Ah, Paris! Oui, oui.

I arrived in Paris on the 20th, after an actually restful nine hour flight (somehow, I successfully avoided all but a mild sense of jet lag). I found a great internet network where you can find a couch to surf upon anywhere in the world. The whole system is based on generosity and trust- how's that for renewing one's faith in humanity? Bianca, a theater student here in Paris, has been my host here. She has allowed me to stay in her apartment, with my own key, and with free use of her computer, the kitchen, and hot shower. I have also gotten to hear about her art- the puppet show set to live medieval music- and been invited to a masked party and opera put on by her friends (unfortunately I was feeling too tired to attend). I am now at her parents huge Parisian apartment, by myself, surrounded by antiques and meubles exuding cozy homeness. Wow, I am feeling so blessed and trusted!

I have spent the last two days being a tourist in Paris, and pretending I speak more French than I really do (a lot of mercis and smug smiling). Really, though, I am finding that people respond relatively nicely to my attempts, and I am enjoying putting my history of bookishness to real live experimentation. Today I ate a Nutella et banane crépe in the artsy and quiant streets of Montmarte. The sun was shining and the parks glowing green and golden despite the late autumn brisk air, and people seemed happy and sociable as they chattered over lunch and wine in the cozy cafés.

Yesterday I spent several hours in Le Centre de George Pompidou in the Musée National de L'art Moderne, though I only made it to 1950. It was fascinating to think about how a piece of art, merely color and marks created by one person one time, such as one of Picasso's cubism studies, can refer to such a depth of history and thought. I like to get really close to the pieces and examine the chunks of paint, the evidence of the dryness of the paint brush, the texture of the canvas; somehow this makes the art feel more real and accessible. How did they do it? Was it all on purpose, or do the artists just let their perspective, from within a certain frame of personal and social history, play out? Artistic genius within modern art seems to lie in the questioning of artistic formalities and traditions of the past, coming up with nuanced formulations of seeing art. But what about art as commentary on the world, rather than commentary of and for itself?...

And here is evidence of the extreme differences between traveling in India, and traveling in Europe. India is heightened stimulation of the senses, of the sense of the human animal. It is the in-your-face color of aliveness that Paris lacks, but makes up for in the expression and teasing of the human intellect. Paris is: small talk over an espresso, political consciousness, architectural monuments of power, philosophy, the appreciation of antique glass perfume bottles, field trips for the school children to a museum of modern art, a place of layered world histories, fashion, self-conscious pride in language and culture. I am very content to be here in the midst of Frenchness.