Where is Home?

One of my "homes," the Upper West Side of Manhattan, as seen from the Central Park Reservoir running path (practically another one of my homes) on a hot sticky July day.  

That does sound like I'm about to start a laundry list of summer, winter, ski, beach, European, Asian, Hawaiian, Caribbean, etc., abodes that might appear in Architectural Digest as among the numerous residences of the rich and famous.  No, that's not it (because if it was, the sticky July summer home would most certainly NOT be in Manhattan).  

No, again, it's that this morning (from the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment), I watched a TED Talk by Pico Iyer entitled "Where is Home?"  And it really (as the theater folk say) landed.  It has caused me to think about aspects of my life upon which I never focused, being as wrapped up as I was in living it.

Let's give it some thought together, shall we?  Born where?  Parents from where?  Grew up where?  Attended school/college where?  Married where?  Early adult working years where?  Spouse/partner from where?  Raised the kids where?  Working/living now where?  Happy place(s) where?  Ethnic group influences?  Religious group influences?  

If the answers to the above questions are more than a few, like I realized they are with me, then you'll begin to understand Pico Iyer's point.  One of the beauties of his presentation is that home is wherever you take yourself, and that these movements, somewhat "outside" yourself, allow you to find yourself.  He does it much better than I, and that's why he gives the TED Talk and I am then so moved by it that I write a blog post.

And thus, the more time I am away from the place I've called home for over 30 years, and the more I find "myself" elsewhere (and for me now, that's primarily Paris), the more I, too, realize that home is me.  And that all of my life, my residences past and present, my children, my friends and family, my passions and interests, make up my home, wherever I am.  

I also realize that the people I meet who have lived likewise, even if so many other aspects of their particular backgrounds do not mesh with mine, are immediately recognizable to me.  

On a macro level, of course, I begin to see how this globalized culture is changing, and will continue to change, how we see the world, how we choose our friends and mate, where we choose to live, what we choose to do in our lives.  It is a very exciting thing to me, though it might simply elicit a shrug of the shoulders of those in the generations younger than mine.  It's just normal for them - kids born of parents from different parts of the world or of different religions or backgrounds, and then living in a few places and perhaps speaking two or more languages as a native, going to college with people from all over the world and, thus, moving so fluidly (and enviably to me) among their peers, similarly raised.  

Home - the place we come to feel secure and safe, but now also the place we learn and grow and expand our horizons and stretch our comfort zones.  That is quite a definition change, but not if home is "us." 

Scraping the Sky

As we come upon the 11th anniversary of September 11, 2001, it would be hard to miss what's growing up to the sky downtown.  This will be known as One World Trade Center (not Freedom Tower, as it was previously referred to).

As Wikipedia tells me, at the time of its completion in 2013, One World Trade Center will be the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere and the third-tallest building in the world by pinnacle height, with its spire reaching a symbolic 1,776 feet (541.3 m) in reference to the year of American independence.

Already, it's the tallest building in New York City, since April 30, 2012. 

So much has been said and written about 9/11 that it's just not possible for me to add more.  So I will remain silent, alone in my still vivid memories of that day and in thought of the tragedy's victims and the people close to them.

Changes

After not even approaching this blog for almost three months, it feels like we're just being introduced again, the blog and I.  I'm a bit apprehensive and tentative.  But, like getting back on a bike after some time away, it'll feel like old times soon enough and I'll be back to writing about my daily impressions of what surrounds me.

But today I have to write about change. 

As a person who doesn't much like it, I manage to put myself through quite a bit of it (though, to be honest, don't we all?).  I returned to my home, New York City, in June.  Aside from short periods of a few weeks each to leave Paris and "visit" New York during the last 11 months, these three months home have provided me the chance to really take a look around, and also to persist in irritating friends and family with my "compare-and-contrast" of Paris and New York. 

The biggest thing I noticed this summer is CHANGE.  New York changes a lot.  Paris not so much.  

I've lived in New York for over 30 years, and this city is in a constant state of flux.  It makes the pulse and pace of this city very quick.  Restaurants come and go.  Trends in clothing, activities, music, architecture and especially neighborhoods "of the moment" fly past like a plastic bag caught in a breeze.  These things used to mean a great deal to me; I had to try all the new hot restaurants and see all the new shows.  Ah, youth (and a lawyer's income).  But, years pass.  The kids arrive and dinners start being at home (when they're not at work), and the trends pass you by.  And then -gulp- you leave town!  For months...

And then you come back.  And the buildings are different.  Old ones torn down, new ones up...or coming up.  Store fronts empty (what was there before?).  New stores open up.  Ditto with the restaurants, frozen yogurt shops, yoga clothing stores (how many of those do we really need?) and banks, banks, banks everywhere.  What is up with that?!

Things appear to stay the same in Paris.  Little things do change, and trendy quartiers are definitely now a real force in real estate there.  Is it the 3rd now, or the 11th, or maybe even the 19th?  But much stays the same.  The old architecture remains, thank goodness.  And most of my favorite Rive Gauche boutiques, cafés, boulangeries and patisseries are in the exact same locations they were in 20 or more years ago.  The ethnic food and bistronomie scene is definitely on the move, with little casual foodie places opening up all the time.  But, when you look into the distance, Paris is Paris.  It doesn't change.

Although I am not qualified to speak with certainty, I think Parisians like it that way.  On the other hand, I've heard young Parisians complain that Paris is boring and that New York has the excitement they dream of.  It's made me wonder if perhaps the pace and manageability of Paris are better suited to people of, um, un certain âge.  Like me, perhaps.

When I arrive in Paris, after no matter how much time away, it's the same.  It doesn't change.  

And with all the changes I'm facing in my life right now (which are not much different than the changes I've been dealing with for the last few years and that face all of us with kids moving out, moving back in, moving out, repeat), a little sameness suits me just fine.

Especially if that sameness comes with croissants!

Not that I wouldn't miss the charge - and even the changes - of New York.  But keeping up with them?  No longer remotely (literally and figuratively) possible. 

Changing the Air

As I write this morning, I manage to avoid a few minutes (hours?) of hitting the books to study for my final exams tomorrow (oral - 15 minutes) and Saturday (written - 3 hours!!).  

My French classes at the Sorbonne Cours de Civilisation Française just ended yesterday, marking for me a full academic year of studying French as a living language right in the heart of academic Paris.  It's been a dream come true, in fact, much more than that, as I could have hardly dreamed up the pleasures, challenges and surprises this experience has brought to me.  My life has changed as a result and, probably more importantly, my perspectives on life, on my life, that is.

Of course, I expected many things, such as new food, new surroundings and challenges in communication on a daily basis, for just a few examples.  But the sweetest pleasures have been the nuanced cultural differences I'd hardly have known about in my American life.  There are too many to list or briefly describe - perhaps someday a book on that, but one that arose each and every class day made me smile, for no particular reason, just because it was so obviously different and occurred in every classroom, without fail.

The change of air.

Upon arriving to class, I always found the window(s) wide open.  In winter, that meant the room was many degrees colder than the hallway and the door to the class often hard to push open because of the pressure against it from the wind rushing into the open window.  In rain and humidity, a bit of a damp, rainforest-like presence, unusual for an indoor sensation but equally refreshing in its own way, would greet my entrance.

And then, once the professor has arrived, the windows are quickly shut, to return the temperature to the appropriate indoor range and to permit the students to remove coats and sweaters and begin work.

This marks every class change.  Is it for health reasons, perhaps to rid the air of accumulated aerial residue of the dozens of students who enter and exit every couple of hours throughout the day?  Perhaps.  I have no idea.

I have grown to appreciate the practice, and I have found myself doing the same every time I arrive back "home" in Paris.  I fling open the two French doors to the air, no matter the temperature, no matter the precipitation, for a few minutes of what the French professors called "changing the air."

In addition to my conscious efforts to learn something here, namely, the French language, I realize I'm learning unconsciously, too.  These things, small as they may be, continue to open my eyes to a different world.  And for that, I continue to be enormously grateful.

Tragedy in France

I didn't post for a while because I had such a hard time deciding if I wanted to take the tone of this blog into something as highly emotional, politically sensitive and global and let's face it - serious, as the events of the past week in France.  I've posted from here mostly about beautiful Paris treasures, the weather, the changing of the seasons, food, art, and the joie de vivre I've come to appreciate and enjoy every day.

But even the terror that shook France last week was something I learned from, witnessed from a much closer distance than had I been in the United States, and the media and politicians were producing the news even more quickly than they could process it.  In that way, it felt to me a bit like September 11, 2001 in New York City (not at all on the same scale or at the same proximity).  There were questions, horror and confusion; and it was practically all that the French news covered all week.  

I bought and photographed the covers of France's major newspapers, because even their differences and emphases were worth noting.  

"The Tragedy that Moves France So Deeply"

"Massacre of Toulouse - France Horrified"

The names of the victims in the 3 Toulouse attacks

Is there anything more I can say?  Not really.  My words will not make a difference.  It's just that I couldn't say nothing.  

Life went on, absolutely normally, here in Paris, miles away from Toulouse.  Nonetheless, I believe that the entire country was affected in some ways, not least of which because France is in the last month of its presidential election campaign.  Most of the candidates decided to take a couple of days off from their campaigning, but the reality was that they were still everywhere the cameras were.  Now, they're trying to figure out how these events are to be integrated into their positions.  As an American, this all sounds familiar. 

May the memories of these innocent victims live on, and may those who make decisions make wise ones in their memory.

 

Wrap up

How do I wrap up a period of almost four months that began like this -

and has finished off like this - 

It's the passing of the seasons, something this garden has seen for many, many years...and that I was blessed to experience for one of them.

And in those seasons of Fall and Winter 2011-12, it's impossible to sum up the feelings or the memories in a few words.  But, truly, the words grateful, appreciative and blessed are primarily the ones that come to mind.  All the stories behind all the feelings and gratefulness will have to wait, for now.

But, before I depart (to visit friends, family and seek the ever elusive French student visa, not necessarily in that order), just a few more photos that capture some of my diverse Paris memories of Fall/Winter 2011-12.

La Toilette

The subject for today is toilets.  There will be no photos.

OK.

I am a bit confused (but certainly have been and shall continue to be accepting - given no choice, there is truly no need for discussion on the subject, but it is curious to this American).  Here are the, I believe, contradictory facts.  But perhaps they're not, and I just don't have the full cultural history to understand completely.

1.   Even the smallest apartment (like mine in Paris, for example), if it has its own bathroom facilities, separates the "loo" from the bathing/sink area.  Yes, of course in the U.S., in fancier hotel chains such as Four Seasons, and in some upscale private residences, there may be a door that separates the toilet from the rest of the bathroom, but that isn't what I mean.  In Paris homes, the toilet is a separate room, distant from the bathing area, and most often even without a sink to wash hands afterward.  I've had to seek out a nearby kitchen for an available sink on several occasions.  I find this inconvenient for all (and perhaps even discourages contemporary hygienic practice).  After getting past the lack-of-sink-near-the-toilet issue, I began to think how "civilized" it is, to remove toilets from the rest of the house, just to stick it in its own "closet," basically.  How private, how refined, how solo this practice is.

BUT - 

2.  Many cafés, schools, museums and other public spaces do not divide the bathroom facilities by gender.  La toilette, c'est pour tout!  The stalls may be individual (though I've sometimes found unenclosed urinals in the same environment but luckily have not found them in use), but the door to the general environment of the stalls and sinks is used by all...or there may not even be a door - just a tiny winding spiral staircase at the bottom of which are one or two sinks and one or two doors behind each of which is a toilet.

Is this really a major culture discovery?  No.  But is it a bit contradictory?  Perhaps, but maybe just to us puritanical Americans.  Here goes - there is no need to divide the sexes in this basic human function (this is a country that bares the female breast in the media and on beaches with ease); let them all use the same bathroom.  It saves all kinds of resources and space.  And, as for the function itself, in the home, put it as far from the other aesthetic niceties as possible, as there's nothing aesthetic about it - a simple toilet in a tiny empty closet to be segregated from the rest of the home.

And there's France in a nutshell.  Aesthetics rule.  Gender privacy, not so much.

Inspiration

Or, should I say, my thoughts exactly.  It's just that I'm pretty sure I'd never have had the guts to say it in public.  It just sounds so negative, down-right un-American, to speak about death in such an honest, unforgiving way.  So, thank you, Steve Jobs, for saying something so raw, and so true, that may only be comprehended by those who have lost a loved one or experienced an event that challenged mortality and survived, to live another day.

Almost everything–all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure–these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.” – Steve Jobs’ Stanford Commencement Address

There are many ways to live a life, many paths and turns of the corner.  Some of the most satisfying come from taking the unanticipated twists and turns.  Others, the very well-planned and eagerly anticipated.  But, in either case, living one's own life and not that of someone else, as Jobs also spoke of in that same commencement address, is most satisfying, as I am finding out in each of these surprising moments I am lucky enough to be experiencing right now in Paris.

What I Will Miss

I'm already feeling those pangs of missing certain things I love about New York.  I realize I'm not moving away for good, but in my 30 years of residence, I've rarely been away from "the City" for more than 2 weeks!

Here are a few things I already know I'll miss---

1.  The Manhattan skyline while riding over the Triboro Bridge after a return flight to Laguardia, at any and every time of day, and that feeling of "being home."

2.  Zabar's and Fairway.

3.  The Central Park Reservoir and Tennis Courts.

4.  Pier 1 on the Hudson River at summer sunset.

5.  Being able to give tourists accurate directions.

6.  2,000 square feet.

7.  New York in a blizzard.

8.  A less than $150 flight from Chicago to see my college students.

9.  The price of things in US dollars.

10.  Joe Coffee.

11.  Iconic Soho architecture.

12.  Walking through the city for hours and always finding something new.

Sometimes, though, as the saying goes, it makes your heart grow fonder.  And I can honestly say that's already starting to happen.  What an odd and also wonderful feeling of love and appreciation I have for all that is New York, for all that New York has given me over almost all of my adult life, and for the warmth I'll carry with me to Paris, knowing home is always here waiting for me.
 

A New Day

 

Just another sunrise outside my window this morning.  But it's a very different day.  When the youngest child in the family leaves for college, and the nest is about to become empty (yes, I know they come back, thank goodness), everything looks different.

And today is that day.  Onward, to Chicago we go...

Ten Years Ago

I didn't know whether I would write or not write about that day in New York ten years ago, and the days that followed.  It seems that everything that could be said has been said, that everything that could be felt has been felt, and that some extraordinarily unimaginable things have somehow been imagined and realized.

But I was here, living in the same home, raising the same sons.  Everyone was younger, and we were smack in the middle of young family life.  It's impossible not to make the mental contrasts between those days and these, on a personal, emotional, political and global level.  As I said, though, many others have, many who are paid well to do so and, hence, do so much better than I ever could.  So I will stick to the personal.

What I noticed most on the 11th, on this tenth anniversary, was how seared into all my sensory memories those days are.  I can still smell the acrid smell that shifted to the north (toward my neighborhood) the next day after the first black smoke clouds initially blanketed Brooklyn to the east.  I can still hear the sirens that flew past, heading down Broadway, first growing louder, then dissipating in the downtown direction.  I also hear the roaring Air Force jets, and recall the visceral reactions and looks on others' faces in the streets and parks as we would experience them at the same moment and glance at one another in recognition and total ignorance.  I remember seeing everywhere the homemade posters and fliers tacked up on walls, fences and lamp posts, fluttering gently in late summer weather perfection...and the first big rain a couple of nights after, when I sat in bed believing that God must be crying over the failures of his final creation, man.  And then I cried, too.  I remember, too, the initial feelings of survival that kicked in, that I'd never felt before, that were driven by something deep inside - the need to buy food and water, just because we "live on an island," the need to make my way uptown to my sons' school, just because we need to be together.  

Most vivid and most painful, however, is when I told my children what had just happened when I picked them up early from elementary school and walked them home, shortly after the first tower collapsed.  (And in this, I am no different than probably ever other parent who experienced that day similarly, no matter where they lived.)  I knew that this event was going to change their young lives and become as indelible to them as the day Kennedy was assassinated was  to me when I was seven years old.  I took their hands and said, "You're going to remember this day for the rest of your life" before trying to simply, honestly and yet not too fearfully, explain in a few words what was happening, while I understood so little myself.

And yet, ten years later, we were on a transatlantic flight returning to New York from a family vacation.  No words were expressed, officially or otherwise, on the flight.  But we all knew.  I could tell when I would look into someone's eyes.  Awareness, gratitude, and perhaps a little fear.  Or maybe that was just me.  But, from airplane to a very busy JFK airport on a Sunday afternoon, to a full subway train back into Manhattan, all was quiet and purposeful.  We all went where we needed to be, and we all lived our moments, but I know we remembered and carried that with us, with all else that we carry now, ten years later.

Earthquake, Bread and Clouds

Back in New York City after a week of sitting, low to the ground much of the time, and not much moving, the outside heat of Dallas just dragging me down even further.  In reality, though, it was a time of love, of family, of support, of memory and of pride.  Loss of a parent.  Words don't come to me yet to write much about that now, and so I won't, yet.

But I needed to move today, in a big way.  So, I walked, probably 3 hours of walking all over town.  Apparently, I walked right through the East Coast Earthquake.  It's so strange to start to realize something is going on around you as you try to figure it all out from the signals you try to pick up with all the senses.  The first thing was all the people - why were there so many people huddled together just outside office buildings, not just one, but many?  Why are all those people staring into their cellphones?  And then the stray word pops by:  "feel it?"  "earthquake"  "Virginia."

New Yorkers appreciate something novel for about 10 minutes.  Then, it's back to the same old, same old.  I kept walking.  I got hungry.  I was on Ninth Avenue, which is such fun all the way up from the 30s through the 50s for its array of food stores and restaurants of every cuisine.  Amy's Bread caught my eye.

It was tough to choose just one.  And many other earthquake walkers must have felt the same way, as there was a wait.

But it was a beautiful day, with blue skies and white puffy clouds and 77 degrees.  We don't usually have much sky to enjoy here in NYC, because of all our big buildings blocking it.  Today, however, I made a point of looking up, a lot, drawn to the stark contrast of the crisp white and the bright blue.

Besides, the sky is sometimes a great place to look to find your memories and the kindest thoughts of those you love.

Global Consumers Above All

Among the many signs I photographed in China last week (especially those that don't quite master the use and meaning of English words and phrases), this one, though using no English, spoke volumes to me.

This outdoor wall poster in Beijing clearly advertises Pepsi.  Yup, I'm sure that's what the Chinese characters spell out (not really), but we Americans all know the Pepsi logo.  But I was surprised to see one of the largest US brands using the Chinese revolutionary poses so iconic in their propaganda materials of that era.  Well, whatever sells, I suppose.  And I learned, while in Beijing, that there is much nostalgia for that period.  I cannot fathom that, given all that transpired in those years.  But, then again, we love the old movies, songs and fashion styles of the 1940s, '50s, '60s, '70s and apparently even '80s (big hair and shoulder pads?!?), even though we surely don't want to relive those years for a whole lot of other reasons.

So that's China.

Today, though, back in New York, what do I see in Times Square?

As of August 1, 2011, China's government-run news agency, Xinhua, has one of the key LED billboards in Times Square, measuring 60x40 feet (right above Samsung, which is right above Coca Cola - I hope this is not symbolic of anything, but given recent global financial news, who knows?).

The US is in China speaking its language; and China is in Times Square  - ditto.  Both speaking the language of commerce and commercialism.

Change is Good

My blogging routine of almost four months now is about to be interrupted for almost two weeks!  It's become a true routine, in that I look forward to seeking out things I'd like to share in writing and then configuring ways in my head and on my laptop to present them.

Already I feel I will miss it, like one misses a dear friend.  In the meantime, I'll write, and that's good, too. 

Even if I wanted to blog from where I'm headed, it wouldn't happen.  There are just some (few) places one can't blog on Blogger.  

And that's where I'm headed.

Ni hao.

 

It All Ends 7.15

This isn't another one of those "end of the world" forecasts, although with the weather we have on the East Coast lately, it feels about like we've all descended a bit closer to Hell.  In addition, the poster below certainly has an apocalyptic appearance.

Harry Potter ends.  Can you believe it?  Sigh.  Sometime after the first book in the series was released in the United States in 1998, I read a tiny review of the book in Time Magazine and thought it looked like a great story for my older son who was avidly reading chapter books by then.  I eagerly searched a couple of bookstores and finally located it, on the bottom shelf, all alone, in the children's section of a local bookstore (pre-Amazon for me and most of us, and definitely pre-Harry Potter mania).  In the first book, Harry is 11 years old.  Each year thereafter, a new volume was released, and each year, Harry and my son were a year older.  I could mark each book release with another year in my son's age (and then my younger son when he began to join in the marathon reading races). 

There were the years when we had to buy two books of each volume in order to keep the peace, the years we pre-ordered them, the years I brought them up to the summer camp pick-up day or purchased them at the local bookstore in Wellesley on the release date so that we wouldn't miss a day (oh horror!) while I was driving them home from camp, and they'd read raptly in the backseat through the drive home.

Seeing this enormous (and scary) poster in Times Square for the new, and final, movie release is so sad to me, and simultaneously so full of memories of the times we spent with Harry Potter in our lives - the books, the films, reading together, and watching my sons eagerly read on their own (not to forget drawing the lightning bolt scar on their foreheads with my lip pencil so they could be Harry Potter at Halloween, with glasses and cape).

We've all grown up and away from Harry Potter, and now Harry Potter is growing up and away from us.  Good grief - it's even tough to see a grown-up Daniel Radcliffe in Broadway productions  (not for lack of talent, rather for the reminders that time has marched on and that we're all so far away now from so much of the wondrous innocence and promise that marked the first volume of that magical world).

Thank you so much, JK Rowling, for the memories.  1998 seems a lifetime ago.