Ici, tout est calme

In August, Paris is quiet. Everyone (those Parisians who can) has left the city. Every boulangerie in a three-block radius of my apartment has the familiar sign "Congée annuel," or the slight variation "Horaire estivale: Fermé." For the first few weeks of August, there is a sort of yeasty time-share agreement among bakers; not willing to let their neighbors starve, time-slots will be agreed upon and one boulangerie will usually be open on rotation. But for the last week or so of the month, even the iron-clad work ethic of the Sisyphean breadmakers falters. The sign is guiltily scotché to the glassdoor in the hasty départ to the seaside under the cover of night. The following morning, the remaining Parisians can be seen roaming the streets, gaunt and croissant-less, muttering under their smoky breaths that next year, yes, next year, they too shall go ailleurs, loin, très loin d'ici.

But I, on the other hand, already elsewhere in Paris, am filled with the marvel of learning that beautiful new word: estivale.

Paris to the Moon

I came to Paris almost three years ago now with my metamorphosis already mapped out: my triptych-plan was to become happy, to become a writer and to become rich. That is where my pragmaticism ended. Being one of Henry James' Americans, I believed that Paris was the celestial city; this is where those changes happen. And after several seasons spent here, I still believe that. A belief that has been challenged, though, has been on the nature of metamorphosis - is it the sudden shock of epiphany that leaves you blinded, newly-formed and crawling along a different road? Or is it Stendhal's idea of crystallization which necessitates a complex mixing of winters and salt-mines and negative experiences to create diamonds? Stendhal observes a leafless tree branch left in a salt-mine during the winter emerging as crystal-covered wand. He was trying to understand how love can alter the layers of vision - depending if one wanted to see rotten wood or shining light. I feel as if I have been wandering blindly in my own Parisian salt-mine, unsure of what it was I had wanted to find. So, doing what it is I always do in these situations, I went to Shakespeare & Co. to buy a book. On Marie-Hélène's recommendation, I bought Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik. I am hoping that by reading about Gopnik's Paris, I will learn how to talk about mine.

Give France a Chance, or "L'invitation (forcée) au voyage"

It's been said that April is the cruelest month. The five CEOs of French companies who have been held captive in the last month might agree. French employees and union officials have evolved France's atavistic penchant for insurgency into the activity of bossnapping. Union spokespeople have said that these unfortunate measures had to be taken in response to announced staff cuts and plant closures. And it seems to be working: most French bossnappings have had the payoff of reduced layoffs or better severance packages. It is a new twist on the time-honored French tradition of striking and a general taking-to-the-streets. And as with all things French, it needs to be heavily steeped in the murky waters of paradox: the frustration of globalism directed at the singular head of the business monarchy. The poetic heaving of the brick-in-hand is significantly absent, bien sur, but at least Sarkozy might have to reconsider his comment: "These days, when there's a strike, no one notices." A recent BVA/Les Echos poll stated that 55% of French people believe that radical protest measures are justified, and 64% think actions like bossnapping should be depenalized because they constitute a last-gasp effort to avoid skyrocketing joblessness.

Cole Porter did once sing that 50 million Frenchmen cannot be wrong. Although I do also remember that Noël Coward musical: There is always something fishy about the French.

how to visualize joy

nothing better

Democratic National Convention 2008 Denver, Colorado

I came to Denver on Frontier Airlines yesterday to participate in the Democratic National Convention. At the Indianapolis airport as I was going through security, the TSA guard told me to convince him to vote for Barack Obama in the 5 minutes it took me to go through security. Seeing me in my Obama t-shirt and putting my copy of Audacity of Hope with my computer through the x-ray scanner, I suppose he thought that I might have a good idea of what to say; which, I have to say myself, I did. Telling me that his income definitely did not qualify him to benefit from the Bush-McCain tax plan, he assured me that Obama had his vote. As he was handing me back my shoes, we both intuitively realized that we had just had one of those serendipitous social moments that can be so magical when shared with a stranger. Refraining myself (with difficulty) from hugging him, I realized that the moment provided me with the perfect frame for understanding my past few months of volunteering for the campaign in Paris with Democrats Abroad, and the Obama office in Bloomington: this campaign has become personal for millions of people because it relies on dialogue and the person-to-person connection which comes only through grass-roots engagements.
It is strange - this feeling of living history, living this historical moment.
Getting ready with the city of Denver for Obama's acceptance speech on the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King's speech, we are all living the dream.
Yes.
We can.

Can you get in? Do you have the juice?

In his latest "Carpetbagger at the Convention" video for The New York Times, David Carr addresses the camera:
"The game is access. Washington or here, can you get in? Do you have the juice?"

The specific access he is refering to at the moment is to the GQ/Maker's Mark after-party where journalists, advertiser's and lobbyists pundify about the day's events. But those journalists who do get through the door of these fancy post-convention events are not necessarily those who gather around the free beer spicket at the temporary shelter of the "New Media Tent." These two poles are an interesting way to visualize and think about the locations of the conversational center and periphery. Not just the geographical center of the Pepsi Center where the majority of the Democratic Convention activities are taking place, or the CNN Grill which is by invitation only, but the more abstract center where the intersection of power, access and affiliation intersect. Who gets to speak and from where are they speaking?

But even before asking after the the power dynamics which lie behind the enunciative act, it is important to go back to Carr's question: "Can you get in? Do you have the juice?" The hierarchy of passes which are being distributed for access to the Convention are byzantine in their intricacy: a green "Perimeter Pass" will get you through security to the outside of the Pepsi Center for a specific day, but not through the actual doors of the Pepsi Center itself. An orange "Arena Pass" will get you through the doors of the Convention Center, but not into any of the actual events; the lowly "Arena Pass" holder has to loiter self-consciously in the hallways while those who hold a coveted purple "Floor Pass" can traipse regally through the doors to actual seating inside the event. All of this is trumped, however, by the burgundy (and rarely-seen but often-discussed) "All Access Pass." And that sort of pass can get you things one can only dream of.

Carr, attempting comfort once he himself has already gotten in to the party states, "Once you get in, the party always stinks." But he does go on to say: "It's breaking through the door that matters."

But it is the door itself which is worthy of investigation and asking how much passing its threshold changes the things that are said.

Orlando International Airport

A step ahead of Fay, my sister and I fly from Orlando to Atlanta and Bloomington, respectively. A birthday weekend brought us all together - to celebrate in the humidity of a tropical Florida summer, among the songs of the tree frogs. McCaine was also here today, doing whatever it is that he does. Obama arrives in Orlando tomorrow. Lawn signs sprouting up on our neighborhood lawns clearly demarcate loyalties long foresworn or sympaticos shared. Following these faux polls, the signs are so far evenly split. Although it is only the pretty blue signs that arouse a final burst of energy as we go round the last bend on our daily jog, my sister and I screaming "YES WE CAN!"