I was born a traveler. I have always loved people watching and found a certain kind of pleasure of being in limbo- that unique traveler transit state during the time it takes to get from one place to another. In my younger days, I was known as a walker. I really felt I could walk forever and distance meant nothing if I had somewhere I wanted to go. I wasn't afraid to just get out there and start trucking.
Eventually I got a bike and that led to even more freedom. There is nothing quite like the wind whipping through your hair as you speed down the streets. The world was just a little bit more open and in my control (no more waiting for bus schedules, no more walking for hours.) I could get to places on time and riding home at night left me feeling like I owned the world.
Of course, having your own car is the ultimate in freedom. You are only limited by the cash in your pocket and land-sea borders. In these later years, I've become pretty proficient at mass forms of transport- buses, taxis, trains, even airplanes. There is a certain freedom here too. It lies not so much in control, but in a sense that you can navigate any city or village or stretch of road you happen to find yourself on. And I'd been feeling pretty good about my skills in all of these areas.
Until I got to Paris. I made a series of novice mistakes that nearly had me on a completely different kind of adventure. It started with neglecting to change my francs in Abidjan. I really thought it would be no problem to change them in France, given their tight colonial history and continued close relationship. There were so many places in Paris reminiscent of Abidjan (of course, that's like saying the mom resembles the child. I quickly realized the French had imported most of their stores, restaurants, brands and even street names. It was disorienting to be surrounded by such familiar places in a completely foreign country. Then I realized the French probably wanted it that way, in reverse.)
My first stop in Istanbul was not promising. I missed my connecting flight - which ordinarily wouldn't matter so much, more of that in transit limbo I kind of love- but I had 2 meetings immediately after my arrival, which was now delayed by 3 hours. I managed to connect for a minute to the airport wi-fi and dash off a message to my friend, but when I went in search of cash exchange I was denied. The guy behind the desk gave me a kind of clueless head shake. Nope, never heard of that money and not gonna take it. I started to feel a little stuck. Isolated with my random African cash, broken down phone charger and no way to reliably get in touch with anyone. I held out hope for France.
Upon arrival, however, I saw the same money exchange stands with the same currencies listed. No XOF. I asked the woman where I could exchange my cash and she suggested somewhere in the city- a city I couldn't actually get to because I didn't have any money for the train. What a newbie mistake! I was losing faith in myself- this was actually when the African villager sensation began to set in. Really, I hadn't changed my francs in the airport before coming? What was I thinking?
Luckily, a few things happened. I still had some charge on my phone and roaming kicked in. After a few minutes of imagining myself as Mehran Nasseri, the inspiration for The Terminal, I called my friend to explain my situation (completely embarrassed- yes, come pick up your country cousin from the airport because she doesn't have any way to get into the city. Apparently there is a whole list of people who have lived temporarily in airports, albeit with far nobler reasons than mine.) I was also able to google XOF money exchange. There were 2 places listed, one just right outside the metro. If only I could get there. (And yes, throughout my trip as we passed the multitude of street beggars and the occasional street performer, I was chided about my close call and reminded of how I'd almost been forced to consider alternate strategies for getting a metro ticket.)
Money continued to be a bit of sore spot for me during my short stay. I couldn't get used to the small numbers. I remember going through this exact experience in reverse when I first started traveling in Africa. Guinea is one of the worst for having unusually high numbers in relation to their money. Congo and West Africa have a similar number system (although different dollar/euro conversion values.) Thinking in terms of thousands is pretty ingrained in me.
When the clerk told me something was 5...it took a minute to process. 5 what? And I couldn't stop adding thousand to the end of my money sentences. "Shoes for 7 thousand euro? Not bad." When I got a handful of change, I wasn't even sure what to call it. There was also a 10 and a 5, but obviously they weren't euros. Centimes is the correct word, but no one ever seems to use it. I would hear prices like 5 64. A blank stare was really all I could offer to that.
It's amazing how fast habits of thinking can form. I have only been in Abidjan for 3 years and the small change problem has already been deeply implanted. I had small anxiety attacks every time I wanted to buy something, knowing I had a 50 euro bill. Fortunately, the rebuff never came and, much like the whole crossing on the pedestrian light, I was continuously amazed.
The small change problem in Abidjan is a huge source of frustration for me. Especially since I've come to understand that people often do have change, they just hoard it. It's become automatic to ask for the small amounts (do you have 200 franc?) so they can return a 500 or 1,000 bill. When I need to say no (because I really don't have it or because I am hoarding it myself for taxi fare) the larger stores will miraculously come up with the change (or occasionally offer a 50franc candy or laundry soap packet.) The smaller stores are obligated to refuse the purchase if they have no change to offer you.
I had a small breakdown on the cashier at a roadside boutique yesterday. I'd just come from the store across the street who couldn't sell me an item because of change problem. He started to complain as well about the problem of change, suggesting I buy more than I needed or at a higher rate, when I just lost it- I think it's cyclical for me and I was probably due a little road rage over the problem of monnaie. "How can you be in business if you have no change? You don't have change, customers don't have change, no one has change so how can you even have a business?" He just smiled and nodded his head and said, "Oui, ce ca," which infuriated me even more.
Refreshingly, Paris seemed to have no problem with change. I had a little trouble believing my small coins were worth anything however (really, a 2? What am I going to do with a 2?) and the oddity of money played around in my brain. It's really only useful because a group of people have agreed to accept it as valuable. Even these euros would lose their merit once I stepped out of the western world. And in some remote village, trying to purchase anything with a crisp orange 50 euro bill would only result in a puzzling glance and a sideways smile.
On the return through Turkey, I exchanged 5 of my 2 euro coins for Turkish lire. I bought a sandwich, a cup of tea and some candy. I was pretty successful in using up every last lire. They had an interesting machine in the airport for those who weren't so thrifty. The machine allowed you to charge up your visa, Amazon or other online accounts using the last bits of lire that you hadn't been able to spend.
As it is, I still came back with a pile of centimes. I had a plan to incorporate them into a piece of art. Whenever I think about it too closely, the money systems we've developed disturb me deeply. And that's just considering paper systems. Turns out my newbie traveling errors weren't restricted to the problem of converting cash. Traveling without a credit card creates its own set of potential problems.
If money systems set us apart, language systems have a way of bringing us together. Even in the absence of fluency, effort is all that's required to create a sense of harmony. The first leg of my return trip reinforced this idea completely.
My flight home was near dawn and I'd prepared by writing down the earliest bus and train times. What I'd completely neglected to do was look up ticket selling hours. We arrived at the metro just around 5:30 am, but there were no stands open. A line of stark, cold machines were the only thing greeting us. We had seen machines in another station that allowed you to buy a ticket with coins or cash, but on this morning, at the main station, all we saw were the card eating variety.
Rookie mistake. We wandered in circles a bit, trying to figure out what to do. My friend was urging me to just follow behind someone quickly when they passed through the gate. I considered it briefly, not even realizing I would have to do the same thing on the other end. I wasn't really prepared to do that, I was just unable to think towards a logical solution. Which is what led me to approach a man at one of the machines and just get a closer look. They only take cards, right? No coin deposit or one of those money sucking slots? No? Nope, ok.
I wanted to ask him to purchase a ticket for me in exchange for the cash but for some reason these words didn't come out. (More of my amateur traveler self showing its roots. Ugh, really?!) Luckily, my friend had the same idea and while I wandered down to the gate again, they struck up a conversation about my travel woes.
The man agreed to purchase a one way ticket to Charles de Gaulle in exchange for 10 euro cash. Good Samaritan in the airport. As he was completing the transaction, he made small talk of the globetrotter kind. He himself was a visitor to Paris and asked where we were from. When talk of Congo came up, he surprised both of us by continuing the conversation in Lingala.
"Nazoloba Lingala un peu mais nasepeli forte..." I couldn't have had a better end to my Paris stay than running into a random, helpful stranger who loves Congo as much as I do.
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
2.7.17
30.6.17
A Waif in Paris
The boys have returned. They left 2 young African kids and came back full of American air. They are huge- it was a bit stunning, even though we'd been video chatting the entire year. I hadn't gotten a good sense of their growth. Mohamed is a bona-fide teenager, with a crack in his voice and a half inch on me. It's not just the natural growth that comes along with age, but that certain kind of weight that comes along with being in America.
I have seen many friends take off for the promised land and a sign of their success comes in the way of a few extra pounds. I'd often thought it was a normal result of finally getting enough food and vitamins, but now I have a completely different perspective. My years in Africa have shown me what a difference all the processed, chemicalized, contorted food has on the human system. The boys will be going through a detox period, for sure. To say nothing of portion size.
In the meantime, Mohamed was just as stunned by Mbalia and I. "Have you lost weight? You need to eat some chicken. Mbalia needs some chicken." Apparently chicken is the cure all. I probably have lost a bit of weight since they last saw me. I was still nursing then and sporting some of my baby fat. And Mbalia has sprouted up like a little weed, complete with Mowgli legs, long and thin. Even I am sometimes taken aback by how fragile she appears. But she is strong and I know tall thinness runs in my family so I don't worry too much. She eats as much as any toddler (that is to say super finicky, only occasionally ravenous. She does love her sauce though, and I try to make sure whatever she is eating is healthy.)
At our first dinner together, I was busy feeling like a skeleton in my skin. Ousmane, Mbalia and I appeared as waifs, hardly taking up space at the table. Mohamed felt the same way, remarking, "You guys are so small."
Our main grocery items are fresh fruits and vegetables. And rice. There is the occasional pasta dish, sometimes fresh bread from the bakery, but overall, I know all of the ingredients to everything we eat. I forget how loaded American grocery stores are....the multitude of choices, pre-packaged, processed, ready to heat and ready to eat prepared food. (Though the boys swear they didn't really partake of any of this. Knowing their dad, it really was rice and sauce all the way. Along with trips for fast food burgers. And that backpack full of Reese's, Starburst and Jelly Fish they smuggled back on the plane? An anomaly....surely.)
Being in Paris gave me just a taste of this. (We actually did Paris on a budget and my only experience eating out was at a little Congolese dive fresh out of pondu but full of plantains and fish.) My initial trip to the grocery store was a bit overwhelming with choice. Not only were there simply too many brands (many of which were actually familiar) there was the fruit dilemma. In the end, I chose not to eat too many of the fruits I can no longer get (reasonably) here in Abidjan (blueberries, strawberries....any kind of berry really. ) I figured one short taste would only create a desire I have long since squelched. I did have a few cherries however, which were just perfect.
I spent much of my time in Paris feeling like an African villager. Most of my reactions to the city weren't compared to how things are in America, but how we live in Africa. Even my Congolese friends were laughing at me as they showed me around.
"You don't have to worry about crossing the street here. A long as the light is green, they will stop. They have to stop." It was true and I marveled at it every time. When the pedestrian crossing light turned green, everyone stepped off the sidewalk to go and the cars stopped, even if they were in mid-turn. Such a trustworthy system. My response a habit now, born of years of close calls with crazy drivers. I thought of one of Trevor Noah's comedy routines about this exact thing. I laughed at my amazement- just the way he described it too- even as I had to resist the urge to break into a mad dash. Luckily the streets were narrow. It wasn't long, though, before that Trevor Noah bravado set in. I started testing things out with my newfound power, jumping off the curb at second one and staring down drivers.
One thing I couldn't get over, however, was the way people refreshed themselves from the water flowing up through the street drains. I never got the real story about why the water was even flowing up in the first place, (to clean the streets?) but my friend insisted it was clean water. And people everywhere were washing their heads, splashing about and cooling off from the Paris heat.
In Africa, street water is pretty dirty. A lot of times, it runs with a tinge of green. You barely want to step in it, let alone get any part of your hands or face wet. I couldn't really get behind this idea of playing in the street water (although I did try to imagine it something like the fire hydrant water of NYC fame?)
Other things about Paris puzzled me as well. The European distaste for air conditioning, for example. The studio where we stayed- a 6 flight walk-up, apparently super common- didn't even have so much as a fan. The buses were plentiful and efficient (even sporting a handy count-down timer at the bus stop so you knew exactly how many minutes until the next bus arrived,) but they all had long, narrow windows that offered no breeze. Everyone was fanning themselves with their pocket sized maps of the city.
I did appreciate the energetic air. There was a kaleidoscope of transportation in use- from walking to biking, to riding on scooters and even uni-wheels. Bike lanes accommodated the many modes of transport. (Tourist tip- stay out of the bike lane, it is definitely not a walking lane. The bikes come fast, ringing bells, and passing each other with fervor.)
I appreciated the many bike rental stands throughout the city, allowing one to pick up a bike, run their errands and then return the bike to the stand closest to their house. I never got a number on how much it cost, but there were plenty in circulation. The rental bikes were easy to spot with their metal baskets and sleek silver fenders.
Electric cars were hugely popular, even meriting their own parking areas, with charging station. Motorcycles and scooters were also high on the transport list. I saw all kinds of people revving up, from business ladies in suits and high heels to dads with their kids. The bikes appeared very efficient with storage under the seat, a messenger box on the back, and padded covers for the hands and legs.
I remembered being impressed like this while working at the French school. There seemed to be such an air of forethought and congruency. All cogs in the wheels running smoothly. Which is helpful considering the vast number of tourists on hand. There is such a rich air of history and so much to see (elaborate architecture built on the back of colonialism, as my friend pointed out) a system for everything keeps it all running smoothly.
I did get to the Louvre, which reports a loss in visitors. If so, it wasn't apparent. One side of the museum was delightfully uncrowded, and the atrium under the pyramid was filled with beautiful light and impressive sculpture. People were sitting, contemplating work and even drawing. I could have happily joined them with a sketchbook.
It was here I saw my favorite piece, a massive bronze called the Captifs. The work depicted 4 men, each captured in war. The magic of the piece was each of the men's expression- a uniquely different, realistic portrayal of the human response to despair. There was panic, anguish, resignation and defiance. I was really drawn in by the varied responses so eloquently capturing human tendency. Of course, the French history tells a slightly different story than the one I imagined during my viewing.
I convinced myself I couldn't visit the museum and miss seeing the most famous painting in the world. My friend- the ever gracious guide- agreed to help me find it. We double backed and over tracked and eventually made our way to the other side. It was a different world over there. Crowded. Hot. Busy. Families were camped in every nook and cranny. The main hallway was littered with visitors, sitting on the floor, walking in large groups, all talking and hardly paying any attention to the art.
The Mona Lisa room was equally crowded and noisy. Masses of people thronged close to the painting, holding up their tablets and phones trying to take a picture. I really couldn't understand the fixation on taking a picture. There are a million photos of the Mona Lisa of much better quality than one was going to get in such a congested room. I made my way up close, just to say I did, but there was no connection, no ability to really contemplate the masterpiece.
Instead, I was taken in by another piece on display in the same area. It was a fantastic representation of foreshortening...each figure dynamically placed in its fall from the sky. Jupiter Throwing Thunderbolts at the Vices. But it was still too crowded to look at for long. Even the tour participants had to wear earpieces in order to hear their guides.
We took more buses, visited all the required tourist sites and in the process, I saw many more places and promises of things to come that pulled at my spirit. An exhibition of Rodin, a dedication to Van Gogh happening the week after my departure and magnificent building after magnificent building. I guess Paris is like that. Steeped in art and history. You're walking down the street all innocent, and there's the house of Georges Seurat suddenly right in front of you.
I saw another side to Paris, staying in the African neighborhood of Chateau Rouge. In many ways, I felt right at home there, although I admit it was a little disorienting at first to see signs for rentals in Cocody and a house for sale in Kinshasa. I did love hearing Lingala on the streets. In the little restaurant we stopped in for dinner, there was a particularly vibrant discussion about Kinshasa's well known musicians. They got louder and more passionate by the minute, pausing only when a music video came on featuring a friend at our table. The guys stopped their debate to give kudos to the singer. I felt like I was breathing in the DRC with all of it's creativity and intensity and spirit. It was the next best thing to actually being there.
I have seen many friends take off for the promised land and a sign of their success comes in the way of a few extra pounds. I'd often thought it was a normal result of finally getting enough food and vitamins, but now I have a completely different perspective. My years in Africa have shown me what a difference all the processed, chemicalized, contorted food has on the human system. The boys will be going through a detox period, for sure. To say nothing of portion size.
In the meantime, Mohamed was just as stunned by Mbalia and I. "Have you lost weight? You need to eat some chicken. Mbalia needs some chicken." Apparently chicken is the cure all. I probably have lost a bit of weight since they last saw me. I was still nursing then and sporting some of my baby fat. And Mbalia has sprouted up like a little weed, complete with Mowgli legs, long and thin. Even I am sometimes taken aback by how fragile she appears. But she is strong and I know tall thinness runs in my family so I don't worry too much. She eats as much as any toddler (that is to say super finicky, only occasionally ravenous. She does love her sauce though, and I try to make sure whatever she is eating is healthy.)
At our first dinner together, I was busy feeling like a skeleton in my skin. Ousmane, Mbalia and I appeared as waifs, hardly taking up space at the table. Mohamed felt the same way, remarking, "You guys are so small."
Our main grocery items are fresh fruits and vegetables. And rice. There is the occasional pasta dish, sometimes fresh bread from the bakery, but overall, I know all of the ingredients to everything we eat. I forget how loaded American grocery stores are....the multitude of choices, pre-packaged, processed, ready to heat and ready to eat prepared food. (Though the boys swear they didn't really partake of any of this. Knowing their dad, it really was rice and sauce all the way. Along with trips for fast food burgers. And that backpack full of Reese's, Starburst and Jelly Fish they smuggled back on the plane? An anomaly....surely.)
Being in Paris gave me just a taste of this. (We actually did Paris on a budget and my only experience eating out was at a little Congolese dive fresh out of pondu but full of plantains and fish.) My initial trip to the grocery store was a bit overwhelming with choice. Not only were there simply too many brands (many of which were actually familiar) there was the fruit dilemma. In the end, I chose not to eat too many of the fruits I can no longer get (reasonably) here in Abidjan (blueberries, strawberries....any kind of berry really. ) I figured one short taste would only create a desire I have long since squelched. I did have a few cherries however, which were just perfect.
I spent much of my time in Paris feeling like an African villager. Most of my reactions to the city weren't compared to how things are in America, but how we live in Africa. Even my Congolese friends were laughing at me as they showed me around.
"You don't have to worry about crossing the street here. A long as the light is green, they will stop. They have to stop." It was true and I marveled at it every time. When the pedestrian crossing light turned green, everyone stepped off the sidewalk to go and the cars stopped, even if they were in mid-turn. Such a trustworthy system. My response a habit now, born of years of close calls with crazy drivers. I thought of one of Trevor Noah's comedy routines about this exact thing. I laughed at my amazement- just the way he described it too- even as I had to resist the urge to break into a mad dash. Luckily the streets were narrow. It wasn't long, though, before that Trevor Noah bravado set in. I started testing things out with my newfound power, jumping off the curb at second one and staring down drivers.
One thing I couldn't get over, however, was the way people refreshed themselves from the water flowing up through the street drains. I never got the real story about why the water was even flowing up in the first place, (to clean the streets?) but my friend insisted it was clean water. And people everywhere were washing their heads, splashing about and cooling off from the Paris heat.
In Africa, street water is pretty dirty. A lot of times, it runs with a tinge of green. You barely want to step in it, let alone get any part of your hands or face wet. I couldn't really get behind this idea of playing in the street water (although I did try to imagine it something like the fire hydrant water of NYC fame?)
Other things about Paris puzzled me as well. The European distaste for air conditioning, for example. The studio where we stayed- a 6 flight walk-up, apparently super common- didn't even have so much as a fan. The buses were plentiful and efficient (even sporting a handy count-down timer at the bus stop so you knew exactly how many minutes until the next bus arrived,) but they all had long, narrow windows that offered no breeze. Everyone was fanning themselves with their pocket sized maps of the city.
I did appreciate the energetic air. There was a kaleidoscope of transportation in use- from walking to biking, to riding on scooters and even uni-wheels. Bike lanes accommodated the many modes of transport. (Tourist tip- stay out of the bike lane, it is definitely not a walking lane. The bikes come fast, ringing bells, and passing each other with fervor.)
I appreciated the many bike rental stands throughout the city, allowing one to pick up a bike, run their errands and then return the bike to the stand closest to their house. I never got a number on how much it cost, but there were plenty in circulation. The rental bikes were easy to spot with their metal baskets and sleek silver fenders.
Electric cars were hugely popular, even meriting their own parking areas, with charging station. Motorcycles and scooters were also high on the transport list. I saw all kinds of people revving up, from business ladies in suits and high heels to dads with their kids. The bikes appeared very efficient with storage under the seat, a messenger box on the back, and padded covers for the hands and legs.
I remembered being impressed like this while working at the French school. There seemed to be such an air of forethought and congruency. All cogs in the wheels running smoothly. Which is helpful considering the vast number of tourists on hand. There is such a rich air of history and so much to see (elaborate architecture built on the back of colonialism, as my friend pointed out) a system for everything keeps it all running smoothly.
I did get to the Louvre, which reports a loss in visitors. If so, it wasn't apparent. One side of the museum was delightfully uncrowded, and the atrium under the pyramid was filled with beautiful light and impressive sculpture. People were sitting, contemplating work and even drawing. I could have happily joined them with a sketchbook.
It was here I saw my favorite piece, a massive bronze called the Captifs. The work depicted 4 men, each captured in war. The magic of the piece was each of the men's expression- a uniquely different, realistic portrayal of the human response to despair. There was panic, anguish, resignation and defiance. I was really drawn in by the varied responses so eloquently capturing human tendency. Of course, the French history tells a slightly different story than the one I imagined during my viewing.
I convinced myself I couldn't visit the museum and miss seeing the most famous painting in the world. My friend- the ever gracious guide- agreed to help me find it. We double backed and over tracked and eventually made our way to the other side. It was a different world over there. Crowded. Hot. Busy. Families were camped in every nook and cranny. The main hallway was littered with visitors, sitting on the floor, walking in large groups, all talking and hardly paying any attention to the art.
The Mona Lisa room was equally crowded and noisy. Masses of people thronged close to the painting, holding up their tablets and phones trying to take a picture. I really couldn't understand the fixation on taking a picture. There are a million photos of the Mona Lisa of much better quality than one was going to get in such a congested room. I made my way up close, just to say I did, but there was no connection, no ability to really contemplate the masterpiece.
Instead, I was taken in by another piece on display in the same area. It was a fantastic representation of foreshortening...each figure dynamically placed in its fall from the sky. Jupiter Throwing Thunderbolts at the Vices. But it was still too crowded to look at for long. Even the tour participants had to wear earpieces in order to hear their guides.
We took more buses, visited all the required tourist sites and in the process, I saw many more places and promises of things to come that pulled at my spirit. An exhibition of Rodin, a dedication to Van Gogh happening the week after my departure and magnificent building after magnificent building. I guess Paris is like that. Steeped in art and history. You're walking down the street all innocent, and there's the house of Georges Seurat suddenly right in front of you.
I saw another side to Paris, staying in the African neighborhood of Chateau Rouge. In many ways, I felt right at home there, although I admit it was a little disorienting at first to see signs for rentals in Cocody and a house for sale in Kinshasa. I did love hearing Lingala on the streets. In the little restaurant we stopped in for dinner, there was a particularly vibrant discussion about Kinshasa's well known musicians. They got louder and more passionate by the minute, pausing only when a music video came on featuring a friend at our table. The guys stopped their debate to give kudos to the singer. I felt like I was breathing in the DRC with all of it's creativity and intensity and spirit. It was the next best thing to actually being there.
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| Popular bike rental stand and moto stop for metro passengers |
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| 21st century bus stop |
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| typical tourist |
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| electric car parking |
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| regular doors with history Georges Seurat's House |
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| Limo lux- Parisian limos are so sleek....like presidential cars here |
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| Public urinals...to prevent peeing on the street Abidjan has taken so much from Paris, why not this? |
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| refreshing with the street water |
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| sleek rentals |
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| tower at night |
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| more street washing |
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| 6th floor view- lots of noise down there but no way to really (safely) see what's going on, unless you're looking across into the neighbors...reality tv |
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| African stores from every country lined the street |
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| Tout Kin, the Paris Version |
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| African market |
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| Adjame....Paris style |
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| DRC protest organizers- this grew into a rally taking over the street |
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| African market overview with Paris style buildings |
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| rooftop....does Santa do Paris? |
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| Congolese street sellers, chikwanga, car-top clothing sale, and those fancy curled up dried fish |
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| The Ancient Art had me thinking about humanity's intrinsic desire to create, express, and leave a mark |
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| Beautiful sunlit atrium under the pyramid |
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| Les Captifs |
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| Massive carvings |
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| Contemplating the captives |
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| the ridiculousness of Mona |
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| Jupiter Hurling Thunderbolts....lovely |
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| Many statues dealt with lions and snakes real dangers of ancient times |
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| My favorite piece |
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| Sisters |
20.11.15
Expressing condolences
"Where are you from?" a colleague at work asked me as we crossed paths in the teacher's lounge.
It's a loaded question for us international types. "You mean.....originally?" I ask with hesitation coloring every word. I hate to be boxed in by my Americaness.
"I'm from the U.S., from New York." I am careful to put the U.S. first, having previously been called out after once replying simply, New York. Everyone knows NY, right? I've forgotten the exact remark, but it had something to do with us Americans putting state before country or assuming everyone has heard of our city, state, hometown. As if we are so important we don't even need a country. (I didn't mean it that way, but New York is kind of up there with Paris, London and Rome. Does it really need a preface?)
"I'm looking for the French. I want to express my condolences," my colleague goes on to say. I am momentarily stunned, but lately I've been seeing- and seizing- moments to talk about Congo with clarity and enthusiasm.
"Weelll.... I did just come from Kinshasa, in the DRC and they are suffering..." I begin to break the silence, telling him I am happy to accept his condolences on their behalf but we need to do more. He's a little unimpressed with my spiel. I sense he just wants to talk about Paris. "I understand," I tell him. "It's because we think certain places are safe. And when the safe places become victims, we feel all the more vulnerable."
"Yes." He smiles as though we have finally understood each other. "They're the guardians. And when the guardians get attacked it's not good."
The guardians? I can see we haven't understood each other at all. But I am trying. I know how hard it is to sustain a grief or outrage. If I came to you one day and said my brother died, you would respond heartfully. Maybe even so the next day, if I came to you again and said I'd lost another brother. Day 3 and 4, yet more brothers and sisters dying might leave you with an overwhelming sense of sympathy at my tragic state of affairs.
After 1 week however, you will begin avoiding me because you just don't know how to respond anymore. It's unimaginable what is happening to me- that so many in just one family would die like this, all close together. As week 2 continues you will put me neatly into the category of "other" and "alien" or "odd." You will have no choice but to move on to other things that are easier to think about. Things that require less emotional output and fewer feelings of helplessness.
But the tragedy continues. Our brothers and sisters continue dying everyday, and not just in Congo, but around the globe. How do we cope?
It's a loaded question for us international types. "You mean.....originally?" I ask with hesitation coloring every word. I hate to be boxed in by my Americaness.
"I'm from the U.S., from New York." I am careful to put the U.S. first, having previously been called out after once replying simply, New York. Everyone knows NY, right? I've forgotten the exact remark, but it had something to do with us Americans putting state before country or assuming everyone has heard of our city, state, hometown. As if we are so important we don't even need a country. (I didn't mean it that way, but New York is kind of up there with Paris, London and Rome. Does it really need a preface?)
"I'm looking for the French. I want to express my condolences," my colleague goes on to say. I am momentarily stunned, but lately I've been seeing- and seizing- moments to talk about Congo with clarity and enthusiasm.
"Weelll.... I did just come from Kinshasa, in the DRC and they are suffering..." I begin to break the silence, telling him I am happy to accept his condolences on their behalf but we need to do more. He's a little unimpressed with my spiel. I sense he just wants to talk about Paris. "I understand," I tell him. "It's because we think certain places are safe. And when the safe places become victims, we feel all the more vulnerable."
"Yes." He smiles as though we have finally understood each other. "They're the guardians. And when the guardians get attacked it's not good."
The guardians? I can see we haven't understood each other at all. But I am trying. I know how hard it is to sustain a grief or outrage. If I came to you one day and said my brother died, you would respond heartfully. Maybe even so the next day, if I came to you again and said I'd lost another brother. Day 3 and 4, yet more brothers and sisters dying might leave you with an overwhelming sense of sympathy at my tragic state of affairs.
After 1 week however, you will begin avoiding me because you just don't know how to respond anymore. It's unimaginable what is happening to me- that so many in just one family would die like this, all close together. As week 2 continues you will put me neatly into the category of "other" and "alien" or "odd." You will have no choice but to move on to other things that are easier to think about. Things that require less emotional output and fewer feelings of helplessness.
But the tragedy continues. Our brothers and sisters continue dying everyday, and not just in Congo, but around the globe. How do we cope?
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