Another Kind of Church Music

I went to church at the American Cathedral this morning, the Episcopal church that serves the American and Anglophone community in Paris. Usually I go to the American Church, a multi-denominational Protestant church, but I wanted to try something different. I had never been to the Cathedral, and it was beautiful: Gothic architecture, powerful organ, intricate stained glass. It's like a French church in many ways, except for the flags of US states that line the nave.

In any church service I've been in here, there's a sound that you almost never hear in the US. When they take up the offering, you hear the constant clinking of change. Since French money -- whether the old Franc or now the Euro -- is made up of many more coins in larger denominations that in the US, people who put in 1 or 2 Euro coins or some combination inevitably cause the other coins in the plate to jingle. And, if the plate is metal, as it was this morning, the plate itself makes a sound when the money hits it.

There’s something exciting and worshipful about hearing the sound of money against the offering plate. In the US, we put in checks or bills, and many people do here too. But even a small donation at home of $1 makes no sound, whereas here even a small contribution of 1 Euro announces itself. This is not to say that people try to make noise to show off. But hearing the jingle of Euros as they fill the offering is another kind of music or prayer that is missing in most American churches. It's the sound of God’s work going forward.

Buying a Piece of History

My friend and Rhodes colleague Katheryn Wright and I went to the flea market today at Saint-Ouen, just north of Paris. The Marche aux Puces is legendary as the biggest in town, and it certainly lives up to its reputation. It's row after row of booths, shops, and stands selling everything imaginable, from clothes to antique furniture to junk to CDs and DVDs. It's a shopper's dream.

I bought some old postcards of the 1910 flood, the subject of my current research. When we asked the dealer if he had any, he pulled out 3 stacks of about 75 cards which we had fun sorting through. People collect cards of their flooded neighborhood, he said, or based on themes or scenes that interest them. I bought a few too, including one dramatic scene of a little girl being rescued from a flooded street. It’s definitely going in my book.

Flipping through 100 year old postcards, I could feel the dust come off on my fingers. It’s similar in the archive. When I pulled century old (or older) documents out of the archival storage cartons at the Archive de Paris, they had that distinctive smell of decaying paper. Bits of them crumbled onto the desk where I was working. And when I left, my fingers were stained with age.

I wonder if the people who wrote those documents realized that I, or anyone, would be going through their work nearly 100 years later. Will anyone be examining my things a century from now? And I wonder whether the people in the postcards -- especially that little girl being rescued -- ever thought that I would be buying their picture at the Paris flea market on a crisp fall day.

The Power of Language

I've long understood that language is an important part of identity, but I'm finding out just how powerful the connection is on this trip.

I am a very verbal person. I read, write, and speak as we all do, but it's an especially important part of my life as an academic. These are the tools of my trade, and I've worked hard to develop them over the years. As a result, I'm not only proficient in my native language, but rely on nuances of expression and vocabulary to get my ideas across. I say things with a certain turn-of-phrase or a particular kind of inflection to make a subtle point. My ability to use the finer points of language is a crucial part of how I communicate with others.

But here, much of that ability is gone. My French is OK, especially my reading knowledge. But speaking and especially listening has always been difficult. To be deprived of a central aspect of what I'm used to doing on a daily basis has proven to be a bigger challenge than I expected. It means that, at least with the French, I can't fully be myself because so much of who I am is expressed in what I say and how I say it.

There are plenty of English speakers here, of course, and with them I can say what I really mean. But sitting in a cafe surrounded by nothing but French can be quite isolating. It means that I can't fully connect with the world around me and that, in some way, a part of me is missing.

Nature at the Archive de Paris

Up until yesterday, I was spending most of my time in this building. It looks kind of like a spaceship or a futuristic prison, but it's the Archive de Paris, the municipal archive, where all sorts of documents related to city government and administration are held. Despite its very modernist appearance, on the walkway leading up to the building, there are lots of herbs and flowers (I've harvested rosemary there on the sly). My work there is done, and I don't plan to go back to this archive. But as I was leaving, I noticed these fruit trees which I hadn't seen before. I thought it was a striking contrast to have beautiful fruit growing outside a building which looks so stark and forbidding.

Selling Civilization?

This image in the rue Montorgueil has always puzzled me. Apparently, it is a remnant of a time when a coffee or sugar dealer sold his wares here. The caption states that this is not a branch store or part of a chain. Here, you're dealing directly with the dealer, or planter, as the text above indicates.

Of course, the image reinforced certain racial stereotypes about both Africans and the French. In the 19th century, Europeans -- and the French in particular -- considered themselves to be the height of the racial hierarchy and sought to bring "civilization" to other parts of the world. But one man's civilization is another man's barbarity. Consider this picture from the African's point of view. He's half naked and reduced to serving the owner of this plantation. The shop may very well have been an outlet for a Caribbean plantation where the French owned slaves until 1848 (I believe).

Considering the sometimes tense race relations in Paris today, it's almost surprising that this image has survived. There's another similar one in the Place de la Contrascarpe. Maybe I'll post a picture of that one too someday.

Public Prayers

Paris is a noisy city with few places of respite. But the numerous churches provide a welcome space for peace and quiet amidst the hectic streets. I went into St-Germain-des-Pres recently. It's not too far from my apartment. I saw that on the columns next to statues of several saints, the church had posted large sheets of white paper so that people could write out their petitions (that's St. Anthony in the photo). I had never seen this before; maybe they do it elsewhere. Still, I thought it was noteworthy because not only can you leave a lighted candle as your prayer but also a little note to God. Others might read it too, of course. I guess it's another form of public prayer.

Psychologists say that expressing your feelings is very helpful because it prevents them from being bottled up inside. And writing them down has been shown to be a very effective form of therapy. Apparently, it's good theology too.

Holy Monday

This morning in a cafe, I heard The Mamas and the Papas singing "Monday, Monday." It reminded me how strange Mondays are here.

Centuries ago, Europeans had an informal holiday on Mondays which was sometimes called "Holy Monday." If Sunday had been a saint's day which involved a day-long festival, no one wanted to work on Monday. And in an agricultural economy where no one punched a time clock and working hours were more flexible, taking off part or all of Monday was not a problem.

Paris seems to have preserved the practice of Holy Monday. The Bibliotheque Nationale (the National Library) doesn't open until 2:00 PM, and the Archives of Paris where I've been working lately doesn't open until 1:30 PM. My neighborhood grocery story -- a large chain store, not a small operation -- doesn't open until noon. Of course some things are open on the weekend, so taking off Monday morning isn't too much to ask for them, perhaps. But the street seemed so empty this morning when I left the apartment.

Holy Monday throws off my timing and reminds me that the pace of life in Paris does not proceed by American time. Paris is not a 24/7 city, although more things are that way than the first time I came. Funny how a matter of timing, so ingrained in our routines, can make another place feel so different. Especially on a Monday morning.