Beaudelaire on the Train

Je suis deborde de bonheur. Je suis tres, tres heureux.

I really am. My computer works; the reason you haven’t heard from me these past few days is due neither to excessive work nor to laziness: Saturday night, it was raining hard, and my laptop was in my backpack. Upon returning to the youth hostel, I found that I could not turn the power on; even more worrisome was that when I plugged in the computer, the light on the keyboard indicating that the console was receiving electricity did not light up. I went to bed sick with worry (the fact that I had to take the 9:07 train to Paris the next day didn’t help, either), and had two dreams that night about waking up, and finding that the computer worked, after all. I leapt out of bed the next morning in order to see if, then, the power worked -- no luck. I dragged my suitcase and my oh-so-heavy backpack to the train station, arrived 30-40 minutes early, and waited, having purchased my ticket two days in advance.

I sat back with Les Fleurs du Mal and my pocket dictionary in my seat: the train was not due to arrive until nearly noon. I had already read several poems from Les Fleurs du Mal -- “Correspondances,” ‘L’albatross,” and “Au Lecteur,” as well as “Le chien et le flacon,” from Le Spleen de Paris -- but I now realize that the book is best read as a single work of art. Reading it now, it is easy to see what attracted the French poet to the creepy, crazy, and spectacular works of Edgar Allen Poe, which he translated into his native language. It’s such a shame that Poe died so young (he was barely thirty, I believe), and Baudelaire wasn’t much luckier, dying while still in his forties. Les Fleurs du Mal delves into the vile, the stinking, the aberrant, the frightening, the terrible, the essential, the sublime. Baudelaire can write a wickedly enjoyable poem about a moldering corpse, swarming with insects bursting through its stomach wall. There is also a fair streak of Platonism in Les Fleurs du Mal (the jist of “Correspondances” is that human beings wander through a forest of symbols which surround the temple that is Nature), but Baudelaire never writes anything as absolutely incomprehensible as Yeats’s Neo-platonic poetry. I rather like “Le Chat,” in which the poet, upon stroking his cat, is reminded, in a very, very sensual way, of his absent wife.

I arrived at the Austerlitz train station, located in Paris’s 13^th arrondissement, and walked for what seemed like much too long to the Place d’Italie, where I thankfully found the hotel where EDUCO reserved rooms for all incoming students from Duke, Emory, Cornell, and Tulane without too much difficulty. I had double-checked the address and arrondissement of the hotel before I (thought I) lost my computer, but I had not written it down. I inquired at the wrong hotel, at first, by accident (a most unfriendly reception), but quickly found the right one. I checked in, without much difficulty, to the most luxurious hotel I have ever visited -- my room had a kitchenette, a shower and bath, and a roommate, Peter Daniels. We learned that we would both be living in the foyer, aka the university dormitory, rather than in an apartment or with a host family. I had been hoping to be living with a French roommate, to yell at me in French when I came home every day about how my Camembert was making the refrigerator smell bad, but at least I’m living in a building of international students, and not in the “American House” (thank you, EDUCO, for not lodging us there)! I also received an information packet, and, most importantly, the 2012 Edition of Paris Pratique Par Arrondissement, the most useful map or guide I have ever seen. The little booklet is really a work of genius, and it has already saved me multiple times, in my few days in Paris.

Sunday afternoon, we (that is, the EDUCO students, who number in the neighborhood of 50 or 60) took a bus tour of Paris, passing all of the best-known spots, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Tuileries, Notre Dame, the former location of the Bastille, the Arc de Triomph and les Champs Elysees, the Pantheon, etc. Virtually every EDUCO student is female, and they’re all of the hedonistic sorority-girl type who delight in forming in cliques in order to look down on others. The bus as filled with empty chatter, and whining, as some noisily voiced the opinion that they would just rather “chill in a park.” Naturally, nobody sat with someone as unfashionable as me, and everyone I’ve so far met detests me, if they’ve notice me at all. I’m used to this by now, however. At least Nick Chen is here, who really is a kind, reliable, confident person. Still, I feel guilty spending time around anyone with whom I speak English.

Monday morning, I awoke at around seven, everything packed in either my backpack or my suitcase. We only had one night’s stay at the Hotel, but we were allowed to leave all of our baggage in the conference room until that evening: this meant that I was obliged to carry everything of any value on my back, lest it be stolen from my suitcase. We had a mandatory meeting at the Institute of Charles V, in the 4^th arrondissement, and although EDUCO gave us directions as to how to use the Metro, I decided that I preferred to walk the distance, seeing on the map that it was not long at all. I strolled for about forty minutes, and arrived, having crossed from the Left Bank of the Seine to the Right.

I read Baudelaire for a bit, until the rest of the EDUCO students arrived. We had a 2-hour meeting on the orientation period, which will last for the next three or four weeks. Some of the highlights include visits to several Parisian museums, a trip to the Comedie Française to see Moliere’s l’Avare, a weekend visiting 5 castles in the Loire Valley (the selection is a secret -- maybe now, I’ll finally see Chinon and Villandry?), and daily grammar classes, lasting three hours every afternoon. Not only will I receive free entrance and reduced tariffs to many museums in Paris, but I will also soon receive a pass granting unlimited access to the Louvre. During the two-hour gap before our courses began, I took a quick trip to visit Notre Dame, which is very, very close the Institute of Charles V. The architecture -- amazing! I didn’t have enough time to enter, but I took as long a circumambulation as the construction zone permitted. I also visited the statue of Charlemagne, right outside, which is huge. Classes were a drag, and I won’t bore you with details. I trudged back to the hotel, picked up my suitcase, and dragged it over to the eastern half of the 14^th arrondissement. I moved in, did my laundry, met three fellow-residents (all PhD candidates, and from the Ivory Coast, Togo, and Romania, respectively), walked to the movie theater in the Porte d’Orleans in order to watch Les Femmes du 6eme Etage (obligatory for class), discovered that the movie is only showing at two theaters in Paris, trudged back to my room, had a bite to eat, did my homework, and crashed. I was very, very tired by this point.

This morning, Tuesday, I walked to Charles V again, which is only a little bit of an hour away. I really detest all cars, subways, trains, airplanes, etc., preferring so much more to stretch my legs. By walking instead of taking the Metro, I hope to learn the Parisian streets, and to get a little exercise. On the way, I bought a croissant from a baker, and an apple from a fruit vendor. Another meeting, this one about academics: four-course minimum, with no more than two courses from EDUCO allowed (I hope I won’t need to take any with EDUCO). Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be allowed to take a course at Paris IV, Sorbonne. There is a preference for 1) students who do exceptionally well on their language tests (I’ll be taking mine on Monday), 2) students whose majors correspond to the topic of the course they wish to attend, and 3) students staying the whole year. I might fulfill #1 if I study hard enough, I fulfill #2 for all History courses, but I do not fulfill #3. I took another quick trip to admire Notre Dame, also passing the absolutely gargantuan Hotel de Ville, then more class. We made a plan to buy the comedy on DVID (EDUCO will reimburse), and watch it together. After class, I walked over to the 6^th arrondissement, first to speak to the EDUCO rep, who referred me to a repairman to help me with my computer (we made an appointment -- I hope I can alert him in time that I won’t be arriving), and bought the comedy from a store called fnac. It cost € 19.99, on sale, so I’m glad that EDUCO is footing this bill! I walked back to my room, buying some fruit and other groceries on the way, and, at around 7:40 PM, decided to try one more time to turn on my computer before meeting Marc the computer-man. I don’t literally jump for joy too much, but I was extremely excited, and settled down to write this entry, rather than pick up some items that I need over at the Porte d’Orleans. Among other things, I need napkins and towels, which conveniently have the same name in France. Unfortunately, an EDUCO student lives in the room next to mine, and I can hear every “like” she and her friends drop. Right now, they’re talking about dresses.

Well, if you’re reading this, it means that I’ve managed to get online. In the next week or so, expect me to publish on the last chateaux of the Loire that I visited.

~JD

“Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard/ Comme le tien, aimable bête,/ Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard” [I see my wife in spirit. The look in her eyes, like yours, amiable beast, profound and cold, cuts and splits like a sting]. ~ Beaudelaire,”XXXIV - Le Chat.”

First Look at Tours

Before I begin to describe my meanderings, let me be absolutely clear about the weather in Touraine: it's hot. On Monday, at around 2:00 PM, an outside thermometer read 33 degrees Celsius, (91 degrees Fahrenheit).

Sunday evening, shortly after writing the last update, Mme. Avertin drove me to the Institute of Touraine in order to show me the local geography. She also showed me the Loire, the longest river in France, which flows through Tours. Swimming is strictly prohibited, due to the swift current, and unpredictable undercurrents due to shifting sand and stones. And unlike the gorges in Ithaca, this isn't "forbidden" with a wink and a nod; the Loire is strictly off limits.

I began to fall asleep on the drive back, but before I crashed, back at the Avertins', I met the other student living with my host family. Her name is Misaki, and she is Japanese -- she has been staying at the Institute for a month already, to learn her third language, French. According to the house rules instituted by the Institute, dinner occurs promptly at 7:30 each night, and I awoke from a nap I hadn't realized I was taking to M. Avertin knocking on my door to call me to dinner.

A note on French dinners: all Gaul is divided into three parts, at least as far as mealtimes are concerned. The first is soup (chez les Avertin, vegetable), followed by the main course (gratin or the like), followed by cheese and fruit. The Avertins cook somewhat heavier meals than what I typically eat at home, but I appreciate that they willingly accommodate my vegetarian diet.

The next morning (I awoke in the middle of the night, and had to read L'Homme Revolte for an hour), Mme. Avertin drove me again to the Institute, where I arrived at 8:15 AM sharp. I registered, received my student ID, and was told which room to report to in order to take a 9:00 oral examination. I waited with two other students, a girl from Spain and a girl from Japan: we swapped stories as best we could in the language which all of us knew a little bit, but none of us knew fluently. Ironically, had we tried to communicate in English, we probably could have communicated more effectively: the Japanese girl had spent a year and a half studying in Pennsylvania; the Spanish girl had studied English; and I consider myself nearly fluent in the language. My interview lasted just about 10 minutes, during which I showed the evaluator that there is in me as much French as in the average box of freedom fries. I was free to do as I pleased until 10:00 AM, and I explored the neighborhood around the Institute, buying a half-dozen postcards, and strolling by the Loire.

At 10:00 AM, back on campus, the new students, numbering in the forties, most of them planning on staying exactly one month, congregated in a small, stuffy classroom for orientation. Although most students were no more than three years older or younger than me, 10-15% were over thirty, and one man looked to be in his sixties. The first speaker covered administrative details, but the second speaker, the instructor of civilization (that's his title) had a real presentation, complete with a slide show. He described the twice-weekly excursions that the Institute organizes, sending interested students to various castles, most of them in the Loire Valley, but some as far as Brittany and Normandy (the regions in the far north of France, for those of you uncertain of your French geography). French castles are gargantuan, ostentatious, cold, and according to M. Avertin, all the same. Notwithstanding, I hope to attend these excursions, and tell you my own verdict.

A pair of instructors took us on a tour of the city, showing us several of the monuments of Tours, including the many churches. Just a block from the Institute are the remains of the Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the nineteenth-century church dedicated to the same saint. The original basilica, now completely destroyed above ground, was build in late antiquity, I believe in the 5th century. The Normans burnt it down in the 10th century, but it was soon rebuilt, in the 11th. Saint Martin and his basilica seem to be rather high-profile (Sam or Shea, please correct me concerning this factoid). Martin was a soldier (and son of a soldier) in the Roman army in the early 4th century, beginning his career when Constantine was in power, but had not yet consolidated his rule, or embraced Christianity. Martin refused to fight (Christians were forbidden from warfare in that era), but it was during this time that the famous story about him and the beggar occurred. The beggar lacked sufficient clothing to ward off the chill of the day, but Martin was unable to legally give him his cloak, because half of it belonged to the Roman army (soldiers payed half of their own expenses). Therefore, he cut his cloak in half, and gave half of it the beggar (the sketch inside the church shows him cutting his cloak horizontally with his sword, and keeping the upper half). In reference this anecdote, Europeans apply term "St. Martin's Summer" to what Americans call an "Indian Summer."

I explored Tours for the rest of the day. I found that the public library will be closed until August 15th, and that public restrooms require a fee. I ducked into a small bookstore, as much to stay out of the heat as to look for books. Although the shop was small, I thought to pick up a volume of Baudelaire, the great 19th-century French poet. What I found in the poetry section was a bookshelf groaning under the weight of Baudelaire volumes. Nearly two whole shelves held copies of "Les Fleurs Du Mal," available in six editions, and fearing for the integrity of the bookshelf, I kindly relieved it by purchasing a copy. There is such a glut of editions of "Fleurs Du Mal" on the market, that the market has assigned a paperback copy the same value as a single scoop of ice cream.

I returned to the Avertins' in the evening, and pounded out the beginning of this post before running back to the Institute for a night in a cocktail lounge with a group of my fellow students. There were Korean, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Maltese, Italian, English, German, Swiss, Swedish, and Colombian students, as well as one awkward, stupid American who felt entirely out of place among the intelligence, charm, wit, and social grace that collectively displayed by the highly-educated children of the European upper crust (the Asians kept to themselves). Somewhat surprising was the attitude towards alcohol consumption: there was none. To a group of students aged 15-22, sitting in a bar chatting, drinker beside non-drinker, is perfectly normal. Although the 15-year old ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail, nobody questioned her, or anyone else's, right to be there. As the evening wore on, I felt a little bit more comfortable: a Spanish student and I talked about our countries' respective debt crises (halfway through the evening, the Senate's decision to raise the debt ceiling broke on to the TV screen), and the two students from Malta were friendly and sociable, as were the Russian students.

A note here about the Russian student, just for Maya. Meeting women my age who have arrived straight from Moscow and environs has done nothing to dispel the stereotypical images of Russian females I have learned from Bond films. They are confident sexy polyglots who dress in black, and often in leather.

After falling into bed late that night, I awoke on Tuesday, fully adjusted to the French time zone. I left for the university, and arrived early, and found my name on a bulletin of course assignments. I had more than an hour to wait, and sitting outside of my classroom reading Camus, the other students began to filter in; all in all, three Koreans, three Russians, an Australian, a no-nonsense Italian, a Japanese girl, and a Japanese gentleman old enough to be my grandfather, who displayed as much enthusiasm and Francophilia as the rest of the class combined. Our class has two instructors, one for written instruction, the other for oral instruction. The oral instruction was just the sort of thing I need: practice listening to song lyrics, distinguishing similar sounds, etc. I learned this song, by Ben l'Oncle Soul. I really, really hope to serenade someone someday with this melody. In case a certain Mother of mine is interested in other aspects of instruction, I will gladly oblige.

I attended an optional class until 5:30 PM, on technical business terminology. After this, I found the library, hidden on what the French call the second floor, and Americans call the third. After picking up a couple of books on French history, I read for an hour, until I returned back to the Avertins for dinner (we had eggplant that night! It was good, but not as good as yours, Mom!), and then walked back, through the rain, to the Institute, where students were congregating for an activity similar to that of the night before. Unfortunately, the first bar we entered couldn't accommodate us all, and some of us were shunted to a second, where I ended up being stuck at the table of Korean girls, who spoke nothing but Korean. Irritated, and unable to sit by any of my friends, I left, and here I did something stupid, which I hope I will not do again, ever. I became lost. Although I had a map, it had mostly disintegrated from the rain, and I wandered for about a half an hour before I again found the central street in Tours, the Rue National, and around eleven, I was safe and sound the Avertins'. I finished off this entry, and then decided to call it quits for tonight.

Love to all of you,

~JD

"Je me revolte, donc nous sommes" [I rebel, therefore we are]. ~Albert Camus