Ladies and Gentlemen,
As most of you should know, this is end of May. Normally, next month will be June, followed by July. July will be the month that my feet will touch American soil once again. My country, what tis of thee?
Like many of us here, I thought this adventure abroad would never end. But as I make the turn towards the last stretch of the run, I can see how close the finish line is. Many of my friends are already at that line, with only a few days left to go. For others fortunate enough, a month or two remains to travel and have some fun before going home. Or leaving home...?
I have grown quite comfortable here in my little nest, six floors above the parisian streets. My bed fits the contours of my body. My walls are covered with images I've picked up along the way. There is the familiar sound of Jack coming home or the sight of him sitting at his desk when I walk through the door. There is my silly shower with no curtain, so I have to aim the water in a certain direction as to not get it all over the floor. Our little desk lamp on the kitchen floor because that is the only source of light in there. The lonely dart board because we broke all the darts. The dusty book case with books I have never read, and probably never will. I am home, so where am I going in July?
Let me start with where I went last weekend. Spain! An hour bus ride, and two hour plane ride and I was in Madrid. I wandered the heavy and wide streets alone. My only contact there was a friend of Olimpia's she had put me in touch with. It was morning still, so the girl was in class. I wandered into a tapas bar and ordered a beer. I had been awake since 5 am, and with the warm sun outside, it felt like it was the afternoon. It was only 11 though. So everyone else, who had coffees in their hands, stared at me strange. Of course, it might not be everyday a boy with platinum blond hair and black rim glasses walks through the doors of this workman's regulars bar. (That's right, I have blond hair. You'll see pictures soon enough.) None the less, it was a pleasant surprise when my beer came with a plate of food for free! So I tipped my cup towards the wino next to me (the only other guy drinking booze), and fueled myself up.
I remembered that I knew a girl from my high school who was doing a year in Madrid, so I found her number online and called her up. Jessi. Somehow we found each other in this huge park at the center of Madrid. We walked and chatted and got caught up on life in general and has travelers of strange lands. We both shared the same feelings about the nearing end of our European lives. It is hard to cope with as these dream like days grow shorter. So we settled with a beer and another free plate of tapas and remembered the old days of PHS. Kind enough to stay with me and be late for her job, Jessi showed me to the right metro line, and off she went.
Olimpia's friend, Isa, played my tour guide for the rest of day. Taking me around what seemed like the entire city, I saw a Madrid through a cool, active, and clever girl's eyes.
The next morning I hopped on a six hour bus ride to Seville to meet Olimpia. She instantly teased me about my hair, by kindly took me by her side and showed me her lovely town. Despite our fling in Paris, Olimpia and I are just good friends now. Moreover, she is living at home. No boys on the couch, so I stayed with her friend Alvéro. The three of us spend the next couple days, roaming the sights, drinking on rooftop bars, sitting by the river, dancing all night, and sleeping till around 3 pm in the afternoon. It is true what they say, the Spanish party till breakfast and sleep until dinner. What a strange clock to live by. They seem content though and showed me a heck of a good time.
Time was short though, and I had to head back up to Madrid on the same bus to catch my 5 am monday morning flight back to Paris. But an hour before that flight boarded, I, asleep on the ground, missed the check in. Groggy, tired, and having spent 6 hours on a bus, I argued along side a French woman with the Ryan Air woman about letting us on a flight that wasn't going to leave for another hour. "It's closed!" she yelled. "But how, we still have time, people are still going through security, and we are but two passengers left. Please!" She told us to take the flight tomorrow. In a fury, the French woman decided she was going to drive with her husband and colleague rather than argue about our flight, which at this point, had boarded and left without us. Not wanting to stay in the airport, I asked if I could tag along.
12 hours across Spain and France ain't half bad when your sitting in the back of a big Mercedes. And these strangers were quite kind, paying from my lunches and fighting to get me my money back for my missed flight. By the time we got to Paris, I was beat tired, and had crossed two of the biggest European countries by road.
Direct, it was back to the grind stone. I locked myself in the editing room for a week and watched two fake adolescents make love for the first time over and over and over again. Finally, I have sand it down to something I can call a short French film. Coming to a computer screen near you sometime at the end of Summer.

Pictures will be coming soon too. My computer is in the shop, so I have been using Jack's. Loosing your computer is like loosing your arm. You feel like you can't reach out. Then you go outside and you remember you have real arms, and they work pretty well. So I am going to reach out to few more countries before coming back to stars and stripes.
As for the finish line. I'm not there yet, so I'm trying to keep my pace. We are all scared to return, like we were scared to leave. People dealt with their fear in certain ways then, and are doing so now. Some have their lovers who they cling on to like capsized sailors holding on to the wreckage of their ships. Many will have to let go soon, and other may cast sail again. There are those who are going to party till the plane leaves. Others who lock themselves in editing rooms. And those filling out second year applications.
When I was a kid, I used to ask my mom where home was. She'd say, "It's wherever you make it." Home sweet home.
And I bow to you all. Good day.

PS: Photos for everyone can be seen here:
http://sfsu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044714&l=cc8ff&id=11701635

Paris is Calling.
As some of you may know, May 6th marked the day of the presidential election here in France. Good ol' Jaques Chirac has released his throne a top the Eiffel Tower (there really is a throne up there where the presidents of France sit and run the country...) and given it to Nicolas Sarkozy. Sarkozy, being from the right wing political party of the Republic of France, is most commonly referred to as the french Bush, Napoleon, Hitler, Dracula, and Lucifer himself. It is believed that now with Sarkozy making decisions, immigrants with families in France should expect to ripped from the arms of their children and sent back to their original countries. Employees should expect to work longer hours. Small business owners should expect to be hustled out by large corporations. Unions should expect less liberty, allowing their services be required to work during their strikes. And kids living in the ghettos should start getting used to fearing the cops, because they are going to be there, with water cannon like hoses, beat this shit out of anyone who comes there way with mal intentions. I see the terror on the beautiful faces of my young students who live in these ghettos and who come from African countries and I wonder. But this leftist perspective can be compared with those who see Sarkozy as a man of promise and action. A man who plans to better France's economy and international relations. A man who will take to the streets and address France's problems head on. He wants to better the ghettos. He wants to strengthen the work force and the work side by side with the unions to meet their demands. Accepting his new rank in office, he said, "America is our friends, but they must not forget their responsibilities to the environment and their contribution to its destruction." But this was before or after George Bush called him up to giggle a bit. Hmm... This is what I know off the top of my head about Sarkozy.
How do I feel about him? Well, I'm a liberal, yet not quite a socialist. But right wing politics give me a blood wrenching chill in my groin thanks to last seven years of it in my home country of the USA. Seven years of a maggot eaten carcass of bullshit, lies, rape, and murder. Thanks Bushies.
So any ways, May 6th, the polls came in, and the lovely Ségolène Royal lost by 4%. Being that the Bastille quarter of Paris is known for its revolutionary symbolism, the socialists and anarchist tend to convene there to protest. Along with them are Paris' own boys in bleu...and plastic riot gear...and tear gas cannons.
So let me paint the picture. After having a beer at my friendly bar, owned by the bald monsieur who knows me by face, me and my pals decide to see what the Bastille is like now that some time has passed. Armed with a couple cameras (so sorry, didn't have mine, but Henry was armed with his Canon GL1, so we got some goods), we entered a mob of hundreds of people shouting chants against Sarkozy and his regime. Blocking off most main streets were riot cops, storming a rain of stones and red flares falling at their feet. I grabbed my friend Meghan's camera, told my friends to stay where they are no matter what, and ran into the action. But only seconds after I did, a small shower of tear gas bombs fell near me. Unmasked, I took as many pictures that I could see through my watery eyes. I ran back to where I had left the group, but they had fled due to the cloud of pepper spray that now fogged the streets. I searched for clear air. I found in it Meghan and her boyfriend Jean Christophe. Together, we took temporary shelter in the metro station. But even that was gassed. We resurfaced near the Opera, where most people were sitting on the high steps watching the show. The Bastille itself was now covered in anarchists rioters and red writing expressing their contempt (le mépris) for the new president. Other kids were breaking bus stop windows and tearing the metal trash cans from their concrete foundations. We met and mingled with my friend Fanny and her group of left wing peaceful protesters. Shortly after, the gas bombs started to fall closer to us and the police started to advance. To get a different perspective, we moved to the opposite side of the monument. But something felt wrong. I looked around and saw that we were the only few standing there. Turning my head, I saw the reason why: a big fucking police tank armed with water cannons came rolling up right beside us. Like hail, rioter owned rocks began to fall from the sky around us. Tear gas bombs exploded at own feet. So we ran. Don't really run with a mob of people in a riot, just keep your head up, be aware, and move to the side. But run if the shit starts blowing up in your face. I told Meghan to cover her mouth, but it was too late. One french boy said, "Ahh, take it in, its good to feel it. Then give them hell." Hell was what it looked like. The red glow of flare light gas clouds and the flickering flames of starting fires burning in the streets.
Well, we eventually met up with some other friends, Mike and Juliette, who had just arrived. They wanted to stay and get into the action, but we had had enough. And we were hungry. So we made our way down my street, which was now sprinkled with fires, mobs, and an opposing police brigade. We spent dinner talking politics but also had some good laughs, and we all made it home safely.
I went back this morning to see the aftermath. Wow, French cleanup service works fast. The glass had been swept. The Rocks had been cleared. The writing was still there though. And its meaning and intention will probably stay for a long time. Well at least the next 5 years, the term of a French president.
***Truth: The experience was exciting, but I was a little sad to see people acting so savagely. I thought it would of been more powerful if the kids had sat in front of the police and not said a word, but hummed in unison. That is my true San Franciscan heart. I love my little hood and to see it defaced that way was kinda shitty. I thought about the guy who had to clean up the next morning. But this is France, and some of its romantic history lies in the passion of its revolutions and protests. There is a sense of true freedom when a group of people say "NON!" and make themselves heard. But are they always right? Only time will tell in this instance. Oh? The sirens are crying tonight as well. Could it be that they wage another battle? Let's go see.
-A