Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
Fernweh
Everyone has seen the romantic comedy where a gorgeous female, 13-37, goes to a foreign country a) searching for herself b) escaping work and the demands of an unjust society c) visiting or searching for a relative. In these films there is always a scene where the female (usually at the start of the film) goes to explore the touristy part of her new found city. She is in a utopia of joy as she walks through a market filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, flowers and pieces of art. The natives yelling to one another in a foreign tongue. She brushes past a man, native, some form of artist...guitar player, poet, portrait drawer... absolutely to die for gorgeous (in that bohemian sort of way). She makes eye contact with him. Expecting the usual plea for business she prepares an apology with her eyes and smiles. Eye's sparkle and the artist asks if he may write the woman a poem or draw her portrait... for free. She accepts and they spend the evening together on a candle lit rooftop, over looking the Seine river, drinking really expensive wine.
Fernweh, a German word meaning: “far-away sick” or the opposite of home sick, would have been the best way to describe me growing up. I was always longing to leave the place and people I had always been surrounded by. I longed to flee the trials I faced everyday amongst those who acted as authority figures in my life. Much like in the films I watched I wanted to escape. To go somewhere romantic and adventurous, where everything worked out in the end and I could be accepted for me.
My film moment occurred on the top of Montmartre, the center of the bohemian revolution in Paris. The footsteps of Picasso and Renoir, among other brilliant artist, are still clearly visible throughout the tiny streets of the inspirational hill. I Have just bargained my way out of paying 15 euros for a portrait, that would become the souvenir from my weekend in Paris. I walk toward Sacré Cœur, the white domes shadowing the tourists, hungry like animals with their camcorders and camera phones. In my black, polka dot skirt and blue tennis shoes I make my way through the crowd and continue to gaze at the amazing basilica. A man with short black hair that spirals out from under his baseball cap turns as I pass him. I smile and he asks (in French), "Are you Swedish?" Grinning I say, "Non." He continues to guess my nationality producing other fair skinned countries such as: Switzerland, Finland, Germany...even suggesting France. I answer no to all and with great enthusiasm say, "I am American." He smiles and shaking his head in disbelief says, "You're American?" I give him a cheery, " Oui!" Content with being surprised he asks, "You can speak French?" I smile nod and proceed to tell him that I am living in Belgium and am studying French. I ask him why he didn't think I was American and he explains, "I can tell you appreciate art. You walk with gratitude... unlike other American tourists who have agendas and don't see anything." I was caught off guard by such a compliment especially by a native... though it's not very proud or American of me, but being told you are not like an American is a HUGE compliment from a European. We start to talk about French authors such as Balzac (which I know nothing about). He explains how Balzac's philosophies are really interesting in such a modern society... (and he's a philosopher) ... He then looks at me and says, "Can I draw your eyes...for free." Scenes from movies flash through my mind and I imagine romantic Italian dinners and modeling in a loft warehouse apartment deep into the night. He pulls me to where the sun is gently creating a stage against an iron rod fence. Proceeding with a request for me to remove my glasses. (Being drawn is the weirdest feeling). He tells me how drawing is something you have to feel, something that is spiritual. I am completely enthralled with everything he has to say to me. People pass by looking over his shoulder. An American boy, who looks much like one who would throw keggers at Alpha Sigma Pi, says, "That's a good one." I smile. My artist, who I have taken to calling Balzac, asks me if I want to go get a drink at a café (here comes the roof and the expensive wine) I accept. Of course I look at the clock on my cell phone to make it look like I am a person in demand. We go to a café "sans touristes" and I get a coke while he has a beer. He continues to draw as my eyes turn into a full portrait. He uses his lighter, with a print of Bob Marley on the side, to light a cigarette. I ask him if he does much traveling, he tells me how he was born in Malta and how since he was out of school he has lived in the big cities all over Europe drawing portraits. He speaks seven languages and I am in total awe. I envision my life in Paris: eating only French cigarettes, my eyes disguised with shadowy eye makeup, I would spend my days with my friends from the brothel that go by Pixie and Pirouette. Scenes from Moulin Rouge dance through my mind as I decide I watch too many movies. He finishes the portrait, adding a poem at the top. I stare into my eyes on the paper. The beautiful ovals look sad to me. I do not recognize what I see. The girl in the drawing obviously smokes and has an eating disorder. The girl in the portrait holds that, ‘I know I am sexy’ look in her eyes. Though, I am a generally confident person, I felt vulnerable being drawn and felt I suggested no such innuendos with my eyes. The films I watched growing up did not illustrate the whole picture. All I saw was the romance in these foreign places, but I failed to see the reality until it stared me in the eyes. I understood then that places do not change for the people living in them, but rather the people change for the place. After I pay the check we leave the café and head back to Montmartré. My tour guide tells me inside stories about all the different historical sites on the hill. I realized then that Fernweh is indeed not the opposite of home sick. In longing for something else, I was truly longing for home. Not home as a place, but as a feeling of belonging, community, and love. My portrait illustrated what I would have to be to fit in amongst the Parisians of Montmartré. It obviously wasn’t in my control to decide what that was.
I leave Balzac, giving the customary cheek kisses. During my five-hour return trip to Belgium I wonder about what my life could have been like had I stayed with Balzac. I think about all those people searching and longing for home. Never realizing they carry what they seek.
Fernweh, a German word meaning: “far-away sick” or the opposite of home sick, would have been the best way to describe me growing up. I was always longing to leave the place and people I had always been surrounded by. I longed to flee the trials I faced everyday amongst those who acted as authority figures in my life. Much like in the films I watched I wanted to escape. To go somewhere romantic and adventurous, where everything worked out in the end and I could be accepted for me.
My film moment occurred on the top of Montmartre, the center of the bohemian revolution in Paris. The footsteps of Picasso and Renoir, among other brilliant artist, are still clearly visible throughout the tiny streets of the inspirational hill. I Have just bargained my way out of paying 15 euros for a portrait, that would become the souvenir from my weekend in Paris. I walk toward Sacré Cœur, the white domes shadowing the tourists, hungry like animals with their camcorders and camera phones. In my black, polka dot skirt and blue tennis shoes I make my way through the crowd and continue to gaze at the amazing basilica. A man with short black hair that spirals out from under his baseball cap turns as I pass him. I smile and he asks (in French), "Are you Swedish?" Grinning I say, "Non." He continues to guess my nationality producing other fair skinned countries such as: Switzerland, Finland, Germany...even suggesting France. I answer no to all and with great enthusiasm say, "I am American." He smiles and shaking his head in disbelief says, "You're American?" I give him a cheery, " Oui!" Content with being surprised he asks, "You can speak French?" I smile nod and proceed to tell him that I am living in Belgium and am studying French. I ask him why he didn't think I was American and he explains, "I can tell you appreciate art. You walk with gratitude... unlike other American tourists who have agendas and don't see anything." I was caught off guard by such a compliment especially by a native... though it's not very proud or American of me, but being told you are not like an American is a HUGE compliment from a European. We start to talk about French authors such as Balzac (which I know nothing about). He explains how Balzac's philosophies are really interesting in such a modern society... (and he's a philosopher) ... He then looks at me and says, "Can I draw your eyes...for free." Scenes from movies flash through my mind and I imagine romantic Italian dinners and modeling in a loft warehouse apartment deep into the night. He pulls me to where the sun is gently creating a stage against an iron rod fence. Proceeding with a request for me to remove my glasses. (Being drawn is the weirdest feeling). He tells me how drawing is something you have to feel, something that is spiritual. I am completely enthralled with everything he has to say to me. People pass by looking over his shoulder. An American boy, who looks much like one who would throw keggers at Alpha Sigma Pi, says, "That's a good one." I smile. My artist, who I have taken to calling Balzac, asks me if I want to go get a drink at a café (here comes the roof and the expensive wine) I accept. Of course I look at the clock on my cell phone to make it look like I am a person in demand. We go to a café "sans touristes" and I get a coke while he has a beer. He continues to draw as my eyes turn into a full portrait. He uses his lighter, with a print of Bob Marley on the side, to light a cigarette. I ask him if he does much traveling, he tells me how he was born in Malta and how since he was out of school he has lived in the big cities all over Europe drawing portraits. He speaks seven languages and I am in total awe. I envision my life in Paris: eating only French cigarettes, my eyes disguised with shadowy eye makeup, I would spend my days with my friends from the brothel that go by Pixie and Pirouette. Scenes from Moulin Rouge dance through my mind as I decide I watch too many movies. He finishes the portrait, adding a poem at the top. I stare into my eyes on the paper. The beautiful ovals look sad to me. I do not recognize what I see. The girl in the drawing obviously smokes and has an eating disorder. The girl in the portrait holds that, ‘I know I am sexy’ look in her eyes. Though, I am a generally confident person, I felt vulnerable being drawn and felt I suggested no such innuendos with my eyes. The films I watched growing up did not illustrate the whole picture. All I saw was the romance in these foreign places, but I failed to see the reality until it stared me in the eyes. I understood then that places do not change for the people living in them, but rather the people change for the place. After I pay the check we leave the café and head back to Montmartré. My tour guide tells me inside stories about all the different historical sites on the hill. I realized then that Fernweh is indeed not the opposite of home sick. In longing for something else, I was truly longing for home. Not home as a place, but as a feeling of belonging, community, and love. My portrait illustrated what I would have to be to fit in amongst the Parisians of Montmartré. It obviously wasn’t in my control to decide what that was.
I leave Balzac, giving the customary cheek kisses. During my five-hour return trip to Belgium I wonder about what my life could have been like had I stayed with Balzac. I think about all those people searching and longing for home. Never realizing they carry what they seek.
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