A Perpetual Advent

Part I.

"One thing you must know is that in the South there is a story for everything." He leaned in warmly, eyes alight, and I caught myself smiling back, perched expectantly on the edge of the white, linen covered sofa. I slid my finger rhythmically around the base of the wine glass in my hands as he proceeded to launch into a tale about the fireplace...and eventually the chairs and the baby grand piano. Suddenly their histories became alive, knit with interesting characters, amusing coincidences, and notes of sentiment. They were described so elegantly as being "wrapped up in a whole constellation of emotions and memory". Two Alabaman transplants were about to move from a house they had called home for the majority of my life, and here, for maybe a final time, they were smiling over narratives with new company.

Shortly after transplanting here myself, I noticed this culture of storytelling but was never quite certain if it was a happy accident from theatrical coworkers. They possess the delivery, timing, and voices to brilliantly tell a good story. Almost as much as I love absorbing these stories I want to learn how to tell them like they do.

I've stood in crowded rooms with them as they've explained connections and relayed anecdotes in low voices about characters standing across the room. I've drank in tales of history and travel, and attended dinners around intimate tables discussing Southern Gothic, their "culture of storytelling", and eccentric neighbors. We've shared our experiences of Rome and Palladian villas looking out across green Italian hillsides, and those English Gothic cathedrals that elicit sighs at the mention of their names. And miraculously, I've been able to bond over a love of writing.

Writing has always been a constant in my life. There is something endlessly fascinating about forming ideas into something a little more tangible. If nothing else, it makes for dependable catharsis. There are many poor sketchbooks and scraps of trace I've cluttered with words instead of drawings, and class notes halted with staggered pages of (at best) tangential thought. Architecture school always seemed to disapprove of writing, and it was rare and exciting to be encouraged in the impulsive habit. But I've found encouragement in odd places along the way, and amazingly continue to do so. 

I've wondered how to describe my time in Alabama so far, how to share an experience now familiar to me but mysterious to others. If it weren't so banal, I would mention the curtains of Spanish moss and uneven, hexagonal sidewalk pavers. Or how to arrive here you honestly take any road called "south". Or how sometimes, yes, the air outside smells like fried chicken. Regardless, the stories are omnipresent and the characters hardly lack drama.

Part II. 

"In the morning let me know your love 
for I put my trust in you. 
Make me know the way I should walk,
to you I lift up my soul." 
- Tuesday compline, Psalm 143

"What am I doing wrong?" I thought as I stared at the blank, white ceiling as two German girls cheerfully gathered up their things and began to set out for the day with the other pilgrims. I felt that same feeling that occurs after lying down in bed following sleepless nights in Bond; it was the feeling of a giant magnet in the earth's core pulling my bones painfully down through my body by the power of gravity. It hurt to lie down, it hurt to sit up, my breathing was heavy, and my throat was burning. What am I doing wrong? I recalled several friends who had smiled and simply said the Camino was a great experience - sparing, apparently, all gory details of desiring to amputate one's own toes. Had they too encountered bronchitis in the albergues? Had they developed blisters this badly? The previous afternoon I had walked the last 100 meters barefoot because it was less painful without shoes. Being on the road early in the morning was my favorite part of the day, but there were mornings of exhaustion and emotional distress when I awoke asking myself: How am I going to walk 15 miles today? It became a kind of mantra and a metaphor, even beyond the summer, when I felt I couldn't continue. How am I going to walk 15 miles today?

Stairs entering Portomarin

Villafranca was the worst morning, however. Once we reached Sarria my body would have adjusted, and even heavy lungs from bronchitis would seem insignificant. In fact, as we passed through the enchantingly beautiful forests of Galicia I suddenly lost all awareness of my feet and consciousness of pain. I almost believed I had floated there. We passed through cathedrals of eucalyptus with carpets of dense ferns, and there you could feel only wonder. Time and place ceased to be as well. Life before the Camino felt like a dream and the thought of life after it seemed equally unlikely. 

At the start, around midday of June 1st, I found myself begging aloud for someone to tell a story because I didn't know what to do with myself and the silence. I announced to my brother I now fully understood why Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales. You could talk to those around you, you could silently pray, but you could not escape an overwhelming silence disturbed only by an overactive mind. Still, I refrained from iPods and earbuds except when distraction was absolutely necessary to keep going. People say the Camino presents different trials to different people, and mine was certainly a challenge of both endurance and surrender.

The Benedictine Order seemed to follow us like a shadow. They were always the ones to provide compline or sacraments or housing along the Way, to the point where it seemed spurred on by a sense of divine humour. It was from them that I heard the words that resonated in my mind: "Walk light and carry few things. Let God be God." Often something wouldn't go as planned and sacrifices had to be made, even after arriving in Santiago. My brother left the same day we arrived due to an early flight, so I was left alone in Santiago de Compostela for three days. I liked the idea of going to Finisterre, the optional extension of the Camino at the ocean's edge where pilgrims burn their clothes and possessions in bonfires at sunset as a final act of detachment. However, I was still sick, it was cold and raining, and I was ill-equipped to continue. It was then that I realized how attached I was to this idea. So, I abandoned it immediately.

In Praise of Porticos
Rain, rain, go away,
Come again never.

Call it morbid or melancholic, but I had a keen sensation of approaching death as we neared the end of the journey. It was a goodbye and goodbyes habitually remind me of mortality. Our last night before entering the city I caught sight of the sun setting over Santiago de Compostela as we walked back to the albergue from dinner. I took off running barefoot through thistles to see it better from the hill in Monte del Gozo, entranced by the beautiful vision. I hadn't felt such simultaneous sadness and beauty since looking out over a decayed but oddly romantic Havana.

The next morning contained all the anticipation of Christmas Day. We woke up early in the cold and the splatter of rain meant little to my excitement. The morning was grey and solemn, quieter than all the others, shrouded in heavy fog and mist. It was poetic that we were closer than ever to our destination but it was perfectly hidden from view. I had the vision of the sunset over the city in my mind as we sped on toward what seemed unattainable. As we entered Santiago and glimpsed the towers, I commented to my brother, "If I lived here I would sit outside every morning to watch the faces of the pilgrims arriving." Finally, the moment we had waited weeks for was here...but, although I was awed and excited upon reaching the cathedral, it felt strangely empty. We arrived from the back and the square in front was vacant; I was shivering from the cold as I gawked at the baroque facade hidden under scaffolding. I was imagining the homecoming of St. Peter's Square, a family reunion of the Pilgrim Church on Earth. But the plaza was empty and the cathedral stood solemnly alone in the dreary cold. Still, it was touching to enter and embrace the apostle, attend the Mass, and spend much time in quiet contemplation. I had carried a lot in my mind along the journey, and my thoughts had been far heavier than the over-stuffed backpack. Over the next three days I ran into friends along the street, hugging strangers, both welcoming and parting with a bittersweet foretaste of a heavenly homecoming. I heard a man call out in the street to another pilgrim, "Buon Camino - forever!"  

Part III.

"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." - T.S. Eliot

Just as post-grad life had started to become bleak again, I found myself once more around a Southern dinner table with the happiest of company, shedding tears from breathless laughter. The stories were endless and absurd, bringing out the hardest laughs and causing minor injuries for the storyteller (who ended up icing a bruised hand). Hours passed with wine, wit, and hilarity. It must have been what the Spanish call sobremesa. It is nights like these when everything reaffirms that I am exactly where I should be. I only wish I could share these moments with the friends who I know would enjoy every second of it as much as I do. I found myself wondering why no one else has discovered this. Have they been turned away by the thought of Alabama? They would love it though. They would love this. The joy in our community was contagious and I wanted it to be. 

It is a strange thing to be content and longing at the same time. The world is thy ship and not thy home, etc. etc. One night as the moon, though only a crescent, somehow looked too heavy for the sky, I drove home reflecting how I've grappled with "calm turmoil" for a year. That rare, bizarre feeling of peace while remaining the opposite of complacent, it is longing yet knowing that all is right for the moment and will be in the end. As I was reminded on the Camino, "You know where you are going, you just have to get there." The "getting there" can seem like an eternity. We walk a perpetual advent, a continual arrival, often as exhausted and irritable pilgrims turned speechless at mountains and awed by forests. It demands a perfection of patience. I've heard, however, that the journey makes for a good story.

Waxing and Waning

When I was in studio earlier tonight on my way back to my desk, a friend waylaid me. "Isn't it funny in the hundreds of thousands of years that the earth has existed - isn't it strange that man has built everything that has been built in this span of time and we have to learn how to build it?"

I paused and replied, "Mmhmm. This is just a blip in the scheme of things. There's a whole universe out there."

"Why aren't we studying the cosmos?"

I shrugged. We sighed and resumed studying.

Later, about 1:30 am, I was walking back to Walsh and was arrested by the sight of the moon. It was sort of a hazy and humid night and it hung there, full and weirdly luminous, casting a bone colored glow under a curtain of cloud. I wondered how many people stop to look at the moon and consider the weirdness of its existence. We live on a planet in orbit, a small piece of an entire galaxy surrounded by and composed of literally countless masses of orbiting, floating stuff, and we're not even phased (no pun intended) by the moon. For a brief moment it made me very happy to remember there is so much that is larger than deadlines.

Containing the Creator

"Is there anything in me, O Lord my God, that can contain You? Do indeed the very heaven and the earth, which You have made, and in which You have made me, contain You?"*

St. Augustine's words echo into the darkness of a cold night. They sound haunting in their doubt but hopeful in their wonder. Is there anything that can contain? Of course we know that this is the night when creation contains the Creator of the stars. This is the night the Incarnate sleeps in a manger in Bethlehem - the feeding trough in the House of Bread. This is the night that will culminate "when Christians everywhere, washed clean of sin and freed from all defilement, are restored to grace and grow together in holiness"**. This is the night when the filled vessels, "should they even be broken...will not be poured forth". 

I often have a dreadful sense just before the end of Advent that the season was overlooked. Much of this has to do with being a student and the fact that early to mid December is consumed by finals, packing, and travelling - not to mention the hectic fury of seasonal consumerism. Sometimes it feels as if all of Advent is condensed within the hours leading up to Midnight Mass. Final preparations for both tonight and tomorrow are made and still we glance at the clock in anticipation. King's College has live streamed their last Advent Lessons and Carols and the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur has broadcasted their Midnight Mass. Outside falls rain after another day of grey mist and fog inspiring the thought of London (and not even a Dickensian Christmas at that). Still, in Eastern Standard Time we wait. We're promised it won't be long, but we continue to ask how soon? Presently the uneasiness of a weak Advent will be forgotten in song and the warmth of incense and candlelight.

Not yet, but soon.

Anyone who has ever patiently waited for something has experienced immense joy at receiving the object of desire. Given time, however, this feeling of happiness usually dims and gradually gives way to complacency or even blatant dissatisfaction. The beauty of Christmas is that when we receive the long awaited it is incapable of bringing us complacency and incapable of dissatisfying. Augustine resounds: "And when You are poured forth on us, You are not cast down, but we are uplifted; nor are You dissipated, but we are drawn together." 

We are close to joy because we know that even before morning we can contain, as the heaven and the earth, more than our fill. Gloria in excelsis Deo. It is nearly midnight.

*The Confessions (Book I Chapter 2-3) 
** Pascal Exultate

Crashed and "Grilled"

The basilica bells tolled 5 pm. "Ok, class is over." we whispered to each other as we shifted on the pavement by the statue of St. Joseph overlooking the lake. We were reviewing outside and had two more presentations before the end. Cellphones and bricks were distributed over the drawings as paperweights. A few pairs of shoes came off throughout the course of three hours and at least one intrigued passerby stuck around to listen.

"I was timing reactions and you kept them amused for four minutes," our professor stated at the end of the last review, "then you crashed and grilled."

Crashed and grilled? We collectively spent the next ten minutes giggling in sporadic fits. Not crashed and burned. You crashed and grilled.

St. Mary's Lake is pretty beautiful as it is...

So, here we are knee deep in the semester. Everyone has muddled through at least one test and a handful of late nights falling shy of the sunrise. I imagine there is a steady flux of students entering and exiting LaFun, breathing in the arrival of autumn as they clutch their coffee and muse on the high R value possessed by the Huddle's Styrofoam cups. (Maybe that's just me.)

Then studio involves Fauré's Requiem on repeat interspersed with our obsession with "Jackie and Wilson" and "Riptide", cups of Earl Grey, The Idea of Space in Greek Architecture, graphite covered hands, and channeling everything Bertram Goodhue. We joke frequently about high cortisol levels and about how every environmental systems class we are reminded of ways in which we could easily die at the figurative hands of mold or mites.

Don't let the cortisol jokes fool you, however. I've been making dedicated efforts to monitor my coffee intake, sleep according to REM cycles, take breaks when necessary, not forget appointments, and keep my life in a state of relative order. Efforts have also been made to fulfill my friendly duties of keeping my studiomates fed with dining hall bananas and generating a steady flow of snarky comebacks and puns.

Then there's always the huge, on-going topic: process. Architects are dedicated to making the intangible tangible and there is nothing quite as thrilling as the hands-on process. I'm speaking of furniture design class which is (in my biased opinion) unquestionably the best concentration. There's a tremendous satisfaction that comes with taking rough-sawn wood and jointing, planing, and cutting it yourself to reveal its beautiful, natural finish. We're getting close to creating the actual joints so stay tuned for mortises and tenons soon-ish.

Future skirting for the table.

In Deep Charrette

Near the start of the semester I went to the campus bookstore and bought a planner to keep my life organized. That was a brilliant idea except for the fact that I keep misplacing the planner and thus can never refer to it. I'm discovering that a hamster has better organizational skills than I do.

Most frustrating and recent was the oversleeping incident this morning. I overslept mass and joined the usual crowd in the dining hall in the most completely grumpy mood.

"The schola sang."
"Stop."
"It's the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross."
"I KNOW."
"There was incense."
"Shut up."
"You missed the schola and the incense."
"..."

"Give me the baby." I demanded of my sister who passed the toothless and grinning chubby child to me. I held him throughout most of breakfast until I was no longer aware of self-inflicted anger. Law School Mass it would be today, and Law School Mass it was. It was fine because Fr. Miscamble gave an excellent sermon that was partly about crucifixes in the classroom. I appreciated it because I often appreciate the crucifixes in Bond when everything is tipping over the edge.

Speaking of studio, our charrette is actually going quite well. I'm very excited about the project as a whole and there is enjoyment amidst the stress. Credit for the expression "in deep charrette" goes to a fifth year who relayed the phrase to me during our charrette in Romania. I'd not be surprised if arkies at another school have thought the same thing at some point. Architorture is similar everywhere.

In other news, those of us in the furniture design concentration purchased our wood last week. In case you are curious, my table is going to be walnut. I'm pretty excited for this.

Hello, Syllabi

Part I. Awkwardness and Grace

Fumbling with my card at the door, sporadically and hopelessly punching in my code between card scans while balancing poster tubes and a roll of vellum that I will never use again, I deduced that my Italian ID is the only card that works now. Abandon hope, all ye American cards.

Walsh is beautifully located off God Quad and houses the most spacious single one could imagine. I am now properly settled in minus a few more decorative desires, such as more Christmas lights to replace the fluorescent atrocities. I need white lights for Narnia too. Narnia is my walk-in closet, the "hermit hole within the hermit hole", but actually just a brilliant little storage space.

Between timidly asking my sister "What code do I punch in at the doors again?" and actively researching the dining hall hours of operation it's a little strange to be back in a college setting. After cooking every meal in a kitchen with friends for the past year something seems off about the luxury of having various cuisines laid before you.

Coming home hasn't changed anything about my excitement to be here, not even slightly. As my brother and I pulled off the toll road a few days ago I was practically shrieking with joy behind the wheel, "Where's the dome? Do you see it yet?". It's still an honour to spend another year (two!) on campus at this university. The novelty of it just doesn't seem to wear off for me.

Part II. Enter the Syllabus

Classes began on Tuesday and the first and most exciting was furniture design. After the safety lectures about possible "dismemberment and even death" we were released into the library to search for design precedent. The theme of potential death continued into environmental systems when hypothetical situations were addressed. I can't recall another semester starting off on that foot.

Those of us who were abroad in architecture for a year are foreign to worksheets and tests. We're slightly disgusted that "homework" is still an accepted concept. We're spoiled with design work and painting so structures and systems worksheets with numbers are both ugly and frightening. Suddenly carrying a backpack and being assigned homework seems extraordinarily childish after becoming accustomed to learning through one-on-one discussions with professors, walking cities, and listening to guest lectures. I don't know what other schools and departments are like, but I am thankful that in the School of Architecture we cultivate personal relationships with our professors and chat with them at literally any time of day or night. There's mutual respect and they tell us that we're capable of doing more than we often realize.

With every syllabus it seems that another weight is being given to us. At the end of the day they stack up and you can feel the pressure of assignments building up -- oh, and here are some forms to fill out and some emails about the information we'll be covering and other classes you might want to take. It has begun, friends, it has begun.

Part III. Barbarians and the Cave

After completing my environmental systems worksheet I set out with the intention of going to Morrissey Mass. I remembered that there isn't a way for me to swipe in so I hoped to rely on the kindness of a resident. However, when I reached the threshold I saw in the lobby a flood of freshmen and chickened out. Then I observed a friend running in through the side door but she was gone before I could call out. So, that's not happening I guess. I'll try tomorrow. 

I casually looped around Bond and towards the lake where I saw fire flaming in the water. It was a gargantuan bonfire across the water by the CSC. By the time I turned towards the peaceful flames of the grotto barbarian chanting was audibly accompanying the wild fire. I can't wait until beginning-of-the-year dorm activities end so the grotto returns to its silence. Eventually the wild yells increased in volume until I got up to leave. A literal hoard of barbarians wearing horns and running shorts jogged roughly towards Main Building. Ugh. Siegfried. I rolled my eyes.

Now it's time to read all the emails from professors. 

The Bookcase for Fiction

Due to some recent conversations and because this has been stewing in my mind for a while, I think good fiction needs its respect. Summer has always been the time to lose yourself in a story. Last summer it was Flannery O'Connor and John Henry Newman accompanied by countless pots of tea. This summer it's the top of my I'm-Embarrassed-I-Haven't-Read-This-Yet list and more pots of tea. There are a lot of books on that list but if I told you which ones, well, I just wouldn't.

This is me when I'm home. If you know where this is from, then we've just became best friends.

Last summer I also skeptically began watching Doctor Who and barely passed the Eccleston test of stupidity tolerance. The timing for Doctor Who actually could not have been any better as I embarked on my year of travel. I told myself I wouldn't continue watching it abroad (because who watches TV when in Europe? Amiright?) but before I knew it I was through all of the David Tennant series and suddenly Matt Smith as well. Travelling sometimes alone and sometimes with friends but always in an unfamiliar place, I learned to empathize with the likewise Baggins-esque choice between home and a different world. I don't think I encountered many aliens or dragons in my journey (there were some strange folks and Gaudi houses), but I did often think about these stories and their characters because they resonated with my life.

I'm no English major, but I think that's sort of the point of fiction. It must be grounded in something that resonates with humanity - in fact there's no way it cannot be. Civilizations were built upon stories, myths, legends, and epics and even the craziest of fantasy creatures is connected to something we already relate to or know. My dad is quick to remind us that there are only about seven basic plots because these are sort of inscribed in humanity. When properly told, stories do more than just entertain and provide an escape from reality. Fiction helps us understand ourselves through the eyes of someone else. Good fiction helps us live better lives.

In other words, fiction isn't a time wasting escape from our "real world problems"; it tells us how to deal with them. Humanity hasn't changed much from when Shakespeare penned his plays. We still overthink, ponder unexplored death, and obsess over our inaction like Hamlet. There's something comforting about discovering this in someone else's words and witnessing the echos of the past come alive in the present. It's why we form attachments to fictional characters and long deceased authors. It's why we weep at the graves of men we never knew.

That's my soapbox for the day.

(Almost) Midnight in Paris

"Are you sad?" my friend turned and asked as we stood in front of the Cathedral of Notre Dame which towered shining in the darkness. No doubt there was a shadow of concern on my face due to the inevitable and fast approaching goodbye.

"No! Oh no." I instinctively denied before pausing and correcting myself. "Well, yeah. Of course I'm sad. I don't want to leave. I seem to be having that problem everywhere I go."

There passed a melancholic silence before he suggested that I might be back sooner than I think. There is truth in that. I wasn't ready to come to Paris and now I'm not ready to leave. However, now that I have perspective on the situation this was the perfect risk to take. I might even take it again if it's right.

We had a picnic that lasted something like five hours with the stagiaires at the tip of Île de la Cité. Even though some of them attempted to steer the conversation into English it always naturally lapsed into French within a few minutes. The sun eventually passed over the horizon and the world went from purple to gold as the city lights turned on and shone on the river. I thought about Van Gogh's "La Nuit des Étoiles" that I had seen earlier that afternoon in the d'Orsay. I zoned out of the conversation thinking about how the thickness of the paint works to the painting's advantage. When the light catches on it it makes the whole image shimmer like it's made of real stars and water.

It's better in person.

I never understood how Rome could be considered a romantic city but Paris I understand. It is more "beautiful" than Rome in an elegant sort of way. There's more grace to it than the unapologetic boldness of Rome's gritty streets. That's not to say it isn't more modern and just as dirty. We saw a rat during our picnic and we decided it was definitely Ratatouille.

Monday I came into the office a bit later than usual because I wasn't supposed to be there. I finished the watercolor while everyone in the office was in a meeting. I waited for years for the meeting to end so I could properly say goodbye, but when I saw that there was no chance of it wrapping up any time soon I had to do the last thing I wanted. I made an awkward public goodbye to everyone sitting at the table and they made their awkward goodbye back. It was so painfully awkward that I walked two blocks out of my way back to the apartment simply because I couldn't stand the thought of having to pass by the wide, open office windows. When I got back I reprimanded myself for not thinking up an alternative solution to leaving. I hate goodbyes but I hate leaving loose ends even more. Thankfully those loose ends were more or less tied up in last minute chance encounters, emails, and Facebook friendships.

If I could have relived my last day in Paris I would have done it differently because I tried to cram in too much. Most of the time not spent on transportation was spent frantically roaming the Père Lachaise cemetery. I crossed paths with a family from Fort Worth who were so charmingly American I started talking to them. At the time I was looking for Frédéric Chopin but I ended up joining their search for Jim Morrison. After being moved by Oscar Wilde's tomb I went on a wild goose chase to find the Picpus Cemetary and never found its possibly invisible door.

That night I met up with my friend and the French stagiaire for one last walk around Paris and one last crêpe. It was the most perfect weather you can imagine and everything was beautiful. We saw every site you could want to see either up close or from a distance. It was midnight when I returned alone to my apartment and used adrenaline to help me pack until, exhausted, I slept for three hours before a painfully long day of travel. When I finally got home the next night after two connections/three flights (I had the unlucky middle of the middle seat for seven plus hours over the Atlantic) every part of my body was sore. Nothing feels better than your own bed.

Now I have less than a month at home and plenty of things to do in that span of time. Boredom lost its hold on me a long time ago.  

A Summary of Events

"You should finish those windows today because you'll be a different person tomorrow."

I laughed at my friend who was standing over my shoulder creeping on my rendering. But today when I sat down to resume painting the windows I happened to think about what he said. A lot happened between when I started and finished painting them and it gave me some pause recollecting everything that had occurred.

I haven't written in a long time because I have been wonderfully busy. I enjoy being busy when it's the productive and fun kind of busy. I never talked about the experiences in Romania but I'll say this much: it was so. much. fun. Saying I'm grateful I was able to go is an understatement. Whether it was counting the shooting stars we saw under the night sky, jumping up from the dinner table with our teacups to watch the cows walk home, blasting an Italian opera out the van speakers as we pulled up to the Prince's House, climbing dangerous medieval towers, jokes upon jokes, speaking in our best British accents, sitting around a campfire with Romanian architecture students, or laughing until our sides hurt...all of it was memorable and more perfect than we could have imagined.

As for Paris, my time here has gone swiftly and comfortably post-Transylvania. One of my best friends from high school came into town one weekend from London with two of her friends so I showed them around and ended up with a fridge full of macarons. (I had never had a macaron prior to our trip to the Ladurée on the Champs Elysees. Yes, this was a documented event.)

Just recently after weeks upon weeks of cold and rainy weather, Paris burst into a blistering hot summer. I'm not sure if it's actually as hot as it is back home, but it's hot enough without air conditioning.

My French comprehension level has significantly risen and I've also been busy learning Sketchup and AutoCAD. All credit goes to my American peer at the office who has done much in teaching me little by little and giving me things to do. Yesterday the three of us Americans were the last ones in the office and I was chatting with him about Rome before he invited us over to his apartment for dinner. We had to stop by the grocery store first and by the time we got around to making dinner it was after 10 pm. My friend sort of got shooed out of the kitchen for being incompetent or something (just kidding...but he was booted after inquiring too much about how to rinse green beans and we were also disgruntled that he has never pulled an all-nighter) so I took his place in the dinner process. I was asked to talk more about my experiences in Rome, so I did after struggling to start fresh from the vague "Tell me more about Rome." part. Professors were, as always, a good place to start and then from there I divulged the law-breaking story about the last architecture project Via Monterone ever saw.

We had previously met his roommate (an Egyptian student my age at MIT) and his American friend who came for dinner and stayed the night. The roommate had a bunch of his MIT friends over who ended up staying too. They mostly did their own thing while the four of us talked and laughed until someone looked at their phone and told us that we had to leave right now or else the metro would be closed. My friend and I sprang up from the table, said goodbye, were given the door code in case the metro didn't work out, and we ran. I didn't make my train. My friend made his train, but I was left without means of contact or direction at 1 AM in a Paris metro station. I waited long enough to see the last train whiz by without so much as slowing down and then I realized I had no choice but to return to the apartment...if I could find it. Thankfully I have a guardian angel and a good retention of images when I walk somewhere (I kid you not, I found my way back by looking up at apartments that I recalled looking up at before while admiring their architecture). I don't know or want to know what would have happened otherwise because I couldn't remember which street we had run from. I had also mistyped the door code in my phone and yet somehow I miraculously remembered the correct number. Sparing the gory details, I made it back safely. My host set down a well prepared set of sheets, intentionally chosen ND clothes, and a pillow on an air mattress and said "Here you go, Dubs." I thanked him, said goodnight, and when I laid down I looked at one visible star out the open dormer window until, seemingly an eternity later, I fell into a restless sleep.

One of the many times I woke up in the morning was to the sound of the MIT girls making pancakes for our hosts. It was oddly soothing to hear American voices I didn't know. It was not so soothing when they packed up and left long before I needed to get up for work. (We girls were all in the room attached to the kitchen.) I went over to the flatmate's laptop to check my messages and then went back to bed until my host came in signaling we had to leave for work soon.

Today was going to be my last day - we even went out to eat as a celebration - but even after staying late I still hadn't finished my watercolor. I opted to come in on Monday morning, finish it, and leave after lunch, rather than let my American peer finish it for me. He had offered to and I declined because I hate leaving things incomplete.

Tomorrow I am making a solo pilgrimage to Lisieux and Sunday will be really the last hurrah for Paris. We have it planned out for a post Mass visit to the Musée d'Orsay, watercoloring and a picnic on the Seine with the interns, and all sorts of fun.  

Le Plat du Jour

"I have something fun for you today. You're going on a sort of scavenger hunt." I was told on Monday. "I want you to go out to the island and take a bunch of pictures of balconies. I don't expect you to be back until after lunch. Take as much time as you need."

Kid in a candy store or, rather, architecture student unleashed in Paris.

But this past Monday was a rare treat in terms of the work day. Work can be slow. I mean the type of slow that makes you get up to get a glass of water, not because you're thirsty, but because it's something to consume two minutes. Lunch becomes the halfway peak of the day and, in turn, the 4 o'clock café glacé is the halfway peak of the afternoon. Time is broken down by these parameters which are fixed, not by the hands of the clock, but by a dull progression of increasing boredom; a sequence of sometimes now, sometimes then, varying daily. There is no strict adherence to the hour. This leaves room for both the hope that action will come early and the fear that it will be delayed. I cling to every duty I am given and nothing strikes more grief and terror than hearing that my superior will be out of the office for a day (ok, a bit dramatic, the Reign of Terror ended in 1794).

When work ends at 6:30 it's too close to dinner time and I am too exhausted to explore. Ultimately I do exactly what I would do for comfort's sake no matter where I am - curl up with a cup of tea and read a book or watch Doctor Who. (It has taken a full year but I'm almost up-to-date.)

A coworker of mine has been impressed recently that I've managed to speak only in French to him. I, however, am not impressed because those conversations don't even deserve to be called conversations. It's the mundane equivalent of "Hi, how are you? I'm kind of sick today unfortunately." I'm more comfortable speaking French with him than anyone else (including the Americans) because his English is good and he doesn't judge.

The awkward thing is when everyone assumes I understand all of their statements and questions. I don't. I really do not. My french comprehension is pretty darn good by now for someone so immensely out of practice, but that doesn't mean I catch all the jokes at the lunch table or understand entirely what changes need to be made to a project. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't, it depends largely on how fast it is spoken.

Overall I have fallen very much into the routine of things. Work is great until there is absolutely nothing to do (a period that occurs almost daily, sometimes hourly) and even if I don't have much time to actually see Paris I am at least absorbing what I can. In fact, absorbing is what I do all day long. I feel like a giant sponge at the lunch table just sitting there in awkward silence trying to pick up on the fast French chatter. Flipping through the books in the office I try to absorb the language of the architecture too, especially to make the switch from Italian to French. Working at a desk I overhear and absorb the phrases people say all the time on the phone or in dialogue with each other. It really exercises a lot of mental power to hone in on language while drawing or designing architecturally. That's what makes this so exciting though.

For those who I have not told yet, Friday night I will leave for a short summer program in Romania. It's sponsored by Notre Dame and INTBAU/The Prince's Foundation and it promises to be oodles of fun. Apparently Prince Charles fell in love with Romania when he first visited and now he has foundations working to restore the historic architecture. We will be sketching, watercolouring, learning about masonry from a British expert, and taking part in restoring a medieval church. I couldn't ask for a better break from the office or halfway mark for my work time abroad. I've already received more requests for even more pictures so I will not disappoint.

St. Etienne doesn't really have to do with anything, but I loooove this church.

Mistaking Clouds for Mountains

Oh my, this has been an extremely eventful week, and not always in the best of ways. Most recently I left my key in my apartment and could not notify the landlady because she was out of town and left her cellphone behind. After involving way too many kind souls in this frustrating issue, a housekeeper came to the rescue with an extra key a whole day later. I apologized so many times to my friend that he told me to shut up. I still feel bad about it even though this sort of thing happens to everyone sooner or later. I mostly feel that way because I specifically told myself - upon realizing that you can't walk through my door without it locking itself - that this ought to never, ever happen. The landlady even said "If you ever need an extra key just ring my door." (Challenge excepted.) Anyways, my friend put me up for the night and I slept so deeply and comfortably that it took me by surprise when I woke up the next day and instantly remembered everything. I told him that I owe him iced coffee until he graduates and, now that I think about it, crème fraîche until we go home. 

Other events in said eventful week include things we will not be able to attend. We wanted to make it to Normandy for the anniversary of D-Day but, during lunch break at work I realized that today is June 6th so that was automatically out. We also wanted to make it to Chartres on the annual pilgrimage I mentioned previously, but we have work on Monday. This means we are stuck with a variety of silly options such as walking part of the way on Saturday and turning around on Sunday without ever arriving to the cathedral. We also don't have sleeping bags which are kind of vital for the camping part. So, we're not going. 

All of that was sort of a downer I 'supose, but I think my relief at being back in the apartment softens the blow of the fallen-through plans. Also on the bright side, work has gotten more comfortable in the past few days and I have successfully (more or less...) completed one week in Paris. I could even simplify that statement to "I am in Paris" and it would still be something on the bright side. I reminded myself of that yesterday when we took the metro to my friend's apartment. Looking out the windows when the subway surfaced for a few stops, passing the numberless apartments and the Eiffel Tower itself, I had the tongue-in-cheek thought, "If I end up being homeless at least I'll be homeless in Paris, right?" 

These weekends will be the stuff I crave. With a 9:45 am - 6:30 pm work day five days a week there isn't much time to sightsee. Today another intern and I went on a quest for more drawing supplies and that was the first time I stepped outside besides going to the grocery store at lunch.* The city seemed so vivacious. The thing about Paris is that there are hundreds of architectural details on every block, so there's always something fascinating to be seen. There are boulangeries that smell heavenly, fish markets that reek, and when you pass the expensive restaurants with rich customers you can smell the euros. 

I'm excited for both staying in tonight and adventuring tomorrow. We might go to Versailles. We're not really sure yet. I am sure of one thing though - all in all, again, I cannot complain.  

*The grocery store which, by the way, I should just move into. J'habite à Franprix.