Paris Attacks

In a previous post I wrote about my same-day reaction to the Charlie Hebdo shootings, a jumbled vomit of emotions and questions and critiques comparing it to my feelings on 9/11 back in elementary school. This time is certainly different: Friday’s first incident killed 18 people at a restaurant two blocks from my old apartment and the concert hall is just across the street from my friend’s place where I spent many Friday nights. Even though I’m the farthest from France that I’ve ever been, I felt a much more visceral fear this time for the safety of my friends.  Thanks to social media I could contact those closest to me, and through facebook’s “marked as safe” option got notifications for the well-being of acquaintances, those I’ve lost touch with, and randos I don’t even remember who live in that amazing city I used to call home.

Morning after, courtesy of my old roomie Coban.
Check out his work here.

I realized that I’m a bit too liberal with accepting facebook friend requests but I also saw that my network in France is pretty vast, and the fact that no one I knew was, or had someone close to them (as far as I know of), physically hurt from the attacks is a real blessing. Of course the emotional, psychological trauma some of them experienced, having all public transportation shut down, hearing gunshots and explosions, not knowing where to go, is one that must cling like a virus, one that cannot simply be shaken off. I pray that you can quickly resume living life, not out of fear but with awareness, and go back to devouring all the beauty and culture that Paris has to offer.

It makes me extremely uncomfortable that WW3 seems to be unraveling before our eyes: Terrorist raids being conducted in cities like Toulouse (where I lived for 2 years.) The news (the propaganda?) tells us that one of the attackers snuck in as a refugee through Greece, and borders must be closed off (of course Greece is the Karen of Europe).  Bombing in Syria has moved from aggressive to full on assault, and it all feels wayyyy too politically convenient to be as simple as the dark empire versus the rest of the galaxy.  But the more we nuke the shit out of our enemies the more hate that is unfurled, and it continues on and on exponentially in a downward spiral of revenge and revenge and this is when the line between reality and fiction like a Brave New World gets extremely blurry. History repeats itself. I keep making the same fucking mistakes, like drunk eating cookies every Saturday night. How can I expect the entire world to change, when I can’t even prevent a Sunday morning stomachache?

The best solution I see, a long term one, maybe too long and vast but at least a noble one, is to continue efforts to provide education EVERYWHERE in the world. That means in Somalia, in Pakistan. In Southeast Asia. Africa. Syria. In rural America. In south side Chicago.  In districts that give up on students with special needs, or families that cannot afford school lunches. One of these is IN REACH. Even if we are not the ones to make or take decisions on bombing a nation, sharing the value of education, the ability to think, assess, learn and grow, open opportunities, meet like-minded people, meet those with opposing views, and make judgments based on reason rather than just emotion will all heighten the level of acceptance, or rather tolerance, around the world. I mean isn’t that was “peace” really is? Tolerating those who are different from us? We don’t all need to be friends. I still hold a grudge against that girl from Saturday who stepped on me with her stilettos. But the ability to open our ears and eyes and mind and digesting information and view things from multiple angles is a skill that needs to be learned and developed, AT a young age, and around others. IN SCHOOLS. In extracurricular activities. In communities. With teachers that care, who make enough money to build curriculums and are not in constant fear of losing their jobs, or in certain parts of the world, their lives. The definition of evil is an attack on a school, because that is attacking the right to learn and become a human being with depth, which is fundamental to all religions.

So let us make it a priority to preserve schools, to protect students, and to value education. If these are priorities on our minds, there WILL be a positive shift. Again, it all feels so out of reach, even in my hometown where students are taught first how to fill in multiple choice bubbles before learning how to raise their hands. But affecting change doesn’t always have to be on a global, national, or district level. Find a kid, a peer, a mentor, maybe not a Packers fan but someone to discuss the epidemic of insufficient education. It starts with awareness, a positive outlook, and an extended hand. Let’s value our teachers, and make more of them. And also become students. Schools don’t have to be in classrooms. And tolerance CAN be taught.   

A Letter to L'il Wayne

Dear L'il Wayne,

I had the joyous opportunity of seeing you perform live in Toulouse, France last Saturday and I must begin by applauding you for one heck of an entertaining evening. While back home I’d likely swap tickets to your show for a pack of gum, I wouldn’t miss the chance to witness a crowd of your non-English speaking, chain-smoking fans for anything in the world.

At least with a half-full concert I got to get up close n' personal!

It was well worth the wait, after your poetic opener Mac Miller, to stand in the half-full concert hall for an hour in the toxic fumes of my fellow rap lovers for you to then come on and do a 40 minute show. Whoever said 'big things come in small packages' must certainly have seen you perform live, because the price was indeed big.

I will be honest; other than admiring your genius use of abbreviation in A Milli, or the symbolic representations in “lick me like a lollipop,” I admit that I am not very well-versed in your repertoire. Therefore, I sincerely appreciate that you simplified your lyrics to the words  'f*** y’all,' ‘b****’, 'p****' and 'n*****,' chanting them repeatedly so that new fans like me can easily follow along. A brilliant strategy I must say, for the foreign crowds especially, teaching them English through song in a fast-paced yet manageable way.

About that last word I mentioned. You know the one I'm talking about. At least the Frenchies certainly know it because they showed no shame in exclaiming it, like a children's sing-along, in the same repetitive, audacious manner as you did. I am curious to know how you feel about their open expression of this taboo word. Perhaps they are not quite as globally aware, their brains so full with pastries and cheese. Do not hold it against them.... their accents are quite adorable. I, on the other hand, a fellow American born in a nation or no prejudice or racial divide, could not bring myself to echo such words that could potentially connote racial slurs. Therefore please understand, Mr. Carter, that my choosing not to sing this word found in nearly every line in every song, was a sign of respect rather than complete bewilderment that I actually live in a world where such songs could possibly top the charts.

Dear petit Weezy, you may have noticed a lack of energy in the crowd. This, I can assure you, has nothing to do with your skills as an artist, but rather serves as a demonstration of 'The French Way.' When you said 'Jump!' and nobody jumped, it was not that they didn't want to but rather it is not customary for them to do so. When you shouted 'put yo hands in the air' and everyone simply took photos on their phones, they merely intended to express their approval of your words and actions. And when you asked "if anyone who's out there came here tonight with their homeboys say yyyeeeaaahhhh" and no one responded 'yeah'... well perhaps just try slowing down and enunciating.

Although the entirety of the show proved overwhelmingly loud, I can recall two favorite moments. First, during the ten minute intermission while you changed aka just took off your shirt, the DJ played snipets of all your legit features in tunes ("Swagga Like Us," "Mrs. Officer," "Soldier") which brought me back to my youthful teen years blasting them in my minivan on the way to school.  The other greatest moment, I remember very clearly, occured when you finished your last song. You ran off stage, the lights blared on, and the cleanup crew went right to work, saving the audience from the anticipation of an encore. And what better way to end than a cigarette burn from the guy to my right who, kudos to him, managed to finished 6 drags throughout the smoke-free concert. Rather than yell with rage, however, I smile, thanking him for the scathed mark on my forearm that will serve as a permanent souvenir of the night and a reminder as to why I tend to skip concerts with artists who sing "Ask dem hoes about me" and "I feel like f****** sumthin."

XOXO,

Ashley



P.S. Props to the lighting and design crew... the display actually looked really legit!

P.P.S. Forty minutes.... seriously man?

What Smells in France

Please excuse my delayed second post; I managed to keep myself pretty occupied these past few days with some noteworthy firsts:

-  Successfully asking for directions in French, then successfully flirting to get my 115lbs of luggage to cette destination;

 

-  Training with a professional women’s soccer team; 

-  Spending the night in an emergency room next to a woman who soiled herself. 

-  Making unintentionally-sexual conversation with a stranger thanks to Google Translate

-  Testing into intermediate B1 French knowing only 2 weeks worth of Rosetta Stone and the lyrics to Lady Marmelade

But personal frivolity aside, I’m here to dish the dirt on zee culture francaise, and I must begin with the most fundamental, indispensable subject matter:dog shit.

Yes, that’s right, canine feces. Doggie dung. Piles of Big O' Poop.

It’s literally everywhere.

While I have yet to fall victim to these sidewalk landmines, I can predict with my clumsiness the inevitability of a future shoe-cleansing.

The French love their dogs; that hallmark card of the woman in a beret walking her poodle aside the Eiffel Tower clearly comes to mind. In fact, I noticed during my strolls through the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, or along the Garonne River in Toulouse, that the dogs themselves appear quite content with their quality of life. And why wouldn’t they, born into the luxury of fresh baguette heels each morning and the freedom to plant a big one wherever they so please?

This poop predicament is no trivial matter; or at least, it has put a stench on my daily routine (yes, pun intended) as someone who doesn't particularly enjoy getting smacked with fecal fragrance every corner she turns. Smells aside, constantly looking down to dodge oncoming piles has led to missed opportunities. As a photographer trying to capture a candid kiss on the Seine, or a lone traveler desiring the comfort of a friendly nod from a passerby, looking up can make all the difference.

I do not intend for this blog to turn into a diary of my 1^st world problems where I relate Adele’s lyrics to my own life. However, I must question how this idolized nation, the Romantic Capital of the World, has managed to prevent this reasonably normal, yet still kind of gross, dog-poop dilemma from tainting its image.

Why don’t the travel books discuss the lack of fecal pick-up in a country where leather boots and pumps are acceptable footwear for taking out the trash? Of course, a guide listing the best places for boat rides and cooking classes will likely outsell the one labeling heavy doo-doo hot spots. Perhaps excrement is just something not discussed, or not worthy of any online article aside from a silly girl’s blog.

Yet at the same time, coming from the ever-mocked United States to the land of hoighty-toighty, nylon-clad fashionistas, it actually feels a bit relieving to see that Europeans have some not-so tidy habits of their own. The French maintain their class and dignity while letting their dogs live a little, and that’s not all. I’ve witnessed more than one elbow on the table, mismatched socks, and a late night chug of milk… straight from the carton. These are the stolen moments, moments that contradict the image of poise so desperately maintained, that actually make me feel most at home.

In the end, dog shit is dog shit, and the day it gets on my shoe is the day I perfect my pronunciation of merde. Meanwhile, I will use what little language I've attained from Rosetta Stone to see what else ces personnes have hiding in their crepes.