No wonder existentialism was born in Paris

As I sat on a rigid, red-velvet covered bench, peering down at the performance from the highest balcony at the Opéra Garnier, something shifted interiorly.  The change was almost imperceptible.  I was watching Le Parc, a modern ballet choreographed by Angelin Preljocaj and set to Mozart.  If you ever have the opportunity, go see this ballet.  I haven't been so taken with a ballet since I saw Balanchine's Jewels at Lincoln Center last May.  In fact, I don't think I've been so enamored of--or engulfed by--a work of art in what feels like a very long time.

I've been suffering from a terrible bout of existential ennui--not to mention a couple of extremely unpleasant colds.  These excuses, one pretentious and one mundane, account for the recent lack of blog entries.  Not much has changed in Paris since my last entry a month ago: the university strike stubbornly continues; the promise of spring proved to be just that--gloomy rain clouds and chill gusts ate up the sunlight almost as soon as it appeared.

Moreover, I have the frustrating impression that I've hit a language plateau which, everyone assures me, is completely normal on the long and indefinite journey to fluency.  Anyone who has ever tried to learn a language can probably relate: progress is never steady or uniform but rather bumpy and rough--like an old car that runs really well, but only for a few miles at a time, whereupon it overheats and conks out.  The joyride is over, and it's back to work.  And as with an old, well-loved car, the work is gratifying in its own right.  Learning a language is a veritable labour of love...one that never ends.  I may be, for most intents and purposes, fluent in French, but I don't think I'll ever consider the learning period over.  As for the language plateau--it's not that my French has conked out, but language has the unsettling ability to reveal something you haven't learned for every expression or word that you have.  For example, the perfectionist in me can't help but notice the fact that:

1. I still stumble over two-syllable words that have an -r in each syllable (such as programme)

2. and that I can't spit out Tu vois ce que je veux dire? as seamlessly as my French friends (their version sounds like "toovoih skuh juvv deer," as in "ya know whaddymean")

3. and that, even though I'm no longer accused of blatant Americanism, I still get ohh t'as un petit accent! tu viens d'où...? ("ohh you have a little accent!  you're from...?")

Sigh.  I'll just have to continue with my cute little accent until I collide with one of those exhilarating periods of improvement.  These are the moments in which language finally pats you on the back for all the work you've done: you find fully-formed sentences, idiomatic expressions, and new words that you don't quite recall learning burbling out of your mouth.  The experience is akin to jumping blindly into a body of water--and finding the water warm and comfortable (as opposed to getting ice-cold saltwater up your nose, for example).  But alack!  I've not experienced one of these improvement-leaps since I got back to Paris in January.  And so I stumble glumly over programme--and I can't even swear properly because merde gives me trouble too--as the gloom deepens and the strike barrels stubbornly on.

On the other hand, joy and beauty have begun to tiptoe back into my life, and I can feel the languidness and boredom dissipating.  Which brings me back to my night at the opera house (or simply Garnier as the Parisians affectionately call it).  I became so swept up in the Mozart and the exquisitely light movements of the dancers that I forgot to feel bored and grumpy.  Inspired by nothing more than the fact that such grace exists--I didn't want to possess it, or immortalize it in a picture, I just wanted to delight in its existence--I sat entranced for the entirety of the two-hour performance.  This genre of beauty could exist in any city's opera house; but I, of course, was at Garnier, smack in the middle of one of Paris' most elegant quartiers.  So when I floated down the grand staircase, past the stone cherubs twisted around bannisters and under the soft, hazy light of the extravagant chandelier, I didn't have to return to reality.  I found myself outside; the air was silken and cool after a day of drizzle.  Behind me glowed Garnier's expertly-lit facade and across the street, Café de la Paix--an example of the café parisien at its very best--hummed with some late-night diners and couples lingering over empty glasses.  The light from iron street-lamps glimmered on wet pavement; I drifted dreamily down a quiet street and was enveloped into the Paris night.

I am rediscovering my joie de vivre; wonderful things--and more blog entries--are sure to follow.  I am off to make some hot cocoa for myself--one of the secrets of surviving a Parisian winter.

Bisous, my beloved blog-followers (if any remain); I promise to not be such a bum about writing here in the weeks that follow.  And, for the last stubborn weeks of winter, bon courage!