Paris is Worth a Mass.

On Sunday, our first full day in Paris, we attended a Catholic mass at St. Nicholas des Champs.  The service was in French but we wanted to hear what church sounded like to the French people.  It was beautiful if a bit hard to follow at times.   What struck me was the number of people attending.  There must have been 250 plus people there--of all ages—at a neighborhood parish church.  After hearing for so many years that the churches of Europe were empty, this experience was a nice surprise.  

Tuesday morning we headed out to the Parisian suburb of St. Denis.  Almost a thousand years ago St. Denis was a separate town from Paris.  It was here during the mid-twelfth century that Abbot Suger remodeled the town’s Romanesque basilica into what we now know of as the first gothic cathedral.  The gothic design and stained glass windows are stunning.  I think it has a more beautiful interior than Notre Dame.  The church, however, is in some degree of disrepair.  Why?  It’s too far out from the center of Paris for the average tourist.  And it takes work getting out there.  It’s also in a suburb with a high crime rate and has a dwindling Christian population (Muslims make up over twenty-five percent of the suburb).  What makes the neglect all the more sad is the fact that this church is the necropolis for the kings and queens of France.  All but three kings are buried here.  You can pay your respects to the likes of Clovis, the Merovingian founder of the Kingdom of the Franks, Charles “The Hammer” Martel, St. Louis, Henry IV (of Navarre), Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, among many other royals.  If this church were in the center of Paris it would give Notre Dame a run for its money.  If you make it to Paris anytime soon, please visit. 

Speaking of our lady, on Tuesday evening we attended a Gregorian chant concert at Notre Dame.  The play of light and shadow streaming through the stained glass windows as it mingled with the chant of the medieval church was beautiful.  The concert was a delight.

Paris is well worth a mass.

Dr. B.

Team Brussel Sprouts!

Hi all!!!! Yesterday, the four PP&E (Politics, Philosophy, and Economics) students on the Paris Venture traveled to Brussels, Belgium, to visit the EU headquarters, meet with staff of the World Youth Alliance European division, and discuss the wild and wonderful jungle more formally known as the European Union. Now, if you studied the inner workings of the US Government, and you’re like me, you probably found it rather confusing. Imagine that confusion times 10 and you get the average explanation of how the EU works. It is a veritable maze of checks and balances, appointments and popular elections, expert positions and rotating presidencies, currency caveats and union-wide regulations. Freddy (Frederica), an intern from Italy, managed to get it in simple enough terms for us to understand, given our limited time for discussion.

            There are actually 7 key institutions belonging to the EU, but for our trip, we focused on the European Parliament, which is based in Brussels. It is the legislative body for the Union, made up of popularly elected representatives from each of the 27 member states. They have a similar level of authority as our Congress does in America—to pass laws and regulations over the member states.

            Well actually, in case that last statement caught you by surprise, like it did me when I heard it from Freddy, there are three types of laws they can pass, varying in intensity. The first is like a suggestion, the second a recommendation, and the third a requirement. And while the EU has authority to make these types of laws (if they can actually be called laws) they aren’t supposed to legislate on any issue that the member states can ‘handle on their own.’ And if you’re looking for a way to differentiate between the two, you’re on the own. Come to think of it, so is the EU.

            As Parliament holds their court regularly, WYA is always kept on its toes. World Youth Alliance is one of the many lobbyist organizations scattered across Brussels in hopes of catching the ears of a legislative member or two. While not expressly Christian, their mission is to uphold and transform policy within international legislative bodies to protect the dignity of the human person, and consequently, the rights of the human person. And what’s the best way to do this? Advocacy!!!! The interns and staff members of WYA, wherever they are (there are branches all over the world now), focus on developing relationships with the legislators. These politicians have so much to do that they simply don’t have the time to research issues thoroughly during their long work days. So they rely on lobbyists to provide them with clear, concise, and accurate research to inform their vote. By maintaining a professional image, strong work ethic, and reputation of trustworthiness, the staff at WYA have worked wonders in policy formation throughout the world, from abortion regulations to health care reform, human dignity resolutions to women’s rights.

            Unfortunately, both Freddy and her boss Marie, the head of the WYA European division, were extremely busy. So Alexandra, Sarah, Kristin, and I finished out the day with a tour of the EU legislative assembly, sightseeing in the historical district, and one of the most epicly speedy lunches of all time. As we caught the train back to Paris, we couldn’t help wondering what these connections—seeds, if you will—might blossom into for next year’s team to Europe. Perhaps shadowing YWA members in their work? Perhaps working alongside with their research? No one can know for certain. But surely, the groundwork has been laid.

            That’s all for now! Thanks for keeping up with the blog; it has been a pleasure relaying our experiences back to y’all. Peace out,

Greg

In the company of friends

Yesterday we had free time in the evening. I didn't bring any books with me on this trip (atypical, especially for a King's student) and I had long since finished the fluffy paperback I bought in a Hudson News in JFK. So I wanted to find an English bookstore on my way home, grab a murder mystery or something, and spend the evening in my apartment, with the windows open, reading.
I was on the left bank, just a little ways from the bridge to the Île de la Cité, where Notre Dame is. And there, tucked between cafes and behind a little lawn that separated the sidewalk from the street, I found Shakespeare and Co. 
There's a Shakespeare and Co. in New York, maybe even a couple of them, but the Paris one is the most important and famous one. When James Joyce's Ulysses was banned in the US, you could get it at Shakespeare and Co. 
I walked in and was momentarily stunned to hear the clerks and customers speaking English. I've gotten so used to being surrounded by the constant, barely comprehensible sounds of French that hearing English was like suddenly being able to breathe underwater. It was exhilarating at first to look around at all the titles on the shelves and know that I could understand them, but then I felt sort of guilty, because there I was in Paris and it seemed that all I wanted was to speak English and read English books. So as I navigated the crowded interior of the shop, I said "pardonnez-moi" instead of "excuse me" and I felt a little better. 
I went up a narrow staircase. The steps sagged in the middle, showing fifty years' wear. On the walls of the staircase, partially hidden behind book club flyers and snaps of the shop staff, simple black and white line drawings of famous authors looked out. Ernest Hemingway, Anaïs Nin, James Joyce, Allen Ginsburg. 
At the top of the stairs there was a little library room. I chose an Agatha Christie from one of the shelves. 
As I sat and read, I felt guilty again. The window in the little room was open and I could hear the bells of Notre Dame chiming. I felt convicted, like I wasn't being French enough, like by hiding out on the top floor of an English bookstore and breathing easier every time I heard an English phrase, I was being a disappointment.
I looked around the room. A picture of Allen Ginsburg and some of the other Beats hung by the window, and on the door leading to the back stairs out of the library, there was a crisp black and white photo of Papa, wrinkly and rugged. I thought of the authors whose pictures I'd seen on the stairs and realized that so many of them were expatriates. They'd come to Paris to work, or because they had nowhere else to go, or because they'd stumbled upon it in a thoughtless moment and got so comfortable that they stayed--and Paris took them all in.
The wind blew in the open window. The geraniums in the window box swayed. Paris opens her arms to everyone, even me with my bad French and my cheesy tourist grin and my longing for English books. And even though I'm nowhere close to the stature of Hemingway, in Paris we are equals, because Paris accepts the great and the small alike. So I felt better, sitting and reading my mystery novel, knowing that when I went back down the stairs I could try again to order dinner in a convincing accent, and maybe when I walked home I could walk like I belong. I believe that I do belong--Paris has this quality of bestowing belonging freely. And that is a unique blessedness, and a very comforting thing.
--Rosie 

The Euro and the Paradox

Having researched French economic policy prior to our trip, I knew we'd use the euro. In fact, I was prepared to have a detailed conversation about the advisability of the eurozone, the impracticality of the Maastricht Treaty, and why no one should ever share a hotel room with Dominique Strauss-Kahn. What I was not prepared for was the strange experience of actually using the euro.

Euros come in bills and coins, similar to dollars and cents in the US.  The bills look like Monopoly money - brightly colored, with strange pictures and shiny numbers, they hardly seem real. The coins are weighty (imagine how much heavier your purse would be if you had coins instead of one-dollar bills), and are silver, gold, and copper.

Using euros is always an adventure, even after getting past the 1.43 dollars : 1 euro exchange rate. Paying for a meal in coins feels charming, small, and ancient. In NYC, unless I'm buying a slice of $1 pizza, I can't afford a meal in coins. Here in Paris, I pay for many quick meals on the street (and even whole grocery store trips) solely in change. When I hand the crepe man a few coins for his efforts, I feel connected with all the people who have been paying for their daily bread in coins for thousands of years. Handing someone a piece of paper with my president's portrait on it feels like a joke compared to the tangible reality of a piece of cold metal that can bring a warm panini.

As much as our dollar bills feel a little flimsy and arbitrary at times, euro bills seem almost ridiculous. Their bright colors and famous landmarks feel more like I'm Passing Go than participating in a legitimate economic transaction. These pieces of paper can somehow magically be exchanged for anything - silk scarves, bowls of soupe a l'oignon, or designer dresses that cost more than my apartment in NYC. These pieces of big confetti are worth more than the dollars that I use every day, and for no real reason other than that they are symbols of stability. There is no inherent worth in them, but they stand for something big.

This paradox in currency, the ancient and tangible combined with the modern and arbitrary, matches the mood of Paris. Everywhere I am surrounded by beautiful buildings: palaces, cathedrals, and bridges that are all older than my country. Paris has a rich and solid history, with Christian roots that hark back beyond the Middle Ages. The love that moved the saints, edified in stained glass throughout this city, began in Israel even longer ago — when a coin in a fish's mouth could pay the tax owed by a foreign government. Next to these antique and sacred places are automobiles and mobile phones, storefronts and internet cafes, American pop music and Bueno bars. Today's post-postmodern ennui points to a flimsy reality that only means anything because we say it does. The political stability the euro stands for masks a host of problems — the spiraling debt in the eurozone, the devastation of a political leader, and the complicated system of government in France. A 100-euro bill may be able to buy any number of things, but none of it matters if Nietzsche is right, and God is dead. The euro bills are big numbers printed on bright slips, full of the fun and convenience of modernity, but ultimately devoid of any real and lasting value.

As I marvel at the paradox of cheap, mass-produced rubber erasers being sold inside beautiful, sacred, old Saint-Chappelle, I also marvel that the currency of a nation could so reflect its paradoxical state. A nation and a city that seems both so full and so empty.

~Alexandra