Paris 2001 (#1)

A report on The "Tu / Image" Conference
3-5 September 2001 / Collège de France, Paris, France

[This impressionistic summary was shared in part with friends and in part with the WSW E-mail list, the latter on 13 September 2001. The two reports are here combined]

Departure

Off for JFK. Sunset out the window as the little commuter plane gets airborne. A deep red line along the horizon, fading through the rainbow into night-sky ultramarine. But since you are looking from above at the whole planet, and not, like some lowly landsman, just at the horizon, it seems somehow more fitting to call it not sunset, but earthset.

My French for Idiots book languished on the floor - the part of it where I pile up stuff for the next trip - all through spring and summer. As the plane approaches the land of Europe, and the cabin crew begins to stir around with breakfast (it is noon outside, but they have keep the windows shot to simulate wee hours and foster sleep), I figure I should get something out of it, and scan the 20 indispensable expressions on the inside front cover. Interesting. Compared with what would be in a Japanese guide at the same level, there is not one representive of the apology genre. Hmmm.

Charles de Gaulle

Temple Fielding used to warn of the slippery floors at Orly. There is a lot of marble underfoot at Ch de Gaulle as well, but it is so crowded with people lined up, and those pushing past the people who are lined up, that there is no great temptation to wide striding. The lack of social apologetics implicit in the 20 Idiot phrases was evident. I did glare at one female who near sideswiped me with her truck-sized baggage cart, and elicited a "Pardon." Social fieldwork.

The train connection could use more and kindlier signage. I am reduced to watching people buy tickets in the machine, trying to figure out how it is done. One college-age girl tries with her charge card, tries again, and gives up. I volunteer, "You have to leave it in longer." She gives me a double-take, and says, "Oh, you're American." After further efforts, adding to my knowledge but not resulting in her success, she moves off in disgust. A clunk in the machine. I holler across the marble toward her vanishing back, "Your ticket came through." She is grateful.

The ticket and gate matters being finally solved, and the train itself pursued down the platform from where the sign says it will stop to where it actually stopped, we are underway on the RER for Paris. One of a party of four undoubted French persons across the aisle from me leans over and asks me a question in French; asking in effect if this train stops at Orly. I have to tell him that I can't reply in his language, and he tries another passenger. But I am apparently getting the hang. Not of the language, but of the look.

Nice smooth train. The houses and fields and occasional junk slide by outside. I am struck by the resemblance to the domestic architecture, the style of buildings and the way they sit on the land, and the feel of the land itself, that one sees out the train window en route from Narita to downtown Tôkyô. Now that I notice, the shapes of even the utility trucks are rather like. Evidently the Meiji period artists, consistently upheld by their successors in later years, spent their time in Paris soaking up the local visual style.

St Michel is the big intersection stop, across the Seine into what, from a King's viewpoint, would be the Left Bank. I am alert for the Seine, presumably hard to miss out the window, as the marker before my stop. They fooled me: the train goes under the river. But I was ready for the name anyway, and make my exit. Going up the long escalator back to the surface of the earth, I am passed by a guy not burdened by a wheeled suitcase who takes a firm position a few steps ahead of me. At the top he sort of stumbles, as though to reach down for something. Pickpocket. I walk right through him; send him sprawling.

I may not be much of a linguist, but in matters cultural, I am a quick study.

Rue des Écoles

I will say this: the French know how to acknowledge their men of intellect. Where else do you see squares named in honor of mathematicians and even Egyptologists?

Taxi exorbitant, but I figure if I go 1 for 2 on the day I am still not doing badly. Hotel compact but perfectly adequate. I spread out my notes and start to time and final-edit my talk. Sleep welcome.

 

28 Aug 2003 / Contact The Project / Exit to News Page