Sénégal neex na

Today the New York Times has a really good article on the Senegalese music scene in Dakar -- they mention Just4U and the French Cultural Institute, two places where I spent time when I was in Dakar.  One of the guys in my boarding house the last month I was there was a musician, so my roommates and I would see his shows at Just4U -- it's kind of a swank nightclub frequented by aging ex-pats, but still fun.  And the l'Institute Française was where we would hang out to do work sometimes -- it's just a really pleasant outdoor space in downtown Dakar with a library for research, and a fair trade shop, and yes, a concert venue.

His descriptions of Dakar at night are spot-on, and the map shows the area around the airport, which is where I lived with my host family.  And he mentions Youssou N'Dour as well as the Senegalese hip-hop scene, both worth checking out.

It's too bad he recommends the fancy beachfront hotels, though.  Not only are they mad expensive, but they're very generic and separated from the real Dakar, which while it is definitely crazy and disturbing and the capital of a developing country, is really awesome.  The woman who ran my boarding house also rented out rooms (nice rooms) for very cheap for short-term stays.  I remember this really neurotic couple we met who were staying there as we tucked into our communal bowl of delicious meat and rice one night.

Yeah, I miss Senegal.  I miss every place I've lived, and it's a lot.  So remembering my heat-exhaustion-infused, buzzing with activity, overwhelmed by sensory overload and so much music and noise days in Dakar is a nice way to spend a rainy morning in Paris.

I'm going to head to the marché and the library, and eventually out to the Christmas market at l'Hôtel de Ville with one of my best friends in Paris, but for now it's nice to recall all the colorful Ndiaga Ndiayes, and the near-constant "Allah-huuuuuuuuuuu akbar!  Allah-huuuuuuuuu akbar!" crackling from the minarets across the city every day.  And the palm trees.  And the sidewalk baguettes with Nutella.  And fresh mangoes.  And eating my breakfast while my host brother watched cartoons before sliding through the sand to the bus stop in increasingly thin flip-flops.  And the almost palpable heat.  When we left, one of our directors told us that, for better or for worse, Africa had now entered our blood.  And literally, that's true.  I'm pretty sure I still can't donate blood.  But even two years later, I'm still figuring out the extent to what she said is still true in the way she really meant it.

After I came home from Dakar, I think I slept for about a whole day.  Then I went running in my running shoes I took with me to Dakar, and kicked the red-orange dirt from Kedougou and the sand from Dakar across the concrete of the Pacific Northwest neighborhood where I grew up in between Puget Sound and the mountains.

It's strange to think that this month in 2007 I was working on my independent research project, living with my roommates in our boarding house, hanging out with my host family, and getting ready to go home in time for Christmas.  And keeping like three journals.  And writing poems.

Dakar, je t'aime.  Or, because Wolof is the real language there, Senegal neex na.

For better or for worse?  I think for the better.  Sans question.

You and Your Racist Friend

One of the drawbacks of living in Paris is that little by little, you become aware of the things about Paris that are not beautiful, inspiring, or fun.  For me it's the awful sensation of being both extremely visible and invisible at the same time.  This stems from the fact that if you are a woman, in Paris, and are even moderately attractive and young, you will be stared at by sleazy, sketchy men everywhere you go.  And all bets are off if you like to go running.  Welcome to anomaly-hood.  So, everywhere I go, no matter how sloppy I look, I get stared at by men.  It would be less creepy if it were the beautifully dressed beautiful boys who I see on the metro all the time and are actually my age, but it's usually the creepy old dudes.  I've checked with my friends and this is something that happens to us every day.  To those men I just say, seriously?  Read your book.  It's fine to notice someone who's attractive but if I see you staring at me every time I look up from my book on the metro, I am creeped out, not interested.  Okay thanks.  Au revoir!

As for invisible?  I have been stepped on, bumped into, pushed, shoved, and squished so frequently since I've been here that I sometimes feel like I live in a city of blind people.

Another thing?  Well, in a word, racism.  At the last party I went to, I met this guy, who in between talking about his love for techno while his friend explained the intricacies of building a better hashish cigarette to me, informed me that immigrants are just a problem and should assimilate and be French or not come to France at all.

To which I was like, "Hmmm, in the US we see it a little differently, because, you know, everyone came from somewhere else."

To which he said, "Yeah, but in the US you guys have problems with immigrants too, you know.  They really shouldn't be allowed into the country."

To which I decided that we should probably just agree to disagree -- you know, him back to talking about techno, me back to smiling and nodding.

This reminded me of this guy who interviewed me to share an apartment with him, and informed me that where he lived was best because there weren't immigrants around to cause trouble.

Seriously?  If immigrants cause trouble, whose fault is that?  The immigrants, or the stigma that the French have towards them that causes them to have trouble accessing basic services?  I mean, really.  What do you think perpetuates what?

It just makes me mad that there's this tacit racism that's treated like it ain't no thing.  Of course we have racism in the US, but we also have this idea of political correctness and the importance of "diversity," which, while sometimes cloying and just a cover for the real problems, at least has its heart in the right place.  Sometimes I think France could care less about diversity.  And it's times like this that I am so glad that, yes, that's right, I live in Chinatown.  Where there are people from other countries.  And poor people.  And everything doesn't look perfect and strictly French to the point of scary.

This has been really bothering me lately, and I think it all started when I heard about how Switzerland is banning minarets.  This really upset me, because minarets are beautiful.  When I lived in Senegal, you could always look out across the city and see all the minarets from the mosques.  I loved them!  And there's also the whole lack of freedom of religion the ban implies.

Oh yeah, you guys can totally have your mosque, but please dispense with that annoying call to prayer.  Love, the Swiss Government.

Nothing about it is okay.  I mean, do they think that minarets cause terrorism?  Really?

I am so not down with the anti-Arab sentiment I detect here.  Again, it's something I just thought was worse in the US, but here it's just repressed and comes out in really subtle or shocking ways, which isn't better.  I really do think that in the United States we have a more open view of what makes a culture or a country of value.  I guess because the notion of ranking them is just stupid.  But many Parisians think of Paris as "the capital of the world," and there's very much a sense that the French way of doing things is the right way.

I really do love Paris.  But there are times when I am just so happy to blast the Ramones on my iPod on the metro while wearing my running shoes and unflattering jeans and my Space Travel t-shirt and a hoodie and my glasses and no makeup.  While clutching a paper cup from Starbucks.  Because when it all comes down to it, I am American.  And while I have my qualms with where I'm from, it's home.  Luckily I live in a part of Paris that feels a little like Seattle -- Tang Freres is no Uwajimaya, but I can get Japanese food a few blocks from my apartment, and when I look out onto the eyesore construction around the train station with the towers of the Bibliotheque Nationale in the distance, it could totally be the place where downtown Seattle and industrial Seattle come together.

At first I didn't like this, and I bemoaned my quartier's lack of perfection, but I actually think it's kind of a wonderful and interesting place to live.

Also?  Today I sent in my application to UC Irvine.  And after disastrous nanny duty, I made quesadillas in my apartment.  I had to use emmental and kidney beans, but they tasted really good.  In Paris, even home-made pseudo-Mexican food feels like a delicious rarity.

Frustration aside, I'm remembering a saying I learned in Senegal.  Ku mun muun.  Indirectly translated, it means I'm pressing on.  "Your Racist Friend" by They Might Be Giants is pretty special to me right now, though.

Also, my across the hall neighbor is my new favorite person.  He opens jars for me.  You know you no longer go to Smith when you share a hallway with two guys, one of whom is a rad jar-opener and the other just plays bizarre soft rock way too loudly.

They also have never complained to me about blasting the Clash, which given that I'm in a transition and they're my go to transition band, well, my neighbors are pretty okay.

So I guess this one goes out to the treizième.  I go back and forth, but right now it's home sweet home.  Also, I realized yesterday that I have best friends in Paris, who will console me on the phone while I'm in Carrefour buying groceries and freaking out about work, and with whom I am going to eat sushi and eclairs and watch Love Actually and color and paint nails on Friday.  And somehow, just knowing that I have people here, that bear hugs are just a phone call away, is pretty damn reassuring.