O, (Long) Happy Day

June 21. The longest day of the year. Someone in the course of your yesterday must have noticed this interesting little factoid, I'm sure, and briefly remarked on the marvelous length of a summer day. Perhaps, if you are from the upper Midwest, you even exchanged a little "yep" or two, just to seal the deal. Karl (from Minnesota) and Todd (from Ohio) are perfectly positioned - at a ninety-degree angle - for this sort of conversation.

"Yep. Sure stays light out for longer."
"Yep, sure does."
"Yep."

Well, Parisians do commemorate June 21st, but not in understated conversation about the obvious. Instead, they fill every one of those elongated hours with the most obvious pastime: music. The Fete de la Musique has been celebrated in France for the past 25 years, giving anyone with an iota of musical aspiration a chance to set up sound gear in the open air and play for Paris at large. And I do mean anyone. As we rode our bikes into the center of town to meet up with friends, we passed through layer after varied layer of sound. As soon as the metal band (rather stubbornly) faded away, we would be within earshot of a New Orleans-style brass band, which overlapped with the accordionist, who mingled rather comically with the drum jam further down the street. And so on. All night long...right down to the colorful Caribbean band fronted by the reincarnation of Carmen Miranda, who finally put down her maracas at 2:30 am, I think.

We spent a large share of the evening hanging around Genesis, which is the cultural center that belongs to our church. To everyone's surprise (including his wife's), Karl chose to sit back and enjoyed the show for the night, rather than jump in and participate. The woman playing the keys in the photo is Lorelei, who rocked the night away with her husband Ron on bass and a bunch of our other pals. It was most excellent, especially the strong dose of gospel that finished the set. Yep. We had people dancin' in the street, all amongst the roar of mopeds and police sirens that are inevitable on wilder nights in Paris. (Oh wait...that's every night.)


Well, as we took the party further afield, it became clear that the carnevalesque spirit was a bit more potent than usual. The guy at right who was practicing his parlor tricks for a delighted crowd, and (eventually) a group of disgruntled firefighters that made him put his toys away. This was at the youthful Place St.-Michel, which was littered with concert fliers and broken bottles, much to my chagrin when I had to bike home.

Yes, eventually even the best of parties lose their momentum, and there is a turning point when the majority of the crowd realizes how late it is, how much they have to go to the bathroom, how ill they feel, how hungry they are, etc. By about 2 pm, Paris was showing signs of feeling rather upset and betrayed by her pleasures, which we took as an indication to head home.

All of which makes me yearn for that happy day that will be the longest of all. That party will not end in police searches, swollen-eyed damsels, shifting shadows, and streets of broken glass. It will begin with the return of our King, who will come and make all things new. Even the bedraggled streets of Paris. Even those disheveled partygoers who have put their trust in Him. Even me.

Abbey von Gohren, your days are numbered

Please do not be alarmed at the title of this blog.

This is a well-known fact, one that I happen to be okay with. What I just happened to find out this week is that last year, I hit one heck of a milestone: 10,000 days. Yup. On October 20, 2006, I turned over the ol' ticker from 9,999 days to 10,000. Meaningless trivia? Perhaps. Or not...

So teach us to number our days,
that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Hmm. How is mortality tied to wisdom? It took me a while to think it through. At first glance, it seems a bit morbid to be wrapped up in such thoughts. Our time on this earth is limited. Also, it is also unknown to us when it ends. Another cheery scriptural meditation of mortality tolls through my head: "man knoweth not his time." If we are cognizant of these things, what could possibly emerge besides gloom and doom?

How about joy, thankfulness, and hope?

Oddly enough, these are a remarkably short step from the previous paragraph. Let's try it out. As I sit here, I am bathed in the light of my 10,238th day and so thankful to be here. What an astoundingly beautiful life we lead. God's love, good friends, dear family, delicious food. A veritable bowl of cherries. Le temps des cerises.

But what about a day with less sunshine? Flip back a few years, for example, when my uncle passed away from cancer. Actually, quite a number from both our families and circle of friends passed or fell ill within a few years for heart-wrenching, devastating reasons. Did I still number my days? You better believe it. When my soul hit bottom, it landed on one hard but solid truth. This life is temporary, so I had better put my hope in the eternal.

There is an old saying: "she's so heavenly-minded, she's no earthly good." I've always felt instinctively that there is a logical misstep here, but have never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is. I think, however, it has something to do with numbering our days. If the poor, long-criticized girl in the proverb truly had heaven in mind, she would count each day on earth as a gift. She shouldn't get such a bad rap. Future joy is inextricably linked to our benefiting from the joys in the present.

Speaking of joys in the present, I'd like to thank the Lord for piles of delicious mushrooms fried and tossed with steak, gnocchi, and bleu cheese by a very loving husband on my birthday (i.e. my 883,612,800th second, by the way**). I'd also like to thank Him for pushing away the exhausting humidity by a day full of exciting rainstorms, complete with wind gusts, and sunbursts. And I should probably mention how grateful I am for family and friends that pray and a God who answers...with astounding alacrity as of late, it seems. All this, and He still tacks on another day. Amazing.



**Don't forget to count the leap years, for all of you out there who are already doing the math.

Life in the Libraries

One of my teachers, whom I greatly respect, told me once that she dreampt of heaven as a library. The shelves reached so high that they disappeared into the infinite. Rather than dark, shadowy stacks, everywhere was light. Being eternity, there was ample time to read whatever her heart desired.

Oh, my. Dreams really do come true, sometimes.

Lately, I have been logging long hours at any one of the 700 worn wooden desks in the reading hall of the Bibliotheque Ste.-Genevieve. As far as I'm concerned, it's perfect. It's cosy and warm in the winter (especially if you're lucky enough to get a spot by a radiator), and airy and cool in the summer. The books do not stretch to infinity, per se....but high enough to whet my appetite for eternal shelving arrangements. On any given afternoon, the place is virtually overrun by a mass of leggy, Converse-clad Parisian high-school students, all giggling and nervously studying by turns. The long-suffering librarians wheeze, sigh, or scold as the spirit moves, but Ste.-Genevieve herself is a benevolent matron who has been watching over her young brood with a more generous eye for centuries. Still, if you want a spot to read, you had better come before the lycee across the square lets out; waiting till later usually means an hour-long wait or more.

An hour, just to get in? Yup. Once you're in, then you order the books you want to read, which takes another half-hour for the librarians to fetch from the stacks. You think this is bureaucratic? Wait till I start belly-aching about the Bibliotheque-Nationale next year. I know of doctoral students who have been refused a library card there during the required, inital interview. Stiff is the competition for the right to information.

This attitude seems to relax somewhat when it comes to the public libraries. Karl has found a wealth of resources at the Mediatheque Musicale...minus the guard dogs. There are scores of notated jazz and classical tunes, recordings of every possible album an aspiring musician could hope to hear, and lots and lots of books. I can always tell when he's been to the musical library...he's usually beaming.

And the study he's been doing has been paying off. Talk about dreams coming true....his quintet just recently played at a venue in the heart of Paris, and he's got two more gigs in June. We recently launched a website to get the word out about his musical pursuits. If you have a moment to check it out, let us know what you think on the guestbook page!

http://www.freewebs.com/karlvongohren/index.htm

Chasing clouds

"Blessed in the man whose strength is in Him, whose heart is set on pilgrimage." - Psalms 84:5

In exactly one month, we will have been married three years. Judging by our first few years together, it would seem as if we are bound for pilgrimage...at least for the time being. Whether it is exploring isolated mountain ranges for a weekend, or a buzzing metropolitan city for a year or two, the way of our life reflects our belief about life on this earth...it's beautiful, but transient. Don't mind us, we're just passin' through. Yeah, we'll pitch a tent every now and then. But eventually the pillar of cloud drifts on, and so do we.

[cue drifting pillar of cloud]

Ahem.

Hmm. That's funny. Doesn't seem to be moving yet.

Yes, it looks as if we will be living in the city of Paris for another year, Lord willing. My employer extended another yearly contract to me to teach. Karl will be able to follow-through with the contacts he's made in the music world here. I have the blessing of my Ph.D. committee to continue on in my pursuits abroad. We will linger awhile longer in the community of Christian believers that has been a comfort and joy. We will even be staying under the same roof, renting from our current landlords. Boy, there's a thought. Two years in one place? Well, nearly. We will be doing a bit of wandering around this summer...perhaps more of France, some Morocco and Germany, and definitely Minnesota...before we hunker down for another year of learning and living here.

"As they pass through...the rain covers it with pools." (Psalm 84:6)

Speaking of clouds, we've recently discovered that the old adage "April showers bring May flowers" cannot be applied to la belle France. Apparently, it's more like "April flowers in the sun, but May showers are not much fun". Don't get me wrong... I love thunderstorms. But we've made bikes our primary form of city transportation...yeah. Bought the bikes a month ago, when there wasn't a wisp of cirrus in sight for weeks. So, we've spent most of our time recently either drenched or drying. Haven't seen any rainbows, but the bluer skies this morning are still a good reminder that the Lord promised not to destroy the earth by water again. We were wondering there for a while.

"Even the sparrow has found a home...even Your altars, my Lord and my God." (Psalm 84:3)

Yesterday evening, we unsuccessfully dodged a downpour or two to attend a concert at the Eglise St.-Germain-des-Pres. Our plan to picnic somewhere beforehand was looking especially bleak, until we reached the entrance of the aged church. At that point, the spring torrents finally simmered down to a light drizzle and we were able to crouch on the wet stone steps like a couple of bedraggled sparrows in Goretex. It sounds unpleasant, but we were actually in high spirits as we munched on our bit of bread, meat, and cheese. A couple of bemused members of the clergy wished us "bon appetit" as they headed inside to fulfill their priestly duties for the evening.

"How lovely is Your tabernacle, O Lord!" (Psalm 84:1)

Once they opened the heavy, carved wooden doors, we headed in to the ancient sanctuary. Wow. This church dates back to the 6th century, when the Merovingian king Childebert decided to construct a resting place for relics. It is small (by Parisian standards), and the walls are still painted in vivid reds, greens, and blues, all of which makes the place seem quite cosy. The music was very pretty...brought to us by members of the National Opera Orchestra of Paris. They even warmed up the organ for one piece. So many glorious things.

"The Lord gives grace and glory. No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly." (Psalm 84:11)

Yes, we are given so much good. Rain and sun, cloud and fire. Movement and stillness, silence and music. Hunger and bread, thirst and drink. These all fall from the hand of our Heavenly Father, for our enjoyment and His glory. May we delight in this more and more.

----

N.B. Heavens, it's been a month since I've last posted. Is it enough to say that we were banished to computer purgatory, and we're just now emerging out the other side with a brand new hard disk? Anyone who has had computer problems, read Dante, or both, will understand completely.

It's a bird...It's a plane....It's....

Five planes, in fact. Containing nearly a dozen people we know and love, all touching down between beginning of April and early May. Sounds crazy, we said. But it just might work.

There is a kitschy old tune that can be often hear lilting down the cavernous passages of the Metro, carried by some lone accordionist's melody... "I love Paris in the springtime, I love Paris in fall...I love Paris every moment...". Despite this time-honored truth, everyone we know decided that the month of April sounded best. And yes, they have reason, as we say in French. It is a fragrant, bustling season, in which the city is abundantly encumbered with early blossoms and early tourists; hanging from aged trees and aged monuments, respectively. (We don't see too many tourists hanging from trees. Thankfully, Franco-American relations are still much too intact for that sort of thing.)

So, "why oh why do I love Paris? Because my love is near." That is to say, Paris is a beautiful place, but Paris with your dear ones is almost too lovely for words. I'll give it my best shot.

The first arrivals were Ethan and Kim. They brought with them endless amounts of sun. Literally and figuratively. It hasn't rained here since the 2nd of April. We all found this quite ironic, since they apparently had come from very brown and frozen Minnesota landscape. In Paris, the magnolias were just beginning to offer their flamboyant selves to happy passers-by, and the trees were already full of leafy green. We dined, wined, strolled, slept and then did it all over again.

Somewhere in the haze of these lazy, crazy days of early summer, another group of people joined the party. My mom and dad, Seth, and Kaija arrived...but their luggage did not. Fortunately, AirFrance is fairly accommodating, and offered the fam daily shopping sprees until their own duds showed up. Score! So, we helped them navigate their jet lagged selves through the insane maze of Parisian department stores. The sales had landed some days before, leaving strewn clothing and ragged nerves in its wake, but we emerged victorious with bags on our arms and dinner on our minds.

Dinners and picnics. This was perhaps the best part of the visits. When you've been away from your loved ones for as long as we had, it is no small thing to share bread, wine, a simple dish or two, and heavy helpings of laughter. Somewhere along the line there, Pam and Jerry joined the table. They were (and still are) on a fabulous European Tour including Scotland, England, France, Germany, and Holland. What adventurous souls they are!

One day, we all ventured out to the end of metro line 1 to the dusty Chateau de Vincennes. (I think this was Kaija's sightseeing choice, and we are all forever grateful to her.) When we arrived, I was a bit uncertain about the outcome, as the staff seemed initially a bit huffy that we dare march in and ask for a tour in English. Thankfully, there was Dominique. He had to "re-arrange his schedule" of course, to "fit us in", but after these formalities he threw himself - heart and soul - into his task. He was bound and determined to make sure we didn't leave without a decent education on dukes and regents, horse chestnuts and clovers, gothic chapels and military ramparts, and everything you could imagine pertaining to a French castle in the Middle Ages. The afternoon finished off with a picnic in the grass. This seemed appropriate, since it is the very grass that I was tempted to nap in during my long training days for the marathon.

Yes, between one picnic and another, dad and I squeezed a little 42-kilometer run in there. I have already soliloquized aplenty about this in a previous entry, but here's a nice shot "for the record." (Thinking back to that moment, I'm surprised we had the chutzpah to smile still. Maybe we're just squinting. I remember concentrating very hard on being able to stand up. Things have loosened up since. Thank goodness. )

Since our home has been opened to visitors, we have grown quite accustomed to train sendoffs. It feels sort-of romantic and old-fashioned. You buy a chocolate and a croissant, watch the world come and go, and suddenly it's your turn. Or, in this case, Pam and Jerry's turn, off to Frankfurt for more adventures. And the futon cannot stay empty for long, which is super 'cause otherwise it would just there, relatively useless. After a whistle-stop visit from my Auntie Ruthi, on her way to Spain, she too climbed into a train, in her cute pink beret and eyes plenty wide-open to catch everything that went by. Leaving the couch unoccupied...

Till tomorrow, of course.

Heavens, I'd better go wash some sheets!


**Photos courtesy of Kaija Hansen, since I was too lazy to carry around a camera. Thanks, hon!**

The Camaraderie of the Long Road

When I first started training for the marathon a couple of months ago, it was pretty much (please forgive the expression) a walk in the park. The scenery was beautiful, the tunes in my mp3 player were kickin', and I trotted the little paths of Bois de Vincennes quite contentedly from week to week. (Except for a few pesky wrong turns, of course.)

However. The innocent afternoon jogs gradually stretched into longer stints. And the cute little distractions began to wane in effectiveness. Yes, believe it or not, Daft Punk's driving techno beats do lose their potency...after a few hundred repetitions. And trees and flowers are awfully nice, but if all you want to do is lie down and take a nap on the green, green grass, you may as well be running past asphalt and cement blocks.

So what keeps a body going? I depend mainly on the grace of God at all levels. Then there is sheer willpower, of course. (More on that later.) But another thing I noticed as I coaxed my haggard self along those seemingly endless training miles was the camaraderie of the long road. What do I mean by that? Well, amongst runners in general, there is a certain built-in feeling of togetherness. A strange paradox, since it can be one of the most solitary of sports. Usually, a quick nod and smile is all you have time for as you pass one another, and yet this simple gesture can be immensely encouraging. If you have the fortune of crossing paths with the same familiar face a couple of times, you come meeting up with that same poor soul who, like you, was running two hours ago, is still running, and will continue to run. You both flash a grin, broad with simultaneous satisfaction and sheepishness. "Look what we've both done! Wait - what are we doing?" It takes but one humorous moment, but sometimes it is all you need. Imagine 35,000 potentially similar exchanges on April 15th.

Pretty overwhelming.

Particularly when quite a number of those exchanges take place between you and your own dad. We happily trotted along together as the sun shone bright (perhaps more like beat down on our heads at a humid 85 degrees farenheit... yeesh.) Despite the heat, we were both in fine form, and the miles and kilometers slipped by almost unnoticed. The first 16 miles we ran together, during which he also equipped me for the final push: "remember, the final 6 are all in your head. Your body will be finished."

Uh-huh.

Mile 20.5, and all of a sudden my entire lower body goes numb. I mean, I can kinda still feel my feet. But otherwise, the muscles that had been moving steadily for about 4 hours were kaput. "All in your head, Abbey. All in your head...." Dad's advice repeated in my head, even though I no longer had him next to me. The event had been a solitary affair for a while, but the camaraderie of the long road was still having its undeniable effect. Greatly heartened by this, the sight of my husband at mile 22 with a shoulder squeeze and an energy bar, and also perhaps the pixie cup of Bordeaux I sloshed down at mile 23, I made it. I crossed the finish line running with a hazy Arc de Triomphe in the distance - 4:46:04 hours after I left. Dad pulled in about 6 minutes later.

And then, everything was victory. And I finally laid down in the green, green grass.

(Thank you, Lord.)

The Bad and the Beautiful

It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns so dramatically. In the course of a brief span of time, our dearest hopes can be dashed, our greatest desires restored, and our most acute fears realized. One day in our life can take on the quality of a Rodin statue in a sunlit garden - unnaturally contorted and realistic all at the very same time. The light and dark both running through.

Having this view of the universe certainly complicates dinner conversation. "So, how was your day?" "Oh, fine" is too nonchalant. "Bad" - too pessimistic. "Perfect" - a bit unrealistic. The answer that my husband got tonight was "extremely trying." Which, of course, brought more words, a few tears, and struggle with injustices in this imperfect world. And yet did not even these trials bring me closer to the Author of my days? For,

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.
Also He has put eternity in their hearts,
except that no one can find out the work
that God does from beginning to end." (Ecc. 3:11)

I may still not understand why He wrote certain things in today's script. Mostly, I second-guess my own reactions and responses in situations - was it the right thing? But in any case, He is asking me to wait for the outcome from His hand. My idea of His justice and goodness may one day weave through my life in their beautiful time. Right now, it is more beautiful that I trust in Him.

Meanwhile, rest and respite comes in a variety of serendipitous ways. Rich evenings with friends who accept us with no pretense or falsity. Students who trust me and confide in me about deep things. Impromtu pique-niques together with cheese, bread, and a bottle of rose that is somehow the same color at the setting sky. And that always-safe haven that is married love.

At the risk of sounding simplistic, I think that nearly every day calls for saying "will you forgive me" a few times (to both man and God), letting go of the crappy parts of the day, and savouring the good parts with a thankful heart. Over a crust of bread and a glass of wine, bien sur.

"Go, eat your bread with joy,

And drink your wine with a merry heart;

For God has already accepted your works." (Ecc. 9:7)

If these walls could speak

If you spend enough time roaming a city, you are bound to stumble over a stone or two from centuries past. Some walls and streets are more generous with their stories than others. The school where I teach, for example, is in the oldest quartier of Paris. On a daily basis, I wander in and out of a district that is literally bursting at the seams with tales of yore.

It is called the Marais, which means swamp. This always conjures up vivid images for me of a full-fledged, modern Paris emerging from a primordial soup of civilization - some kind of Atlantis in reverse. (Chalk it up to my overactive imagination.) The truth of the matter is, centuries of God-fearing peoples have painstakingly constructed layer upon layer of stone, wood, and iron to turn a slimy, mosquito-infested bog into a functional habitation and great cultural center.

If I take a certain passage to go home from work, it spills out next to this ragged bit of stone wall on the left. Closer inspection reveals a "Histoire de Paris" plaque; these are bookmarks that the French have lovingly placed around the city to remind themselves of their past. In this case, Philippe-Auguste built this fortified wall from 1190-1220, to protect the city from marauding invaders. If you look at a map from 1210, the original boundaries outline medieval life on a much smaller scale, compared to the present-day city.

I remember the distinct thrill I felt the day I matched this wall with another wall on the Left Bank, which I had been walking past every time I went to the library. They are, in fact, two parts of the same whole. That's like finding 2 pieces that fit from a 1000-piece puzzle after you've been staring at it for a good long while. But on a slightly larger scale.

Some remnants are not as obvious. I don't know how many times I walked past this wall before I noticed the traces of previous buildings. If you look closely (ah, so important!), there are outlines of windows that are blocked up and roof tops that lead into thin air. In this case, historical maps will probably not be able fill in the gaps, but imagination should always be at the ready. How many a young man wooed a lady at that window? How many little ones played on the stoop of the threshold?

Historical fantasies (if I may use such a term) are often filled out by the appearance of a sculpture or two. The guy below appears to be transporting goods and animals about, and the detail in his boots, jacket, and hairstyle are captivating. Before you know it, my medieval walled city is abuzz with gossiping women, pretty damsels, singing birds, mule carts, craftsman, swooning youths, and other figures. It reminds me of the wide-eyed bustle of Victor Hugo's 15th century Paris:

"It was a vast place, irregular and badly paved, like all the squares of Paris at that date. Fires, around which swarmed strange groups, blazed here and there. Every one was going, coming, and shouting. Shrill laughter was to be heard, the wailing of children, the voices of women. The hands and heads of this throng, black against the luminous background, outlined against it a thousand eccentric gestures. At times, upon the ground, where trembled the light of the fires, mingled with large, indefinite shadows, one could behold a dog passing, which resembled a man, a man who resembled a dog. The limits of races and species seemed effaced in this city, as in a pandemonium..." (Hunchback of Notre-Dame, 1831)

These days, by contrast, the atmosphere of this particular neighborhood is rather solemn, even staid. Rows of unassuming residences line up above a series of minimalist art galleries, pricey clothing stores, and (rather) snooty cafes. It does have a certain, well-contained beauty. However, I am always overcome with an urge here to try to reconnect with the city's wilder and woolier past, and pull it into the present somehow. So, whether it is 19th-century Hugo conjuring up his magically realistic Paris of circa 1485, or just another street-wandering tourist from America with her nose in a guidebook, I guess we all seem to have the need to rebuild.

That's got me thinkin'. If mere earthly foundations can reach such heights by way of our limited human imaginations, how much more amazing will the new heavens and the new earth be? I mean, most of the time, we groan and move laboriously along the face of this globe, trying so hard to make sense of past, present, and future. But it is a immense comfort to know that someday our little efforts will culminate in a Great Rebuilding. We will finally see how the stories, stones, maps, lot lines, frontiers, and people groups intertwine in one great and glorious history. And that will just be the beginning.

"And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to dwell in" (Isaiah 58).

Pomp and Circumstance

It all began several Sundays ago, while we were enjoying a quiet, sun-filled afternoon at home. Suddenly, a veritable avalanche of popping and booming sounds came pouring in the half-opened patio window. We poked our heads out to investigate. Student protest? Workers strike? We settled on building demolition, since a large cloud of dust appeared to be emanating from a nearby locale. But on Sunday? Then we heard drumming noises. This was simply too much for our curiosity; we scrambled for our shoes and headed down to check out the commotion. You never know what surprises Paris might hold for you.

As you might well know, the Chinese just finished celebrating the New Year. Joyeuse Fete! Living in the Asian quarter of Paris, this explosion of colours, dragons, dance, rhythm, and overall merriment hit a little closer to home than usual...right past our front door, in fact. Standing on the sidelines, I chatted with fellow residents about the event while Karl ran around with the camera and dodged exploding firecrackers. It is the Year of the Pig, and our landlady seemed greatly disappointed that they didn't march a bunch of porkers down our street. Apparently, last year's "Year of the Dog" festivities included a parade of Actual Dogs. Well, live dogs are undoubtedly more easy to come by in Paris than live pigs (judging from the amount of doggie poo one must sidestep on a daily basis), so it must have been a budget issue. Or, considering the traditional status of a pig on such occasions, perhaps too disturbing: "look honey, at the cute little piggies...that's what mummy's got at home in the oven." I guess last week's sortie of Charlotte's Web in French theaters was just a little too close for comfort.

About a week later, we found ourselves gawking at another sort of paegentry. This time, rows of mincing skeletons marched past enrobed in Paris' latest and greatest, as we attended our first défilé. Karl has made a lot of new friends in the music world, which is always connected with many other worlds. As it happens, a guitarist he knows works in the fashion industry, so we thought "why not", let's check out this most traditional of Parisian pastimes. Flashy, breathtaking, fast, and strange. The thing I find most amusing is that some of these shows are called "pret-a-porter", which literally means "ready-to-wear". Really. What percentage of the population do you think is really ready to wear the majority of what comes through that little door in back?

(Still, for those of you keeping track, I'm sorry to say it looks like BIG shoulder pads are coming on down the line again. Really, I'm truly sorry.)

Surprisingly, the show did not take place on a stark runway, but a stunningly beautiful Belle-epoque room with imaginative lighting and a fabulous string quintet playing James Bond-esque lines of music. Yes, a frivolous way to fritter away an afternoon - but if you like people-watching, it doesn't get much better than this. A writer could people an entire novel with half-an-hour of observations from the waiting line in the lobby alone. (Hmm. There's a thought.)

Though we weave and wander through a true Vanity Fair with all of its worldly pomp, circumstances of true beauty still glimmer from time to time. The ring of gold in the swine's snout is still a ring of gold. That is, we believe that the Lord God created this crazy world -with all of its rhythm, color, dragons, pigs, snaps, pops, and booms. With all of its strains of music, curves of beauty, lights, and girls who let a genuine smile slip out and shine from time to time. How is a christian to be "in this world and not of it?" Perhaps part of the picture is zooming in on these redeemable reflections of God's creation - in a world largely dominated by indiscretion. It takes a sharp eye, a tender heart, and wisdom - may He cultivate these in all of us.

Artichoke Love

There is an old French saying that one who falls in love easily (and often) is a coeur d'artichaut. An artichoke heart. Now, being a great lover of this vegetable, I have often wondered what this could possibly mean. Anyone who has painstakingly trimmed, steamed and peeled apart the suckers knows that this is hardly a facile operation. Seriously. You could spend a half an hour alone just removing the hairy choke. And the prickly armor? Hardly a come on. Perhaps it is the exceptional tenderness of the fruit underneath all of this rigamorale that led to this curious expression.

Google had other thoughts.

It seems as if this charming yet confusing appellation comes from the proverb: "coeur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde". That is, "an artichoke heart, a leaf for everyone." For example, the girl who falls head-over-spiky-heels in love with every boy in the office. And on her street. And, and, and. And just when you thought she had completely given her heart away bit by increasingly tender bit, she turns over a leaf, so to speak. Ad infinitum. Perhaps you think I have painted a very pathetic picture. But I think not. I mean, artichokes may not be infinite, but what about the capacity of the human heart to love?

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell" (The Four Loves).

At least our office girl is on the right track. At least she is a somewhat vulnerable being, albeit a little misguided. I like to think that maybe all she needs is a zesty lemon vinaigrette to temper her over-eager adoration. A little wisdom with her youthful artlessness.

These and other thoughts wove in and out of my mind as I made my way home from the market on Sunday, triumphantly struggling under the burden of exactly 3 euros in fresh produce. So, what can you get for this paltry pocket change? Well, it depends on when you arrive. The early bird does not necessarily get the worm here, and procrastination seems to pay off in larger dividends. The trick is to wander down at 1:3o or even 2 in the afternoon - most of the sellers have rolled up their carpets, but a few desperate fellows hang about till the last minute, hoarsely begging people to come and help them finir la table. Translation: I've been up sine 3 this morning setting up my stand, get this stuff outta my sight, everything's a euro per case. Now that's what I call a deal. Now, what on earth am I going to do with a dozen or more artichokes?

Well, peel them. Bit by bit. Till I get to that delectable little...say it with me now...

coeur d'artichaut.
kuhr-darty-SHOW

Hello, hello.

I dreamt last night that we suddenly happened upon a really good deal for a enormous apartment in Paris, if we were able to wriggle out of our lease at comparatively humble digs here in the 13eme. I suppose an extra room or two might have come in handy this past week, as we had our first guests swing through town, Christa and Tim Thaler. As it turns out, though, the little place fit four just fine. So those of you who have plans to sleep in our living room, go ahead and breathe a sigh of relief.

It was good to have an excuse to fall in love with Paris all over again. There are some things that you might not go out of your way to experience if you're hunkered down in a city for a while. The Tour Eiffel, for one - we hadn't been to the top yet. However, this week we found ourselves holding our breath as the elevator hoisted our wondering eyes some 300 meters into a windy Valentine's evening. How 18,038 pieces of metal held together by 2,500,000 rivets became a symbol recognized the world over is beyond me, but it holds an undeniable sway over anyone remotely prone to sentiment. Particularly on February 14th. "Geez, everyone's making out," one of our guests remarked. Welcome to Paris.

In all, the week was a delightful blur of homemade crepes, stories from home, Valentine's Day treats, waltzing into museums for free or almost free (in this case, the French penchant to go on strike worked in our favor), stinky cheese and baguettes, hot chocolate on the Place des Vosges, sneaking picnics in before the rainfall in hidden gardens, marketing through the narrow streets, sashaying down the Champs-Elysees, and other frivolities. When it came down to it, we decided to forgo the absinthe for a nice bottle of red wine and a full-fledged poultry dinner. Tough choice, though.

While bidding our farewells at the train station on Friday morning, it was truly as if no time had passed at all. As if we picked them up at the station, walked around for half an hour, and then returned them to the platform. Hello, hello. I don't know why you say goodbye. I say hello.

Open your Mouth Say "Ahhhh..."

-Ahh....

-Good. Okay now do the same thing, but bring your lips together into an "o" shape.

-Ah...ow...

-Two vowels in one sound....what do we call that?

-Diphthong!

-Right! How 'bout three vowel sounds together?

-Er...(indistinct murmurs, seats shifting).

-A triphthong. Everyone say fire with your best British accent.

-(embarrassed silence, save one bright-eyed, brave soul piping up with "Fi-ah?").

-Okay, everyone. How about: the roof, the roof, the roof is on...

-Fiyah!

-Perfect.

Teaching phonetics has have become my latest lot in life. Apparently, they've been a little short on professors to teach the lectures, so they've called on a couple of us to step up to the plate, handed us a pile papers, and patted us on the back with a hearty "I'm sure you'll do fine." It can be dry at times, but more often than not, the raw practicality of the discipline keeps me (and a considerable percentage of my students) engrossed. This is no useless knowledge; the rules and regulations of my native language are immediately applicable to my student's lips, lungs, tongue, and teeth. Brains are engaged at some point along the line, and pretty soon you have a bunch of French people that can remember to how to pronounce "shout" with "ow", not "oo".

Shoot. If only the path from knowledge to practice was always so short.

Karl and I have always tried to make a point of remaining lifelong lovers of learning. But we have remarkably diverse styles. I admire him for being able to educate himself for immediate, direct purposes. Learn the jazz charts down pat for the upcoming show. Read a magazine and learn how to put up drywall. Watch an online video and understand how to properly program the organ module. Look up a website to find useful French phrases before going to the Parisian music stores. The efficiency of this type of learning is astounding to me. No messing around with facts and figures for their own sake, just intensely practical. Hands-on, in every sense of the word.

I, on the other hand, tend to love knowledge for its own sake a little too often. Open my brain, fill it 'till my cup runneth over, and I'll sort out the jumble of thoughts afterwards. Sounds like a plan of sorts, maybe, but this process takes time. It's like cleaning out a large purse or the fridge every month or so - you've got to dump everything out, decide what's worth holding onto, what to throw away, and put the keepers back in an semi-orderly manner. By the time I work through this "spring cleaning of the mind", I've lost an opportunity or two to put some things into practice. Case-in-point: a recent re-evaluation of my academic goals set me back a good three weeks or so from actually going to the library and studying. (Uh, yeah. That's my idea of practicality...reading more. My wallet is stuffed with a collection of at least 5 different library cards, and I haven't even made it to the national library yet. Groan.)

Good thing I'm married to Karl. If it wasn't for him, I'd probably still be sitting cross-legged on the floor in a muddle of thoughts, trying desperately to organize them according to the Dewey Decimal system or something.

Things are Looking Up

Why is it so unusual to look up in our society? I mean, in a perfectly literal sense. Nobody really cranes their neck skywards, unless it's a bird, a plane, or....Superman! The rare heaven-gazer is quickly written off as mad - unless he is a child, in which case a few years of peaceful cloud-watching are grudgingly allowed. As soon as he achieves "grown-up" status, however, all bets are off. He so much as takes in a gorgeous sunset, and he's hauled off to the asylum.

Not quite two months ago, Karl and I were strolling home from my workplace, when a scruffy-looking figure approached us. Expecting the usual request for a few centimes, I quietly prepared myself to give the same regretful mantra I have to dole out to about 4 out of 5 people per day here in Paris: silver and gold have I none. To our great surprise, he asked us hurriedly if we had a camera. (Abbey's indignant interior voice: "What? Do I look like a tourist to you, or what?") He looked crestfallen as we responded in the negative. C'est dommage, he said. Too bad you don't, because there is a certain rare way that the light is going down over the Seine right now that creates a beautiful image. He insisted we head towards the river at once, with all of the verve and vigour of an aesthetic proselyte - GO, now! Be baptized in its glorious light. This singular man was determined to bring us to beauty.

(But away with him to the madhouse! He's got holes in his pants.)

These days, there are no more tawny leaves clinging to the chestnut trees, nor variegated oranges, greens, and browns to hide the sky. When we venture out to a jardin or a parc, we see (and hear) the bare branches clapping into the naked sky. That is, when we look up. For myself, this is usually when I'm running a very...boring stretch of a path for the umpteenth time. Seeing some sky (even a grey one) brings a little relief to my eyes that are tired of looking at the earth. It reminds me of the Harry Connick song, With imagination (I'll get there):

"When weary is your world
Go and spin another
When weary is your world
There's heaven to discover."

Ah, idealism from top to bottom in one, delicious stanza. And boy, do I eat it up. But there is an element of very real (and realistic realism, for all you realists out there). That is, this world - as full of savory Seine sunsets as it is - can become quite wearying. Full of difficulty, tribulation, boredom, pain. It is not enough to keep your chin up - even we seemingly tireless optimists peter out after a while. But it is looking up to the One whose beauty is always fresh and satisfying that keeps us running strong. Like the Psalmist wrote:

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O LORD;

In the morning I will direct it to You,

And I will look up. (Psalm 5:3)