Artificial nature is an oxymoron.

The first question that walking in this park brought up for me is ‘if writers use walking in natural places to stimulate their creative processes, then can the park’s artificiality affect the process in some way? The first response to this question is probably “of course not,” because everything pretty much looks real. Nothing is readily fake. You kind of have to know or be looking for it. Despite this, I still continue to entertain the idea of a man-made park could still have a different effect on the writing, especially if the writer is aware of the fact it is an imitation. I still wonder if knowingly wandering in an artificial setting for inspiration possibly leave one lacking. Surely something man-made can not offer the same amount and type of creativity that naturalness provides.

Maybe having lookalike nature in a city is not as awkward as it sounds. Parks of this variety that are constructed in the same vein as New York’s Central Park are a break from the “citiness” of an industrial area. They are manufactured and built to look like a forest or place of abundant green. Sometimes they even successfully accomplish the illusion if you are standing somewhere in it’s middle with the trees placed strategically around you to block the buildings, cars and machines from view. It is probably a little more fitting than what makes sense at first glance to have fake things in a park such as this one. It, a fake thing is attempting to achieve a likeness to something that is real. This park does that with fake things. Maybe it is not the most logical, thing to do, but it does make sense.

Even though it is something of a patch-work park made of many plants that would never see each other in their own parts of the world, it is beautiful. Down many levels in the bowl of the park where you can not see any buildings if you tried. The place where you can effectively imagine that you are actually in a place with this many trees and much more wild life around you. If it were not for the hundreds of the stairs I climbed to emerge from the subway of the city that the park allows you escape from, I would have gone down there, but as the scientific law goes, any hill you easily stroll down you must have a not-fun time coming back up.

One other benefit of the park was it’s elevation. For me, being up high is one of those things that you don’t know you miss until you are experiencing it again. I had not consciously noticed that Paris is a large amount of flat land. It felt good (familiar) to be able to look down on a city and see more than is possible when you are standing in it. Elevation is a piece of home I didn’t know that I would heed although I am not surprised by my appreciation of it.

Had it been a warmer day, or if I had worn my heavier jacket, I would have walked the highest point of the park with with the thing I do not know the name of, but it is circular platform with a roof that is reminiscent, (at least for me) of what a small orchestra or just musicians use a stage if they were to give a performance in a park. It was beautiful to see especially with the sky being so grey as a backdrop. The rocks that had so much on them lended to the sight as well. If nothing else, I would imagine that this sight could at least inspire the setting of a story for a writer walking in this park with the hopes of gaining ideas from the place. I believed that any of the special places in this park would be helpful. Artificial trees and all.

Parisian Graffiti

I embarked on this walk with the idea that I would be going into a place with a very large amount of graffiti. Being told that this quarter was known for it’s illegal art prompted me to imagine all the many walls in this portion of Paris to be covered in colors with beautiful artwork on them. Upon arrival I found this to be far from true, yet for a very short time I remained open to the idea of seeing all the graffiti on some walls and in doorways. Uneventful for the most part. I assume that what I consider to be inconsequential illegible scribbles on the wall, may hold more weight in a French mind that has not been acquainted with illegal art the way a Western mind is since most of France seems to be free of spontaneous writing such as this. For this specific area to be known for graffiti when it has so little.

As aforementioned, I was surprised at the astonishing amount of graffiti. In reality it seemed peculiar to me since what little that had been done was in a well off area. It had many high priced stores with expensive clothing. The kind of store that only has four shirts on display, never has much traffic, yet still manages to remain operational and still look comfortable. There were also many of the shops with sales people who ask you if you need any help and make me uncomfortable when I know that I am not going to buy anything. I am told that there is a third variety as well. A kind that is hopefully strictly European where they do not like for you to touch, in order to inspect their clothes that are either hanging or folded up so that you can not see them. At first I assumed that Parisian graffiti artists did not understand graffiti. Of course it is supposed to be done only in low-income areas, but after some thought, I came to hope that they were actually doing graffiti better. Using it to bring certain peoples’ attention to a specific plight. If this is not what their purpose is then at least a given a minute sample of a world the patrons of this area will never know.

One bit of insignificant graffiti (if it qualifies as such) that I strangely appreciated were mice substituted for the E and L in the names Charles and Pierre. They were extremely life-like, so it looked as if they were scurrying up and down the side of the building. I do not remember what kind fo establishment this was on. I am unable to infer reasons for why the letters are no longer there while figures are.

Towards the end of my walk I came across an alleyway filled with graffiti. This is where the bulk of the art was. A good sum of the art came from this small area. Here was the greatest variety of art I had come by so far.   The pictures on the wall ranged from inspirational to political. The walls were a place for people to express themselves in words as well as pictures. The quote that stood out most to was “Feet. What do I need you for when I have wings to fly?” It says something about the people who come here to contribute the alley. The wall is a communal place for artists to express themselves. It is the one part of Paris that I have come across that is not the clean-cut and perfect place the city seems to be everywhere else, which makes it even more special.

Feminine Characters In Hemingway's Feast

Hemingway presents both his first wife Hadley and his friend Sylvia as largely happy and content people. They are probably the ideal women of that time who are pleased with their lot in life and in love with their significant other. He puts both women in a flattering light, but there is much more to them than what he chooses to include in Hemingway’s Feast. This may possibly be especially true for Hadley. In the snapshot he gives the reader of her in the chapter ‘Shakespeare and Company’ she seems to be a complacent housewife who is very much in love with her husband. While it is true that she was in love with Hemingway, her happiness is far more questionable. One reason for this is her lack of passion. She sees Hemingway invest countless hours into his work and feels empty for not having something that excited her in the same way. This left her feeling like she was not special “as Ernest was” (Grammel). She understood that Hemingway “lived inside the creative sphere” while she “lived outside” of it (Grammel). He himself was at times the cause of her inclination to feel excluded from his world since he would leave her out personally at times. An example of this is the extremely personal offense is the way he chooses not to characterize Hadley in the novel Hemingway and the Sun where everyone he is in regular contact with is personified except for her. It was a maneuver that whether purposeful or not managed to make her feel shut out, but even with a mixture of emotions she remained proud of him.

Beach is also a deeper person than what is shown of her in Hemingway’s writing. She was a person dealing with problems that lied behind her cheer as well. For one, she had to manage being the virtual workhorse of writer James Joyce. Her title of editor entailed various secretarial duties as well. The amount of work he asked her to do was a heavy load in addition to tending to her business. She obviously loved him because she persevered through it despite the ingratitude she felt. What little thanks she did get was shortly followed by yet another request. In addition to being overworked, she soon found  trouble with her love life as well. After coming home from being held by Nazi shoulders, she learns that her partner has been with a different woman behind her back. All of this and she still managed to remain “the nicest person” Hemingway knew (Grammel). When it came to Joyce, Beach was largely submissive and sheepish, but was extremely brave when it came to other aspects of her life such as living in a country heavily involved in a war. A place that was clearly unsafe where she watched people flee the country all around her. Beach looked on all of it with an air that greatly resembled a person of nonchalance. She stood up to soldiers even when it put her in danger. She once refused an officer that she had displayed as if to be sold, but when he asked to purchase it, she denied him. In response to him threatening to damage her store, cleared it out and painted over the name in the window to make it unrecognizable. She risked her life for things that she believed in.

There is more to both of these women than Hemingway gives them credit for. Writing about them this way could mean either that he didn’t see these complexities or that he did not want to see them and wrote about them as he wished they were.

Montparnasse Walk

Beginning my walk at the Montparnasse Tower was an interesting one. Before my arrival I had read that the Tower was officially the ugliest tower in the world at one point. I find this intriguing since this is not usually the case in my experience with very tall buildings. I didn’t find it a beautiful building, but I was still slightly surprised that it had one point been classified as unsightly. Perhaps this speaks to the high standards of French taste, unless it speaks of the poor taste of the French in what may have been an attempt at modern architecture. Perhaps it shows how rooted the French are in making structures that are uniquely French in their use and style. To indulge in other designs on a large scale would take away from the European ambience that Paris has.

This walk began in an area that have never been to. The first and biggest difference is that it is more urban than the sections of district that I frequent. The wider streets made for the plentiful shoppers are evident of the heavy traffic the region expects to receive. Cars and buses were more abundant as well; bringing in and exporting the soon-to-be customers at the shops with large windows. The store windows are a suggestion of what the people who routinely visit the 16th arrondissement are styled like. I guessed that the clothes in the windows looked to be the attire of 25-40 year-olds with a substantial amount money to spend on clothes. The step just below semi-formal that is worn so casually by this group of women. In keeping with what I saw in the windows, I noticed many of the women on the street clothed similarly. Seeing the clothes embodied as actual women on the street gave me satisfaction to confirm my judgment as true.

Continuing on my walk I came across a pair of women signing to each other on the edge of a curb. They seemed as if they ran into one another in passing, happened to notice that the other signed and struck up a conversation. I have only seen a discussion like this one once on a subway in New York. Two sign language communicators engaging, bonded by their language and affiliation to someone without hearing or being that person themself. Watching them, I observed the same feeling that I had experienced the time before. I was pleased to see people communicating due to a commonality coupled with a touch of pride, not unlike the way a mother is happy to see her children get along. It really is not so uncommon for people to find qualities they are surprised to share with others, but the added layer of using a special kind of transmission gives it more weight for me. This is probably credited to my appreciation for my own unexpected bonds. One such bond is one I shared with a girl that I only saw on the street. She wore two puffs in her hair and casually talked to two other people while she munched on something. She was the only black girl that I saw on my entire walk. Beyond that, the reason she stood out to me is because is because of the shoes she was wearing. She had on Jordan shoes. I felt connected to her because seeing her in them was a reminder of home. I was also happy to see another person in this city who values them.  

The most difficult part for me as a tourist in France is navigating new areas. The trains are straightforward enough to travel on, but the circular arrangement of the streets are unfamiliar to me and hard to understand. For example, I was confused for 3 weeks as to how I could walk such a short distance to the seventh arrondissement without having to pass any numbers between seven and fifteen. I have benefited from parallel and perpendicular streets more than I have known. The maps at bus stops are harder to read as well, especially for a person who has never been especially competent with more typical streets. They become even more troublesome for me to understand with streets that revolve around each other so that I can never locate the one I am searching for. Despite this, Paris is not unmanageable city for an American to reside in. I can not speak for people who come from places with languages that are valued less than English. I expect that without French and English, Paris does become a tough place to understand.  

The Mystery of Paris

Henry James does a considerable amount of analyzing Parisians in his essay “Occasional Paris”. He raises so many questions about the people that it leads one to wonder if there is a mystery of Paris. Parisians seem to have a certain ambiguity about them that James at least believes to be a quality that may solely belong to them. For example, they are a people widely known for their intellectual heights, yet they do not seem to show it. Meaning that they do not dress in a way that demonstrates sophistication by English standards. Their style of clothing- described as “bohemian” is not what Englishmen of this time, such as James recognized as an indication of cleverness. He nevertheless experiences a level of academia from Parisians as a whole that he finds impressive.

The puzzlement that is the Parisian continues in their choice of character to support in a play that is made up of disreputable people. In Demi-Monde is the struggle of a woman called Suzanne d’Ange who is “guilty of what the French call faults.” To combat the poor reputation she has inevitably made for herself by being such a woman d’Ange she must marry an upstanding man. Her only hopes for a better life in the unforgiving and sexist 19th century of France. She eventually gains the love of such a man, one Nanjac, only for the jealousy of a former lover, named de Jalin to undermine her progress with this decent gentleman who legitimately loves her. In the end de Jalin lies and to Nanjac about d’Ange. She has no choice, but to reveal herself to Nanjac who consequently leaves her. de Jalin wins and James points out that an American audience’s sympathies would lie with Ms. Suzanne. That an American audience is “more moral” than a French audience, implying that the French would be pleased by de Jalin’s victory. This would place them in direct oppositions to Americans who James predicts would see him as a “coward” who should “let the poor girl alone.”

This gives the French an interesting complexity. They are both smarter and more accepting of what western audiences would deem unfair. They are unforgiving. Either this, or they do not accept what is put in front of them, able to avoid the obvious with the help of their percipient minds. They might be able to see the pain that fuels his decisions. He is a man who was involved with a woman that is now on the verge of marrying a dear friend. Either he believes that he is actually helping Nanjac, or he sees this an opportunity. Whether the French view the disrepair of a life is justified comeuppance or overstep of entitlement, their perspective on de Jarin may be deeper than what an American would credit them for at first glance.

The French’s blatant show of affection amongst each other is another sample of progressed intellect. Most people in America especially have a hard time showing affection for one another, even between family members. To be able to express fondness for a person without awkwardness or stiffness shows a level of maturity and confidence in oneself is an act that can only be done by a sensible person.

The mystery of Paris is most likely a contribution of a myriad of factors, with these reasons being a small number of them. The mystery of Paris is everything about the place from delicious, yet somehow fairly priced baguettes to the aura of the city. It is the inexplicable and the over-explained possibly a quality belonging to Paris alone.

A Flaneur in the Latin Quarter

Although the same place, the Latin Quarter has changed much since the time of Orwell’s residence in the place. While the place has likely retained some of the people similar to the ones Orwell, but have largely been swapped out with the personalities of shoppers, tourists, salespeople and the occasional flaneur. The storybook like characters of the hotel keeper woman, the suspicious apache and poor writer are presumably less likely to be located. The layout of the city has definitely changed as well. The shops he would have been accustomed to seeing. While they are the same buildings, they have been swapped out for the modern shops we would expect to see in a tourist area in modern day Paris equipped with expensive food stands, store entrances aiming to be enticing and a lively atmosphere. The culture of the area no longer a place where normal people live among differing financial standings like Orwell himself after being robbed and subsequently running out of money.

I agree with some Orwell’s observations of poverty. It depends on who you have to care for with the little money you have. If you are a single person and only have yourself to worry about and take care of it is much like the way he describes it. You worry about how to stretch your last dollar, sometimes surprisingly with the calm sense of finality. Simply accepting that you will be without with a surprising sense of detachment and understanding. It is usually this or the other extreme. To worry extensively about how to provide for oneself when lacking funds. I do not have recollection of experience feelings that range very much in the middle.

I would disagree wholly with Orwell when it comes to impoverishment coupled with having a person in your care. Poverty with a person in your charge is unquestionably more wearing. There is the constant wish to provide more and the frustration at one’s inability to do so. There is a more pressing need to rise from the situation for the sake of the person in your protection, probably more so if that person is a child. Guilt more than likely is a factor as well. Self-condemnation for not having done enough or made the right choices to avoid such a poor condition. The boredom does not exist because most time is spent inventing ways to make money to provide. Time is also spent encouraging the charge to get an education to bring them from destitution.

At one point in his narration, Orwell seems to suggest that being being poor is easier than having money. This is an interesting, yet untrue concept. It is true that being rich or having any amount of money comes with it’s problems and hardships, but those hardships can at least be survived with the comfort of their luxuries. Poverty is surely a more burdensome scenario.

Coming To Paris

         My second night in the city was quite possibly the most eventful one I could have asked for. After getting much needed rest from hours of flying and the time differences of the east coast, Reykjavik and finally Paris I decided to meet a friend who lives in the area. She showed me first hand that I live twenty minutes from the Eiffel Tower. My first time seeing it was a very memorable and special occasion. It was lit, as it always is at night and sparkling, which I found out happens every hour. The first glimpse that I had was fortunately timed perfectly to see it that way. I didn't know that it didn't shine that way all the time and was surprised when I thought it did. I am glad that I didn't about the methodical way in which the lights came on. It lent to the charm that the tower and city gave off for me. Seeing it up close was another experience. The structure was immense and it was pleasant to see such architecture in a metropolis. It is art that you can be sure not to find in the west of America. I was enamored with it and hope to remain so no matter how long I live in close or how ingrained into everyday life it may become. 

        After we had had our fill of the awe-inspiring edifice, we searched for a place that was friendly enough for our wallets, which ended up being an empty classically French restaurant. Once we had our fill of the over-sized portions that have no way of being saved, we left for her apartment. Guests of her roommate eventually made appearances and soon everyone was sufficiently imbibed. The conversation was smooth and we laughed a good deal. At some point late in to the night, or early in the morning it began to snow. Being from a place where it doesn't snow, I and my friend (who is from the same sunny region as I am) ran down three flights of stairs and outside in a rush of excitement. The 'snow' was actually little more than sleet, but it thrilled us none the less. I was in such a hurry to get outside that I did not even make an effort to put shoes on and my socks were soaked through shortly after arriving outside. We were not the only ones to have darted out of the apartment. Two other girls, her suitemates, had come out too and one breathlessly suggested that we run to what she referred to as 'the center of Paris'. So we easy ran a long way down the block, not feeling any strain with all the adrenaline pumping through our bodies. This exhilarating feeling was coupled with one of pure bliss and attentiveness. As I barreled down the sidewalk I was intensely aware of the lights, everything I was speeding past and the feeling of pure happiness I had for being with these people at that exact moment doing what we were doing. Laughing wildly while sprinting down the street. It felt like living. We were in Paris living and I loved it. I had the sense that I would love every day in this foreign country that would not be so foreign for long.

        We stopped once we reached the island in the center of the street that was apparently the center of Paris. We caught our breathe and after a short while decided to head back to the apartment. I and the girl who suggested heading out jogged back to the building while the two in the back walked at their own paces. We waited for the other two girls to meet us inside. I insisted on a picture of us all to commemorate what I was sure would rank at the top of one of my most unforgettable moments in Paris. Still energized by the joy of our run, we decided to take the stairs and forego the wait for the elevator. 

        Although our impromptu run was over, the night was not. The girl who I had been out that night with had asthma and was having complications. As luck would have it, she did not have medication in her inhaler. She had been meaning to get it refilled, but had not gotten around to doing so yet. Since she did not have her inhaler, she pulled out a machine that she had brought with her from the states that was supposed to stand in it's place. For reasons unknown, the machine would not turn on. All of us buzzed around her and did what we could with keeping her comfortable and trying to figure out how to work it. She was primarily troubled with shaky breathing and an inability to breathe in deeply. She fought off all our attempts to help her and assured us that she was fine. We watched videos and even called her brother who was in California to tell us how it worked, but all endeavors to do so proved ineffective. She happens to live across the street from a hospital, so when all else failed I went with her to be seen, but they were closed to our surprise and my incredulity. They recommended that we go to a pharmacy to get help from there. After not finding help from the hospital, we went back to her apartment to wait for it to open. 

        In the end, I fell asleep on her couch until she woke me up to go back to the hospital when they opened at seven. They told us that they could not help her because they only see to elderly patients. That at least is what she discerned from what they said, since it was in French. Despite not being able to see a doctor, she was fine. Well enough to go to Disneyland the next day. 

          Although being in Paris was a lot of what added to the magnificence of the night it would still have been among the best had it happened anywhere.