6. Quotidian life

Bronislaw Malinowski, a founding figure in the field of anthropology, ends the first chapter of his book Argonauts of the Western Pacific1 with this quote: "The final goal ... is to grasp the native's point of view, his relation to life, to realize his vision of his world." (p25) Malinowski is particularly well known for his contributions to fieldwork. Fieldwork is to anthropology as talking is to psychoanalysis. In other words, being on sight and working hands-on with the people who are from your place of interest defines the work in a subject which the study of human kind and comparative societies consists.

I can’t say I’ve done all this in six weeks, however I can say what I have. I’ve lived in a dorm room the size of a tea kettle with my Polish roommate and a mouse. The walk to school isn’t more than twenty minutes and along the way I buy a candy bar. There is also a post office which I’ve visited and an intersection so busy I don’t dare pass it; I’ve learned to go the long way. If I weren’t poor I’d have more of a sense of humor about it, but I am and quite frankly when people say Tokyo is the most expensive city in the world, they’re down right lying.

Actually I’ve never been to Tokyo, but I’d still find it terribly hard to believe it trumps this city. In London everything costs the same as it does and then you multiply by 1.7 (which is the current exchange rate). For example an iced mocha is 2.60 and a magnet is 1.99 and a taxi is 10 but in pounds! You wouldn’t mind spending 99 pence on the candy bar on your way to school if it didn’t really translate to almost 199 US cents.

Once at school, I don’t have to worry about being broke because I’m just there for recitation and to buy a reduced-price theatre ticket that Ruth announced in her last e-mail. Faust today!? Oh great, except how do I get to her office? In the NYU in London townhouse there are way too many staircases and floors and secret portals and I’m justing taking the elevator, even if I will get a look or two when my fellow passengers realize I’m only riding up one flight. In all seriousness the townhouse, which I might say, is a lovely place to meet for class, has two stairwells and only one goes down all the way to the basement. Once upon a time “the help” I presume may have found these stairs practical towards the commute from the basement kitchen to the even the top most floors.

Some interesting history there? More to come...
              

Life in London as I know it doesn’t feel much different from the life I left in New York, aside from the lack of color in my room, the persistent cloudy days, and the walk through an actual college campus to get to class. What’s the first thing I see when I get up? The sea of whiteness that engulfed me through the night as I slept. My duvet is white. My sheets are white. My pillowcase is white. Under normal circumstances, my bed would feature an array of stripes, solids, and various shades of pink. Here, I have little choice but to accept what NYU has so lovingly provided to its students in terms of bedding.
 
Rolling out of bed, I make my way from the shower to the kitchen. Mornings aren’t the best time for creating culinary masterpieces, so I usually just grab whatever food I can muster up the energy to prepare and sit at our kitchen table that is almost as tall as me. Climbing on and off the chairs is a slight ordeal, but I’m getting better at it, seeing as how our flat has only had kitchen furniture for the past week or so. Usually, no one else is up or home by the time I arise, so I have the whole kitchen table to myself. If my laptop happens to still be present from the night before, I’ll play whatever genre of music I’m in the mood for to get my day started.
 
My favorite seat at the table is the one that faces the window, as pictured above. Pulling up the blinds, I usually see a sky filled with grey clouds. On the occasional day, there’ll be bright rays of sun; those are the days I like best. Our kitchen window looks down a narrow street that is quite busy with pedestrians in the morning. People watching from my kitchen has become one of my favorite morning activities. I haven’t really seen any people I recognize and enjoy following on a daily basis yet, but perhaps soon I’ll be able to tell the mulling people apart. Without a clock in the kitchen, I usually waste a lot of time just sitting there, which in turn forces me to rush to get to class.
 
I’m not picky about what I wear, so getting dressed in the morning isn’t a big ordeal. I throw on what I think I want to wear or what’s suitable for the weather outside and head out the door. Heading to school from Guilford Street, you make a right, right, left, right, left, and right to get to the Birkbeck campus where NYU London holds its classes. Everyone says that Birkbeck is typically a night school, but then where do all the students and bikes come from during the days? The walk itself isn’t very long, 15 minutes tops if you’re strolling, and there’s usually nothing exciting going on, but on rare occasions, you’ll spot a familiar face and have an excuse to take even longer getting to class.
 
Classes here are probably the biggest change for me compared to what I’ve grown accustomed to. They meet once a week here for three hours. That means, on the days I actually have class, I’m stuck within the confines of a classroom for more time, but on a weekly basis, I have a lot more free time to explore the city and do as I please. Classes here also cap at 25 students, with many of them having fewer than 20 and the smallest one reportedly having just 2. Thus, by the third week, I knew about every one in all my classes already. Even with less time spent in class, I still find myself doing a lot of work and having chapters to read and papers to write. I guess that’s one thing I shouldn’t have expected to change.

It’s strange to think that Accra has become my reality. I walk on dirt roads, pee in urinal gutters and buy coconuts off the street without thinking twice. These small details which seemed so significant before I arrived are now so commonplace. A day in the life of Leilah in Ghana begins with an alarm clock, like anywhere else. I wake up on Thursday mornings for my Africana Music and Dance class, a class I am taking from one of the local universities. I walk the dirt road to class, passing by the many Ghanaians by the road who love to wave and say hello, testing me on my knowledge of Twi.

After class my friend and I prepare our usual breakfast. Before arriving home we stop at the produce lady, who has a beard and sells fruit from a stand on the corner. We buy avocados, onions, and many types of fruit, particularly pineapple – lots and lots of pineapple. We walk home and prepare the best breakfast ever – eggs sandwiches on pita with cheese, avocado, onions and hot sauce. We wash it down with a smoothie so delicious it makes everything else taste like tar – a perfect combination of pineapple, juices, ice, bananas, coconut, and ginger.

Granted the water in my house is working (something that should never be taken for granted), I take a shower and get ready for the rest of my day. Thursdays are the days I go to community service. My two closest friends and I work at City of Refuge, and orphanage for trafficked children. It’s a long commute and very tiring, but the experience is well worth it. We leave our dorm at 12:00. We walk to Labone Junction a two-minute walk from where we live to get in a shared taxi to 37 Junction. The shared taxi rate is only 60 peswas per person to 37 Junction, where we get out of the taxi and into a tro-tro. NYU warned us to avoid tro-tros, but honestly speaking they are my favorite more of transportation. A tro-tro is basically a small van that travels between the many junctions. A tro-tro from 37 to Tema costs 2 cedi and 30 peswas per person - a sweet deal for an hour long ride. Once we arrive in Tema we have to hire another taxi to take us to City of Refuge.

The school day is usually coming to a close by the time we get there. We spend the rest of the day playing football (yes, that means soccer) and board games and generally just running around a screaming with the kids. It makes my day. By the end of the day, we’re tired and hungry. We get home just in time for our NYU meal plan group dinner at our favorite restaurant, Sunshine Salads. We all hop in the van and head home, bellies stuffed with samosas, rice, salad, and curry. Homework and drinking make up the rest of my night. Another great day in Accra. 

Living in Ghana, or Accra I should say, I am confronted with contradictions and new glimpses of realities I never knew existed on a regular basis. Take my house for example; you walk in to an enormous marbled living/ dining room with two huge air conditioner units, floor to ceiling sliding doors and a personal washer-dryer for my housemates and me. Yes, I too was stunned by all this when I first arrived here, having had expected to live in a mud hut for the duration of my semester abroad. I did not think I would live in a house so nice and luxurious as this one appeared. However, I quickly learned to lower my expectations about my daily life in Ghana. The shiny marble floors soon became so covered in dust that I rarely let my bare feet graze them. The air conditioners are nice…when there isn’t a power outage and the sliding glass doors don’t really do much sliding with the metal gates they have locked on to prevent people breaking in to our home.
 
My house, which I have grown to love despite its handicaps, is just a 10 minute walk to the NYU academic center. I like how simple the center is; a computer lab and one classroom downstairs and a library, photo printing room and a second classroom upstairs. Ashesi University, a small Ghanaian college where I am taking a class, is the equivalent of two blocks away from the center.
 
Just around the corner in the other direction is Central Point, my favorite spot to grab a beer with some friends. I had never seen any place like Central Point before coming to Africa. It is literally a slab of pavement on the side of a road with some plastic chairs around a few plastic tables. You simply hiss (a customary way of getting someone’s attention in Africa) and Mary, a girl around 15 years old will run to our table from the shed across the street with beers in her little plastic basket. A 24oz Star or Club beer costs 2 cedi (about $1.40) which makes me very happyJ
 
For food, I heavily rely on the abundance of produce stands/ women with baskets of food on their heads walking around. I’ve already talked about the fresh coconuts for 50 peswas (less than 50 cents!!) and the amazing Ghanaian pineapples that are so sweet and cost around 1 cedi for a big one (that’s like 70 cents) I’m not even really sure what the prices of these would be back home because I try to eat locally but I can only imagine the ridiculous New York prices. That being said, I am loading up on my share of pineapples and coconuts (and soon mangos!) while I can. Aside from the fruit I eat pretty much the same cheap, basic things (oatmeal, vegetables and tons rice) as I do back home. There are a few substitutions, like instead of kale I’ve been getting yam leaves, which cost 50 peswas for a huge bunch. Also, if I’m in a hurry I pick up some grilled yams or plantains from the side of the road which cost anywhere from 20 to 50 peswas depending on the size. NYU has eat on a mandatory meal plan for dinner Monday through Friday. We eat at Tante Marie which serves traditional Ghanaian food (lots of rice, plantain and yam based food, a ton of oily deep fried things) Two nights a week we eat at Sunshine Salads which has really good salads, Lebanese/ Indian/ African-take-on-American cuisine. Ok, now I am hungry…

One important lifestyle change here is the drinking culture. Not only is the drinking age 18, but even the way people spend their time drinking is different. In the U.S. it is common for people under 21 to get drunk instead of just having one or two of something. Here, the different drinking setting available, a pub, is much more casual and less likely to be full of drunk people. Not that people don’t get drunk, but it’s more of an after work hang out. Pubs are social places where you can have a pint with a friend or meet new people. Bartenders are especially nice here and are always willing to make a drink selection or tell you about the local nightlife. It’s easier for students here to develop somewhat healthier drinking habits because they don’t feel the weight of a law they’re breaking. Although, this is a generalization, it feels like British kids are much better adjusted to drinking because it’s not some taboo subject here.
 
Pubs all have different décor and atmospheres. Some, like The Rocket, are similar to bars in New York – loud with tons of people, usually student age, dancing and drinking. They almost have the feeling of a club. But more common, are the classic pubs – tending to be more mellow with an older set of customers. There’s basically one of these on every street corner, and all of them have funny or noble names. One of my favorites is the Princess Louise. It has a giant bar in the middle with passageways all around leading to separate rooms. It also boasts some of the cheapest beer in London. One inconvenient thing about these traditional pubs though, is that they close at 11. There are always other places to go, but it’s rare to find somewhere as relaxed as these pubs to hang out in after hours. A lot of pubs and clubs also target students with cheap drink student nights where they’re guaranteed to get a lot of people. These nights are always really crowded, but a great place to meet people. They hold quiz nights and karaoke too. And let me tell you, British people love their karaoke. People who are usually reserved become outgoing and friendly. They love to sing American songs too. I love the easy-going going out scene here and wish New York could be more like it. I think I’m going to be really annoyed when I get back, and I can’t just go into a bar and order a pint. 

How is my life in London different from my life in New York?

It's definitely more expensive.  It's hard not to start thinking of pounds as dollars, because everything's priced that way- until it hits you that you just spent nine bucks on a drink that in New York would have cost four. Thank God nobody tips here; not in cabs, not in restaurants, not in bars... even if I spend twice as much money in London, that at least helps ease my burden. In America, I'm a gross over-tipper; if people did tip here, I'd be one embarassingly stingy mofo.

I drink WAY more here than I do at home. I think part of that's the culture, part of its that my roomate's Russian, and part of it's that I don't have class on thursday or friday.  My drink of choice as of late is a bottled cider, available at Tesco, with an 8.3% alc per volume content.  That means I'm drunk after only three drinks and five pounds. Excellent.

There's a movie theatre here called the Curzon where I've been spending a lot of my time.  My best friend in London's a cinema studies major, so she's always showing me trailers for independent movies I would never know about otherwise.  Some are amazing; some are terrible.  But it's always a fun way to spend a saturday afternoon; grab a macaroon and a coffee, watch the movie, talk it over at the bar after while you have a drink and people-watch.

I'm taking a class called "Reporting The Arts" which entails going to the theatre every thursday, then writing reviews of what we've seen over the weekend.  It's great because that's something I would never do on my own time, and it's really opened me up to a new interest.  My proffessor always chooses incredibly different performances to attend from week to week; one thursday it's a Noel Coward Play, the next a West End Musical, the next an avant-garde Icelandic theatre troup's rendition of Faust.

Speaking of classes. They are once a week, but are also three hours long.  This would be much more tolerable if it was easier to find a decent coffee in London; sadly, I've yet to find one in the vicinity of my classes. I made the mistake of taking two literature classes, The English Novel in The Ninteenth Century and Writing London.  Writing London's a misleading title; it should be called Reading London.

Anyway, that means its not uncommon for me to have to read two novels per week. My English Novel in The Ninteeth Century proffessor's idea of a quiz is reading aloud random quotes from the text and asking us to identify who said this to who when in the 300 page novel. Speaking of which, Dickens is calling my name. Cheers.

( The picture above was taken by my roomate one frumpy sunday afternooon when I was doing laundry, eating cereal, and reading Wuthering Heights.)

For those of you who aren’t studying abroad in Florence, here is a little breakdown of the NYU layout. The campus (which is an absolutely gorgeous 57-some-odd acre private villa) is tucked away on the outskirts of the city. A short bus ride away, but for students like me who are too broke/cheap to spring for the 23 euro monthly student bus pass (which I think is probably just me because every time I tell someone I don’t have a bus pass they seem incredulous), it can be hellish.
 
It’s about a 40-minute walk, but it includes the most annoying intersections and half of the trek is a pretty intense uphill schlep. And to add insult to injury, once you get on campus there is an infamous hill that every student must climb to get to class every day. I swear that thing is 60 degrees up and down. The only thing scarier than climbing it is worrying about falling down it.
 
But hey, I make it sound like the end of the world. It really isn’t that bad once you get used to it. Plus it helps me justify the daily gelato trips and all the pasta carbs. It only really has me cursing the heavens on rainy days or days where I get followed or verbally molested on the way to class. But I am used to that by now.
 
Now for something that sounds a little less whiney. Grocery shopping in Italy is, for lack of more eloquent phrasing, the best thing ever. I love trying to figure out what things are. However, sometimes this does not work out to my advantage. For example, I once brought home a head of lettuce and made an epic salad with it, only to take the first bite and realize that it was cabbage. I of course (remember, broke and cheap) couldn’t just throw it out though, so I’ve been having really …interesting cabbage salads for the past couple of weeks. I must say though, I’ve grown rather fond of them.
 
I also love just how fresh everything is here. I am addicted to the mozzarella. I’m not even a cheese person, but I’ve been substituting mozzarella for every condiment that Italy doesn’t have. It’s my substitute for mayonnaise, which has been working out pretty well so far. Everything is just so much BETTER over here. It’s going to be a struggle going back to American fruits and veggies. And a lot of things are cheaper because they’re made here, like awesome bread and prosciutto. However, for the peanut butter addicts on my floor they were all quite devastated when they had to begrudgingly buy 5 euro tiny containers of Skippy. But all in all, Italian grocery shopping is my favorite pastime. That and mandatory hiking.

(Photo taken by meeee)

After six weeks, I still can’t believe I’m living in London. I have adjusted much quicker than I expected to and have already settled into a comfortable routine similar to that back in New York, but there are still plenty of spontaneous events and surprises going on that keep you on your toes.
 
I am fortunate enough to live in a fantastic renovated building (one of NYU’s new dorms) located on one of the most prestigious blocks in Central London. Byron Court dates back to the 1800s. My ground floor flat is very spacious with a fully stocked kitchen, bathroom, and once a week cleaning services.  The room has two floor to ceiling windows and I share it with my fantastic roommate. There are only three of us living in our flat, which is meant for five (we got extremely lucky).
 
Most mornings, I have a bowl of Frosties a.k.a. British Frosted Flakes, get ready, and take the shortcut to wherever it is I’m going. Frosties and everything else you can possibly think of are significantly more expensive in London than they are in New York. However, there are a few things that are relatively the same price, such as the tube and deli sandwiches. Apart from the ridiculous and steep prices of some things, there is a beautiful thing called Tesco, a popular grocery chain that makes me feel a little less guilty about living in London.
 
Oftentimes, I’ll grab lunch between classes at Tesco. Classes are held in Birkbeck College, which is only about a 15-minute walk (7-minutes, if I wake up at 10:02am when class starts at 10:00am). British students don’t start classes until early October, so up until now the college has been relatively empty. It’s a pretty campus, but nothing too eye catching. The NYU in London Academic Center on the other hand is fantastic.
 
The Academic Center is around the corner from the British Museum and located in Bedford Square, which has a private garden in the middle of the square. Students can access the garden by checking out a key at the front desk. I’ve only been in there once, but it’s beautiful. The building itself is a renovated house that was the central house of the square. The grand staircase is elaborate, but the basement is like a labyrinth. Because it used to be the kitchen and servant area, it’s very small and narrow. The Academic Center is basically a student center. There are classrooms, study lounges, computer labs, vending machines, and even the mailroom is in there.
 
When I’m not studying, I’m usually out or hanging out in the dorms. The Rocket is a popular bar for students here, but I spend most of my time on Oxford St.  Shopping here is awesome, especially the flagship Topshop here with it’s 10% student discount. If you’re a fan of the one in New York, come to London! Even if you aren’t, come anyway because this place is amazing.

My every day has changed since I got here. My first two weeks were drastically different than what has become my quotidian. The first two weeks I would bar hop trying my best to be the good hedonist I imagined myself to be. Then one Monday night, my friend invited me to take a tango class with her. We hopped in a taxi and rushed to the microcenter to make it in time for our  class. The micro center is the business district and much like Midtown, nonone under the age of 25 wishes it upon themself to wander through Calle Florida or follow the working crowds as they rush to return home. That night it was raining and the cab driver, per the usual antics, dropped us off on a distant corner close to Maipu, but not exactly on Maipu. Unfamiliar in concrete jungle of downtown, we waded through puddles and finally found discarded glass entrance that would go unnoticed if it weren't for the neon sign announcing the Quilmes sponsored restaraunt next door. 

We rang the bell with anticipation. Laughing nervously as "adelante" rang through the voicebox and we were granted access into the cold marble building. Up the elevator, a doorbell later, and we were safely tucked away in "El Estudio", and what we would later find out to be one of the most prestigious dance studios run by two famous maestros Fernanda & Vilma. The beginning class is taught by two of their most prized students Flor and Carlos. By luck, we had showed up at the beginning of a class that was just starting another round of courses. Our fellow practees are in the early 60's, Gloria from Spain, and her husband Jorge, a short, balding professor of literature. That first night was concentrated on the beginning steps: walking, chest forward, "el abrazo" or the hug, the dance, and the differences in music. I left on a tango-high filled only with dreams of  songs of Carlos Gardel. 

 For each night there is a different milonga, but each week is comprised of the same schedules. There is even "after milongas" which only the real devotees go to dance with the same people that have won Tango competitions throughout the world. I always feel like an foreign invader, priveliged to see some of the most passionate well heeled dancers that continue to step on the hole ridden floors throughout buildings in Buenos Aires.  It feels like part of this intimate club, that meets in secret only to be lost on the chaotic streets. I always think that if I saw some of these people on the streets, one would never know how well they move their feet or how they hold their partners hand. Carlos once told me "Tango is a drug, and I have to confess I'm an addict." 

. My day time prowess is spent at a few select places. My favorite thing about cities is that however anonymous you may feel, your corner stores or your restaurants always know you. You can't hide in your favorite booth or your neighborhood laundry mat. However foreign you may feel, you are familiar to them. I enjoy finding those places in New York, but their is nothing like the comfort they provide while abroad. I love my laundry mat here, 16 pesos no matter what the weight. She knows my name, gives me a friendly hello, but the only problem is she doesn't separate the colors and I have been finding blue detergent stains on my clothes. I actually have been having some difficulty with the guys at the corner Kiosk. They are never as friendly as they should be, and I find myself internally screaming "BUT IM A REGULAR" can't you just give me like a fucking free piece of candy, for once? That relationship is somewhat estranged... Another one of my "regular" spots, is this health food store right by school. They are progressive for the neighborhood, and really for Buenos Aires in that matter, specializing in health food and doubling as a new-age cultural center. I stop by everyday to get a fresh smoothie and chat with the counter girl. I have to admit at force I had to force our relationship a bit, make her realllllyyyy believe that I was determined to become a regular. Now I get free sugar free brownies, which are pretty crap but hey I am definitely not complaining. 

I wake to the sound of my roommates Wind ringtone as his alarm rings from his phone, reminding him of his 9:00am class. The next noise I become conscious of is the frequent buzzing of motorini (mopeds) as they whip by directly underneath our windows. I unlatch the glass pane to gain access to the wooden shudders. Swinging them open, I see the red tile roof of the apartment opposite ours and beyond that, blue sky. The streets are so narrow that the only view I am offered beyond this is seen by sticking my head out the window to look down the street.
 
Nights are cool in October and without the shudders in to block its way, the cold breeze rushes in. It’s pleasant. It helps to remove me from my fog and makes the room feel instantly fresh.
 
I walk across the entryway to the kitchen where I find the percolator in the cabinet. I unscrew the two pieces and fill the device with both water and Pellini Top coffee. Shortly after being placed on the stove, while I am pouring a bowl of Weetabix cereal, I hear coffee beginning to steam up and fill the room with aroma.
 
I don’t have class until noon. Usually, I fill my morning with homework or reading as I drink my coffee. If not, this provides the perfect time to head to the market to purchase groceries.  Only a few blocks away, the uneven cobblestone streets are calm in the morning until, I round the corner exposing the market. Swamped with customers filling the narrow isles between clothing and vegetable stands all peace is lost as I enter the covered area where vendors set up.  
 
I speak up to get a vegetable vendor’s attention and point to the bell peppers I would like. He smiles, places them in a bag and rings me up hurriedly, already on his way to the next customer. Just like in the supermarket, people gently push each other out of the way. Here, it isn’t considered rude, just necessary to get where you need to be.
 
On the walk home I’m careful of my footing on the cracked and uneven roads. Via Ghibellina, my street, still lies where it has since before the 13th century. I ponder what it must have looked like and what kind of vehicles (certainly not the bright orange electric buses of today) travelled its length. I open the ancient wooden door to my apartment and step over the high, marble threshold into the hallway marked by an arch bearing the Medici cross. An hour until class, I have just enough time to grab my books and head for the bus.

-picture of the market in the evening after vendors have packed up and the doors have been locked.

What to write about for Quotidian Life? I've already talked about grocery shopping. I considered writing about cobblestone streets in the rain. Or the magnificent public transportation system. Prague's lack of wheelchair accessible buildings, lack of wheelchairs, and abundance of old people with crutches. I could write about the residential blocks and their gardens, or the city spires at night. But I think I'm going to write about bathrooms.

Specifically, women's bathrooms since that's where my experience is. And even more specifically, the signs on the doors to the women's bathrooms.

Before coming to Prague, I was told that the Czechs typically have a fairly traditional view of women and our role in society. Since Prague is a major urban center, I haven't encountered this too much, but I'm not about to say that it's an incorrect statement. In our first week here, one of the Czech students I spoke with--a fantastic Mr. Feminist if ever I met one--told me about his female friend at university. He told me about how smart and hard-working she is, but then he expressed concern about her chances of getting a career. At first I thought he meant that there was discrimination in the hiring process. As he continued, however, I realized that he was refering to the chances of her wanting to pursue a career. He explained that many women complete multiple levels of higher education but that most of them then go and get married and become housewives. Not that there's anything wrong with this, but that they think this is what they are supposed to want and so they waste the opportunities that their education gives them.

Whether he was right or not, I really cannot say. After that conversation, though, I started to look for signals of how Czechs view women. Well. After some puzzlement over the lack of wedding rings (it turns out that the rings can be worn on either hand but are most frequently not worn at all), I realized that there were very blatant clues about how women are viewed and that I was seeing these clues in bars, restaurants, shops, and hotels on a daily basis. I'm talking about the signs on the doors to the women's rooms. I've seen wooden, metal, and paint. I've seen old women and young women, fat and skinny, clothed and nude...Sometimes they carry umbrellas. Sometimes they carry beer bottles. Of couse, the image reflects the views of the establishment rather than the views of the country, but it's a good place to start. I've started a photo-series and have about 11 pictures so far. It's difficult, though. Bringing one's camera to the bathroom is generally a social taboo...

Whether you're living in Berlin for a semester or New York City for ten years, a great way to get a new perspective on your city is just to get up earlier.  The world looks different at 8:00 in the morning than it does at 10:00, and it's usually worth the extra effort to just cut your snoozing a little short.  

 

On Sunday night my internet at home wasn't working, so I had to go to school early Monday morning to read an article before my 9:30 class.  (Don't judge me for procrastinating - we were all in Hamburg for the weekend!)  So I woke up at 7:00 and actually left my apartment by 7:30, following the same routine of any school day:  

As pictured above, I turn my iPod to my walking playlist - a mixture of Billy Joel and the Glee soundtrack - and make my way to the U-Bahn stop at Heinrich Heine Straße.  It's two stops on the U8 to Alexanderplatz, where I have to run through the station and catch the U2 and ride another two stops until the line ends at Senefelderplatz (a huge construction project, which I will never see finished, is blocking the rest of the line).  From there, I shuffle with the rest of the crowds up the stairs to the side walk, take a look at the distant Fernsehturm while I cross the street, and walk two blocks down to the academic center in the Kulturebrauerei complex.  The whole commute takes between 20 and 30 minutes, and I do everything in reverse after class to get home.  

 

Monday was the same-old same-old, but subtly and surprisingly different.  The people on the train actually seemed more awake and better dressed than usual, because most of them were on their way to work.  The young women were wearing collared shirts and checking their cell phones instead of pushing strollers, and the men were wearing suits and standing as they rode, rather than wearing sweatshirts and slouching in the seats.  Everyone seemed friendlier too: I had skipped breakfast, and the woman in the train station was less business-like and more smiley as she sold me my chocolate croissant.  

 

Speaking of croissants, fresh baked goods are another magical advantage to getting up early: that chocolate croissant was still warm and made me wonder why I don't wake up at 7:00 every morning.  

 

As I made the final leg of my journey, I watched a delivery man unload his truck and wheel a crate of packaged food into a convenience store.  He was just restocking the shelves, exactly like I had seen so many delivery trucks do in New York, but it was a striking reminder of home.  If you walk around the Village before 9:00, you'll see the countless shops opening their doors and windows and a truck on every block delivering shipments of whatever those stores are selling.  It was comforting to catch that delivery man in action and realize that cities may look different early in the morning, but they're all similar to each other.  I was just going about my business, but I caught a glimpse of the quotidian routines that keep Berlin running, a scene that I might probably have never seen or thought about otherwise.

My apartment here is actually not that much of a change from my old one in the East Village—it’s newly renovated, so it’s (unfortunately) not a gorgeous, old Parisian apartment (like most of my friends have). It’s definitely comfortable, though—my room is a bit bigger than my old room in New York, it fits a full size bed, a desk, and a gorgeous old armoire. I have a cute window box with (dying) flowers and detailed trim on the edge of the ceiling (my Dad’s a builder and would tell me when I was little that detailed trim always indicates a building that probably won’t fall apart too quickly). I’m on the 4th (really 5th) floor, and there’s a tiny one/ two person elevator I can take if I don’t feel like walking up the stairs. The toilet and shower/ sink are separate, which is the standard for any French abode. It’s a bit awkward at first—the toilet is next to the kitchen and the sink is on the other side of the living room so you have to walk through it to wash your hands. I live with a French man from Marseille, who is 28 and has lived here for 7 years or so. He plays jazz Piano and is currently in Hong Kong to play a few shows (and just got signed to a label on the day of his birthday last week). He’s a really down to earth guy, and is quite a good cook (well, relative to what I’m used to seeing of guys I hang out with in New York) but keeps almost no food in the fridge, and is a bit unkempt—the paint in the bathroom is peeling and sort of looks moldy from the steam of past showers, I discovered maggots in an old glass jar of granola (I think it used to be granola?), and there’s often a week old pot of white rice hardening in the fridge. Ok, this is all true, but I think sounds a lot worse than it is. The apartment is nice—and I’m a huge fan of how environmentally friendly the buildings are here. He never leaves the lights on when not in a room (as with almost every other French person), the lights in the staircases of every building are timed (I could never see that happening in Manhattan—that’d be some sort of lawsuit waiting to happen or something), people rarely plastic bags to grocery shop or to store food in. Plastic is barely used here, just glass—which again, I really love—it just makes more sense, it’s less wasteful—and there’s no individual size bottled water to be spoken of. They’re just way less wasteful here, in the everyday details (I should’ve noted each thing when I came, because now odd little things I noticed in the first few weeks are just starting to seem normal).

I live an hour from class—but I actually like the distance. I’m probably in the coolest area of Paris—near the Bastille, in the 11th arr, where I’m a ten minute walk from Oberkampf, a good place to go out at night. I’m also right near Belleville, a very diverse neighborhood north of the 11th, where a lot of artists live. Everything around me is way cheaper than where most of my friends live, there’s every store I could ever want to go to within a five minute walk of me, and one of the best outdoor markets (marche d’aligre) in Paris across the street from me, which is open every morning, as well as a “Bio” store, where I can buy vegan food (i.e. fake butter or veggie burgers) if I want to. Anyhow, I take the metro to school—there’s probably a faster way to get there, but I’d have to transfer a lot, among the rush hour crowd, so I prefer to walk to the Charonne 9 metro stop and take it all the way to school—the La Muette 9 stop. I have a navigo, an unlimited metro pass (so I can take the metro just about everywhere, as often as I want). If I get on the metro before 8h15, I can usually grab a seat; then I listen to music and read the end of a Lit class reading on the way to school. If I don’t get a seat, it’s pretty awful, because I have to stand for 45 minutes, crushed by surrounding warm Parisian bodies on the violently jerking train. But I also only have class on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9h, so it’s really not that horrible (and then 16h on Wednesdays and that’s it; I have a great class schedule). I also know I would be late for class every day if I lived close by, because my morning, sleeping logic would tell me I could get dressed and to class in ten minutes, when in reality it’d probably take twice as long. I tend to “rely on smooth scenarios in which accidents or unforeseen problems never occur.” (Surowiecki; great article I read yesterday in the New Yorker on procrastination) At least now I know that if I don’t leave by 8h10, I will definitely be late to class—no guessing: 8h10 or I’ll be late.

My day at school typically involves me strolling into NYU’s gorgeous maison, with several cobblestoned courtyards, surrounded by old Parisian buildings clad with flower window boxes and vines. The pictures on the study abroad site do it no justice, I am going to have to take some photos before it turns to winter. The school is in the Passy neighborhood, the 16th arr, which is really a pretty boring neighborhood—Parisians reaction to when I tell them the neighborhood of my school is—“Passy? Oh god, that’s trop chère and only old, rich, retired people live there, and it’s just a horribly boring neighborhood in general, far from everything.” If there wasn’t a great fruit market and Italian restaurant across the street from school, I’d probably hate it too—but it’s ok, just very out of the way from everything in Paris, and yes, definitely expensive and boring. Anyway, NYU has a main building, where most classes are held—with a basement library (nothing compared to Bobst, of course… I surprisingly miss that place even though I used to have to not only go there to study but also for my student job), a lounge on the first floor with couches and round table, and an awkward coffee machine with powdered espresso (which I refuse to purchase on the principal that there’s a boulangerie across the street that—although more expensive—has way better espresso and I can interact with a French person rather than a machine while buying un café emporter) and soup. There’s also a wonderful petit maison where my French class is held, and it has beautifully vibrant green framed windows.

As for all my other everyday habits—I haven’t really slipped into a routine yet. In New York I never really have a routine anyway, because I am always sleep deprived and overworked, but here I am trying to feel it out first, and then will hopefully get into a practical routine (but not so predictable that I never see new places or people). After classes, I’ve tended to hang around NYU, hoping the internet will work (and it never does, despite my having dragged my macbook to Passy—the printers rarely work too… I’m not complaining, really, I just find it amusing that it’s just not really a concern or priority here), while sort of doing homework but also lingering with friends and deciding when to get my next coffee. I smoke a lot more here, unfortunately—which is what I find myself doing as afternoons turn into evenings here, if I am amoung friends. I really don’t smoke cigarettes in New York, and it doesn’t really appeal to me too much in New York, but here, there’s just something about sitting at a café and drinking espresso and smoking a cigarette—I know it may seem silly and even stupid, but I rarely indulge in anything so obviously frivolous, so here I’ve chosen this vice. Anyway, cigarettes are a lot less expensive here—usually four or five euro. Coffee is about the same price as in New York, but of better quality, and I actually drink less despite the fact that a lot of my day is spent sipping espresso at cafés (in New York I used to drink anywhere from four to six or seven shots of espresso a day—via Americanos, etc—here I just have two or so, one espresso per café visit… sorry, for the lengthy discussion, I really like my coffee). As for the cost of food—well I could go into depth about this, but because the French actually eat whole foods, as in not packaged or processed—and because most food can be grown in France or just south of France or on a French island—good, healthy food here is so, so much cheaper. I used to buy figs every morning (now they’re going out of season)— a whole box of them, with about eight or nine gorgeous figs, for 2 euro. Their fruit is unbelievable here, and way cheaper than the US. Packaged food is harder to find, and is really expensive (as it should be)—so prices for food are sort of flip-flopped (also due to US subsidies on corn and soy which is in almost all of our food except plain veggies and fruit). I could buy a weeks worth of groceries for 20 euro here, the equivalent of which would probably cost 70 dollars in the US, and the food here would be of way better quality. I literally have bought more than enough vegetables and fruit to last me almost two weeks, and it was less than 20 euro. So, you’d think it’d be less expensive for me to live here, but I can’t resist the temptation of restaurants here, so I actually spend a lot more on a weekly basis. Also, along with the food, the wine here is quite wonderful. The cheapest wine at the Franprix near me (equivalent to a NY bodega) is of better quality than 20 dollar wine in New York.

Other than eating and going to school, I spend more time here with friends than I do in New York. Usually I don’t see many people on week days in New York, I just go home and do homework by myself, but here I tend to study at my friends apartments and make big meals with them, and try to explore a new place in Paris every other day or so. I also wander around my area a lot, aimlessly, exploring. Weekends have tended to consist of a balance of sightseeing and going out to eat or to bars (which often aren’t at all worth going to). After a month here, I’ve finally made Parisian friends, and I went to my friend’s show (he plays bass in a band) the other night, which is more along the lines of what I do in New York on weekends—and it was really awesome to see a small band here play in contrast to small bands in Brooklyn. There is some sort of music scene here, but it’s more centered on jazz, and is not as “hip” as the Brooklyn music scene that I’m usually around, so the shows I’ve seen here are a lot less jaded and apathetic. People actually dance. Bands are super enthusiastic and pumped to be on stage, and are unabashedly sentimental. I’m not saying one is better than another, it’s just quite interesting to see the contrast and to theorize why each scene has evolved to the way they are in relation to the cities they are in.

Anyway, I often miss how easy it is to have a good night out in New York—because a lot of the nights here (not as much lately) have been disasters since we don’t know where to go and what to do and usually end up a place where there are mostly Americans (and sleazy French people) and therefore don’t meet cool Parisians (which is not so secretly everyone’s goal here) and end up spending too much money, and often end up without a way home (because the metro closes at 1h30-- also, I've been harassed almost every weekend night I've walked home, even if it's only midnight or so, that's also something I miss about New York, I am never bothered when walking around late at night. A few days ago, a man wouldn't stop following my friend and I, and literally grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go when I told him to stop (in French and English). A lot of French seem to unquestionably believe stereotypes about American girls...) But of course, in any new place, an adjustment period to daily life should be expected. Hopefully the coming months will consist of my making more French friends (I’m being optimistic here)—I feel like that’s the easiest way to understand their culture and definitely the best way to improve my French.


(photo by me)

Most mornings I find myself pretty early. On a rare occasion I manage to sleep in until 10:30, a stark contrast to my life in New York when I could easily sleep past noon if I’d been up late the night before. Despite this sudden trend towards being an early riser I still use the alarm on my cell phone to ensure I’m ready in time for classes. The alarm is thoroughly ridiculous, each weekday I awake to “It’s time to wake up! The time is 8:30! It’s time to wake up!” While I found this generally quirky and amusing for the first few weeks the novelty has now worn off so I tend to find myself grumpily mumbling “I know. Shut up.” as I climb down from my top bunk to turn it off.

Once I’ve made it out of bed and gotten myself ready for the day the walk to class from my dorm takes about 15 minutes. I’ve become quite used to the route now but I initially had to use a series of random landmarks to make my way there each morning (for the record, it’s a left at the Winnie the Pooh mural, a right at the Islamic center, a right at the random cornfield, and a left at the part of the open sewer that has a giant watermelon painted on it.) This particular approach is how I find my way to most things in Ghana. Ghanaians have mostly rejected the idea of street names and give directions based almost entirely on landmarks and I’ve adjusted accordingly.

Most of the time I either greet or respond to the greetings of at least half the people I see as I proceed along my walk. Usually this consists of the typical “Hello, how are you?” kind of scenario. Sometimes I’ll run across someone who wants to test me a little and will run through the whole exchange in Twi and they’re often very pleased when I can manage the proper response. From time to time I’ll stop along the way to grab myself a snack. Sometimes I’ll go to one of the women with fruit stands along the road and have them cut me up a delicious pineapple for only 1 cedi (about 70 cents) Other times I’ll go the less dignified route and chase after one of the honking sound of a fanice man to buy one of the little plastic pouches of ice cream that they sell out of coolers attached to their bikes. Fanice makes for a particularly sweet treat since it only costs 40 pesewas (a little less than 30 cents).

More often than not my days wind up being pretty full. Whether it be classes, my internship, hitting the gym, or lunch plans at one of the local restaurants that have now come to expect to occasionally be taken over by random groups of obronis, I tend to be out and about until early evening. This leaves me with a little time to relax and get some homework done before the vans come to pick us up for dinner. We’re all required to have a meal plan and dinner alternates between two restaurants every other night. Unfortunately, I’m a very picky eater so I tend to wind up rather disappointed by the dinner options although they’re frequently very satisfying to my less choosy classmates. After dinner we’ll pile into the vans where we’ll return to the dorms to either spend the evening doing homework or collectively procrastinating. Naturally, my favorite nights are based around collective procrastination whether we head out to one of the local bars or simply sit around chatting on one of the porches. By the end of the night I fall into bed exhausted and try to prepare myself for the moment when I’ll once again be awakened by that strange british woman’s voice.

Photo by me.

Wednesday! A good day—the best school day. It directly follows my arch nemesis, Tuesday, and leads to a long, but decent Thursday. Usually on a Wednesday I get up at 10 or 11:30. I get dressed and navigate my labyrinthine apartment to find something for breakfast. When I leave the apartment I grab some bags of trash (even though I live with twelve other girls, most of them don’t seem to have any domestic sensibilities…they never clean their dishes or take out the trash, it’s a delight) and descend the stairs. These stairs deserve some mention. I live on the sixth floor of a sixth floor walk up (that’s the seventh floor to you Americans), meaning twelve flights up or down. Up is awful.
 
So down the stairs I go and into a sea of tourists. I walk through the Piazza della Repubblica (the center of Florence, and the home to a bright and shiny carousel) and circumnavigate the Duomo. I continue up the street, passing the Piazza San Marco, where saner NYU students opt to take the bus directly to campus. I, however, am too cool for the bus, so I keep walking. Eventually I get to the twin arches and giant traffic circle of Piazza della Libertà, then the quaint Ponte Rosso. Then! It’s the worst part of the journey. Via Bolognese. This street is a winding, uphill nightmare, and at number 106 sits the NYU campus. And when I get to Villa Natalia, after a total of forty-five minutes walking, there is one final task: cross the valley of death. Newcomers to NYU in Florence are constantly cautioned that injuries are highly possible on the trek from the campus entrance to the classroom building.
 
By the time I get to my Italian class, I’m most likely out of breath. Italian’s an okay class where I’m inevitably bored, but I get to show off my grammar skills. One day, even though the class is called Advanced Review, I’d like to get past the reviewing.
 
Now if it’s a particularly good Wednesday, this means I get to spend my time after class in a shed. This shed, dubbed the “music cottage,” has a piano in it and is therefore the best shed ever. Playing the piano is one of the most gratifying and wonderful things I do. I love it.
 
At last I walk home and up those godforsaken stairs. I make myself dinner, watch some TV, and wait for my boyfriend to wake up in his time zone so we can talk online. Then, because I’m going to be a renaissance master one day, I whip out my silverpoint and copy a drawing for my morning class on Thursday. Finally I shower and retire to my bed.
 
And thus is Wednesday.

(Note: All of the photographs I post--past, present, and future--are taken by me. This one is the view outside my living room window.)