pourquoi

sometimes i am such a silly, foolish, blind girl...and obstinate and inflexible....

and afraid.

the return of the native

to reflect my renewed fondness for Thomas Hardy, I dedicate this entry to the man who applied an astute, sympathetic and heartbreakingly accurate magnifying glass to morality, life and social constructs of 19th century England. But don't worry, I shan't bore you with a pedantic scrawl about his work (although I recommend it...not quite a merry read, I warn you). Sue Bridehead from "Jude the Obscure" is my new favorite heroine.

the return alludes to my return to writing. it's been, oh more than a month since i've clacked the keyboard, and much has happened. Quick random tidbits

1. My computer died. I have a lovely matte black MacBook now.
2. I became interested in football during the FIFA world cup. John Terry of Chelsea FC is my preferred player, and I won't deny that his striking resemblance to Edward Norton (on steroids) plays a factor in my fatuousness.
3. I almost cried when France lost the World Cup. But I still love Zidane. Don't argue with me on that.
4. I ate steak tartare at least 6 times in less than a month. That is probably 2 pounds of raw beef. Yum.
5. I ordered "Tete de Veau" (Veal Head), a traditional French dish, to discover that it was, literally, everything from the head: brains, scalp, etc.
6. Went into a gay sex shop with lots of sado-masochist playthings. My imagination has sufficiently increased.
7. Went without taking a proper shower for 8 days. Will soon be filming a documentary, "The Shower Crisis: The Journey from Clogged to Clean"
8. Two of my lovely roommates, Jo and Yaya, visited me. Jo and I are engaged. Yaya is our love child.
9. A plumber tried to cheat Olivia and I out of 1500 euros.

i'm tired and am sleepy. bye for now. i'll write more when i am in a more eloquent frame of mind. toodles.

tripping

and not on mushrooms. bad one, i know. don't reproach me, i've lost my witty edge, only a cheese rind left.

vanity: the seam of my white cotton romantic-stroll-on-the-beach dress touching the smoky taupe of my freshly bronzed skin...

i am back in my beloved Paris, sitting in the cosy dim living room of the new apartment at Ecole Militaire, with Jerry Springer buzzing noisily in the background. Sigh of happiness to be back in the arms of my Paris.

After the brief flings with Milan, Venice, Rome and Barcelona, I am more sure than ever of my committment and adoration of the city of light. Is there even any comparison?

Milan, my darlings, is a desolate wasteland dotted with spurts of luxury stores. Perhaps it was because we visited when the locals dashed off to the seaside. But nevertheless, brazen graffiti graced almost every building of this so-called capital of fashion, and the streets were strewn with floating ripped newspapers and greasy men. As an aside, Italian men remind me of sea polyps, their tentacles grasping, reaching for the exotic creatures that are Felicia and I. How many "ni haos" and worse "konichi wa" and undressing stares were we heaped with? No subtlety, literal undressing of our bodies by men of december and may ages.

Venice, but much like a dated society belle, lovely at first, lovely from afar, faded up close, ...added with the slight kitschiness, the nasal, loud and ubiquitous American tourists who outnumbered Venitians, we felt lifted into a hollywood set--too stereotypically surreally touristic to be charming. And the "flying rats" that outnumbered humans in San Marco Square did not add to my affection for the city of Casanova, Veronica Franco, and Renaissance humanism. Apparently, I should have jaunted around the outlying islands, less infested by tourism.

Rome was a mostly tasteful assortment of crumbling ruins and borderline cartoonish neoclassical architecture (Trevi Fountain). I wish we had had one extra day and that we had remembered to bring our alarm clock. Tragically, we were never able to make it to the Sistine chapel, though I did meander in St. Peter's Basilica for two hours, curiously peering at embalmed popes' bodies, the dolorously graceful "La Pieta", and lavish statuary. A nebulous understanding of why the Protestant Reform evolved circled my head. Such material glory to glorify a God who cares naught for these gilded trappings.

Barcelona, relaxed, open, friendly...antithetical to Paris in its accessible warmth. Topless bathing on the beach surprised me at first, but after all, bodies on a beach. Reminds me of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot mystery, "Evil Under the Sun". All tanners on a beach are facsimile slabs of flesh, mile after mile...you lose your identity and absorb into the tanned anonymity of sprawled bodies. Old ladies, large ladies, little girls bared their "lumps" frankly and nonchalantly, many with tiny pieces of spandex stretched over their generous "humps". Quite impressive, I must say.

But after all, nothing, nothing, even approaches beloved Paris. I remember remarking laughingly yet seriously to Felicia: "I'm going back to my love, my boyfriend."

It's true. I've never fallen in love with a person, but I have fallen in love with Paris.

How I love thee.

these people are governing our country

A U.S. Senate panel advanced a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage on Thursday as the committee chairman shouted ``good riddance'' to a Democrat who walked out of the tense session.

``If you want to leave, good riddance,'' The Senate Judiciary Chairman, Republican Arlen Specter, told Wisconsin Democratic Sen. Russell Feingold, who refused to participate because, he said, the meeting was not sufficiently open to the public.

Is this really happening? I cannot even begin to express my intense disappointment and incredulity at reading this NYtimes article . I remember cheering for the Massachussetts legalization of gay marriage, believing that it was a sign that we were slowly stepping towards increased tolerance and equality for everyone, regardless of sexual orientation. But reading this article is the equivalent of seeing that progress dragged into swampy red waters.

I'm not particuarly politically eloquent, but from the basics of human rights--how dare anyone be discriminated or denied rights based on sexual preference? To moralize homosexuality in private belief is one thing; to impress and force this moralization on a nation through government legislation is another. We risk shoving together the Christian church and state as intimate bedfellows, I shall not even begin to wax upon the pitfalls of that.

I'm extremely extremely disappointed. And what kind of childish behavior is this ridiculous Arlen Specter displaying? "Good riddance"? Who elected this prat?

Then again, I tell myself...it takes all kinds to build a nation. Just as it takes some rotten apples to make excellent cider. Just kidding. Couldn't resist that one!

On the lighter side, I learned a serious lesson today that I am in earnest desire to share with you all, dear friends.

Kate's Golden Rule for Studying in French Libraries

Thou shalt not clothe thyself in garments above the knee area, for thy runneth the risk of attracting the unwelcome advances of that amorous race of Frenchmen whilst thy prefereth to put thyself into the virtues of thy books.

And the skirt wasn't even that shortdefinitely below mid-thigh. And I was wearing a very virtuous, long sleeved sweater.

Dialogue (translated from the French original)

Kate, brow furrowed, mind deep among the wheatfields of a formal Italian diplomatic epistle (translated into French, bien sur)

Man next to me (aged about 30-35): That is a rather interesting and difficult segment, isn't it.

K: Um, yes, it is fairly difficult.

M: So, you're studying history?

K (clearly hasn't learned any lessons from previous interactions): Mmhmm, yes, I'm at the Sorbonne.

M (randomly): Are you from China?

K (confused): Well, I'm actually American, I'm an exchange student.

M (persistent): But are you of Chinese origin?

K: I uh..Yes, I was born in China, but I grew up in America.

M: Oh, that's great! I just came back from Japan, I was working there. So where in China are you from?

K (confused again...what does Japan have to do with China? As much as Zimbabwe has to to with the Ivory Cost I suppose): Well actually I don't know if you know the province of Sichuan...

M (eagerly): I've been to Shanghai and Hong Kong, what a wonderful city!

K: Um, yes, well Sichuan is in the southwest.

blahblahblah boring dialogue. I involuntarily reveal I am staying in Paris during the summer. Then the inevitable.

M: Here's my business card, if you have time this summer...

K: Mhm....ok...uh...

I then start reading up on Catherine de Medicis and the Duc de Guise, burrowing my face into the pile of books scented of dust motes and stale air.

Man keeps on glancing over at me, multiple times. At this time, the man across from me starts staring at me. Every time I lift my eyes to type notes onto my laptop, I catch M#2 staring intently at me. Suddenly, I shift my foot slightly to the left, to encounter something solid not previously there. His foot. And he keeps on staring at me. Rather creepy.

I'm almost uncomfortable enough to leave the library.

When I do leave, I am approached suddenly by Man#3

(Also translated from the French original)

M#3: Are you an art history student?

K (surprised and disconcerted by sudden approach): Um, no, actually? Uh?

M#3: Is that such a surprising question?

K: I suppose so...

M#3: So, what do you study?

K: History, actually.

M#3: So are you from Paris?

K: Actually, I'm American. So no.

M#3: Oh wow, what a surprise! I thought you were Parisian. You speak French very well!

K: Thank you. I've been studying it since high school.

M#3: So how do you like France? More than the United States?

K: I like France very much. I wouldn't say more than the US--each country has its different unique aspects.

M#3 (persistent): But you see, France has so much culture and history, with the kings and all that, while the US is very modern.

K: Well I suppose if you put it that way.

blahblahblah, M#3 asks questions, I answer in a boring and dry tone.

M#3: Will you be sad to leave Paris?

K (feeling genuine pang of sadness...): Of course I will be. I love Paris. I love France.

M#3 (taking advantage of my nostalgic emotional weakness): So where are you going? Let me walk you.

K (snapping out of my sappy reverie): Actually, I'm late for a meeting with a friend. Have to go, bye.

(Dialogue above copyright of Kate Wang, 2006)

French men never stop, not even at the library.

And then an international aid organization recruiter at Odeon asked me out to coffee 15 minutes later. He was very nice though, and I felt rather bad at turning him down, but I've given up the hope of trying to be friends with every French boy that I can carry a conversation with. Apparently, it doesn't always work. Parallel vectors of expectations that don't merge.

Sometimes, I ask myself, why not just go for it? What's the harm? Goodness knows I could use with being more spontaneous.

Why not?

Indeed.

Because.

beef carpaccio

Surprising how two thin layers of raw beef can satiate me.

I've eaten so many chocolates these past few days...at least 6-7 each day, if not more. Liquor-filled, nut-stuffed, tea-scented, ganache-covered, fruit-infused, coffee-covered...I think I am growing rather sick of these velvet brown confections. If even possible.

Joel and I traipsed around the Marais today, wandering in semi concentric circles on the labyrinth of teensy side streets with quaint names like "rue du marché des blancs manteaux" (White coat/cloak market street). I saw the perfect Kate summer frock, a light creamy-white floatyflirty grecian style deep v-neck empire waist silken confection. Alas, I am too short to carry it off. I looked slightly ridiculous in it. Aiya.

Ate cherry sorbet, sour, slightly acrid saliva-inducing smooth graininess. Mmm.

My hair is so long now, pretensions of Rapunzel without the witch and prince and cabbage-eating mother. Well, perhaps only the latter.

Bought ridiculously expensive sour gummies at Odéon, 2.50E for tongue arousal...not exactly worth it.

我又哭了. 为什么都是在吃饭的时候哭呢?

Chatted with the crepe vendor at Odéon, who works there every day of the week but Tuesday and goes traveling in August, leaving Paris to the mercy of the hordes of Birkenstock clad tourists with obnoxious voices determined to mount the Eiffel Tower in all its phallic glory. He was born in Algeria, making him part of the population of pieds-noirs who fled their native land for France.

Mademoiselle, vous êtes très charmante...

Apparently, vanity got the better of me today, as I sallied forth in a short jean skirt and off the shoulder black top to face the 50something degree weather. Apparently, I forgot that I have a cough AND still-damp hair smelling of hair styling unguents...or perhaps I didn't forget, but overrode common sense with my Narcissistic tendencies...

In any case, I suppose I didn't look half bad, as per this incident:

Scene: Monoprix, the Safeway (or Shaw's, for you East Coasters) of Paris. I am leaning over the freezer, picking out frozen vegetables for my fried rice (rather, my mother's. but hopefully i'll make it mine soon). Ears are plugged with the delicate white plastic buds of my ipod nano.

Man: Excusez-moi mademoiselle, mais est-ce que je pourrais faire votre connaissance?
(roughly: excuse me miss, can we meet each other? well more like can we introduce ourselves)

Me: Ehh..., c'est comme vous voulez....

(as you wish)

Note: From past experience, I should know to say, sorry, I need to go. Or, I have a boyfriend. Nope, still not smart enough to do that. Or perhaps too soft hearted, he didn't seem too sketchy.

Man: etc etc etc asks about my background, where I'm from, where I live.

All the while, I'm alternately looking at him and glancing at the vegetables, unable to drop the rejecting words or say, "go away"

Man: Est-ce que vous avez un numero pour que on puisse se voir autour d'un verre?

(Do you have a number so we can meet up for a drink?)

Kate: (lying very very badly) Er, j'ai pas un portable...

(I don't have a cellphone...)

Man: Un addresse d'email, donc?

(How about an email address?)

Kate: Je suis très occupée, j’ai beaucoup de devoirs…et mon copain va me rendre visite la semaine prochaine.

(I'm really busy, I have a lot of homework, and my friend (male) is going to visit me next week)


Perfect time to pretend my "copain" is actually my "petit ami" (boyfriend). Nope, not clever/quick/hard hearted enough to do that non plus...


Man: Mademoiselle, je vous trouve si charmante...etc etc etc

(Miss, I find you very charming)

Me: Ummm, merci...mais il faut que je m'en aille....

(Thanks...but I have to go...)


And I run away, forgetting my frozen vegetables. How am I going to cook my fried rice? I suppose it's a dinner of baguette and rillettes for me tonight. Yum.

Oh Kate, when will you learn to say no??? Or pretend you have a boyfriend? I'm terrible at lying. Sigh. Although if I could lie, I'd say I was lesbian. Just a little white lie, non?

or maybe I like this. You know, it's quite possible. French men have this frank forthrightness, it can be unnerving sometimes, but very refreshing from the puerile Harvard mentality--enough with the shrinking violets, bring on the aggressive sunflowers, right? Or perhaps a compromise.....


In other words, I read the best Crimson article ever, an editorial by a freshman, which conveys my sentiments exactly. Entitled "What's a Woman to do?" I highly urge both men and women to peruse it at http://www.thecrimson.com/article.aspx?ref=513134


Motherhood is perhaps one of the most glorious positions I could ever have. It is a choice that I made many years ago, a conscious, educated, informed choice. Contrary to feminist accusations, I have not been oppressed by the patriarchial concepts of female subjugation into believing this. To the contrary, my parents, and especially my father, pressured me in the opposite direction. To first be an overachieving businesswoman, to climb the professional ladder first, to be in a position of power. I do not feel as though American society today pressures women into being housewives...there is a greater pressure for women to be super-beings--to be mothers and professionals. It's not to say it cannot be done. I'm sure there are women who make great mothers and great corporate powerhouses. But I know I cannot.

But for me, there was never a doubt what was more important to me, what was my choice above all else. For me, my family, my children will always come first. And feminists ought not, as Lucy pointed out, deny me this most basic, fundamental right of motherhood. I am not a feminist, but I always thought that feminism was about choice. Because freedom of choice has always for me equalled freedom. I have had, with regards to my family and social context, never been denied a choice in this matter. I saw the different scenarios, the possible forking paths to walk upon. And for me, the choice of motherhood is the most glorious, beautiful, indeed noble, of all accomplishments. And being a wonderful mother, that means more to me, beyond doubt, than being a CEO of Company X. . If feminists laud women who chose their career, why cannot they respect women who chose motherhood? It is once again, the freedom, the power of choice that empowers us more than the actual decision that we take. If I do not begrudge or envy women for choosing their career, why cannot I be accorded dignity for choosing motherhood?

To clarify, this is not to say that my only goal in life is to be a mother. Only that motherhood is a choice I would gladly and easily make in the future.

AH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*dramatic gesture*

This morning was the worst morning of my time in Paris, and dramatic as I tend to be, I am not exaggerating this time.

I got up at 8 am today to write emails...and discovered that I was unofficially dumped by my girlfriend on facebook, for probably the 3rd time.

Went to the Sorbonne to pick up a packet from my history professor's office. Spent 20 minutes running up and down stairs, in vain. Where is G647???? Does it even exist???

Ran 10 minutes to Centre Michelet for my art history TD. Only to find M. Laugee was not there. Of the 2 other students waiting outside the empty Salle Fermigier, no one knew what was going on. I asked the secretariat, who eyed me languidly and said, "I have no information on M. Laugee, sorry." This, after my CM prof. M. Goetz did not show up for the Tuesday evening class, to which the Secretariat also said, "I have no idea where he is." The 2 French students looked at me with pitying eyes, "It must be difficult for you foreign students, welcome to France." Difficult, what an understatement.

So I walked back to the Sorbonne to try to find M. Crouzet's office. After about 40 minutes of dashing up and down stairs again (in my new heels nonetheless!!! I suppose they're well broken-in now), and asking two Secretariats (History secretariat: His office is Escalier G, 1.5 floor, first room to left. Me: What's the number? Secretariat: I dunno, it's just there.), I finally found the confounded room. No, it was NOT the first room on the left. And sadder, I was actually within 2 feet of the room at one point earlier in my travails, and didn't even realize it. I must have looked a fright, sniffling nose and sweaty brow to my professor. I was so frazzled I didn't even say "au revoir" to him after I took the packet. Sigh.

At least I'm well exercised for the day.

The point of my complaint is: I will be so incredibly grateful for Harvard's organized, well-structured classes and classrooms and pleasant mannered secretaries when I come back.

I still love this place though.