Looking through the window of a moving bus is like shifting through infinite mind states. As we rode the bus towards Avignon, blessed again with the delicious warmth of summer and silhouettes of sunlight, I immediately encountered the beautiful white horses that are native to Arles and the gigantic fields of sunflowers and bountiful vines.

As we arrived, I immediately noticed the towering Palais des Papes (The Pope's Palace), a huge gothic palace in the middle of the city, and the Pont d'Avignon, a beautiful bridge that stretches far out in the Rhone. Similar to Arles, this city is filled with narrow avenues, small romantic cafes. The walls of Avignon are towering, and the sound of opera reverberates against the city walls and its shadows. As you walk up the huge stairs of the city, you arrive at a small park, that overlooks the Rhone and offers a stunning view of Avignon's skyline.Within the palace, the gothic architecture was very evident. The middle of the palace was full of old artifacts, keys, and skulls that had been pierced by gigantic crossbow arrows. Unfortunately, cameras were prohibited inside of the palace. Inside of the Palace, many of the walls were filled with tiles, and mosaics and beautiful medieval manuscripts. If you ever get a chance come visit Avignon. This is a short blog, there will be more. This weekend, the Arles music and photography festival begins. Here are some more photos!  

Posted by at 09:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

In Arles, the presence of levels, stages, and development, seem to be very important. I live in a  three story home, and sometimes I carry on short conversations with my host mother from windows on different levels of the house. I have come to France to improve my level of French conversation, to heighten consciousness, to develop, to experience the world through a different lens, on a different stage. Last night, I had dinner with a few friends at a small restaurant called Cuisine du Comptoir.The room was filled with smooth ambience, delicate smoke, and timid glances that shifted in curious circular currents from table to table. We began to talk with two women. The woman that sat closest to me was French and Spanish, and her friend was French and Italian. Of course, in the first few minutes of our conversation we were confronted with every American stereotype known to man. (1) Americans eat horrible food, (2) All Americans are Bush supporters, (3) Americans are uptight, (4) Americans are scared. I began to wish that the women had never started talking to us, but I realized that one of the reasons that we were in France, was to combat stereotypes about Americans. We talked to the women for about an hour. We discussed the ever-present gap between the rich and the poor in France, George Bush, Iraq, Darfur, and culture. On Sunday, we went to the beach, and virtually all of my friends were shocked by the sight of women tanning on the beach without tops. This same feeling of "shock" was also present at the Music Festival last week, when many people began dancing in the middle of the street without the fear that they weren't dancing correctly. Is American culture uptight? Are Americans uptight? Why is America so puritanical? Perhaps the women are right. America does seem to be uptight about many things. I couldn't really imagine a bunch of people dancing in the middle of the street to a Comourian band without fear of being judged. We talked with these women for a little bit longer, and we began to talk about the difference between the Black-American experience and the Afro-French experience. In France, most of the citizens of Sub-Saharan African descent are recent immigrants, or they come from French departments (i.e. Guadeloupe). In France, you do not find a population of black citizens that share the same experience (slavery, civil rights movement) like Black Americans. We then moved on to the topic of immigration. I told them about my sociology class, and I asked them if they considered themselves immigrants. They both immediately responded that we were all immigrants, and that French citizens don't look a certain way or have a particular "race". To be French, is to be raised or to adopt French culture. I wonder if many French share this same opinion. Interesting point of view right!? As we left the restaurant, the women told us that they wanted to show us something. Now, I must admit, this kind of worried me, especially since we've always been taught to avoid "strangers." The women then commented "Oh...Americans are ALWAYS afraid." So naturally, we followed. We walked a few feet away from the restaurant and the woman hunched over and looked into a small crevice that resembled a rain gutter. As we looked closely however, we noticed that there were ruins underneath the city. We walked a few more feet in the same direction and entered a hotel. There was a glass floor, and beneath it, laid a beautifully preserved Roman fountain and bath area. The area was spacious, domineering, and immediately sparks your imagination. The idea that the entire night, I had been eating dinner a few levels above Roman ruins. Levels, Stages, History. This is definitely a city without age, a city that exudes a sense of freedom and exploration-- exploration of self and the fusion of past and present.

A day in Avignon. A city very close to Arles, with similar Roman ruins.

1. The View of Avignon from the Palais des Papes

2. A fellow IES student from Northwestern Univ and Me, at the Pont d'Avignon

Posted by at 09:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

One could say that Arles is a city that exists without age. Perhaps a realm that is best characterized by change, mixture, transition, and assimilation. When I began my course on Immigration in France, I became very aware of the demographics of the communities that I visited. Most importantly, I remembered that from my research on France's 17th and 18th century Code Noir, and Mexico's Sistema de Castas, the idea, formation, and application  of "race" was certainly a social construction. I live in a small community that is located near the Rue de la Roquette, a neighbor hood that is referred to as "Bo-Bo" in France, meaning Bourgeois-Boheme (Middle Class & Bohemian). This is a very multiethnic community, and you hear very many languages walking through its narrow alleyways. I never felt like there was any racial hostility in this neighborhood, however I did witness the manifestations of post-colonial and historical frustrations during Saturday's Market Day. As I left my house and walked into the draping shadows and colorful tents of the Market, the only language that I heard was Arabic. I was a little bothered by this, because I wasn't even into the "heart" of the street yet where the majority of the vendors are located. After walking the entire length of the market, I realized that all of the expensive goods were sold by French-speaking vendors of European ancestry. On the outskirts of the market, in the less frequented areas, you would find only North and Sub-Saharan African vendors. Furthermore, after speaking with my sociology professor, I was told that he believes that the  market is spatially segregated by several factors: (1) Post-colonial history, (2) Community support, (3) Type of Merchandise. It seems as if all three of these factors contribute to the spatial make-up of the market. Many of the North African and Sub-Saharan African vendors may be close to each other because they want to support their community (cooperative economics), because they sell similar products.

Another possible reason that my professor gave for the segregation, was Post-Colonial history. Most of the communities of North and Sub-Saharan African descent come from former French colonies. It is believed that there may be some hostilities toward these vendors, stemming from deep-seated anger caused by colonial wars of independence. Of course, this is all a possibility. You would have to experience the dynamics of the market to truly understand. In order to obtain a spot at the market, you pay an annual fee, based on the dimensions of your tent or cart. There is one person that decides where people are placed. Sounds peculiar to me.  Food for thought!

Ryan Forbes Morris '08

Posted by at 09:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The afternoons in Arles are very sunny, humid, and hot.The cool breezes have passed and you awake tangled in the moisture of the warm, moist air and creamy skies of this Provencal city. Last week, we celebrated the Fete de la Musique (National Music Festival). The festival began at noon, and the streets were immediately closed. EVERYONE took part in this festival. Strolling up and down the steep avenues, we encountered rock bands, acoustic guitarists, and musicians from all over the world. There was also a group of French autistic children, who had formed a band of drummers. They walked up and down the streets of Arles with gentle smiles, as they blessed us with their own awe-inspiring arrangements of Brazilian samba and percussion. 

As the sun began to set, we walked along the river and encountered a beautiful Moroccan restaurant. As we approached the doors, we were completely immersed in the veil of spicy aromas, marinated meats, incense, and the smell of fresh bread. We all sat down, and slowly enjoyed the texture and beauty of Moroccan wine, bread, and the rich tastes of North African tajine and pastilla. As the sun disappeared beneath the Rhône, a group of French rastafarians laid beautiful rugs on the floor, and began to play their instruments which appeared to be homemade. The sounds of the African drums echoed off of the walls surrounding the river and the sounds of the soft flute serenaded the steam that rose from our exotic and inviting cuisine. As we walked around the city, we encountered a band from the Comoros Islands (East Africa, Indian Ocean next to Mozambique. Google it!) that played in a narrow alley of Arles.

I've never seen so many people appear to be so free and liberated. People of all races attempted to imitated the musicians on stage,  with eyes closed and gigantic smiles. Naturally, we joined in. We danced for hours, until we were pushed off the dance floor by a man that was convinced that he was Michael Jackson. Yes, he had white socks and black dress shoes. There were no political messages during the Fete de la Musique, other than the reaffirmation of freedom and liberation. Its is so comforting to see a group of people that are not driven by political correctness or fear during a national festival. Everyone danced, everyone smiled, without fear of ruining their image. This celebration of differences however, wasn't very representative of what I observed on the Market day.

Ryan Forbes Morris '08

Posted by at 05:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I can truly say that Arles is one of the most beautiful cities that I have ever visited. As I stepped off of the train, I immediately encountered a vast river that runs down the middle of the city. There is a very significant mix of architecture here in the city. Many of the houses are three stories, very narrow, with large windows and tiles, and huge flowers that seem to flow out of the houses like a waterfall. The streets are adorned with cobblestones and many of the city's avenues are narrow, with just enough room for a street-side cafe or for a smiling man to play his accordion.

The breezes skim the surface of the river and push through the ancient street walls and against the tall houses, many of which are about 400 years old. As we walked through the city, we saw restaurants that served paella, crepes, southern French cuisine, thai food, chinese food, and restaurants that exclusively serve tea. Walking through the midsection of town, there are fountains and a huge obelisk that stands in front of the Hotel de Ville (Town Hall) with a melange of architectural styles.

As you walk away from the centre-ville, you encounter a beautifully restored Roman Amphitheater. Its walls are domineering, yet very soft and inviting as they bend the light and shadows that pierce the interior of the theatre. In the opposite direction, you can see miles and miles of beautiful clay rooftops, with tiles that glow with the heat of the sun and small children chasing their dogs in the parking lot of a local church.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I met the other 27 students in my program who have traveled from all over the world to study in Arles. Everyone was really nice, and I think we share many of the same interests. That evening, we walked the streets of Arles, up and down the avenues and around the cafes and historical landmarks. There is even an Irish Pub in Arles, that I'm certain is administered by French men, where everyone screams "Happy Hour" in a very guttural French accent.

After two days in the hotel, my host family arrived to pick me up. The family name is Brenot. The father is a cartoonist, who works from home, but unfortunately, I have not met him because he is away on a business trip to Paris. The mother of the family is Farida, a beautiful, caring, and hilarious French woman whose parents were of Algerian descent. They have two sons, Thomas and Simon, who are very intelligent and very eager to teach me French culture and slang. We watched about an hour of corny French rap videos yesterday! I will post pictures of their beautiful three story home very soon.

I will be taking a sociology class on Immigration while I am here in Arles, as well as an advanced French grammar course. The Brenots live in an area that is very diverse, full of native French and immigrant families, so I have a chance to truly witness the dynamic of a multiracial French home, and a multiracial French community.

Since I've been in Arles, I have met very interesting people. I have become quite close with a group of French film students, who are living in Arles until the end of June, and DJ an avant garde jazz radio station. They are Parisians, and have been very helpful in teaching me about French politics, and the pros and cons of many prominent French politicians. I've also met a group of artists from a Mauritania and Morocco, who are displaying their art in exhibits throughout the city. Most of their art challenges the Western perception of "time" and seeks to bridge the gap between the memory and power of dead ancestors and the present. Even though these artists come from different cultures, all of the art is painted in the colors of the sunset of their homelands. 

I must say, building relationships with people in another language is a little weird but it has been very enriching. There is a huge musical festival that is going to begin this week. Artists from all over the world are going to arrive. Also, during the upcoming market day, there will be a bit of segregation in the street. There will be an arab market on one side of the street, and a european market on the other side of the street. I think this is going to be interesting, and I'm curious to see how, and if, the two walks of life will intersect.

 - Ryan Forbes Morris '08

Posted by at 04:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Guess what!? I made it to France! After a long five hour flight from LAX to New York, hours of delays at JFK and a seven and a half hour flight from New York to Paris Charles DeGaulle Airport, I am finally in Europe! Of course, after exiting the plane and heading for baggage claim, everyone on my flight had realized that Air France had left their luggage in New York. So this is how it all began. The airport was huge, with an endless amount of terminals, filled with people from all over the world, many of which still had mullet haircuts. I approached the subway system, which is called the RER in France, and had no idea what I was doing, so I had to ask for some assistance. Fortunately, I met two French professors, one from Guadeloupe and another from Paris, who rode the subway with me to the Notre Dame Cathedral. We spoke about America, George Bush, the new French president Nicolas Sarkozy and his plans for France, and the selection of administrative posts in the French government. I arrived in France near the very end of these elections, and people on the subway debated whether the snooty politicians could actually identify with the true needs of French people, and protested the proposed elevation of national taxes. It was amazing to see such thorough knowledge of national politics from EVERYONE on the subway. They asked me about Hurricane Katrina, the condition of the Gulf Coast, they wondered why there were was a college in Indiana that only accepted male students, and they wanted to know if I personally witnessed Paris Hilton driving the wrong direction on the streets of Los Angeles. The scenery from the metro was beautiful. The architecture of the houses was stunning with and many of the walls in the subway system were adorned with colorful graffiti. Surprisingly, the majority of this graffiti was written in English. I arrived in the Latin Quarter of Paris and met with Cathy Saksik. We walked around the busy streets and sat down at a local café to catch up. Paris is definitely a melting pot and a haven for people of all religions, shapes, colors, and sizes. I saw gypsies, punk rockers, young kids that tried to sag their jeans and throw American "west coast" gang signs at me once they heard my phone conversation in English, and a young couple walking with heads that were completely shaved, except for the single long black dread lock that hung from the top of their heads to the bottom of their shoulder blades. I kind of felt like I was at Venice Beach! The ambience at the café was something you could never experience in America. It was so relaxing, and it gave me a chance to recognize the history and beauty of all of the buildings and towering monuments that surrounded us. As it started the rain, we headed for the metro and traveled to Cathy's quaint hometown named Le Plessis Paté. There were no sounds of cars, traffic, or construction. Just the sounds of cool breezes, and song birds. We ran into her Aunt, who kissed me about eight times on the cheek and brought us fresh bread and vegetables. That evening, Cathy and I cooked dinner together for her brother and sister. Over the sounds of Willie Colon's latin jazz, steaming sliced potatoes were laid in a decorative baking dish. For a small snack, we cut small radishes in half, and ate them with small portions of butter and salt. This was definitely something I had never done before. We sauteed onions, sliced pork, and smothered them all over the potatoes. We then took this glorious piece of French cheese, a name that I cannot pronounce, laid it on top of the food, and watched it slowly melt and sizzle in the oven. You could smell the aroma throughout the entire house, and it mixed with the smell of the flowers that rushed through the open window shutters. We all sat down at a small table at the kitchen, and I began a six week journey in which I would leave English conversation behind, and begin many relationships and friendships through French conversation. Tomorrow, I will leave early to catch the metro from Paris, to Nimes, to Arles, to begin orientation and meet with the other twenty seven students in my summer program.

Ryan Forbes Morris 08

Posted by at 12:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)