14. Person

    I just flew from St. Paul to Chez Hannah in order to jot down these thoughts. I’m a bit sweaty now; you know how that always happens when you walk too fast, dodging through snail-like crowds, on a mission. You arrive glistening, and shrouded in winter clothing, at your destination.
    I’ve figured out the bus system in Paris; it only took me four months. It’s a lot simpler and often more efficient than the metro. Yesterday I took the 86 from my corner all the way to College de France to eat Ethiopian food with my hands at midnight, surrounded by six close friends in an intricately decorated shack with an impossibly small kitchen. The ride there only took nine minutes, on the metro it would’ve taken a half hour. Today I took the 76 from Faubourg Saint Antoine/ Ledru Rollin to Saint Paul. The stop is a two-minute walk away from my apartment, in front of SFR, my mobile provider here. Anyhow, I show up at the stop and it says fourteen minutes until the next bus. I have to do quite a bit of work for finals, so I don’t want to waste a minute—never mind fourteen—waiting idly at the stop. So I jog down Faubourg Saint Antoine towards Ledru Rollin looking for a café to grab an espresso at; no luck. I sprint into Monoprix (it is open on a Sunday! Again, something I realize only at the very end that would’ve been so great to know for these past four months) and slide back out, empty handed.
    I finally just speed walk to Charonne and Faubourg Saint Antoine, stomp up to a bar, and order un café. I think the bartender gets the gist that I am in a hurry and he magically produces an espresso in under thirty seconds. I blow on it as hard as I can, watching the foam disperse in the dim lighting, let the fire drop down my throat, ask how much, give him my 2 euro, grab my change, say bon soir, and leave. Walking back to the 76 stop, I see the bus approaching, and I start darting between pedestrians, which allows me to catch it just in time.
    The bus is deserted. Just the faded yellowed patterned chairs and I. I take a seat and catch my breath. Before the Bastille, a man suddenly appears and takes a seat in front of me, and says something—I only catch “faux.”
    “Comment?”
    “Ca, c’est fausse fourrure?” he asks, pointing to my fur coat.
    “Euh, ouais, ouais, c’est pas vrai, oui, c’est faux.”
    “Ah, c’est fausse fourrure [mutters something in comprehensible].” This is how most of my conversations go: I only understand half of what is said to me.
I have an instinct to move. Living in Paris has caused me to develop a habit of ignoring and avoiding any male stranger. I think ok, it's especially odd that he decided to sit directly in front of me, when the rest of the bus is free, I don't want trouble. Is it too much to ask for just a quiet bus ride? And I can smell him, despite my stuffy nose. The man’s eyes are highlighted by streaking street and car lights, and are surreally protruding—as if they are swimming inside a fish bowl. He is carrying a ragged shopping bag stuffed with unidentifiable things, which makes me think clochard. My legs begin kicking, jittering— physically manifesting my mind’s instinct to move. But he is giving off this tranquil air and is not overly adamant to make conversation, so I silence my body and allow my head to turn and watch each passing pedestrian for a fleeting moment. Faubourg Saint Antoine spits us out into the Bastille, and I tilt my head upwards in awe as we slide around the statue. An infinite millisecond passes before I tear my eyes off of the glowing centerpiece, in fear that he’d get the notion I am some sort of gazing tourist.
    He then asks me something else that I can just absolutely not comprehend, and I attempt to mimic his words and then add quoi at the end-- the solution I have for all misunderstandings. He registers I don’t speak French.
    “Tu es Française?”
    “Ah non, je viens aux etats unis,” I say, mispronouncing etats unis.
    “Où?”
    “Aux etats unis.”
    “Comment?”
    “New York.”
    “Ah! The big apple!”
    “Ouais.”
    “I went there, fifty years ago,” he says, and then turns his head and gazes out the window.
    “Ah, really?” I say, not knowing what else to respond.
We both sit in silence for just a little longer, until he asks if I’m here for vacation.
    I say, “Non, euh, j’etudie au universite ici pour un semestre.”
    Then he says, “Ok, so you’re here. You live here.”
    “Yeah,” I say, smiling, because often the response to my saying I study here consists of some sort of criticism about how a semester is not enough time to spend in Paris. “But unfortunately I am leaving in a week.”
    He seems not to hear the last part.
    “So you’ve just arrived, or—?”
    “No, I got here in August. But I am leaving very soon, unfortun— ” I trail off, because, again, he seems not to hear the last part. “How long have you lived in Paris?” I ask, staring into his bottled eyes.
    “Well, since forty years. But I am Italian. I come from Italy.”
    “Oh, cool,” I respond, unoriginally.
    “I came here for a week and then never left.”
    “Oh, wow, oh, that's--” I don’t know what to say. I am impressed and enthralled.
    “Yes,” he starts, “I was just going to stay here for a vacation, just for a week. But it has been forty years, now.” I look outside as the bus slows, we are pulling into Saint Paul; I wait for a break in his sentence to quickly tell him I must go.
    “Ok,” he says calmly, as I rise to my feet. I walk towards the back exit, “Well,” he turns his head toward me, “Have a Happy New Year!” I look at him in thanks, “And a—Merry Christmas!” I thank him several times over and wait for the bus to come to a full stop. The door won’t open.
    “You too,” I add. He informs me that I must press the red button. I thank him again and look back one last time, feeling guilty for making the assumption that he could be a clochard.
    I step off the bus and start walking towards Chez Hannah. These last few days, I have been wishing I were here next semester. Ever since the beginning of high school, the plan was to stay in Paris for a whole year. But then I got here and it felt like I was just escaping obligations and I felt as if I had to go back to New York, I felt as if Paris couldn’t ever be as real as New York. As the semester progressed, I realized more and more that I don’t have to do anything, that I could stay in Paris, that nothing was stopping me, really, except that everyone expects me back in the spring, despite the fact that all those people expecting me back are doing quite fine without my presence.
    A conversation this past weekend with a friend really cemented the realization that I have developed a strong connection to Paris. Maybe most of my reasons for wanting to stay here pertain to my being so removed from New York, and therefore I forget all that I used to love about it and consequently don’t have a strong impulse to return, but there’s something more than that. A few nights ago, I was discussing all this with a friend, and we watched this interview she had filmed of my friend who is a graduate of NYU and studied abroad here for a semester, and he was just going on about how, “if you’re going to study abroad, stay for the whole year or don’t go at all.”
    We were standing on a balcony with the pretense of watching a film shoot happening down the street, but I was mostly just looking directly down at the empty cream crosswalk below us, and the shadowed buildings. “You know what it is?” she exclaims, “It’s that—New York is—New York thinks that it is this superhuman, this perfect, absolute entity, and it's just pretension, all show. Then there is Paris, and Paris doesn’t pretend to be anything more than human. It is a hypocrite and it is scared of so much, and it doesn’t strive for the same things as New York does because everyone here realizes that so many things that matter in New York don’t really, actually matter. New York is obsessed with being the best, and Paris is just here, living.”
    I’ve often wondered if I can ever fully fall out of love once I fall in it. I realized in coming here that I’d probably miss Paris quite a lot upon leaving, but that it’d probably not surpass New York for me, and I really didn’t expect to actually want to move back here. I don’t think it would’ve been to hard to predict, if I had really thought about it before, but I just wasn’t expecting to fall for Paris so hard and so quickly. At a dinner the other night, someone said “I am afraid that when I return to New York, it’ll just feel temporary and I will subconsciously, the whole time, be expecting to return to Paris at any moment.” I know I am going to feel like that. It’s impossible for me to take my mind off something I love; I haven’t even left here yet and already I am imagining it being summer, I am imagining walking down sun beaten streets in Belleville to go picnicking in Buttes Chaumont.
    So, I think that the man on the bus was choosing not to hear me, when I said I was leaving here. Because he is wise enough to know I will never leave here. I think he realized it when he saw the way I looked at the Colonne de Juillet when we circled it in that neon blue bus. It doesn’t matter that in eight days, I will be lying in my childhood bed 3,500 miles away, my whole being will still be in Paris. As was the case with that old man on the bus, my stay here will be longer than expected.

One person I encounter nearly on a daily basis, who I think accurately embodies a true Ghanaian, is Uncle Tego. Uncle Tego is one of the many lovely security guards who work at the NYU academic center. Everyday I am greeted by a joyfully exclaimed “Kiiiim-Kiiiiim” or a nice, long, “Kiiiimbeeerrrrleeeeeeee” accompanied by  a high-five-finger-snap that is a common greeting by Ghanaians. In fact, Uncle Tego has taken on the liberty to create an individual  nickname for almost all of the students. I can’t help but smile as I walk through the gate and reciprocate with a “how are YOUUU, Uncle Tego?” in my best Ghanaian accent. He generally response “I am fine” but mostly just laughs. Even if I am in a bad mood, I can’t help but feel smiley after seeing his big, toothy grin.
 
Even though I haven’t exchanged many words besides our names for one another, I feel as though I get a complete sense of his character and know that there can’t possibly have a mean bone in his body. I Ghana, your call elders Uncle or Aunte out of respect, but I wish I could say Uncle Tego was my real uncle.
 
As I mentioned before, he is very much like a typical Ghanaian in that he is very friendly and simple in his interactions with others, but Uncle Tego strikes me as being shyer than many of the other locals I have encountered. It is not uncommon for me to be walking down the street and get approached by a Ghanaian who declares “I like you. You are my friend.” Just as simple as that, done I have a new friend, whether I want one or not. I imagine Uncle Tego to be friendly to everyone he encounters; on and off the job. However, I once say him walking down the road by school in normal clothes (as apposed to his security uniform) and I nearly walked right passed his. If it he hadn’t opened his mouth to reveal his adorable smile, I would have mistaken him for just another Ghanaian. 

Supreme. How did this unassuming fast-food joint would become my second home? Its dirty yellow sign is hardly inviting: much less are the baggy jean, hooded sweatshirt donning teenagers that loiter around outside. Maybe it was the smell that got me. I have a soft spot for the scent of fried food and mayonnaise. No, it as the meal deal offer: 2.95 pounds for a chicken sandwich and a soda. And did that sandwich look good. Fried chicken, crispy lettuce, toasted sesame seed bun… The reality of a supreme fried chicken sandwich proved to be even better than the poster. Every bite is sinfully delicious in a way that I can only compare to a big mac. Quickly enough, I discovered that the coffee is also the closest thing to deli coffee you can get your hands on in London. Before long I was a supreme addict. Soon, the man behind the counter began to recognize me. Short, friendly, and distinctly foreign, he asked my name. Now every time I go to Supreme for a sandwich or a coffee, he greets me and asks how I’ve been. “Where is your friend?” he inquires, wondering why I haven’t brought my (equally chicken sandwich addicted) roommate. One day while I was waiting for my coffee -one sugar and milk, they know it by heart- he came and sat across from me with a bowl of soup and two spoons. “Eat,” he said, digging in. “Oh, no thank you” I responded, not wanting to intrude on his meal. He passed me a piece of pita bread. “Please.” I took the spoon and we shared the bowl. “Your coffee is ready”, he said. “ Thank you. That was delicious.” I replied. He smiled, big and toothy, as he wiped off the counter. I noticed that he has dimples. “See you tomorrow!” He said, and I waved good-bye.

For one of the NYU excursions towards the beginning of the semester we did a weekend homestay in Accra. My friend Sam and I were placed in the same home and the whole experience was just bizarre. We were staying with our host mother and father and their three year old son, Sammy. The first night, our host dad took us out for our a few drinks and the conversation we had was enlightening in so many ways.

Samuel Donkor is a very quiet man, and Sam and I felt the need to fill the silence in the car with small talk. We asked him questions about his family, his job, his life. When we ran out of things to talk about we started just pointing out things that are different in the US than here. He has never been outside of Africa and was particularly confused about the concept of a stroller. Here, the women all carry their babies on their backs, wrapped in cloth. When we got to the bar we sat in silence for a few minutes before Samuel started asking us questions. The first question he asked us was if we were married. We both were a bit shocked. Of course we’re not married! We’re only 20 years old. We have our whole lives to live. He told us that in Ghana, however, it’s very common to get married and have children very young.

We got into a very long discussion about relationships and how different they are in Ghana than the US. Samuel explained his belief that the man needs to be in control of the relationship and we explained our concept of equality. His beliefs are very typical of Ghanaian men, which is one reason it’s so hard to connect with people here. He said that it is because of equality that the divorce rate is so high in the US. He said that if both partners in the relationship have the same amount of control, there will be many more fights and it will likely end in divorce.  We argued that in Ghana there are more women stuck in unhappy relationships because of inequality and because divorce has such a stigma. I explained to him that my parents are divorced and that they are both much happier now than they were when they were married. No matter how much I tried to explain that often divorce is better than staying in an unhappy marriage, all he kept saying was, “no, no. Divorce is bad. It’s not good to get divorced.” We found out later that his parents had gotten divorced as well.

In many ways, Samuel Donkor is not like most Ghanaians. His parents got divorced, something very uncommon in Ghanaian culture. He got married late in life and only has one child. He lives with just his wife and son, whereas most Ghanaians live with a much larger extended family. In many other ways, however, he is a very typical Ghanaian. His beliefs are so traditional that he is ashamed of everything in his life that makes him unusual by Ghanaian standards. Overall, the homestay experience was an interesting look into modern Ghanaian life.

Argentina produces a homogenous kind of a woman. Or used to produce, because modernity, globalization trends, and imperialist consumer culture has hijacked the Argentine woman and given her values foreign to the nation culture.

The Argentine  middle class woman used to be conservative, a good Catholic, with ingrained homemaker values. The new Argentine woman is a plastic surgery experiment, overly groomed, loves her therapist, and enjoys the company of her fellow mothers by gossiping in the park over cigarettes and maté. This may be site specific to my neighborhood in Recoleta. Maybe an overgeneralization, but this whimsical image of Latin-American woman emulating the Parisian modern woman has formulated my reality of the Argentine middle-class woman.

My host-mother is a mix of both worlds. Her hair is never combed, dyed blonde and frizzy, it is never pulled back. Her appearance is somewhat sloppy as well, but loveable sloppy, as if you wanted to give her a brush fix her long black skirt, and adjust her sweater so that it doesn’t show her undergarments. She is obsessed with the computer, reading “La Nación” articles because as she explained to me once the paper is too expensive. She is recently divorced from her husband, and as I have garnered he was her first love and will be her last.

Psychologically this is so different from American woman, who I believe have the power to re-invent themselves over and over again.  She is obsessed with her therapist, his word is gospel. She is a teacher, but recently given leave. Her maid, like most good Recoleta women, takes care of the house and her as well. She loves her maté.

She is an interesting woman. A cocktail of old Argentine values and new. It has been taxing watching her personal struggle with divorce. Trying to reconcile the old values that was demanded of women, with the new expectations and possibly freedom as a single mother and woman in a new Argentina- a different one from when she was married in the late 80’s. I see her struggling and watching me, and although 20 years younger I hope to give her inspiration of how to live her life. We have become very close and since I am a fixer I have endeavored to be a support system for her problems.

Over the course of the past several months I have gotten to know many more Italians than I expected. I have been meeting Italian High School and College students through dinners organized by NYU. These dinners can be sort of hit or miss; sometimes you get stuck with a particularly immature group of high schoolers (which I believe is only brought out by the even less mature NYU freshman that sometimes attend these dinners), or you can luck out with some really cool college students who will take you out on the town and show you a good time. I’ve come to know and love many of the Italians I’ve met through these dinners, but I would like to talk about someone who isn’t actually from Italy.
 
The pilates instructor NYU brings in every Monday for free pilates class is this sweet middle-aged blonde lady. The first day I decided to attend one of these classes was the week after we returned from fall break. She and I had both gotten to campus at least a half an hour early, and we spent some time getting to know each other. I found out that she was from Atlanta, which was great to hear, because I also hail from the South and although I don’t have much of the tell-tale accent, or like nascar and country music (I absolutely despise both, actually), it was nice to talk to someone who grew up in the same area as me. It made me miss home.
 
I often find that I have a lot of trouble talking to people, especially people I barely know. I imagine that the conversation is painfully awkward for the other party, even if that is completely fabricated. However, it was very easy to talk to her. And although she is not Italian, she has been living here for about 5 years, visited a lot before then, speaks fluent Italian (with a southern twang, which is charming/amusing), and fell in love with and married an Italian man. She makes me feel more confident about interacting with people in this country. Sometimes I get really discouraged about my inability to communicate, or how difficult it is to adapt to certain things, but seeing someone who seems so similar to me tackle the same things and give me her own tips on adapting is a big help.
 
Not to mention she is the sweetest lady I have ever met. For the past three weeks I have been the only person to show up to pilates, and she has embraced it as an opportunity to train me privately, and she’s done a great job. She is such an eager teacher, which makes me an eager student. Most teachers would take it personally when only one person shows up to their class, but it seems as if nothing can wipe the smile off her face.
 
This past Monday, when I walked into the room she told me “I brought you something.” I couldn’t imagine what it could be, and when she pulled out home-made corn bread (complete with a personal thing of butter, since “some people don’t keep butter here”), I had to fight to contain my excitement and appreciation. If there’s one thing about the South that I love, it’s the cooking. I miss fried okra and good southern mac and cheese, and all that good stuff. And this being the week of Thanksgiving, she knew that I might be a bit homesick and craving some southern food. It was the sweetest thing ever. She is like my Italian Mom. I’m really glad there are expats like her around to give America a better rep.

Of all the people I’ve come in contact with and met during my time here, my favorite person is the security guard that mans that desk in our lobby, Richard. He goes by a variety of nicknames and everyone at NYU knows him, regardless of whether or not you live in the building. I’m pretty sure everyone living in Guilford and anyone who has ever stepped through the door while he’s on duty loves him. I’ve never seen him in a bad mood, and he’s always up for talking and joking with students. There have been several occasions where I’ve come through the front door looking frustrated or slightly down, and he’ll know instantly that something is wrong and try to change it. As you depart, he always wants to know what you’re up to, not in an authoritative way, but more so like a friend who has your back. Or maybe it’s because he wants to know where all the best parties are taking place on any given weekend. Who knows.
 
He’s always ready with a “Good morning” as I head out the door for class or “Good evening” when I get back late. Sometimes he’ll even ask if I have any food for him when he sees I’m carrying take away or groceries; perhaps that’s my mistake for once offering him some of the brownies I had just gotten from Tesco. There have been plenty of times he’s offered me some wise words as I head out the door for class, such as asking if I have an umbrella or telling me to bundle up for the chilly gusts. He’s never one to get angry with me when I’ve forgotten my ID, can’t get the darn door open, or don’t have enough handles to juggle my groceries and show him my ID. He’s kept me entertained plenty of times when I’ve headed to the laundry room a couple of minutes too early but am too lazy to walk all the stairs back up to my room and decide instead to pay him a visit at his post. He is extremely understanding and treats the students like real people, unlike some of the other security guards that work downstairs.
 
I think that’s pretty typical of people here in London, at least from the encounters I’ve had. They’re always up to offering a helping hand or giving directions if you look slightly lost while staring at a Tube map in a station. They greet you with a smile and perhaps some small talk at the local grocery store. They smile warmly and wish you “Cheers” as you leave the store. I don’t think I’ve encountered a single British person who has been rude or disrespectful during my time here, at least not on par with the people I would find back home in New York City. People here tend to be much more laid back and have a different sense of humor. Sometimes, I don’t always get Richard’s jokes and it takes me a second or two to realize he’s being sarcastic. I’ve come to realize that it’s just the way British people are with their sarcasm; they say the opposite of what they mean and that confuses me beyond belief.

First and foremost, I should mention that Lauro speaks no English. The first time we met, we spoke in Italian and three hours and the only English word he said was “business.” Go figure. The biggest contribution from the anglo-saxon civilization. “Business.”
 
Lauro is a woodworker that I’m currently apprenticing, based on Florence. In his busy workshop in the Oltrarno he keeps the artisan’s craft alive through restoration, antiquing, and carpentry. Much of his work is related to frames—restoring old ones to look new, antiquing new ones to look old, and constructing others from scratch. Most of his business comes from frames because that’s where the majority of the demand is for woodworkers in Florence these days—which makes sense considering the amount of art dealing that goes on in this city. Yet Lauro’s knowledge extends beyond frames: within his workshop he has a set of 16th century wooden doors from church in Arezzo (the clergy gave them to Lauro as a gift for his restoration of their wooden figure of the Madonna). He antiques paintings, makes a wide variety of assorted wooden objects (such as candlesticks, bowls, figurines, chairs), and gold-leafs mirror frames. When I asked him once why he does the work he does, he responded contently (more or less to some extent in English): “I’ve been doing this my whole life. It’s all I know.”
 
His domain is the workshop I recently wrote about. He shuffles his feet through the corridors slowly but surely, always knowing what he does before he does it.

Lauro is one of the more interesting people I’ve met in my life. He tells me he only drinks wine on weekends—he won’t drink during the week because he focuses on the work. He goes hunting every weekend with his dogs for rabbit and small game. While he works, he likes to listen to music, from opera to Ray Charles. “I like all kinds of music,” he says. “I don’t like anything in particular. It’s just good.”
 
Lauro is unlike most of the Italians you’ll find while shoving your way through crowds in Florence. He’s quiet unless engaged, and when you speak with him he gets excited like a young kid. He has a little bit of that Italian hard-edged flair, however, as I can tell when he frequently tells me to calm down, or when he reminds me that I have a responsibility to remember the measurements he dictates in regards to specific frames. And like any good traditional Italian, he’ll make comical exclamations when wood comes crashing down from some random place. One evening, he had set a frame next to the furnace so the heat would dry off the paint; the piping that runs from the furnace to the ceiling, however, disjointed from the main line and began to fall. Thinking that the piping would be scalding hot from the fire, I saw no other course of action than to just stand there like a fat guy eating a hot dog at a baseball game. “Watch?! Don’t watch!” Lauro exclaimed, “Go! Geez!”
 
While not quite old, Lauro is old enough to be the grandfather of some girl who lives in middle America and comes from a family where the parents marry at 18 and have children by 22. You know what I mean. That girl.
 
He works alone, and yet with great vigor and strength. He cuts wood with the belt saw without protection after years and years of practice, pushing planks through saw against the grain. I made a mistake once while trying to put a bracket on a frame (cornice in Italian) and we started talking (in Italian) about seriousness in our work. He said that you should have seriousness in regards to your passion, but that one shouldn’t get angry or upset when things aren’t working out the way you intend. Did I mention this was all in Italian? I have off days and on days—sometimes I’ll be able to talk with Lauro for several hours in Italian, flailing my arms and using gestures and cognates whenever possible. The other times, I’ll maybe talk for 20-30 minutes total, responding when spoken to and saying “Non capisco” so many times that it sounds like a running joke.
 
The beauty of communicating with a language barrier is that for effective communication, you must be earnest. Insincerity is incredibly obvious to people who don’t speak each other’s language, but are attempting to communicate—you can just “tell” that something is wrong with the other person, or they’re “not telling the whole story.” I see myself and notice how animated I am when I’m being honest with Lauro, as opposed to how quiet and distant I am when I’ve arrived to the shop late and don’t mention why. There are moments when we both understand each other perfectly and not so much because of words, as much as action. It’s the same feeling of kids when both of you’re in your own fantasy world, but you’re playing the same game—things make perfect sense for the both of you, and it feels great, like you’ve found a new friend.
 
Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten a picture of Lauro as of yet—which adds to the allure and mystique of the woodworking master. I’ll be sure to upload more photographs of work that we do in the near future.

A.K. is my favorite security guard in the NYU dorms. In NYU in London housing, security guards run the front desk of each dorm. Their responsibilities include anything and everything (from keeping noise levels down to fixing sewage pipes explode and flood the basement overnight). Although most of the guards are unpopular amongst students because of their attitudes and demeanor, A.K. is the nicest person you’ll ever meet.
He moved to England from South Africa about 10 years ago for reasons I won’t disclose out of respect for his privacy. His wife is a beautiful Brazilian woman (we give him a pat on the back every day) and he used to be one of the best rugby players in the world. For someone who has faced tough experiences and such adversity, A.K. has one of the best attitudes around, a rare quality amongst the NYU in London staff.
Similar to most locals I’ve encountered, he’s very helpful in terms of giving directions and sharing a laugh. My roommates and I easily get along with A.K. and right now he is the only adult figure that we look up to and confide in here. He has taught us basic survival essentials, such as how crossing the streets work here and where the safe areas around the dorms are (“never go left”). He also gives the best advice (on anything from pubs to life) and consistently encourages us to have fun and not to stress the little things.
I haven’t met as many locals as I would have liked, so I don’t have much to compare him to in terms of the British demeanor (he is South African, not British). Despite this fact, I have chosen to write about A.K. because he is one of the reasons why we are all sane, safe and having a good experience in London. Most of the locals I have met actually work for NYU in London or have some kind of affiliation to the program. Many will agree when I say some have not been the most helpful or easy to talk to. (There exists an odd and unspoken tension between some of the students and members of the staff who blame students for unreasonable occurrences.) A.K. has made this situation exponentially better by listening and greeting residents with a smile accompanied by a kind “You alright?” (Translation: “How are you doing today? Anything bothering you? If so, then I will be there for you or at least make you laugh by plotting a prank on your roommate.”). Being so far from home, students look up to people like A.K. Although some aspects of studying abroad have proven to be a challenge, A.K.A. Bobby Ray has been one of the highlights and many great people who make studying abroad worthwhile and memorable. 

(Photo: I took this photo of the entrance of my dorm on move-in day.)

One of my classes here is called "Europe's Dream of America."  We talk about the United States and Europe have used each other to construct their own identities and what the two sides really think of each other.  It's a great class - I'll talk more about it later if I get the chance - but the course is what it is because of our professor.  Professor Reinhard Isensee teaches American Studies courses at Humboldt University, the premier university in Berlin.  When I signed up, I expected that it would be interesting to talk about the US with a German teacher and get an idea of how Germans really feel about America.  The thing is, I don't think Prof. Isensee is that close to a typical German.  

 

I think he would make a better American than any of us.  He knows more about American history than I have ever been taught; he can list battles of the Civil War and quote Inauguration Speeches, whereas I dropped the ball and couldn't even tell him the year the Revolutionary War ended.  It seems like he's visited almost the entire country, because he speaks with familiarity about Virginia, Boston, Oregon, and so many other places.  He taught in Virginia for a while and has a soft spot for the Southern States, and I know he didn't like Seattle at all.  He speaks perfect English with no German accent; he just sounds like an American with good grammar.  Sometimes he makes fun of the upstate New York accent - "Pass your papers in, or 'payass' as they say in Buffalo" - which I find really random, but entertaining.  I want him to try a southern accent, or maybe Bostonian - just as long as I don't have to try to imitate a German!

 

If his knowledge and experience with American history weren't enough, Prof. Isensee's love for all things American pop culture runs so deep, I'm sorry that he misses out on things by living in Europe.  His idea of valuable pieces of American culture, however, is a little bizarre.  Last week he raved about how Shrek is a perfect introduction to American studies because it's full of clever references to other memes in our culture - so many catch phrases, songs, and jokes for his European students to pick out and try to decode.  He applies this same praise to Spaceballs.  He likes the TV show "Monk" and I've heard him quote Sister Act on more than one occasion.  He knows every Disney movie and explained to us the hidden messages of sexism and racism in The Princess and the Frog and The Lion King.  (Has anyone else heard that Scar is supposed to be gay?  I thought he was just evil/ British.)  The crazy thing is, Prof. Isensee doesn't only know that Shrek was an American movie, he can quote the whole thing.  And Shrek 2 & 3 as well.  (The fourth one isn't important; we all agreed on that.)  

 

I actually went to one of his lectures at Humboldt two weeks ago to see whether his classes are any different when he's teaching "German" students.  Most of the students were from Germany, although not really Berlin, but there were also people from Turkey, Poland, and the United States in his class.  Many of Humboldt's classes, especially in the American Studies department, are conducted completely in English, so that wasn't an issue.  They discussed the economic politics of the EU and talked about how Facebook is a representation of an imagined community, and it was all fascinating.In fact, the structure of the class, in which Prof. Isensee gets the conversation going and lets it just run until the end of class, was exactly like the classes we have at the academic center, and many of the classes that I've taken in New York.  He gets so excited about American culture and comparing it to Europe, and his enthusiasm is infectious.  The students get excited too and we just keep the discussions going until we don't want to leave at the end of class.  Sometimes, he just seems thrilled to have American students to talk to, and we in turn are thrilled to have him.  

 

Although we spend our class periods discussing what it means to be American, or German, or Americans looking at Germany, or Germans thinking about America, I still don't know what makes someone a typical German.  Does it make me a typical "American" because I feel a bit of culture shock at the adrenaline-pumping speed of the grocery lines here?  Or does it mean that I'm just not used to Germany yet?  (I don't make any claims to being a German, no matter where my ancestors came from.)  There are certain stereotypical qualities that have been assigned to Germans - punctuality, formality, national pride that they try to keep quiet - but Professor Isensee is beyond these generalizations.  He told us that he has had moments in the United States when he felt especially German, like waiting impatiently in a slow check-out line, but that doesn't mean he's average.  To me, the most strikingly German thing about Professor Isensee is his haircut.  I don't know if talking to him offers an accurate picture of the Germans' idea of the United States - he's far more educated about the US than the average German, or the average American for that matter, so he offers a unique perspective -  but it is definitely an enriching experience to meet this European professor and fan of all things American. 

Andy is a bartender at one of my favorite pubs. So, perhaps he’d be called a pubtender, but probably not. I guess I knew that there must be British bartenders, but for some reason, I think I pictured all British people carrying around copies of Shakespeare’s complete works and smoking pipes. Andy, however, is just a normal person. Weirdly, this was kind of shocking when I met him. This is not meant as an insult at all because I get along with Andy really well, but he would probably be called not ambitious in the U.S. I don’t really think this is a bad thing. I think the U.S. stresses kids out too much quite frankly. And I kind of expected it to be the same here. I expected that everyone went to Oxford or Cambridge and then went on to be important something or others. Maybe I got this impression from watch Bridget Jones’ Diary too many times. Again, not really logical, which was why meeting Andy was refreshing. Andy bartends and then travels and then bartends more to get money to travel. I completely respect this way of life. In fact, I’m jealous. I wish I could do that. It would be amazing. But, it’s not a lifestyle of anyone I know in the U.S., so it was even more surprising to find in a country that I, for some reason, saw as so strict. So, in his lifestyle, he’s different than what I originally expected of a British person.
 
However, he definitely has got the British way of drinking down. This guy is a pro. He also happens to be an expert bartender because of this. I went into the bar one day when I was sick, and he made up a great concoction with hot water, lemon, honey, and of course a little whiskey. In terms of having a typical British personality, I think he’s got some of the elements. He has that very odd, kind of dry, and full of puns sense of humor. He doesn’t really smile when he cracks a joke, and tends to be very sarcastic. He also has a very young sense of humor as well though, so they kind of mix to become only partly British. His friendliness might also be considered not typically British, as many people find the Brits more reserved in general. But, as I don’t really believe this, I think he’s more typically British in being social. 

Rosemary is one of four CRAs here at NYU in Ghana. They’re essentially significantly more lovable version of RAs (they do enforce rules when necessary but somehow it doesn’t carry the same sort of annoyance as when a someone whose exactly the same age as you, and likely breaking exactly the same rules, is doing it). The CRAs are all Ghanaian students who recently graduated from a local university and must now complete their year of service. The tuition for public universities is free but students are required to complete one year of service to their country to pay back the costs and NYU happened to be lucky enough to successfully apply to be one of those service sites.
It’s a little hard to properly describe Rosemary. Think of the most adorable things you can come up with. Kittens, puppies, laughing babies, all of that. Now imagine all of that adorableness embodied in a single personality. That’s Rosemary. Her appearance fits perfectly with this description as well. She’s gorgeous and a tiny, slight little thing that you feel like you could break with a particularly enthusiastic hug. She is the epitome of the famous Ghanaian friendliness; cheerfully chatting with everyone while simultaneously helping to organize all of the programs that are offered, helping us figure out where the nearest post office is, and trying to deal with the many maintenance issues in the dorms (some days in Ghana the bigger surprise is finding out what isn’t broken). At the same time she keeps her level of friendliness much more reasonable than many other Ghanaians do. Tell Rosemary you won’t be going to dinner with everyone tonight and she’ll say ok but I’ll miss you. Tell an average Ghanaian person that and expect to be questioned thoroughly while they continually try to convince you. Rosemary understands how strange and uncomfortable this persistent friendliness can feel for us and has given me some tips on how to deal with it.
Even though I’m sure dealing with us all the time can be quite exhausting, Rosemary has still managed to spend several lovely evenings just hanging out with us (see my picture of her teaching us how to make waakye). Some nights she’ll join us to see the latest American movie we’re all raving about (at the beginning of the semester we managed to snag a bootleg of Inception and got to introduce her to that). Other nights she takes the time to introduce us to her favorite bits of Ghanaian culture, be it dancing or the hand games she played as a girl. I’d really love nothing more than to take Rosemary back to New York with me at the end of the semester. Unfortunately I think the TSA would find my attempts to bring a human carry-on wildly inappropriate at best. Regardless, I sincerely hope that she does make it to the States someday so that I can show her life in the states with the same enthusiasm that she has shown me life in Ghana.

He was a stout man of average height. Round, round head, round gut. His plaid shirt tucked into his jeans wrapped in a leather belt that he would grip momentarily, almost making sure it was there every few seconds. He had a smug face as if he knew something everyone else didn’t. Like “oh this is all bullshit” or “oh this is a reality show” or “oh I secretly hate you all.” Cogs and wheels clearly turned in his head discerning something different than what was coming out of his mouth. 

He was the mumbling type, he looked down when he spoke and walked around the classroom. His voice came in and out and his sentence or phrase would often finish with something that was intended to be a joke. No one got it. No one ever gets it. But he’d smirk and force out a laugh, half amused by himself, half embarrassed by it falling short.

He’s middle aged, probably, but still has a spark that’s not yet resigned and when he’d show us boring documentaries he wouldn’t pay attention either but text message on his phone. He knows quite a bit about what he is talking about but no one seems particularly interested, ever. The awkward silence often fills the classroom until someone forces out a comment. He looks disappointed because he doesn’t expect much and demands even less. He can never figure out why this happens every week, but every week it must happen.