JOURNAL NO.9

“…I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be…” Hemingway, 62. 

The Lost Generation. A generation of American artists and writers who made their way to Paris during the Roaring 20s. 

The Lost Generation. A generation of American artists and writers who made their way to Paris during the early 2000s. 

There’s definitely some sot of symmetry between these two lines. Not only because the only different words are those that describe the time that these Americans made their way to Paris. There’s symmetry between them because they’re both true…well, for the most part. 

I may not be the best person to write about this because I get defensive of my own generation and of any generation that is criticized by anyone who is not apart of it. You see, I can’t really tell if calling authors such as Hemingway and Beach members of the “Lost Generation” is an insult or a compliment. Or maybe, it’s a mere fact. 

That being said, when Gertrude Stien first tells Hemingway that he is a part of, “a génération perdue”, it seems like a bad thing. She tells him that those a part of this generation don’t have respect for anything and they drink themselves to death. 

In my opinion, you can find people like in any generation and at various ages. It’s not just one particular group of people. And, if you really think about it, Hemingway and his colleagues had an extreme respect for the arts in many aspects of the world — but many for literature. They read as much as they could and wrote as much as they could. And, to be as real as possible, what generation doesn’t have a phase in which many people would and come close to drinking themselves to death. 

As the article we had to read for this blog post stated, at the time that Hemingway and others were fighting in WWI, the amount of youth/teenager was very small compared to those older than them. Since their weren’t as many people in the generation, they’re considered “Lost”. 

I think this is all a bunch of bullshit. 

To put a singular name to a whole generation of people is not only wrong but it’s impossible. There are so many different brains and types of people and personalities that make up a generation. The people within a generation have lived vastly different lives and have grown into vastly different people when compared to one another. 

I honestly don’t know enough about the Lost Generation of the 1920s, so I feel as though I shouldn’t say much more on the subject. However, I know a lot about my generation. And I have no problem saying anything and everything I want to on the subject. 

I personally don’t think my generation is lost in any way. My generation is actually extremely lucky and I think guided. You see, we were born in the late 1990s. Before everyone had a cell phone, laptop, ipad, kindle, tablet, 8 flat screen TVs and a netflix/hulu/hbogo account. We still had ficsher price toys and leap frogs. We played with barbies and action figures. We used yugi-o cards and pokemon cards on a daily basis. We barely knew how to work any technology at all. 

We had the opportunity to watch as technology developed at an extremely fast rate and have been able to learn all about it as we have gotten older. My generation is fortunate enough to mix the old with the new. 

I think it’s safe to say that kids between the age of 12 and 22 (more or less) are lost. This 10 year span of change and growth and trying to figure life out is made for one to get lost in. My generation still falls into this “lost” period of time — but that doesn’t make us completely lost for the rest of our lives. 

Everyone I know that’s around my age has some sort of talent or hobby or thing they love to do and are good at it. We’re all creative in every and any sense of the word and do our best to put ourselves out there and make a difference. From participating in the recent protests in NYC regarding Ferguson and Eric Gardner to creating a clothing line that allows people to become free and express themselves. From convincing others, older and younger, to believe in themselves no matter what to working hard to put an end to the negative connotation attached to the words, retarded and faggot. Photographing in the nude and photographing things that are questioned by our elders and considered wrong. Fighting for feminism and women to get the same privileges as men. Creating music that will allow someone to get lost, to lose themselves and just feel the sounds. 

Everything I’ve listed are things that my friends and I have worked for, are working for. In my opinion, none of this sounds like a generation that is lost. It sounds like a generation that is determined to stand out and make a difference. A generation that wants to better our society and better the people in it. 

I agree with the Hemingway quote I included at the very beginning of this post. Every generation has a period in time in which they are lost and unsure of what to do or where to go next. Thats a part of life…being confused and being lost. And this period of time doesn’t have to be between the ages of 12 and 22, it may happen at age 30 or during one’s “mid-life crisis”. 

There’s no doubt in my mind that Hemingway and those apart of his generation went through a time in which they were lost and confused. Same with each generation that came before and after his. Just like every generation that will follow mine. 

Fuck the labels and fuck the judgments that older people want to make on younger people. We all know they’re just jealous that they aren’t in their youth anymore. ;) 

JOURNAL NO.8

It’s strange to me that walking was once considered only something the poor did. It makes sense that due to financial reasons one could not pay to have a driver, or I guess in the 1700s a horse and carriage. But for my whole life and for the generation before mine, walking has always seemed like something nice to do. 

Its true that at times I and probably everyone else get lazy and don’t want to walk. I think we all have one specific walking route that we dread everyday. For me, I always dread walking from my house in Brooklyn to the subway because it’s an uphill climb. Its especially worse when it’s early in the morning and cold out, or when you’re extremely hungover. Walking through Times Square is always the worst. Every avenue or street in the 4 block radius of Times Square is constantly packed with people. Even worse than people; tourists. 

For this class, I have began to approach the idea of walking differently. I have always liked to walk. I do some of my best thinking while I’m walking. But the thinking was always only done or thought about during the walk. I never really took the time to reflect on the thoughts that went through my head on a walk. I would just walk down one of my two favorite streets, think, figure out whatever issue I was trying to figure out, smoke a few cigarettes, go home and have some tea.  

Growing up in New York City, I haven’t had many opportunities to take a nice, long walk through nature. Yes, there are parks and such in the city, but I honestly have barely gone to any park alone to just walk and think. 

Back when I lived in Park Slope, I would make my way up to Prospect Park a couple times a week, but majority of the time I was with company. 

Central Park is a place that I’ve never gone to on my own for the sole purpose of thinking. Looking back at it, I don’t think I have ever gone to Central Park on my own. 

I know that for many people, nature is a place for solitude and happiness. Being the city kid that I am, I find solitude and happiness in 3 specific places. 

First and foremost, the promenade in Brooklyn Heights. I walk down Remsen street and hit a dead end that leads to a pathway onto the promenade. I usually walk a few feet down and find a pleasantly empty bench, and I sit. Sometimes I sit and just look at the almost unfathomable skyline directly ahead of me. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I draw. It was here that I first realized I was in love. It was here that I first realized how silly it is to feel lonely. It was here that I first felt unloved. 

The two other places I go are two streets parallel to each other; Henry Street and Clinton Street in Carroll Gardens. Typically, I would walk down Henry towards Red Hook. When there’s nobody on the street, I have found myself talking out loud. My thoughts become vocalized and they begin to make more sense. I don’t have any particular realizations or moments of clarity that stick out in my head when thinking about the many walks I’ve taken down this street. I mostly use this walk to figure out something thats been going on in my head. Once I hit 2nd or 3rd Place, I make a left and head over to Clinton street to walk back home. 

Clinton street is different. As I walk down Clinton I experience a myriad of emotion. I become nostalgic and think of the many times I walked down this street with the many important people in my life. I think of the times I’ve walked down it alone, feeling either extremely happy or extremely depressed. It reminds me of my childhood and going to the dentist. I remember going down Kane street on 9/11 with my friend Nicholas and his mother after we were dismissed early from school. I remember finding one of my dearest friends blackout drunk laying under a mailbox crying and hitting himself in the head saying he doesn’t deserve to live. I remember getting him up, holding him and convincing him to walk home with me. 

The promenade and these streets are nature for me as nature is for others. They make me feel warm inside and many times make me want to cry. A lot of the time I don’t really know why I want to cry in these places. There’s just so much that come with them. 

I guess you could say that the promenade, Henry and Clinton Streets are my nature; an artificial nature. 

My natures, however, are extremely different than the nature I encountered at the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Getting off of the 7bis line at Buttes Chaumont, the seemingly endless stairs were somewhat comforting. They were a challenge and the naive part of my brain thought, hey maybe these steps will help burn off all the baguettes!

I made it up the stairs, barley, and completely out of breath. I made it to the park and stood at the entrance for a few moments. The mere act of standing in a park made me miss home. Everything in there seemed so peaceful and calm, it was almost eery. I felt like crying. 

My phone died about 3 minutes after I made it to the park and I didn’t get a chance to take photos. Looking back on my walk, it seems to be a blur. My stream of thought during this walk was a depressing one. It was drizzling and gray out. I had my ipod plugged in and was listening to my good old friend Taylor Swift. 

The grass didn’t bring me peace but brought me nostalgia. Theres something so comforting about grass that isn’t entirely green and displays the various different shoes that have walked across it. I missed Prospect Park and it’s dirty, uneven, imperfectly green grass. 

I saw different types of people doing different things. But the park wasn’t packed. In fact, it seemed closer to empty than full. I felt alone walking through this unfamiliar place that did nothing but make me think of familiar places. 

I came across a few dividing paths and thought about Robert Frost which brought me back to my 7th grade English class with Hope, my teacher. I remembered how being forced to read something made it 8 times worse. 

I noticed trees and small plants/flowers. Trees usually have this ability to make me happy. When I look at a tree I can’t help but smile at it, most of the time that is. The trees in the park didn’t make me happy. Honestly, nothing in this park made me happy. 

I didn’t want to be walking through nature on my own on this cloudy day. I wanted to walk down a street with a bunch of people passing by me giving me a weird face for talking to myself. In the park, there was barely anyone. There was nobody there to give me a look. 

I walked across the bridge and finally felt warm. Looking down at the water reminded me of the lake in Prospect Park across the street from Mike’s deli. I remembered sitting on the benches with my friends when we were in either 8th or 9th grade, drinking four loko and playing truth or dare. 

The birds that floated atop the water made me feel like floating. I realized I sort of was…floating, I mean. Standing on this bridge that was also atop the water. I was floating in the most human way possible. 

That’s all I really remember about this walk. Feeling alone and feeling like crying. Missing the comfort of people. Missing the comfort of being judged and not giving a shit about it. Floating. 

I guess it was nice to have a stroll through nature. Though this park has lots of artificial aspects, I didn’t even realize nor necessarily care. Artificial or not, it was still nature to me. 

But nature isn’t my place. Nature doesn’t bring me solitude or happiness. Nature makes me feel alone and makes me miss things. It’s pretty weird, I know. But it is what it is. 

JOURNAL NO.7

The character focused on in this excerpt from Dos Passos’ novel, Three Soldiers, is one of the most realistic characters I have read about in a long time. Andrews, an American soldier during World War I, is doing his best to cope with the war and be optimistic about it’s end. 

Dos Passos’ language is impeccably detailed and descriptive. From the way he describes the eyes of a boy in a restaurant to the way the mist moves throughout the night, I constantly have a picture in my mind of what’s going on. A beautifully and carefully crafted painting that could be mistaken for a photograph. 

Andrews, to me, seems to be an extremely relatable guy. I mean, I couldn’t necessarily relate to anyone who took part in the first World War, but if I could, it would be to Andrews. 

His emotions are complicated yet simple — who wouldn't feel the way he does? But, let’s wait a second, what are his emotions any way? 

In my personal opinion, Andrews seems like your typical lost soldier. I don’t mean physically lost but mentally. It’s clear that he dreads the war and everything about it. The way that Dos Passos goes about showing the hate Andrews has for the war is one of my favorite parts of this excerpt. 

It’s when Andrews first gets off the train that took him from Paris back to his faction of the army. Dos Passos compares the feeling of having reluctant feet to continue on his way to the base to Andrews’ reluctant feet when he was going back to boarding school as a kid. 

This comparison was the first thing that made me feel as though I could relate to Andrews. Although I’ve never gone to boarding school or had to fight in an army, I have experienced the feeling of reluctance towards the simple act of placing one foot after the other to go somewhere. I think the one place that I experience this feeling the most is when I’m making my way to the airport. It sounds a little silly, but whenever I have to leave somewhere, actually get on a plane and go to a far away place, I feel resistant. When I’m leaving home to go somewhere else, I have a feeling of not wanting to be away from home. When I’m leaving a place that I had been visiting, I have a feeling of not wanting to go back home. 

Although my reluctance and Andrews’ reluctance are completely different, I know I can relate to the feeling of having a hard time taking a few steps just to get somewhere. 

By drawing this line of comparison, to walking to one’s school building and walking to one’s army division site, a huge sense of reality comes over the reader. These are two very human and relatable feelings to have. I think it’s safe to say that everyone at one point or another has had a difficult time physically walking somewhere they don’t necessarily want to be. 

By making his character relatable, Dos Passos is successful in depicting reality rather than a summary. 

It’s realistic for one to feel reluctance. It’s realistic for one to compare a current feeling to one they had in the past. 

As Dos Passos continues, he explains that Andrews was going back and forth in his mind, trying to find some optimism or hope in the seemingly depressing time he was facing. By describing everything Andrews was telling himself and thinking, the reader gets a sense that Andrews his a real person. That he has real feelings and real thoughts. Questioning his sanity is something that I think almost everyone has done at least once in their lives. 

The other aspect of Dos Passos’ writing that makes his work seem like reality is his descriptions of physical settings. He writes, 

The fog swirled about him, hiding wistful friendly faces, hands ready to meet his hands, eyes ready to take fire with his glance, lips cold with the mist, to be crushed under his lips. "From the girl at the singing under her street- lamp..." 

And he walked on alone through the drifting fog. (7)

I read over this quote a number of times, and each time I had the same exact picture in my mind. I see the figure of a man walking through the fog, as it molds with his movements. I can almost feel his yearn for someone to be next to him or with him. I can almost feel the cold against my lips as they become dry and chapped. 

To me, this is magical. It’s magical that one can get such a true and realistic thought or photo in their imagination through the use of just a few words. This ability to make fictional words become real is magical. 

This description makes the work seem like reality. 

JOURNAL NO.6

I haven’t realized how inspiring walking is until I did this walk through Le Marais. My dad was visiting me this past weekend and yesterday was his last day. I decided to take him along the walk with me and one of my roommates, Emily. 

This was the first walk that I actually followed the directions for exactly. Although I enjoy walking without a destination in my mind, there was something pleasing about having directions to follow. 

We got off the metro and immediately saw a Space Invader piece above an electric sign. Emily and I each snapped a photo and continued on. My dad was asking us, “What the hell is a Space Invader?” and we had to explain. 

As we continued to walk down Rue Vieille du Temple, we cam across different forms of graffiti or street art on each block. 

From some plain and not necessarily aesthetically pleasing tags and stickers, to beautifully crafted murals and paintings, I learned the story of this street. 

It’s funny, I think, how hundreds of people walk down this street on a daily basis and only some of them notice the art that’s surrounding them. Street art is very unspoken. It’s very silent — almost invisible. It’s only there for those who are looking for it. I know this for a fact because I have walked down this exact street three times since I arrived in Paris, and didn’t notice half of the art until I was actually searching for it. 

That’s what inspired me to write. The invisibility of such obvious things. How you can walk down the same street and not notice something until months later. 

This reminded me of an epiphany I had back in New York about a year ago. 

Growing up in NYC, I have walked through Union Square more times than I can even imagine. From drinking four lokos there when I was a freshman in high school, to waiting to meet up with someone, to walking through it to get back to my dorm, I’ve been there thousands of times. In October 2014, I was walking through Union in front of the steps that are across the street from Whole Foods. I couldn’t tell you why, but for the first time ever I looked up. I looked up and towards the left a little bit and noticed something for the first time. The “W” sign atop the W Hotel. 

I realized that I had done this exact walk countless times in my life and never once looked up to see this sign. Or maybe I’ve seen it but haven’t consciously processed it…Who knows. 

I find it hard to believe that there is so much we see, hear, or know on a subconscious level. It’s crazy that one small act or realization can bring this knowledge to our consciousness. 

I have a strong feeling that I have seen a lot of the artwork on this street in Le Marais on a subconscious level — how could I not have, after all? 

It wasn’t until I was consciously looking out for as much street art as possible that I was able to process this information, consciously. 

Our walk continued down the street and we came across more and more Space Invader work. More seemingly insignificant tags. The phrase, “Je Suis Charlie”, seemed to be everywhere in every shape and form. There were stickers and murals and everything alike. Artwork on doors and walls, high and low, some even on the floor. 

My dad pointed out a drawing or painting in white marker on the sidewalk of a man’s face and we all admired it and found it funny. Emily and I looked up from the floor just to see our good friend, Sintra, approaching us cigarette in hand. 

Luna and I keep talking about how New York moments keep happening here in Paris. We keep running into people we know at random times when we least expect it. Emily and I seeing Sintra made sense because she too was doing her walk for this blog post, but it was almost surreal. I felt the world shrink under my feet because I realized just how small it really is. 

Anyway, the three of us chatted for a few minutes and Sintra told us about an alley way she found that was filled with grafitti and stickers alike. I asked if she wanted to join us on our walk, but she had come from the opposite direction and wanted to see what was ahead. So, Emily, my dad and I continued towards the Siene. 

Just a few steps down from where we ran into Sintra, Emily and I found the alleyway she was talking about. 

I walked down the little street and found so many beautiful pieces of art. This was the one place that has inspired me the most in the past month. 

I first noticed two women higher up on the wall that appeared to be dancing. They were covered with glitter. Below them was the remnants of something that was torn off. Under this tarnished piece of the wall was a closer-up image of a woman’s face. It;s in black and white and there’s a shadow over the right side of her face. 

Directly across from these images is a sticker saying, “JUST DO ART”, next to the figure of  a man. The man has a white hat on with what looks like aviator glasses sitting on it. His hands are holding the strings that come down from the sides of his hat. His face is covered in shadows but his eyes are very clear and seem to be staring right at you. I feel like it’s him that is telling me to JUST DO ART. 

Next to this man is another depiction of a woman’s face. This was is bigger than the one across from the man. There are less shadows and the coloring is lighter. She’s very beautiful and seems to be staring right at me. Underneath her is a smaller image of a woman. This woman is pregnant and naked, with a pink shirt or blanket covering her breasts. Her legs are spread open and she comes off very sexually. Next to her is a small name tag saying, Zalez. 

Further down the alley, I saw another sign saying “Zalez Was Here”, in-between a woman’s head and her legs. 

I walked closer towards the end of the alley to find more graffiti, but there was mostly just stickers and writing with spray paint. 

We left the alley and walked all the way down to the Siene. We then made our way to the Notre-Dame and then went home. 

When I got to my apartment, I was intrigued by this street artist, Zalez. I searched him up and found his website and all of his other work — drawings, paintings, photographs and more. He is a French street artist and his exhibition just ended about a week ago. 

This got me thinking. I find it crazy that there are so many different pieces of art in this one alley that were put up by countless artists. Nobody else put their names next to their work, so there’s no way to find anything else they’ve done. 

It’s kind of like me and my roommates. The four of us live in this apartment that has been occupied by other people in the past. The different flaws in our apartment are a cause of their actions, but we don’t know their names or anything about them — we never will. 

If only there was a way to look up, or allow our consciousness to process any information about these people. They are as invisible as the artwork was to me before I went looking for it. 

That’s what inspired me to write this The invisibility of history, of people, of art, and of things. 

JOURNAL NO.5

My faculty advisor at Eugene Lang, Niel Gordon, was also a professor of mine last semester. Niel taught my intro to J.D. Salinger course. His class reminded me of everything I love and hate about literature and it’s criticism. 

The biggest point that I have taken from Niel’s class is that an author’s life isn’t what’s important. What’s important or valuable about an author is his/her’s work. What they have written and published and put out there for the world to read. 

After completing the necessary reading for this blog post, I realized how strongly I agree with Niel’s statement. Reading so much about Hemingway and his letters to his family and wife, Hadley, i can’t help but to become extremely angry. I frankly don’t care about any of that. It honestly shocks me deeply that there are numerous biographies written about Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley Richardson. It baffles me that so many of Hemingway’s personal letters have been published for all of the world to see. 

Now, I of course don’t know if Hemingway was okay with this and/or decided to publish these letters on his own. If so, everything that I’m writing right now can be considered completely wrong. That being said, I’m going to continue this with all of the knowledge that I do have, which is that someone other than Hemingway found thousands letters he wrote and decided to publish some fraction of them. 

It’s true, though, that in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway seems to have appreciation and respect for Hadley. Based off of what I read in “New Readings of American Expats in Paris”, it’s clear that Hemingway didn’t necessarily treat Hadley that well. From writing letters to her best friend expressing how much he misses her to shacking up with another one of Hadley’s friends and eventually marrying her, I can see that he could have treated her better. 

It’s interesting, though, to compare how Hemingway treated Hadley to the way in which Joyce treated Sylvia Beach. In one of the letters included in “Joyce and Sylvia Beach”, I see Joyce’s affection and appreciation for Sylvia — but it’s a very on the surface appreciation. Almost as if he is only appreciating her and everything she does for him because he feels as though he has to. This point is proven later on in the article when a letter that Sylvia wrote to Joyce is included. This letter was never actually sent to Joyce, but you can see that she isn’t necessarily happy with the way things are going with Joyce and the way that he almost takes advantage of her kindness. 

Hemingway’s portrait of Sylvia in A Moveable Feast, is that of utmost respect and appreciation in my opinion. Sylvia seems as though she is nothing but a sweet and endearing person. And it’s clear that Hemingway doesn’t think any less of her than this. 

Sylvia’s letters don’t seem to dispute this portrayal of her, either. It’s hard to get a sense of if she’s a bad or good person based off her recollection of her time during the war in Paris and when she was forced to go into hiding and remove all the books from Shakespeare and Company. The only sense of her personality that I can gather is that she was extremely passionate about reading and getting others to read more. She wanted to help her dear friends with their writing and personal lives. 

It honestly seems like Hemingway’s depiction of her was nothing but true and accurate. 

All of this, however, brings me back to wondering why so many people are so dedicated to understanding the personal lives and personalities of famous writers. 

The best way that we can learn from a writer is to read his/her work and try our best to understand it. Our understanding of it may be completely different from what they intended or from what someone else’s understanding is — but that’s the point. 

An author writes a fictional piece for a reason, they want people to read it and take it in however they can or will. Spending our time figuring out what type of person they are/were and figuring out how they treated their loved ones doesn’t do anything but change the way we can view their writing, possibly in a negative way. 

I chose to listen to Niel Gordon and disregard information about my favorite writers’ personal lives and purely focus on their writing as  source of knowledge. But that’s just me. 

JOURNAL NO.4

It was a crisp and windy Saturday morning. There were two things on my agenda: one, going to western union to pick up some cash, and two, making my way to Montparnasse so I could write this blog post. 

Just two nights earlier, I went through the traumatizing event of having my wallet get stolen —for the first time ever. My navigo pass, debit card, fake ID, 60 euros and various random little cards were gone forever, and I didn't know how to react. Not only were the things inside my wallet gone, my bright red, Kate Spade patent leather wallet was, too. 

My wonderful roommates helped me out and bought me some food for Friday until I was able to get a hold of my own money. Getting myself to the Western Union was not only tedious but difficult because of the brisk air. I finally got my hands on 230 euros and started my journey to Montparnasse. 

My metro ride was extremely stressful. I had 230 euros in my bag along with my passport, and I was probably the most paranoid I have ever been. Each time my eyes met someone else’s i was convinced they were gonna snatch my bag and take everything in it. I successfully made it to Montparnasse - Bienvenüe without losing a single item. 

As I stepped outside, the air seemed to be a bit warmer, but something tells me it was just my imagination. At first glance, I saw the Tour Montparnasse. The building is extremely tall, probably the tallest building I have seen so far in Paris. It’s architecture reminded me of home, of New York City. A single, tall, glass building that didn’t necessarily fit in with anything else here. 

With a sense of familiarity, I went to Starbucks and got a dirty chai latte and continued on my walk. 

Although there were directions given to us for this walk, I really wanted to check out the Catacombs while I was in Montparnasse. I didn’t know much about the ruins, but I had heard about them in passing and they intrigued me deeply. 

I made my way to the entrance of the Catacombs and found out it was only 10 euros, so I bought my ticket and made my way down. 

As I descended down the 100 steps to reach the site of skeletons and prayer, I could feel how haunted everything was. 

There were skulls embedded in the walls staring at me as I walked through them. As I continued walking through, I came across a cylindrical figure in the center of one room which consisted of bones and skulls facing different directions. 

I have never been in such a depressing yet warm place ever in my life. I feel as though I can see people hiding out from the government and practicing Christianity in secret. 

Thinking back on my experience in the Catacombs, I wonder what I would have been like if I lived in that time in Paris. If I was a practicing Christian that couldn’t honor their religion freely and in public, would I have come here? It’s a bittersweet feeling — because either I would have been proud to have found somewhere sacred where I could be the person that I wanted to be, or I would feel discriminated against because of my beliefs and as if I was betraying my people and my government. 

The thoughts of prayer aside, I start to think about the people buried here. The reason why there are skulls and bones of human beings stacked upon one another in such a sacred and hidden place. All the disease and hardship that took over Paris so many years ago must have been not only terrifying but extremely saddening. I imagine myself having a family member who got terribly sick and was buried in a cemetery, yet had to have been moved from their burial ground to somewhere deep and hidden because their body was spreading germs through the soil. 

My whole experience at the Catacombs just reminded me of how lucky we are today to be able to practice our religions freely and to have our loved ones buried at peace in one place without being moved. 

Not only am I personally extremely lucky to be here in Paris on my own at such a young age, but I feel like everyone living in this day in age is lucky to have all the advantages that we have. We have so many medicines that protect us from extremely harmful diseases and we have the ability to be who we want to be without being penalized for it — at least most of the time. 

JOURNAL NO.2

31 Rue Duret, Saturday morning at 11:30 a.m. I’m awoken by the sound of the front door opening, my roommate has just gotten home. I fell asleep on the couch because my bed was taken by Ren. The apartment is filled with girls. Ren and Shanisse in my room, Luna in hers and Emily in hers. 

Since we’ve only been here for two weeks we don’t know much about each other. I must admit its very strange because it feels like we’ve all been friends forever. Ali loves ballet and photography; she’s able to cook and she enjoys it. Her bubbly and fun personality is a perfect match for me. Luna is a writer, inside and out. She feels everything deeply and personally and articulates her feelings and thoughts beautifully. Emily is also a writer, but she’s many other things. She’s smart, extremely smart — in many senses of the word. She prioritizes and plans ahead, she is motivated to get out into the world and see everything for herself. 

I genuinely couldn’t be happier with my roommates. We have a working dynamic. We are open to talking to each other and open to leaving each other alone. We each do our part in the house, cleaning and buying toilet paper, etc,. We have a mutual respect and understanding, one that I have never had before. My last roommate experience was vastly different. I didn’t communicate with any of my roommates. Nobody cleaned up after themselves. Girls were buying toilet paper and keeping it in their room rather that in the bathroom for everyone to use. 

Then there’s the other girls. Shanisse and Ren are the two girls I don’t live with that I’m closest to. Shanisse is vibrant in her thoughts and her personality. It’s clear that she knows what she feels and thinks and is not afraid to show it to anyone. From her sunglasses to her shoes, she expresses herself through style and voice. Ren is a little different. Like Ali, she’s a dancer. She knows how to give advice and how to empathize with how anyone is feeling. I felt like I could tell her anything the first time I met her. She’s intelligent and well rounded — it may not seem like it but she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Back to Saturday morning. Shortly after I woke up, everyone else did. We gathered in the living room and talked about how our nights went. After a detailed description from everyone, we decided we were hungry. Shanisse, Ren, Luna and I ventured downstairs to find something to eat. 

There was nothing I wanted more than a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich from the deli up the street from my house at home, but obviously that wasn’t gonna happen. We walked over to the bakery and I decided a baguette with ham and cheese would be good enough for me. The others weren’t satisfied at the bakery so they continued on to the supermarket. 

Walking in separate directions, I was thinking about what the girls were like 3 years ago. How much they’ve grown and learned. When did they realize who they wanted to be, are they even happy with who they are today? But then I realized none of that really matters right now. What matters right now is who they are and who I am and how we work together. And how we work together is good; it’s actually perfect. 

I went upstairs and started eating my sandwich. They arrived soon after I did. Stuffing our faces with baguette, tabouli, salad, chips, iced tea and Madeline's nobody spoke a word until they were full. Too lazy to shower and too lazy to clean up, we sat around the table complaining about our headaches and our homework. 

It felt like we’d done this 500 times together and we’d do it 500 more. It was the most comfortable I had been with new people in the longest time in my life. 

JOURNAL NO.1

Since my arrival in Paris about two weeks ago, I’ve had an extremely difficult time putting my words to paper. I expected that once I got here words and thoughts would be flowing through my head like water flowing through a stream. The problem is that there are so many of them that it’s becoming near impossible to write them out. 

A big reason why I came here was for inspiration. Back in New York I noticed that my writing was beginning to go nowhere. I would start a piece, be unable to complete it and then start another. Leaving what felt like hundreds of stories left alone that would never blossom into more. But once I started rereading  A Moveable Feast, I remembered something. In the first chapter of his memoir Hemingway wrote, “Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan” (59-60). 

Similar to the saying, “You never know what you’ve got till it’s gone”, what Hemingway is noting seems to ring almost unbelievably true to me. I think that the troubles I faced writing in New York came up because I hadn’t had a chance to get away. I was stuck there and I then became stuck with my writing. I haven't tired to write about New York since I got here, because I was too determined to write about Paris. I think, however, like Hemingway I must take a step back and write about New York away from New York and Paris away from Paris. 

This strategy doesn’t necessarily have to be the one and only way I write for the next five months — I just feel like I have to try it out that way I can get passed this feeling of confinement within my writing. 

I haven’t read any Hemingway in about four years. I fell in love with his writing when I was a freshman in high school, after reading The Sun Also Rises and The Old Man and the Sea. My English teacher saw that I couldn’t put either book down, and gave me her copy of A Moveable Feast. Since that time, though, I have barely touched or thought about Hemingway’s work. Rereading A Moveable Feast at my age now and physically being in Paris, his words seem even more relevant and important to me as a writer and a foreigner living in this amazing city. 

Ever since I first encountered Hemingway, I’ve loved his work and I always will. This past semester I had to read Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. To my disappointment I didn’t finish reading it because I just didn't like it much. Stein’s style of writing just isn’t my personal favorite and her language didn’t captivate or motivate me to continue reading. The excerpt assigned to us for this class had a similar affect on me, however, some of the things she was saying seemed to make a lot of sense. They actually caught my attention and made me think — so I hope to reread The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and hopefully I will enjoy it just a little more. 

As I stare out of the window in my living room in Paris, I think about all of the possibilities that are waiting for me out there. Possibilities for my writing, my life, my personal growth and my education. I want to know this city like I know my own — New York City. I want to know the people here like I know the people there. The past couple weeks have shown be that both of these feats won’t be extremely difficult to achieve. 

I think about the many true sentences that will come to my mind and help me begin a story that I know I’ll finish. I plan to learn from Hemingway and all other expatriate authors that have spent time in Paris. But I mean really learn. I want to take something from their writing, something that will help me to shape my own personal style and voice. At times that sounds like the easiest thing I could possibly do and at other times it sounds like the hardest. Its always difficult to distinguish between learning and copying. I don’t want to copy any expatriate authors’ voice and style exactly. I just want to take from it something I can incorporate into my own style/voice. 

Writing this blog entry has helped me realize why I’ve been struggling so much to write since I arrived in Paris. I wrote it a little earlier in this piece, but again, it’s because there are so many different thoughts and words and ideas going through my head that I can’t decide on one. I can’t decide on what story seems to be the most true or the most inviting to me. Its almost easier to write something when you have one specific idea or thought and are just trying to expand on it, compared to when you’re trying to chose one idea out of eighty that are racing through your mind. 

But I think I also have to focus on writing about somewhere or something else — not Paris I mean. I think once I’m able to start, work on and finish one story about something completely unrelated to Paris and my time here, I’ll be back in the zone and ready to write anything. Who really knows though? 

This whole struggle might be for a good reason — maybe writing isn’t something that I am as excited about as I thought. Since September I’ve been having problems writing. I couldn't finish anything in New York. And now I can’t even start something. That’s a scary thought, though.

I’m a writer and I always have been. In any situation that I’ve faced; good, bad, scary, happy, funny, etc., the first thing I need to do in order to fully understand and wrap my head around it is write a story. The story doesn’t necessarily have to be exactly what the situation was, but based off of it somehow. I need to write to get through hard times and figure out how I really feel. Since I haven’t really been able to write for about four months, I’m scared to find out the reason why. I’m scared that it’s for a big and important reason that I’m just too stubborn to allow myself to realize. Writing this isn’t even really helping me.

But maybe this is just the beginning, you know, acknowledging that there’s a reason why I’m have such a hard time. I feel like there’s no way for me or anyone to rush the process of getting passed this problem. I just have to let things unfold and push myself to keep writing and get through it on my own. If that doesn’t work I guess I’ll need to take a step back. Away from my notebook and away from my computer. Just bask in my thoughts and sort them out until one thought turns into an idea that I can write out. 

I have no doubt in my mind that taking this class and taking the Urban Walking Tours class will help me in more ways then I can imagine. And being here in Paris won’t hurt either. Its about patience, timing, and effortlessness. The harder one tries, the faster one fails. 

Now I know I have to start with one true sentence and write about Paris when I’m away from Paris. Let’s see how that works out.