First thoughts, first blog.

In one of my favorite poems in Les Fleurs de mal, Baudelaire exclaims, 

"Paris change! Mais rien dans ma mélancolie 

a bougé! palais neufs, échafaudages, blocs,

Vieux faubourgs, tout pour moi devient allégorie
Et mes chers souvenirs sont plus lourds que des rocs."

"Paris changes! But nothing in my melacholy

has moved! new palaces, scaffoldings, blocks,

Old neighborhoods, for me, everything becomes an allegory

And my dear memories are heavier than stone."

Arriving in Paris last Friday, these verses echoed in my head. While certain aspects of Paris felt as a familiar as breathing; the green grocer on St. Antoine with the amazing strawberries, the sound of the hushed mumur of French, the rhythmic clicks on cobblestone streets, the hush of quiet narrow avenues in the Marais late at night, I couldn't shake the feeling of change Baudelaire evokes in "Le Cygne." These differences, however, weren't at all alienating, but rather filled me with wonder. The squeaks of pedalstrokes as Parisian zip to and fro on Vélibs, free bikes littered throughout the city that one subscribes to that allow anyone to ride for a half and hour anywhere.  Paris is always a space of wonder for me. A place where sensorial experience comes alive, where life is punctuated by colors, taste, rhythm, speed, sightlines, and pause. From the first croissant to the echoes of Brazilian rhythms wafting in to Andrew and Yves' place on strangely less tawdy rue St. Denis, each day was this strange combination of familiarity with marvel at the new. 

Someone one's feels one's own sameness in this space of difference, despite the time, the distance, the years elapsed since I lived in that tiny studio on the rue de Birague, I remember every step, I think, each one coded with meaning. The walk to the BHVP, the garden Francine and I would look out on as she wrote her one-woman show, "Shoes" while I muddled my way through early guidebooks. No great surprise that I've always worked on space and identity since clearly, for me, place matters in my own sense of who I am.

Having arrived in Dijon, the sense of place is different, to be sure. Quaint and quiet, sleepy almost when contrasted with the bustling vibrance of Paris, a vitality I think I draw on when I'm here. So it's strange to be here, strange to know that I'll be living in this place for the next six weeks, making a life and a home in an environment that, while of extraordinary beauty, bears none of the marks of difference that draw me to Paris. 

I'm awaiting John and Ryan's arrival, alas, they may well be victims of the grève or strike announced for today, only 1/2 the TGV are running, no busses in Dijon today either. I do so appreciate social movements here, the way that, in the blink of an eye, French workers can make the population feel their reliance on services and individuals one often forgets to be grateful for. Today it's transportation, tomorrow who knows. 

Apologies for the top heavy photos. I don't quite have the hang of this thing yet.

Signing off for now. More impressions soon.

e