Thankful to be in France

First of all, sigh...



This is just one of the reasons I do not celebrate Christmas, or at least not the gifting part of it, as many of you already know. This kind of behavior is just wrong. What are we, complete barbarians? And for you who did not know that I do not celebrate Christmas (or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or anything else), the other reasons include not being religiously tied to it and never having during my adult life the financial means to participate even if I wanted to. Also, I don't think it says much to give/receive gifts out of societal obligation. I am a year-round gift giver and like making people feel special because I think they are special, not because there is a holiday set aside for it. Oh yeah, my birthday is also on December 27th and I'm sick of competing with the big J. Man for attention. All that being said, do not take this as me being against Christmas. I'm not passing judgement on anyone for their own traditions and, on the contrary, enjoy seeing people be happy about them. And because I live in the western world, I inevitably end up participating in someone's traditions regardless of whether I share them and usually enjoy it. I love looking at Christmas lights, sharing special meals and spending time with people I love.

But I did not come here to impose my beliefs (or non-beliefs as they may be) on you, my dear readers. On the contrary, I came to talk about my recent celebration of Thanksgiving. This is also a holiday that I have mixed feelings about because of the historical implications. An old friend of mine and I used to refer to it as "Give Smallpox to Indigenous Peoples Day" and ranked it next to Columbus Day as being an unabashed celebration of imperialism and genocide. On the other hand, most people do not celebrate this holiday as a symbol of the colonization of the Americas back in the day. As far as I can tell, like Christmas, most people get together with their loved ones, have a nice meal, and reflect on what they are thankful for. This is wonderful.

I had class on Thanksgiving morning and Charlie worked most of the day, so we didn't really get to spend much time together. During the afternoon, I had the privilege of being invited to the home of Souad Asla, the woman who sang back-up and danced for the Hasna el-Becharia concert I attended last month. With the help of my godsent interpreter Lisa, I went to speak with Souad about the work she is doing collecting traditional songs from female singers in Algeria in order to preserve their dying artform. We shared tea, had a lovely conversation, and she gave both Lisa and I some CDs to listen to and invited us to some future events. She also volunteered to put me in contact with some other musicians in the area as well as provide me with some musical texts (if they exist). I can see this as being the beginning of a beautiful friendship and one that will likely help my thesis a lot!

Afterward, Lisa and I hung out at my house for a while before meeting up with some folks for dinner.
My school held an official Thanksgiving feast which was later mocked by the French daily news publication 20 Minutes in a snippet featuring one of my fellow students dressed as a conquistador, blissfully gnawing on a giant turkey leg - genocide and gluttony rolled into one! It was a joke, obviously, but I'm not sure the French commuters who pick up this daily edition will see it the same way. Fortunately, they misidentified the name of my school.

Rough translation: "Event: Americans in Paris celebrate Thanksgiving.
Giving thanks to the Indians and Heaven for having allowed the first pilgrims from England to settle and live on the land in the United States. This is the reason for Thanksgiving, celebrated yesterday by U.S. nationals at the international university campus."

Rather than attending this large-scale affair, however, a few of my classmates and I (Charlie had to work) decided to dine at a kitschy place in the southern limits of Montmartre called Refuge des Fondues. You basically have two choices: meat or cheese fondue. These are served with baskets of bread and sides of niblets including sausage, cheese, cornichons, and other pickled items... oh, and the wine (or orange juice, in my case) is served in baby bottles. I can't remember why this is done - something to do with taxes on glass? - but it is simultaneously hilarious, uncomfortable and a little impractical. You see, I don't think baby bottles are designed for our vast, toothy mouths, making it hard to actually get any liquid out. Most of us just took the nipples off.

Even the door handle is a baby bottle. There is also graffiti everywhere, including a well-drawn depiction on the ceiling of a naked woman on all fours.

From left to right: Alex, Shanna, Christine, Megan, Lisa and Dan. When I took this photo, the smart-alecky restaurant owner, a man in his fifties wearing a Metallica t-shirt, yelled, "Pas foto!" which I ignored. He was quite the character and constantly gave people crap. He seemed to have it out for Lisa in particular, perhaps because she is Parisian? We didn't really know.

Megan, Lisa and Dan contemplate their drinking vessels.

O.J. the old-fashioned way

Heart-stopping goodness

Once we had had our fill of liquid cheese, the owner abruptly kicked us out to make way for other guests. We weren't done hanging out so we decided to get a drink somewhere. My neighborhood was nearby and I knew of a few establishments there, so I suggested we head that way. Shamefully, I got lost in my own neighborhood, asking for directions twice, and led my poor freezing classmates on a meandering adventure. We eventually found ourselves at a Brazilian restaurant just two blocks from my apartment. We once again stayed until the restaurant's closing forced us out.

Damn foreigners anyway

All in all, it was a great way to celebrate Thanksgiving even if it wasn't traditional. I was thankful for living in a beautiful city and being in good company, and that was all that really mattered.