(un)common ground: 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