirit of exploration and creativity and with meaningful and pure intentions. the halfway point of my journey here in strasbourg was just recently celebrated and it's exciting to think that, two years ago, i wrote on this very blog that i wanted to come back to france after graduation. although i had envisioned my return and living abroad, the past four months have brought me into a world that i couldn't have imagined and creating the environment to continue to thrive here is on me, and me alone.

in thinking about the narratives that we choose to create and, equally importantly, those which we choose to share and present to each other, i thank you most humbly for holding me accountable. i received a letter the other day from an old friend, and in it she enclosed a picture that i drew for her about eleven years ago. it was the two of us in front of the eiffel tower and the caption said, in my fifth-grade handwriting, "send in 2014 - just in case we get lost." aside from being shocked and moved that she kept it, i couldn't help but smile at the poignancy of this smudged little note. january was a moment of feeling lost in the fog -- some moments of clarity and moments of obstruction -- and it's comforting knowing that there's something or someone(s) to be there once the fog clears.

i will update with adventures in paris and new york later this month. until then, i am sending you all my love,
doria

Strasbourg A-D

Bonjour à tous et bonne année! Happy 2014, I have a feeling it will be a tremendous year for all of us.

A quick update: Today marks the fourth day since Dec 10 that I have been alone in Strasbourg - it's been an amazing month full of lively visitors, lots of laughter and many adventures.

I just said goodbye to the incomparable, Dr. Stone after eight days of wonderful vacation both here and in Germany. 90% of people whom I told about my mother's visit expressed something like, "How wonderful! It's so great to have your mother cook for you again!" To set the record straight, I wish that I could tell you that it was great to experience my mom's cooking; however, let's be real - 'twas I that did all the everything in terms of food. Other than her lack of contributions to the dinner table and her thrice-hourly reminder that I have to get rid of my nose-piercing upon my return to the States, it was incredible to have my mother come and visit and understand my life here in France. The only downside: she reminded me of all that I miss back in California...

To start off this year, I've decided to introduce you all, bit by bit, to my home here in Strasbourg. This alphabetic method may seem elementary, and I hope it doesn't bore you; however, I think it'll be an interesting challenge to identify aspects of my life about which I want you to know and share them with you in this way. Enjoy!

A: Café Atlantico

On any given weekday from 4:30pm-7pm (Strasbourg time), you can likely find me here at Atlantico reading, working on emails, generally procrastinating, or actually attempting to write something. If the picture is unclear, the café is a boat that sits on the river Ill, which I love, except when the bateaux-mouches go past and I get a little seasick from the rocking. They make an awesome café crème, the most incredible cookies in the world, and have introduced me to my new favorite beer (Doigt de Dieu, from Brasserie Uberach, in case anyone was wondering). 

B: Bibliothèque Nationale et Universitaire (BNU)

If I'm having a good morning, it means that I've gotten myself to the BNU to do some reading before lunchtime. Yeah, this palatial building is my library. Pretty awesome, right? Well, ok, actually this location is currently under construction, so I haven't been in for a while (don't worry! I read at the other locations). The BNU is located at the Place de la République, which is a beautiful roundabout near my house that also is the home to the national theater, the prefecture, and a park famous for its tulips in the springtime. 

C: Choucroute

Often called the official dish of Strasbourg, choucroute garnie can be found in every Alsatian restaurant in this town. This photo, taken by my girl, Nora, is indicative of the choucroute traditionelle -- five types of meat of unknown provenance, a boiled potato and a veritable pile of sauerkraut, which is not called sauerkraut here because -- gasp! something German! I personally have never eaten choucroute; however, I have been assured that it is actually quite good and extremely hearty and comforting. 

D: Dieudonné

Dieudonné does not particularly have to do with Strasbourg; however, I thought it would be more interesting for me to tell you about this current issue facing the community I am studying. I do not have a photo of Dieudonné, you can look him up - he is a comedian and quasi-political figure in France who invented/brought to light/made famous the "quenelle," a hand-gesture that he claims is anti-système. For French Jews, however, this has raised new fears of antisemitism in French society because of its resemblance to an inverted Nazi salute. Dieudonné is now in the middle of a heated debate about freedom of speech and censorship, as his French tour has been cancelled by the mayors of many towns, citing hate speech and mockery of the Holocaust. While I am, admittedly, on the outskirts of the Jewish community here in France, many organizations including the UEJF (Union des Etudiants Juifs de France), the CIBR (Consistoire Israelite de Bas-Rhin),  and the UJLS (Union Juive Liberale de Strasbourg) and many of my friends here have sent me petitions to sign, emails to send on, and other forms of protest against the inflammatory language of Dieudonné. I think this controversy brings to light many themes that I'm working through and those which I studied at Stanford -- how does the memory of the past influence the present, and at what cost? At what point should or do Jews have to relinquish the status of "victim"? Should they ever? What are the political and historical implications we can derive from both sides of this argument? I encourage you all to read more about the current situation about Dieudonné, the quenelle and the valid responses of both sides. I would be more than happy to speak with you about my opinion as well, all you have to do is ask. 

Happy Thursday, my loves!

xoxo, d