La Coupe du Mondialisation

I saw this sticker graffiti the other day. For anyone who doesn't know, the "Maghreb" are the three french-speaking countries of North Africa: Tunisia, Morocco, and Algeria. In North Africa, the relationships between the countries are a little terse (borders are closed between Algeria and the other two, who want to distance themselves from Algeria's fundamentalism; Tunisia is the tightest with the EU and strives to present itself as Westernized, much to the disdain of the other two; Morocco has by far the highest tourism rate). However, here in France where immigrants of all three nations find themselves in the margins, they seem to be united. Or at least aspire to be:

I got to witness this firsthand at the England-Algeria World Cup match, which I went to watch in State Charlety. This stadium, with its spacey, planet-like ring around it, must have seemed like a great idea when it was rebuilt in the early 90s--rebuild stadium in the dead zone on the Paris perimeter, bring people and revenue to the area. It flopped horribly, however, quickly falling into disuse and disrepair. As an effort to use the space, the Mairie of Paris decided to open it to the public for the World Cup and project all of the French, Algerian, Cameroonian and Ivory Coast World Cup games on the jumbotron. Since the southern suburbs host a lot of Paris' Muslim families, the Stadium attracted an enthusiastic crowd for the Algerian match.

I was thrilled to be in the midst of the excitement. The French, however, were not. I had already heard several racist doomsday prophesies muttered at me throughout the day ("The Algerians are playing tonight? Alas. And it had been so calm up until now. Guess everything will be broken tomorrow. Better stay in and lock the doors...") The huge lines of riot police waiting to heard us along when we got off the metro were a testament to this fear--which seemed completely unwarranted when juxtaposed with the families of women and children passing by, on their way to cheer on their country.

Almost every Algerian supporter seemed to be wearing some form of their flag, be it face paint, a jersey, or even a flag-cape. There were also a sizable minority of Tunisian and Moroccan flags being waved and worn in support of the Algerian team--and surprisingly, with the full support of the bearers' Algerian peers. It had never occurred to me before, but the Algerian flag is, quite appropriately, a visual amalgam of the three francophone countries' flags--it has the star/Moon emblem of the Tunisian flag, and the red and white color scheme, but it mixes those elements with the green of Morocco's flag.

If you watched the game, you already know that it was pretty dull and uneventful. You wouldn't have known from the Algerian supporters' enthusiasm, though--everytime one of their players merely had possession of the ball they would start cheering like crazy, and any attempt at scoring, no matter how ridiculous or off the mark, would produce a roar of approval that sounded no less joyful than an actual goal might have been (had one ever been scored). At halftime, fans stormed the bleachers at the far side of the field with flares and scaled the stadium to wave flags from the top as florescent-vested stadium workers did their best to keep things under control.
The excitement was even greater at the end of the game. Flares were lit across the field, and there was a wild stampede towards the exit to reach the riot-police lined streets, where you could hear the whoops and cries and horn-honks of "victory" (well, of 'not losing'--the game tied 0-0) for hours to come.
I'm a little sad that the Algerian team didn't score because I'm curious to know what the reaction would have been. On the other hand, I'm also glad England didn't win, because I would have hated for the suspicion and mistrust behind the scads of riot police to have been justified. As it was, the Algerian reception of our group of Americans and an Englishman was jolly and playful, and the experience wholly unifying. It's a real shame that America's two favorite pastimes--football and baseball--are so insular, because it seems that nothing brings countries together like sports.

UK Union

The primary reason for Tom's and my recent England vacation was, of course, his brother's wedding. Between venue issues and catering catastrophes I wouldn't say that the getting hitched went off without a hitch, but in the end the ceremony was as lovely as the bride (and to be honest, is there such a thing as a wedding without a hint of chaos?). Here is the bride (in a stunning, light pink dress with an embroidered bodice and long ruffled skirts) and her groom saying their vows:
At the behest of the mother of the groom I was given an expensive Nikon and became a sort of unofficial wedding photographer. This was one of my favorite candid shots of the evening, of a very love-struck looking groom gazing adoringly at his blushing bride:
Apparently it's custom for women to wear hats to English weddings. I was a little alarmed to hear about the rule, seeing as how I've no experience in hat buying, but was quickly reassured by the mother of the groom that this was to be a casual wedding--no hats required. That didn't, of course, prevent some of the more fashionable guests from turning out hatted--or rather, feathered. Turns out that the definition of a "hat" for a wedding is pretty loose and is rarely something big enough to accommodate one's entire head, usually taking the form instead of artistically splayed feathers or a small, bellboy-esque cap pinned on to the side of the head. Odd.
Me and the handsome best man:
Being one of the only French-speaking guests at the wedding gave me a certain level of privilege because I was able to talk to the Algerian mother of the bride and the three Algerian sisters (and yes, I tried a bit of Arabic, but my skills have slipped a lot since last summer and it didn't go very well). The bride being Algerian (and Muslim) meant that the wedding was a little different than others I've attended. Rather than being held in a church or presided over by a priest/pastor, it was presided over by city officials and held in a beautiful town hall complete with stained glass windows, high ceilings and elegant staircases. Best of all, it was only a five minute walk from the groom's apartment, which came in handy when we ran into him still in jeans and a sweater, picking up canapés about 10 minutes before the wedding. He was so pressed for time that he ended up not putting his contact lenses in until halfway through the reception--a fact that Tom exploited in his best man's speech, saying that Nicholas in his blindness had "married the wrong sister"

The ceremony itself was pretty delightfully brief--basically just a civil ceremony with an audience. We then moved to the reception hall for a dinner catered by a Lebanese restaurant, followed by drinks and dancing. The highlight of the night occurred mid-reception, when the bride disappeared for 15 minutes and reappeared in full traditional Algerian dress, with flowing skirts, metal bracelets and a headpiece (pictured on the right in the photo below, with her mother in the center). The bride, her three sisters and her mother then lead the guests in an Algerian dance, complete with confetti and youyous (the call of celebration that North African women all seem to know how to make). My only regret is that we had to leave before we got the chance to admire the bride's other dresses--apparently she made a few more changes after we were gone.

Classes and meeting an idol at long last...

Monday is my “Stylistics and Semantics of Written French” course taught by a very down-to-business French woman who has that rare gift of really, truly loving grammar. At the orientation she seemed a little intimidating (when the question came up of addressing our tutors with the formal “vous” or the more casual “tu” she was the only one who insisted on the formality) but she knows her stuff (she actually wrote the workbooks we’re using) and her obvious passion for it actually makes it—well, not quite interesting, but close. I was happy to find out that the class is going to focus more on stylistic things, like phrasing and vocabulary, because I’m always interested in improving my writing (though as much as I dislike the grammar, I do need it…).

Tuesday is my course at the Université de Paris VII: Love in the Middle Ages. The professor is great, and the reading list that made the French students groan (they’re accustomed to spending a semester doing a close textual analysis of one or two major works) seems normal by American standards. The class is about 30 people (including a guy pushing 60) and crammed into a small, hot room for three hours, but thus is school in France. Everything she said evoked memories of courses, books and scholars from my semester in Oxford—including an apparently not-dead idea for a novel I have set in medieval France. In short, this course will be intellectually orgasmic.

Today was the one I’ve been waiting for: Assia Djebar’s class on Francophone lit. For anyone I haven’t told, Assia Djebar is a female Algerian writer whose works played a leading role in my senior thesis. Her works are generally recognized as some of the first and best examples of postcolonial North African literature, especially from a Women Studies point of view. She was also appointed to the Academie Française (an exclusive club around to regulate the French language…yeah, so it’s stupid and powerless but still a great honor) a few years back, making her the first francophone member and one of the first women. In short, she’s a big deal. From the impression I got from her novels and her accomplishments, she seemed a force to be reckoned with. The impression I got from other people after getting her was that she might be a little conceded and…well…difficult, as a teacher. The truth: my longtime literary idol has...well...been around for a long time. Assia Djebar is old.

Granted, I knew that jacket photo I had in my head must be outdated, but when I entered the class I had to squint to see the resemblance. Dressed in costume jewelry, a dress low cut enough to reveal a protruding bra underwire, a gaudy turquoise jacket,
tennis shoes and with the typically French old lady orange-red tinted hair, she looked more like a bewildered Parisian I might help out on the Métro than the defiant, sharp-tongued expat I had expected. She also wasn’t really on top of things, mentally. Although she asked for our names several times (there are only 5 of us) she couldn’t retain them, and pretty much settled on using “Laura” to address us all. Valérie, our program leader, sat-in on the class as a sort of personal secretary, reminding her several times of the attendance sheet and syllabus in front of, keeping time, keeping her on topic, and helping her find her point when she couldn’t find her way back after her frequent autobiographical tangents.

It was a little heart-breaking to watch, but I still have as much respect as ever for her accomplishments and her writing, and I can hardly hold her age against her. Also, while Djebar is getting a little senile and succumbing to the old lady tendency to blurt out observations best left as inner monologue, once she got past introductions and started talking about literature it was like her eyes lit up, her wit switched on and she was…well…brilliant. The effect of her position as an author is evident in her approach to a text, which really privileges the author and revels in specific vocabulary and the beauty of language. Plus, Djebar knows a lot of these authors, and has more or less lived these stories, and everything she says is supported with a childhood anecdote or real-life struggle. It was especially cool for me, having researched her so extensively last year, to have her in front of me, telling me things in person about her childhood and her relationship with French and Arabic that I had only read before.

After class, Valérie met up with us to touch base, saying essentially (and with an obvious, touching sense of sadness) that “we know Djebar is starting to lose her marbles, but there’s still a lot to be learned from her.” To make sure that we benefit fully from the course, Djebar will only teach every other week, and always aided by Valérie, and in the off weeks we’ll have guest lectures and discussions lead by other leading Francophone scholars in the Parisian area (including Christelle Taraud, an expert on women in the Maghreb, whose articles I read last year). All-in-all, I think it will be an intriguing, unforgettable experience, and it’s an honor to know that I will probably be among the last of NYU's students to study alongside the literary legacy that is Assia Djebar.

Paris, je t'aime

By the time you read this I will have officially been here a week. And what a week it has been. I still don’t feel like I will ever be rich, stylish or elegant enough to quite fit in here, but I love it nonetheless. There’s always something to see, always a market, a festival, a concert, or just interesting people to watch on the metro. I spent most of this weekend out and around with no company but my iPod, and as I browsed the antiques market, the used bookstore, the camera store (currently on my 4th lens cap for this Nikon), the transportation festival (weird, I know, but I saw some Seussian bicycles and the world’s first hydrogen-powered plane) I had that wonderful “all is right with the world” feeling. And now, grab-bag tidbits…

*Dorm life is still going pretty well. My only complaint continues to be the lack of soundproofing; I would be sleeping now if my neighbor weren’t watching TV. The showers aren’t bad but remind me of camping (push button, and no control over temperature, although it’s the perfect level of warmth anyway). I’ve seen a few other people’s rooms now and there’s a surprising amount of variation in size and furnishings—I have even more appreciation for my new, huge desk and shelves.

*I hear the Canadian house has en-suite bathrooms in the bedrooms and a gym. By my previous logic, this would mean France loves Canada more than anyone.

*I attended a director’s “screening” of an independent Zombie movie called “Zombies of Eureka,” composed entirely of no-budget music videos strung together from the local music scene of Eurka, CA. Strange but oddly amazing—you can find the full length thing on imdb if you’re curious. Why did I go? It was the first of many student activities in the “rectangle”—a room with a ping pong table, couches and a flatscreen in the basement, which apparently hosts weekly movie nights, open mics, and bar nights. Yummy. Can’t wait for the French semester to start and everyone to move in.

*I caught a glimpse of my mysterious musician neighbor in action in one of the basement practice rooms. Apparently he’s a she, and it’s a clarinet, not a bassoon.

*I used the kitchens for the first time this past weekend to make dinner with some GA Tech undergrads. They contributed most of the food, I brought the wine and cheese (because when I had to limit myself at the grocery store, those were, naturally, my priority items).

*One of the other grad students, Stephine (pronounced Stephanie, but she goes by Phinn) also lives here, about a floor below me. She showed up at my door this morning at the ungodly hour of 11am, beaming enthusiasm as I struggled to shrug off grogginess enough to be social. Morning people sicken me.

*I’m “auditing” the undergraduate preliminary language course (although still fully participating, oddly). The course itself is pretty useless, but I’m learning about the center and meeting a few people. Everyone has had as much trouble with housing as me, and we’re all equally frustrated with the lack of communication/organization, and impatient for formal introductions when orientation starts this Thursday.

*There are approx 200 students at the (adorable) NYU center, in the heart of the chic 16th arrondissement. 150 are (really impressive) undergrads doing a study abroad semester. 30 are Freshman in this intensive international liberal arts program they have going, of which many seem to be from diplomatic families. 18 are in the graduate program—4 in my literature track, 4 in the language and civ track, and 10 in the education track. 2 are boys. It remains to be seen if either of them are straight, but if the undergrads are any judge, signs point to No. I think the idea of France must be threatening to American masculinity somehow (not that I have any objection to the happy mélange of strong women and queers that my field seems to consist of).

*I love my iPod, and listen to it on the metro and sometimes while I walk. I have songs from the Amélie soundtrack on every playlist now, and when they come up on shuffle as I’m strolling across cobblestones my heart flutters a little (and I feel like a total dork, and am glad none of the French know what I’m listening to).

*Yesterday I met up with a friend from the Tunisia program, Brittany, for dinner in the Latin Quarter (9 euro three-course menu!) and today I went out for a Kir aperitif with a few girls from the program. Ahhh, living in a city.

*It takes me 40 minutes to get from my door to the NYU center, including walking and metro time. Not bad. The route, line 6, takes me across the bridge for the best possible view of the Eiffel tower...you know, just in case I need a reminder of how awesome my life is on the way to school.