La fete de la musique

Fête de la Musique, or World Music Day, is an annual music festival taking place on June 21st. In Paris, all sort of music took over every street corner for the day. French pop, billboard top 100, jazz, chanson, or rock, performed by from teenagers to grandpas.

We met up in front of the fountain at Saint Michel. It was a cliché chick-flick moment. He showed up in a dark navy shirt and a baby blue blazer, as if just walked out of a J Crew catalog. I was wearing a coat in baby pink, so together we pretty much looked like colorful cotton candies. The sound of African djembe performance and the fountain was mixed with the yelling of football fans marching through, yet it felt silent as he held me in his arms tightly.

We walked by the river, holding hands with fingers interlocked. Every two blocks there were bands playing. There was a heavy metal band consists of four to five middle aged men with big beer bellies. They were shaking their heads so hard that you could see the splash of their sweat. The drummer was trying to drink beer while performing, ended up cleaning up his instrument with his red bandana. Audiences seemed to be, well at the very least, entertained. A classy lady in her 60s, wearing a beige spring coat and a well-maintained vintage Chanel flap, was elegantly nodding to the rhythm with a slight smile.

Just passed Musee d’Orsay, we heard a familiar melody, Unforgettable by the great Nat King Cole. So we danced. Even though my heels got trapped into paving stones many times, and we weren’t remotely graceful, but the lighting of the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde and the (finally) warm summer night wind somehow made it worthy of a blog entry.


Almost midnight in Paris

I have always thought the greatest art or literature comes out of darkness. The long and cold Siberian winter nurtured the Russian literatures that are tough to read at the first sight yet desperately romantic. Or it could be the inner madness that drives them to rumble, to line, to color, to hum, just to avoid drowning in their own thoughts. Gaugin was depressed, as thousands of other painters, Munch screamed “death was knocking his door” due to a severe hallucination, London tried to kill himself, Hemingway actually killed himself.

But Paris, oh Paris, the summer here is so bright. The sun sets at 10p.m., and La Seine still reflects the golden light at 11p.m. There is no time for you to pity your horrible job or other sorts of misery. Only, you feel forced to stare at the blueness of the blue sky, redness of red wine and the beauty of Parisiennes in chic dresses, feeling a slight chill from the breeze blowing through the river. How could such a fluffy city give birth to such grand amount of greatness?

Hemmingway, Beauvoir, Fitzgerald, Wilde, Miller, Duras, Celine… Some of them were bathe-in-wine-and-polish-shoes-with-perfume kind of extravagant, some of them lived dangerously and scandalously, and some of them were obnoxious bastards. Two things they had in common though, are that for one, they sure knew how to write, and for two, they were absolutely hopelessly in love with Paris.

Cafe du Flores, Les Deux Magots, bars in the Latin Quarter, pubs in the narrow, winding streets in Le Marais. Nowadays these places have become venues for tourists and writer-wannabes to spend 8 Euros on a cup of Cappuccino and talk about their spiritual connection with this “movable feast”. But then again, there is nothing wrong in this desperate attempt of getting closer to those insane brains. We could always sit at the very spot and wonder what view had inspired Pablo Picasso.

– Wanting to be a genious (and end up waking up at 7a.m. just to watch the new episode of Game of Thrones)


A Norwegian man

A half Norwegian half German man said he was ‘6 feet 4’ in an almost perfect American accent.

He was born and raised north of the Arctic Circle. He stayed in the US founding a tech start-up after graduating from an Ivy League school. A casual but smart grey T-shirt, well-combed blonde hair, lean muscles from sailing and skiing. In short, a living example of the new generation of entrepreneurs in the time of globalization.

When he talks about being a co-founder of a start-up, his blue-grey eyes wander a lot, trying to find precise wording to express his mixed feeling. “I mean it is a lot of pressure because the tech industry moves so fast, and you are always anxious trying to keep up,” he takes a sip of his dry cider and continues, “we have an amazing tech team working with our product, but usually when problems happen it is on the management side, and that is super frustrating. I had a staff, who was a very nice guy and we had a really good personal relationship. You know, grabbing a couple beers every now and then kind of friends. But I had to let him go, because it just wasn’t working at office. He wasn’t capable.” “Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, to pay your insane rent in San Francisco, no?” “Exactly!” he cracks up.

When I told him about how I respond to some people in the US asking me “But you eat dogs in China, right?” (I usually just shrug and say, “yeah and we eat American people too”), he tells me about a horrible Tinder date he had in San Francisco. They went to have sushi. After ordering, they started with some small talks. “What do you usually eat in Norway?” the girl asks. He said something about well mostly international food but regarding to traditional Norwegian cuisine, reindeers and whales. The girl screamed, say what?! No!  “She was like seriously mad, yelling ‘I am a member of an ocean conservation organization, and whales are SO CUTE, and how could you eat them?!’” he imitates a valley girl accent in high pitch. “I was a bit annoyed because the whales we eat in Norway are not hunted from wild, and it is not endangering their species, but I didn’t want to ruin the date, so I just went on joking ‘yeah I know, sometimes we eat dolphins too’”, and he bursts into laugh, “and she actually got really upset, so we packed our food and left in an awkward silence.  It was like a 5 minutes date.”

“Well, personally I eat meat because I don’t have the heart to waste our ancestors efforts, fighting hard for us to get to the top of food chain,” I joked, “But honestly how unfair is it that we aren’t supposed to eat whales or dolphins or dogs because ‘they are SO CUTE’? Wait, it is okay to eat pigs because they are ugly? Such discrimination by appearance!” “Haha I will steal this argument from now on!” …Of course, we tacitly kept ours voice low having this conversation in the terrace seat.

When we are walking along La Seine enjoying the sun that finally showed up after a whole month of gloominess, he mumbles how he was jealous of me being back in grad school in Europe. “I like what I do and it’s a lot of fun, but I don’t really see myself continue doing this for the next decade, you know” he says as he looks over the Notre Dame wearing the 9pm golden sunlight across the river. “I am in the middle of being trapped into my career path and still feeling like a child with uncertainty and possibilities.”