French Musings

We're in Paris! We're on Rue de Menilmontant in the 20th, near Belleville. The "montant" part of the street name is accurate, since it inclines slightly up from the metro stop, beginning a much steeper climb a few blocks before where we are. It was a considerable slog getting here from Orly, which is south of Paris; Menilmontant is in the north. We took a very crowded, but deliciously air-conditioned bus and then two subways--and then had to pull our bags uphill to meet Salvatrice, who turned out to speak more Italian than English, thanks to parents who emigrated from Sardinia! That would be our last moment of linguistic aptitude, I'm afraid. I told Sean today that I quite like Paris; I just wonder how much more I would like it if I could actually speak French!

It's kind of a shock to go from a country where I had decent fluency in the language as well as what I'll call cultural literacy (knowing how day-to-day things work; knowing what the mores tend to be, to help you figure out how to act in a given situation), to being back at the kid level of pointing to things and saying please! Sean's enjoying his bit of linguistic supremacy over me; it also helps that he isn't fazed by trying to say "l'eau" to a bartender several times before they get that he wants water, where I'm always embarassed. On the plus side, I can at least read enough French to get by (spotted on the bus: a sign warning people that the majority of assaults on public transit come from an effort to steal your smartphone)!

Aside from the language barrier, Paris is a welcome change from Rome! New sights, new tastes (we had Afghani food our first night here, although--Sean's birthday tomorrow night aside--we have very little money to eat out, alas). New weather--it's 20 degrees colder than Rome, saints be praised. I woke up freezing our first night, while our friends who got stuck in Rome and at the Academy for several more days, thanks to American Airlines fucking up, were suffering through 90+ degrees. There's been a mix of sun and clouds every day--I never knew how thrilled I could be to see clouds! From the top of Menilmontant, and even more so from the Parc Buttes-Chaumont, you have an incredible view of the cityscape and the fierce-looking clouds rolling in.

Where we're staying is not downtown; it takes 45 minutes or so to walk to the Seine. Paris is incredibly large, and seemingly very prosperous; it seems much more like New York than Rome, but without the soul-lessness that I found in Berlin. Yes, I like that every corner seems to have a boulangerie done up in colorful wooden panels! The neighborhood we're in has a large population of North African immigrants, and it's also something of a shock going from fairly non-diverse Italy to multicultural Paris. I told Sean that it feels like in Rome, you see the same ten or so Italian "types" over and over again, while here there just seems like more variety of people of all ages. Another fabulous French innovation over Italy is that the ATMs actually ask you what kind of bills you'd like, large or small--and the shopkeepers don't even mind changing 50s if you do have them! ATMs in Italy will never give you a 10-euro bill and they will give you every 50 they can, a bill that almost no one, outside of a supermarket or a busy pharmacy, will be willing to take without a grimace. The French, having apparently enough coins in circulation to make change, also don't expect you to balance your bill for them (as Sean's reminded me, as I was adding change to our restaurant check so that they could just give us back a 20). For contrast: Jinn and David's horrible experience with the Roman cab-driver who outright refused to take a 20-euro bill because he couldn't make change, and who, since his credit card machine was broken, as they always seem to be, insisted on Dave going into Bar G to make change while he ranted at Jinn in the car!

So far, people have been very friendly to us despite our total lack of French; I think if anything, they're more confused, since Menilmontant isn't exactly tourist central. Today we went down to one of the city's largest fruit and vegetable markets at the Bastille, and I was pleased to have successfully guestimated the cost at each of the stands I stopped at so I never had to blindly hold out cash--that is, until I was foiled buying some grapes. I handed over too little, then couldn't understand the guy's response until he said in English "50 more cents!" We had falafel wraps from a Libyan food stand for lunch, and they were great (I also paid for a 4-euro sandwich with a 50, with nary a flicker of annoyance from the cashier). I couldn't understand, though, how this sprawling food market had no trash cans anyway, just the occasional plastic bag affixed to a bench. Sean revealed that Jeremy had told him this is now true throughout Paris, since they're worried about terrorism; the bags on the benches were in fact clear.

The possibility of terrorism has been on our minds, of course, and particularly after Nice (and then the attack in Normandy). I rather assumed, given the strong military and police presence that's been going on in Rome for the past year and a half (in a nation which, although nominally targeted by ISIS, hasn't actually been attacked) that France would be doing something similar, but it's not true as far as I can see. The night we arrived, we walked all through the city, down across the Ile de Saint-Louis, people everywhere occupying the "terraces" outside restaurants and bars, and then sat in front of Notre Dame, without ever seeing more than a handful of police. It's not obvious that a show of force will necessarily deter or prevent attacks, of course, but I was a little surprised not to see more of an effort, even if only as a token. The French probably don't want to live in a police state, of course, and I get that, but I couldn't help but think, as we shouldered our way through the intensely crowded market today, that when you hear reports of suicide attacks in Baghdad and other cities in the Middle East, it's often markets that are targeted. No police anywhere in sight there either, though.

Tomorrow is Sean's 31'st birthday! To celebrate, we're going to dinner at a place he found on his last visit here, called Le Richer, near the Opera. He says that although it looks hipster-pretentious, the food is excellent, inventive, and cheap (hat trick!).

Moving Day (Almost)

I never knew how stressful packing could be until I faced having to get two years' worth of belongings for two people into four bags: two large suitcases, one medium, and one rolling suit bag. It's not even really the clothes, it's the books; I managed to get most of them into our luggage, but I had to suck it up and pay 100 euro to ship home a twenty-pound box with a couple of exhibition catalogs (as well as our boxing gloves, which, despite their light weight, would be impossible to find space for in the bags). Complicating matters is the fact that we're not actually headed straight home to New Haven, but are going first to Paris, then back to Rome for two days, then Sean goes down to Naples for his conference. We're leaving three suitcases here until the beginning of September, meaning everything we need immediately, or he'll need for the conference, has to come to Paris. Complicated.

Tomorrow I'm leaving the Academy, after two years. I'm certainly ready to get back to real existence; as charmed as our lives are here, it's still effectively an elegant dormitory. We've been lucky to make some really good friends this year, and even better, we have plans to actually see them back in the States. Rick and Lauren are in Cambridge, and have an entirely separate apartment in the basement of their townhouse that they've encouraged us to come stay at (John and Bryony, for example, are taking them up on this for two weeks in August). Emma, Jeremy, and the girls are in Swarthmore, and our plan is to go down and stay with them in mid-October, when Jinn and David are visiting from Chicago. We're also headed to Chicago in late March-early April for RSA, so we'll see them again in the winter.

It's a bit more sad to say goodbye to the staff, since I don't know when we'll be coming through Rome again (unlike most people here, who already seem to have their next visit booked). Gabri, at least, we'll see in NYC in October for "Gabri-fest," but Tiziana and Alessandro...? And poor Massimo. I don't think I've written about him on here; one of the "rossi", he got into an awful car accident about a month ago, coming home late from the staff party at the Academy. We were out back with them singing group karaoke, and Sean stayed up playing pool with the stragglers till 3am. Massimo was supposed to stay over, but decided at the last minute to drive home to Ronciglione, an hour north, and we don't know what happened (possibly he fell asleep?) but he hit a wall at full-speed. He's been in a vegetative coma ever since, and suffered really traumatic injuries. He was such a nice guy, even if he always spoke in super-fast dialect that I could barely follow.

So as not to end this on a down note, I went back to my first, starry-eyed post when I arrived here in September 2014. The cynical side of me read it with an eye to everything that I would come to find annoying, but I've often returned to the sentiment below in the two years in between, because I vividly remember thinking it:

The first night, I got up from the dinner table to use the restroom, and walking back toward the table, looking down that long, candle-covered table and everyone clustered around it talking so animatedly I thought "Two years of nights like this?" in this sort of awe-filled but also uncomprehending way.  It just doesn't seem possible, that this is a thing I am now doing, and will do for a considerable period of time.  But it is--and the only thing that's going to make it even better is when I get to share it with Sean!

Tonight will be the last time that I look down that candle-lit table. I've been incredibly lucky to be here, and--as I said two years ago--the time I got to share it with Sean has been the most special of all.

So long, Academy, and thanks for all the fish pasta!

It's Fucking Cold (And the Peasants Rejoice, Sorta)

Truly, we have reached the end of Shit To Complain About at the Academy (topics include: our fellow fellows; kitchen hygiene; relative crappiness of beds, pillows, showers, etc.; fetishization of non-Italian foodstuffs; Italian societal norms; the phrase colpo d'aria) when our main thread of complaint at dinner tonight was "Holy shit it's so fucking cold! Why is it so windy? Ahhhhhh my napkin is blowing away down the table and that guy's empty wine glass just fell over," etc.

It's been above 90 degrees for weeks, hitting an unpleasant high of 97 on Monday, only to cool as we approached the weekend. Yesterday was the first day in a long time when I walked through the city without being unpleasantly sweaty, and I found myself thinking "oh right, I like Rome!" Yesterday the high was maybe 86, but today the high was only 72, about 20 degrees from what our bodies were trained to expect as of just a few days ago. There was brief rejoicing which turned to "oh god, we've been weakened" as it got colder.

Things I enjoyed:

• being able to actually sleep in our room last night, as opposed to our office couch, where I've been sleeping since it got unbearably hot
• being able to exist in our bedroom without needing to keep the door propped open for a chance at a cross-breeze (and zero chance at privacy)
• being able to turn off the overhead fan, the only break that poor bastard has gotten in months
• being able to work in my office with the windows closed this morning, thereby (nearly) silencing the cacophony of those tiny fucking sparrows who nest in the cortile
• being able to walk around without feeling like a sweaty mass of fat
• crunching through dry lives on the Lungotevere and feeling like it was September
• needing to put a blanket on top of the bed in addition to the single sheet

Things I did Not

• needing a sweater to sit in the cortile for lunch
• feeling like an aged Italian grandma for needing a sweater in mid-July
• feeling like I was walking through a hurricane to head downtown (reality check: 18 mph wind)
• pine needle fragments directly to the eyeball on the Lungotevere
• shivering through dinner, despite sweater
• asking quickly if anyone had anything planned for post-dinner (Wednesday night we watched Predator, which I enjoyed; last night others watched Devil's Advocate, which I declined), learning several people planned to get directly into bed, and realizing this was a good option

It's going up to 81 tomorrow. But never fear! We'll be back to our regularly-scheduled 95-and-up temps as of Monday. 

Fight Club

Leo (the guy pointing, in blue shorts) came to dinner at the Academy last night.  We had a good time, and then at the end of the night he said "just so you know, just because you invited me to dinner doesn't mean I'm going to go any easier on you in the gym." Haha.

The Future

My two years at the Academy are almost at an end. I've told Sean many times that no matter where our path leads us in the future, we'll always be incredibly grateful to have had this experience together. Usually they say "we'll always have Paris" but I suppose for us it's "we'll always have Rome."

However, I become increasingly doubtful that my future path is going to be within academia. I'll be graduating, god willing, next spring, but I haven't published anything (nor do I have anything remotely ready for publication), and my ideas--I'm being honest here--aren't likely to set the world of Titian studies on fire.  I know, and have been told, that I'm an excellent teacher; I know I'm an excellent writer; and I really do love art history.  Unfortunately, those things are not enough of a combination to secure a tenure-track job, not in today's work of adjunct-only hires; it's your research and publication record they care about. Ironically, it's Sean, with his Ivy-League degree, his several publications (so far!) and his long track record of conference presentations who has the best shot at a tenure-track job, but Sean has no passion for his field and doesn't think he wants to stay in it, either. If only we could combine Sean's qualifications with my enthusiasm, we'd be one perfect tenure-track-worthy professor.

So that begs the question of what's next? Obviously the first thing is to finish the dissertation. ("The only good dissertation is a done dissertation" is now my credo). When I get back, I'm going to get in contact with the Renaissance scholar who now runs Fairfield's art museum to talk to her about paths in the museum world. It's possible that Academy networking might be of use, one never knows. I also need to discuss this with Dr. Cooper, not least because her husband, Tim, talks to the grad students about his career in academic publishing, which is something else I'm interested in.  My ideal career, believe it or not, would be at a good-sized community college, the kind that actually tenures its faculty (I knew some grad students who were already tenured in Philadelphia, even pre-defense).  The focus is actually on teaching rather than on research. The likelihood of getting that kind of job, though, is pretty low. Still, a girl can dream.

It's definitely hard to even conceive of giving up the dream of being a university professor. One of the seductive things about academia, after all, is that it preaches to itself about being one of, if not the most important things that exist in society. We shepherd the life of the mind, what could be more important than that? To enter that path, and then to leave without hitting the brass ring of a TT job, is seen as a failure--a loss of status. Nothing else you do will be considered to be as important as what those who are researching and publishing are doing.  I have to acknowledge that, and accept it. Ironically, I know that the people who will have the greatest sympathy are those who were in grad school with me; Jasmine may have gotten a TT job, for example, but her experience there is miserable. The group of us spent a lot of RSA talking about how bullshit academia is and how difficult it is to survive (and I don't even have kids, like her, Cate, Susan, and Erin).

Even if I don't go into academia, even if I don't ever get to call myself a professor, how can I regret it? I love what I've learned, the knowledge I can share in others, and occasionally the love of art I can help kindle. How could I regret a path that earned me two years here at the Academy, even if there were many parts of that filled with anxiety, frustration and unease? What I've seen, done, and learned, the friends that I've made, all of that is something I will need to remind myself of in the future. Whatever happens, it was still worth it. We'll always have Rome.