Programme du jour : Ecole, et début de semaine “Maman”.

Papa entre dans ma chambre à 6h45. J’ouvre les yeux et lui fais un grand sourire. Je m’habille toute seule, nous descendons prendre notre petit déjeuner, et à 7h15 nous partons pour l’école dans la joie et la bonne humeur.

Nous arrivons 10 minutes plus tard, et Papa m’accompagne jusqu’au réfectoire. On peut y prendre un petit déj… Il commande un café, et nous nous partageons un croissant au miel et un jus d’orange ! Je trouve ça très sympa !

7h45, il est maintenant temps d’entrer en classe (Maternelle Moyenne Section). Un gros câlin à Papa, je me lave les mains et c’est parti pour une bonne journée.

Maman et Damien viennent me chercher à l’école un peu avant 17h, je suis un peu déçue de ne pas pouvoir jouer avec mes copains. Une fois sortie de l’école, nous allons faire une petite virée au Mudam, le musée d’art contemporain de Luxembourg. Malheureusement il n’y a pas d’expo, le musée est donc un peu vide. Ce n’est pas grave, j’en profite pour visiter la chapelle d’inspiration gothique construite dans le musée et admirer l’architecture. Le Mudam ferme à 18h, j’ai juste le temps de prendre un petit goûter.

18h15, nous sommes dans la voiture, Maman dépose Damien chez lui, j’en profite pour visiter son appartement et manger chez lui. Je suis très mignonne et mange de bon appétit. 19h20, nous partons, je retrouve Papa à la maison, prends ma douche, me prépare pour aller me coucher et je suis au lit quelques minutes après 20h. Rédacteur : Patrick-Robin, mon Papa, Aurélia ma Maman.

Toutes mes dernières photos : Cliquez ici et vidéos : Cliquez ici. 

BPS22, « T_tris »,  du 12 septembre au 29 novembre 2009.

Une exposition conçue comme un jeu entre les collections permanentes de trois musées (BPS22, MUDAM de Luxembourg, MUHKA d’Anvers). C’est une exposition de commissaires, le concept de l’événement se déplaçant sur leur terrain, celui du choix, de la manière d’assembler des œuvres pour les faire parler, pour parler à travers elles. Ce qui d’une certaine manière est une part du travail nécessaire pour que ça puisse parler au visiteur, renouveler l’intérêt de revoir des œuvres connues sous un autre angle, selon d’autres éléments narratifs. L’histoire de l’art contemporain s’y prêtant, ayant cette caractéristique de défier le sens même narratif, obligeant à réviser nos propres perceptions sur ce que l’on croit être l’art. C’est l’occasion aussi de chercher des liens, des affinités entre trois manières d’acheter des œuvres d’artistes contemporains, trois manières de construire des mémoires. Les trois institutions ont inévitablement des statuts et des missions différents. La Province de Hainaut a certainement plus vocation à sélectionner, préserver et valoriser un patrimoine provincial (sans s’y restreindre). Ce qui sera aussi en partie le cas du MUHKA, tandis que le MUDAM se positionnera de manière plus internationale… Mais tout se rejoint, se recoupe, ce qui s’est créé « ici », dans le Hainaut fait écho aux mouvements et autres tendances qui ont marqué l’art contemporain à l’échelle de la planète. L’intéressant est de faire apparaître ces filiations, ces réseaux d’idées, d’esthétiques et de plasticité et de relire les carrefours, les dynamiques à travers le temps, les époques, les « écoles », croisement de regards sur le monde. C’est donc aussi une expo de curateurs, qui interroge la place de ceux-ci dans la rencontre avec l’art (quelque chose de mieux connus dans le monde de la musique où l’art de la « compilation », croisée ou non, s’est fort développé)… Voici l’argument tel que présenté dans le communiqué de presse : « Le but est de placer des œuvres dans les 1.400m² de l’espace d’exposition du B.P.S.22. Les joueurs (conservateurs) agissent chacun à leur tour pour placer les pièces de leurs collections respectives en relation avec les autres œuvres comme possibilités quelconques de série. Le « jeu » est terminé lorsque les joueurs estiment que l’espace d’exposition est occupé de manière optimale et que l’exposition est cohérente.  La première pièce de l’exposition choisie est « Last Day of Production » de Liam Gillick, l’une des dernières œuvres acquises pour la collection de la Province de Hainaut. Il a été demandé à l’artiste de la placer lui-même dans l’espace et de donner ainsi le « coup d’envoi » de la partie. Chaque « joueur » place ensuite une œuvre de la collection dont il a la charge, en fonction de celles qui ont déjà été placées, de manière à développer progressivement l’espace. Chaque placement doit être motivé : rapprochement (conceptuel, stylistique, historique, anecdotique, etc.) ou opposition, filiation artistique, etc. Plus d’une quarantaine de peintures, sculptures, photographies, installations et autres médias sont ainsi exposés au B.P.S.22 et invitent à suivre de multiples fils conducteurs (de l’espace intime à l’espace collectif, des images médiatiques aux portraits, etc.) au travers de ces trois collections. » L’enquête est infinie, premiers indices. Lâché là-dedans et connaissant le principe, il y a de quoi passer des heures pour reconstituer le sens, les signes qui lient le placement de chaque œuvre par rapport à celle qui la précède dans l’espace du jeu, qui en continue la portée ou la détourne, la fait obliquer, la pervertit, trouble le jeu. Saisir les tenants et aboutissants de la stratégie esthétique de chaque coup posé par les curateurs. Reconstituer les mouvements de la partie. Encore plus de temps pour établir sa version personnelle et la confronter à celle des auteurs. (Il manque, ceci dit, un guide, la carte du jeu.) Reste un ensemble d’œuvres hétérogènes d’artistes importants parmi lesquelles picorer des sensations, des réflexions, des souvenirs. Méditer sur la grande diversité de la modernité ! Il y a ce trou noir de la matière première, ce cercle fossile de Richard Long (land art), constitué de minéraux sombres et friables, vers quoi tout retourne (circularité temporelle) et qui rappelle bien la nature du sol carolo, le passé minier qui affleure. Tout près, fixée au mur, maquette intrigante, l’étrange petite baraque de John Körmeling, architecte-artiste hollandais. Plutôt une plateforme de surveillance, regard panoptique à l’ancienne sur une production au point mort. Plongeoir disciplinaire vers le cratère de charbon. Plus loin, « La Plage » de Xavier Velhan, vaste dispositif pixellissé, cartes imprimées, encadrées et assemblées en panneaux déployés comme ces paravents sur la plage. Les couleurs, les formes, le large évoquent l’atmosphère de la mer du Nord, avec des personnages intrigants, entre folklore balnéaire banal, traditions oubliées et irruptions de nouvelles formes. Au passage, devant la forme robe de Jan Fabre, constituée de magnifiques cétoines, je penserai : « tiens, je me demande si ce n’est pas plus éphémère que je ne le croyais, en les voyant la première fois, l’anecdote supplantant les autres composantes ». (Voir, revoir : le but est aussi de faire travailler ses jugements). Il y a cette ligne de démarcation, au sein même de la salle d’exposition, d’un côté beaucoup de monde, de l’autre personne : « X or Y » de Guy Rombouts (1985), mise à la queue leu leu d’objets trouvés, fabriqués, dépareillés, outils grégaires, sommaires, cassés, détournés, bouts de bois et autres formes abstraites ramassées dans la nature, restes industriels assemblés, agencés et tantôt affiliés au signe « mâle », tantôt au signe « femelle ». Frontière sexuée, frontière des genres : représentation bricolée, amusante, de la prégnance de ces distinctions, de ces manières de classer les choses, au plus profond de la constitution mentale, imaginaire. Recherche typographique, constitution d’un alphabet. On passe du léger au lourd, du connu au moins connu, de l’évident au surprenant, du fond au clinquant. Parfois ça marche, parfois ça se plante (règle du jeu N°1). Au milieu trône une bombe de Wang Du : ou quand les canons pornographiques rejoignent le monstrueux, la torture mentale des corps, la déformation sexuelle. La pose la plus suggestive de soumission se situe au-delà de l’érotisme, bien posée dans le sordide/morbide (on sait qu’elle en est morte, Ferrari). L’art des curateurs rejoint celui d’ensemblier quand, dans une pièce à part, ils font se rejoindre le lettrage de Lawrence Weiner (« A City Dragged », 1970), les lampes de Franz West (2006) et le « Percer à jour » de Benoît Plateus (1990), fenêtre et paysage par la fenêtre représentés par des trous réalisés à même le plâtre. Trio d’œuvres qui déteignent les unes sur les autres, rassemblées dans l’unité de ce qui semble une seule installation… Mot de la fin. Il y a beaucoup à creuser de cet ensemble d’œuvres et de ce qui les rassemble (ou non). La diversité de genres, le sentiment que ça part dans tous les sens, la difficulté que l’on peut éprouver devant cette profusion (faussement) aléatoire, conduit naturellement à se trouver en phase avec l’écran noir et luisant de Yves Lecomte « les images ne nous parviennent plus », trou noir de notre société des technologies de communication, de transmission. Durant la panne, ces écrans se révèlent pour ce qu’ils sont : de simples miroirs sans profondeurs. À comparer avec l’autre écran noir, géologico-industriel, de Richard Long, circularité mortuaire. Circularité aussi au sein de ces œuvres dont la plupart documentent l’art de montrer en créant pour aboutir aux postures artistiques qui « se contentent » d’installer des miroirs dorés où passent le monde, les vernissages. (PH)

http://www.poemasepensamentos.com.br/2009/08/04/poeminha-sentimental-mario-quintana/

J’étais déjà allé au Luxembourg à l’occasion des Photomeetings, à l’automne 2008. Le premier billet que j’ai écrit sur cette manifestation, parmi une série de plusieurs, se trouve ici. Il n’y a guère de compléments à y apporter quant aux aspects pratiques qui y sont décrits, sauf peut-être que pour les courses (une bouteille d’eau par exemple), il faut aller en face de la gare, dans un centre commercial, chez Primavera Kons (ce n’est pas cher). Une autre bonne chose à savoir est que le paysage est vallonné : attention donc si vous suivez aveuglément une carte car vous risquez de monter et descendre beaucoup.

Je suis retourné au Luxembourg le 2 mai dernier, à l’occasion du Mois de la Photo 2009 (ici). Malheureusement, à cette date, la manifestation se terminait de telle sorte que je n’ai pas vu autant de choses que j’aurais pu mais cela m’a permis de visiter la ville et de voir des musées traitant d’autre chose que de photo. C’est afin d’éviter de rater, en partie ou en totalité une telle manifestation, à l’avenir, que j’ai d’ailleurs créé sur ce blog une page “festivals” (ici).

En ce qui concerne les sites visités, je suis allé au MNHA, au Casino, au MUDAM, au Musée d’Histoire de la ville de Luxembourg et chez Nosbaum et Reding.

Je ferai prochainement un article sur le MNHA et le Casino qui, tous deux, le valent bien.

Le MUDAM montrait surtout de la vidéo et à mon goût il vaut plus pour son architecture que pour son contenu (à part la chapelle en fer de Wim Delvoye). Le Musée d’Histoire de la ville de Luxembourg montre surtout l’histoire du Luxembourg et il présentait accessoirement 4 amusantes photos de personnages en plein kitsch luxembourgeois, par Jeanine Unsen dont je vous conseille le site web (ici) : cette photographe a du talent.  Chez Nosbaum et Reding à deux pas du MNHA, il fallait voir les paysage de Una Hunderi mais j’ai retenu un portrait (issu du site de la galerie) pour illustrer son travail (les prix sont de l’ordre de 2 600 euros).

Das Musée d’Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean ist ein Museum für moderne Kunst in der luxemburgischen Hauptstadt Luxemburg-Stadt und wurde erst 2006 eröffnet. Man kann durchaus behaupten, dass nicht nur die Ausstellungen, sondern auch das Museumsgebäude selbst ein echtes Kunstwerk ist. Es wurde direkt neben dem berühmten Fort Thüngen erbaut. Aufgrund seines langen Namens wird das Museum oftmals mit dem Begriff Mudam abgekürzt. Besucher können im Kunstmuseum zeitgenössische Werke bekannter Künstler wie Alvar Aalto oder Bruce Naumann betrachten. Insgesamt verfügt das Museum über rund 230 Exponate von 100 verschiedenen Künstlern. Obwohl es das Mudam erst seit kurzer Zeit gibt, ist es schon jetzt ein echter Publikumsmagnet geworden. Kunstfreunde und die, die es werden wollen, können die Ausstellungen täglich außer dienstags besichtigen.

http://www.mudam.lu/

I found the cityscape of Luxembourg quite unique and rich – a fine juxtaposition of old and new architecture. Above is a view of Grund valley which I thought could be an urban design by Zaha Hadid. Despite the hilly landscape, businessmen on lunch break were jogging all over the city. I will start my slide show from the old part of the city.

Upon our grand arrival, we immediately got lost. Luxembourg is as difficult to drive as in Zürich, with one-way streets, bridges, tunnels and dead ends. We drove up this steep stone-paved street on the left of the picture, and Peter was afraid that our vintage Peugeot might break and run backwards.

Walking around the city with a printed Google-map was like walking in the desert without a compass. Thanks to Morena who guided us based on the well-stored memory from her last visit.

She told us that the country is wealthy and it’s like Parade Platz in Zürich at every corner. She was right. The only store I could go in without hesitation was H&M.

Yeah b-boyz! What looks like human blooms sweeping the floor in the underground concourse is actually a bunch of teenagers practicing their break dance routine. I discovered them when I wanted to get a 1.5L-bottle of Vittel for 90 cents in a Chinese grocery store.

Sarah pointed out this tiny staircase which opening is perhaps less than 50cm. I love small details like this!

I should mention the youth hostel we stayed for 2 nights. We shared a bedroom with 2 bunk beds and a bathroom. The room was clean but smelt like a sourly fart. When we booked the room, I read on the website that rooms have an amazing view of the valley – well, ours was from the bottom, because the room was located below ground level. On top of this depressing view, the room was extremely small and I could hear every step and banging doors in the hallway. However, considering the average price of accommodation in a hotel, I did not mind compromising all these in a youth hostel. You just need an ear-plug and patience. Since Colophon is a trade show for independent magazine publishers, almost a half of the participants were staying in this youth hostel. This proved to me that Colophon was the right trade show for us. Every morning we walked up the hill towards the trade show in the city center for about 20 minutes.

This is a newer part of the city called Kirchberg on a hill. The massive collection of modern architecture for European Union, Museum, Philharmonie looks over the old part of the city.

One of the building, MUDAM (Musée d’Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean), was designed by my former employer Mr. I. M. Pei. At the sight of the building, I immediately recognized his design by the use of materials, lighting and form. Although his architecture is not as eye-catching as those by his fellow architects, one feels the wealth and self-assurance of the city at every step into this building. This is perhaps the perfect example of museum design that will never grow old and be favored from generation to generation.

I’ll wrap up my slide show with this picture – the shadow of an old town house cast on the wall of MNHA (Musée national d’histoire et d’art Luxembourg).

LOOK AT THIS VIDEO AND SEE THE OFFICES YOU MAY LET AT 600 € PER MONTH .WE CAN OFFER YOU PHONE SERVICE AN IT .PLEASE CONTACT WWW.HENRIBECKER.NET AND CONTACT HENRI BECKER HIMSELF

12h00, un soleil majestueux accompagne mes pas vers le site du Fort Thüngen, et le ciel d’un bleu sans pareil me détournerais presque de l’escale artistique prévue ce jour, pour une interminable ballade dans les chatoyantes et vallonnées forêts des alentours de Luxembourg ville.

Il n’en sera rien…pour le meilleur.

La crainte de l’enfermement s’est évanouie dès mon premier pas dans le MUDAM, et pour cause. 3 modiques euros plus tard, la première salle d’exposition m’absorbe dans sa majesté architecturale et artistique.

Le bâtiment, œuvre de l’architecte sino-américain Ieoh Ming Pei, offre un exact équilibre entre ciel et terre, vestiges et ère moderne, calme et volupté. Porté par d’immenses verrières qui laissent les éléments naturels être une part intégrante de cette architecture à la fois ying et yang, parachevée en pierre calcaire et munie d‘une superficie totale de 10.000 m2, le musée dispose de près de 4.800 m2 de surfaces d‘exposition sur trois niveaux et se veut être le cocon d’un programme annuel d’expositions temporaires ouvert à tous les domaines de la création actuelle.

Entièrement conçu par des artistes, la vocation de ce lieu est d‘être à l’écoute de la création internationale et de l‘évolution des pratiques artistiques.

Et le musée est à la hauteur de ses aspirations. J’ai réellement été séduite par l’importance donnée à l’espace d’exposition, avec parfois une seule œuvre par salle. Ce parti pris nous éloigne de la rentabilisation de l’espace scénographique toujours plus flagrant dans des lieux comme Beaubourg, ou bien encore le MAMAC de Nice ou l’on se sait plus comment reprendre son souffle tellement le visiteur est sollicité.

L’organisation scénographique de l’exposition China power station part III – jusqu’au 15 septembre 2008 – installée sur les trois niveaux du musée laisse les oeuvres prendre toute leur ampleur et leurs sens, on peut parler d’une réelle écoute entre le lieu et son projet , les oeuvres, et le public.

CHINA POWER STATION: Part III est la troisième étape d’un projet d’expositions conçu encollaboration avec la Serpentine Gallery à Londres et le Astrup Museum of Modern Art à Oslo. Le projet a été conçu comme une exposition évolutive et dynamique, reflétant les transformations que connaît actuellement la Chine, chaque étape s’articulant autour d’une liste d’artistes et d’oeuvres différente, pensée en fonction du contexte dans lequel elle est présentée.

De même pour l’exposition de Candice Breitz Be My Somebody – Exposition du 26 avril au 22 septembre 2008, ou le parcours des salles ouvertes se transforme en exploration exaltante de la question de la construction de l’identité personnelle et collective. Un immense souvenir de l’installation King (A Portrait of Michael Jackson) ou les 42 minutes et 20 secondes d’immersion dans les relations qui lient les fans à leurs idoles ne peuvent laisser indifférent – Visionnage de l’oeuvre disponible sur le site internet de Candice Breitz.

Lauréate du Prix d’Art Contemporain Fondation Pierre de Monaco en 2007, Candice Breitz est connue pour ses photographies et ses vidéos qui explorent les impacts de la culture hollywoodienne et musicale sur les consciences contemporaines. Monuments est une série de cinq photographies que l’artiste a réalisées en collaboration avec le photographe Marcus Gaab en juin 2007 à Berlin. Ces cinq tableaux photographiques de large format, dont un de la Collection Mudam, sont des portraits de groupes de fans d’Iron Maiden, Britney Spears, Grateful Dead, Abba et Marilyn Manson.

Enfin, une fois le musée conquis, vous serez encore surpris de découvrir l’improbable charte graphique du lieu, et les sentiers boisés aux allures de randonnées du dimanche qui vous permettrons de regagner Luxembourg ville dans la quiétude la plus absolue.

Ne pas oublier le passage incontournable au Casino Luxembourg – Forum d’art contemporain.

Le Mudam est le premier musée d‘art contemporain au Luxembourg.

Le Luxembourg, y penser plus souvent…

Dossier de presse

Historique

Mudam Luxembourg
Musée d’Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean
3, Park Dräi Eechelen
L-1499 Luxembourg

HORAIRES D’OUVERTURE
Mudam est ouvert tous les jours, sauf le mardi, de 11 à 18h.
Nocturne le mercredi jusqu’à 20h.

TARIFS : Plein tarif : 5 € / Tarif réduit : 3 €

]]> http://maylysandre.wordpress.com/2008/05/18/dimanche-18-mai-2008-jeux-et-culture/ Sun, 18 May 2008 20:25:58 +0000 May-Lysandre http://maylysandre.wordpress.com/2008/05/18/dimanche-18-mai-2008-jeux-et-culture/

Programme du jour : Mudam avec Maman.

 

Je me réveille à 8h30. Papa est encore en Angleterre. Maman vient me voir, et je joue dans son lit une bonne heure.

Je commence la journée par un bon brunch : jus de fruits maison (fraises, bananes, myrtilles, pommes), un bol de céréales, un yaourt et biberon de lait chocolaté. J’ai ensuite le droit à ma séance quotidienne de chansons sur YouTube avec Maman, puis je l’aide à quelques tâches ménagères.

Nous profitons de quelques rayons de soleil pour passer un peu de temps dans le jardin avant de déjeuner et de faire une longue sieste de 2h1/2. Maman en profitera pour elle aussi se reposer un peu.

A 16h30, nous partons visiter le Mudam (le musée d’art moderne de Luxembourg). J’ai adoré les expos de photos, et une “oeuvre vidéo” basée sur des clips de Michaël Jackson… Bon, j’ai cru qu’il s’agissait de ma comptine préférée “Wind the bobbin up“. Je fais un petit dessin pour un “cration participative. Avant de repartir, nous prenons une petite tarte aux fraises-rhubarbe, et Maman s’assoie sur… une oeuvre d’art. Elle pensait que c’était une chaise !

!!!

Nous passons au parc de Merl faire un peu de balançoire et rentrons à la maison.

Un bain, un petit coup de fil à Papa, un dîner léger, et à 20h30 je suis au lit. Rédacteur : Patrick-Robin, mon Papa.

Philharmonie, een ontwerp van architect Claude Vasconi, in de Luxemburgse Europawijk Kirchberg.

LUXEMBURG, 6 MEI 2007. Op het knusse Gare Centrale van Luxemburg-stad houdt een trein met piepende remmen halt. De zijkant van de eerste wagon is beplakt met een langwerpig blauwe poster, daarop in witte letters ‘Luxembourg et grande region’ en in het zwart ‘capitale europeenne de la culture 2007’. Het hert, het herkenningsteken van Luxemburg in dit bijzondere jaar, is in vijfvoud aanwezig en onderaan staat het internetadres: www.luxembourg2007.org.

Les 1: als je cultuurhoofdstad bent, moet je dat ook willen laten zien. En Luxemburg láát het zien. Als enige land in Europa draagt het de titel voor de tweede keer. Verschil met 1995: dit jaar wordt de hele regio betrokken bij het ruim 450 evenementen tellende programma, tot aan de aangrenzende regio’s Lotharingen in Frankrijk en Rheinland-Pfalz en Saarland in Duitsland toe.

In Luxemburg-stad is het onontkoombaar. De belangrijkste winkelstraat, Grand Rue, is één groot uithangbord. Aan de lantaarnpalen hangen blauwe vlaggen met daarop de al eerder gememoreerde tekst. Op elke straathoek is er wel een bord of kunstwerk dat de bezoeker attent maakt dat er hier iets bijzonders gebeurt. In elk café of restaurant liggen folders met informatie over specifieke activiteiten in het kader van culturele hoofdstad.

Het maandelijkse city magazine ‘Rendez-Vous’ is gratis af te halen bij de recepties in de grotere hotels. Daarin zit een handig uitneembare maandkalender met op datum een overzicht van exposities, theatervoorstellingen en feesten, plus plattegrond en adressen van musea en andere veelbezochte instellingen.

Natuurlijk, hier draait het allemaal om. Reclame maken voor de stad. Laten zien wat je op cultureel gebied waard bent. Profiteren van de voorspoed die zo’n eretitel – in de meeste gevallen dan toch – met zich meebrengt. Op een slimme manier de van oudsher toeristische troeven, zoals de oude stad met zijn 23 kilometer aan Kazematten die op de Unesco-werelderfgoedlijst staat, en het Palais Grand-Ducal, nog eens extra in de schijnwerpers zetten.

Luxemburg-stad: 80.000 inwoners

Het hart van Luxemburg 2007 zijn de ‘Rotonden’, twee gerestaureerde voormalige spoorwegwerkplaatsen uit 1875. Ze liggen achter het centraal station in de wijk Bonnevoie die de laatste jaren een grondige opknapbeurt geeft gekregen. In deze opvallend ronde gebouwen met een diameter van 52 meter worden wisseltentoonstellingen gehouden en dient ‘Rotonde 2’ met name als broedplaats voor jonge creatievelingen.

Luxemburg probeert ook de aandacht te vestigen op de nieuwe dingen. Kirchberg wordt al snel de ‘Europawijk’ genoemd. Logisch, want op dit plateau op ongeveer vijf autominuten rijden van het centrum, liggen gebouwen van de Europese Unie. Maar Kirchberg is inmiddels zo veel meer. Niet voor niets is de ambitie om uit te groeien tot ‘skyline van Luxemburg’. Wie vanuit een willekeurige plek in het oude centrum van Luxemburg omhoog kijkt, kan zich daar iets bijvoorstellen. De veelal moderne torens, gebouwd op een rots, reiken welhaast tot de hemel. Bouwkranen bepalen de rest van het aangezicht.  

Publiekstrekkers zijn de nieuwe concertzaal Philharmonie van de Franse architect Claude Vasconi, met zijn opvallende hoge witte pilaren, die volgens een artikel in De Volkskrant nog het meest lijkt op een “buitenaards ruimteschip dat hier per ongeluk is geland”. Honderd meter verderop ligt het nieuwe Museum voor Moderne Kunst (MUDAM) dat is neergezet op de resten van het Fort Thüngen uit 1732. Architect is Ieoh Ming Pei, de man die ook de glazen piramide van het Louvre in Parijs ontwierp.

Maastrichtenaren die in Luxemburg zijn geweest, zullen onmiskenbare overeenkomsten zien. Net als Maastricht is Luxemburg een kleine historische stad met allure, grandeur en een mondaine uitstraling. Zodoende komen beide steden aan een ‘grote naam’. Een naam die kan helpen om zoiets triviaals als de organisatie van de Culturele Hoofdstad van Europa binnen te halen.

Dit verhaal is gepubliceerd in het boek ’Maastricht, waarheen? Momentopname van een metamorfose’ (2007) van Branko Eijssen en is te lezen op http://metamorfosemaastricht.blogspot.com/ 

I am back from my adventure in Germany.  I wanted to write about it yesterday, but I just didn’t have the energy–going to class and out grocery shopping required such Herculean effort that afterwards je n’avais plus de force.  I feel rejuvenated this morning though (after a good 9+ hrs. rest), and have the will (not to say the need) to write.  Furthermore, my only class today has been postponed, and so je dispose du matin entier (sorry for all the French.  I’ve just finished reading Ni d’Eve ni d’Adam, and French words and expressions keep cropping up in my inner monologue).

On Thursday I rose early (4:30am!) so I could catch a bus to the airport at 5:05am.  My flight left at 7:20, and at 9:45 I had landed at the Frankfurt (Hahn) airport in Germany.  This airport is VERY misleadingly named, btw–the metropolis of Frankfurt is about 2 hrs. east.  Since my destination was another hr. in the opposite direction, I contented myself w/ exploring the Rheinpfalz, southern Germany’s wine-growing region.  I took a маршутка to the little town of Bullay, one of the cluster of hamlets located along the Mosell river.  The two other women in the car got out, and the driver asked me where I wanted to go in town.

“Which address?”

“Well, there is no address here, exactly.  You see, I’m going to visit my cousin, but he lives in Trier.”

“Trier?” he asked, regarding me w/ consternation.  I nodded quickly to assure him that I knew what I was doing.

“Yes, but I am visiting here first.  For a day.  It’s complicated,” I said, shrugging in despair as he gazed at me uncomprehendingly.  Perhaps the Germans’ English skills were not as advanced as I had thought….Finally we settled upon Alf as my destination.  He dropped me off at the Tourism Office there, and I was left to my own devices.  The woman in the office didn’t really speak any English either, but we managed to negotiate terms for me leaving my suitcase in the office, and she gave me directions to Burg Arras, an old castle that I had read about, which apparently had a medieval museum inside.  It was a gorgeous day.  The satiny sable Mosell River flowed through a large valley surrounded by regal hills that were a patchwork of orange, green and gold under a sapphire sky. 

The trail to Burg Arras was a longish one–about 4,2 km, or a little over 2 miles.  I was not really dressed for walking in the woods, wearing a pair of nice J. Crew chinos and the little grey jazz sneakers I had purchased in Paris.  Still, the trail was wide and commodious, and the going was easy, except for a few muddy patches that were carpeted w/ slimy leaves.  The crisp air smelled of basalm, and through the fog of my tiredness I rejoiced in the beauty of the slim silver trees crowned w/ ruby leaves, the mossy companionable stream bubbling alongside, the green hills that beckoned gently upwards. 

The Burg was atop a giant hill.  Rounding a leafy corner, I stopped and gazed at the paved road ahead of me, then stoically readjusted my pack and started plodding upwards mindlessly.  I stopped at a bend in the trail to appreciate the view of the valley spread before me, open like a jewelry box to reveal tiny diamond and onyx houses bedded on green velvet.  A few minutes later, huffing and puffing, I reached the main gates, and then Burg Arras itself.  Unfortunately, the place proved to be a disappointment.  The museum I had wanted to see was closed.  The restaurant was open, and a group of German tourists were out on the veranda, drinking white wine.  I didn’t feel like wine so early in the day, but I didn’t want coffee either, since I had a long trail ahead of me, and didn’t really fancy peeing in the woods.  There was nothing to do but wander fruitlessly, studiously ignored by the staff, and then trudge back to whence I came. 

I took a different trail back to Alf, and passed through an apple orchard.  Je ne me suis pas tardée de cueillir a couple of the juicier specimens, which offered me much-needed sustenance.  Apple in hand, I wandered back to Alf, hoping to at least explore a couple of the wineries, and maybe buy a bottle of the region’s much-vaunted wine.  Alas, that too proved impossible.  The town was practically deserted.  The emptiness was almost eerie, and as I wandered the cobblestoned streets, regarding the darkened store fronts, I imagined that a neutrino bomb had gone off, or a virulent sickness had invaded, and that everyone had died.  In reality, I think the explanation was that it was harvest time, and that everyone was out picking grapes.  Most of the harvesting in the region is done by hand, since machines can’t navigate the hilly terrain.  At around 5 o’clock, I collected by suitcase, and walked to Bullay, just across the river.  It was a bigger town, slightly more lively, and from there I was able to take a train to Trier. 

Trier came as almost a shock after the excessive tranquility of the Mosell villages.  I made my way to the youth hostel where I was staying, checked in, and went out to find a payphone so I could call Mischa.  He came and met me, and we walked around the city.  At about 9:30pm I begged off, citing tiredness, and promising to be more entertaining the following evening.  When I got back to the hostel, the room was deserted (I was staying in a 6-person dormitory w/ 3 bunk-beds and an en suite bathroom).  I wanted to take a shower, so I stripped down to my underwear.  I then decided that maybe I should make up my bed first.  All was well until I tried to insert the comforter into its coverlet.  It refused to go in properly, so I grabbed it by the corners and plunged into the coverlet with it.  As I stood there, grappling w/ my bedding, I heard the key turn in the lock.  Panic.  Here I was practically naked, standing like an idiot under a bunch of sheets, and some complete stranger was about to walk in on me.  I emerged just as the door opened and a girl about my age walked in.  I abandoned the bed-making quest and scrambled for my towel, wrapping it securely around me. 

After a hot shower, I settled into bed.  I fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly for almost 12 hrs.  H/e when I wook up the room was glacial, b/c the windows had been left open overnight.  Mischa was in class until the afternoon, so I had the morning to myself.  I bought a SIM card (at this rate, I’m going to have one for ea. country lol) for my phone, and then went to the Marx Haus.  Karl Marx was born in Trier, and though his most important work was completed abroad, his ville natale had a profound influence on his later ideas.  After that I went to see the Porta Nigra, and then Trier’s “Dom,” a large church which houses, among other things, Christ’s seamless robe.  I didn’t see the robe itself, but glimpsed its case through an ornate entryway.  I have to say, the German, Swiss and Austrian cathedrals just are not as impressive as those in Italy and France.  The French and Italians know how to bribe a god.  In the Teutonic houses of worship, one gets the impression of devotion; in those of the Mediterranean, one feels exaltation.   

Then it was time to meet Mischa, and we went to the old Amphitheatre, which had once been a Roman colleseum, and now hosted concerts, plays, and the like.  We went all the way to the top, and sat on some old bleachers, smoking and watching little insect-people explore their terrarium below.  On the way down, I was seriously tempted to lie down and roll down one of the grassy sides of the hill, but propriety (barely) prevented me.

Then we went to Mischa’s place and watched Heat w/ Polish subtitles.  Mischa is a student in Trier’s lg. university, and is studying psychology.  He already has a degree in theology (as does his brother Igor), and was actually in Seminary, studying to become a priest.  But then he decided to leave.  I have to admit, for a while I was curious as to whether or not he was gay.  He doesn’t have a g/f, and had never mentioned one in the times I had seen him previously.  His room did not offer much of a hint.  There was a black and red flag on his wall (some kind of Ukrainian flag; he explained it to me, but I can’t remember), a shelf full of books in German, Ukrainian and Polish, most having to do w/ theology, a poster of Metallica, and a banner of his favorite Polish football team.  His desk was mostly taken up by a large flat-screen monitor.  A small bed, neatly made, was tucked into the corner.  In front of it was a table covered w/ a mustard-yellow cloth and a an old striped armchair.  The only thing on the table was a half-full ashtray. 

We drank wine, watched our movie, and awaited the arrival of David, one of Mischa’s friends.  The plan was for a group of us to go to a weinhaus and have the traditional fall repast of Federweisser and Zwiebelkuchen.  David arrived, and we drank the cider that I had brought from England as a present for Mischa.  Almost immediately, David launched into a story about how a woman had rejected his invitation to coffee a few mos ago, and how this had spurred a complete life change: he had cut his hair, grown a small beard, and given up smoking (although he had started again two days ago, and indeed, was helping himself to quite a few of Mischa’s cigarettes).  He had been too modest, he was telling me; he needed to show off more.  After all, his cousin was the finance minister of Poland, his father was the president of a Polish University; he was smart and successful.  He had founded the Assoc. of Polish Students at the university, and had recently revolutionized the psychology dpt. by creating a computer program that charted the most important characteristics of ea. patient and put them in an easy-to-read format for the drs.  Only he had been smart enough and innovative enough to pull it off.  I was laughing inwardly as I listened to him go on about his merits and his strategem to get women…but then I realized w/ a start that it was almost working.  Oh, he needed a bit more practice to achieve the right balance btwn. self-glorification and compliments to the lady, but he was almost there.  It was a sobering thought, and I grew quieter, and sipped my cider more slowly. 

We went outside and met Kinga and Anja, two Polish girls whom Mischa knew through the student society.  Anja esp. seemed a little skeptical about my presence, and was clearly sizing me up as competition.  For what?  I’m not really sure.  But the new introduction of a female into a group (esp. mixed) is always difficult.  I also had a feeling that perhaps Anja liked Mischa (though I later found out that she lived w/ a boyfriend, whom Mischa hated.  Apparently, they had worked together, and the guy owed him €150, but had ripped him off.  He worked at a supermkt, from which he often stole.  Mischa said he was seriously tempted to alert the police of the theft, but didn’t for Anja’s sake.  I also told him about my suspicions that she liked him, but he insisted that to him she was only like a sister). 

The Federweisser was good, but I wasn’t a big fan of the onion cake that accompanied it.  Plus, I had already eaten chez Mischa, and was full.  I was also feeling self-conscious next to the slender Polish girls, so I ended up giving about half to Mischa.  David ate the remainder later on.  Ah, it’s so wonderful to have Eastern European men around; food never goes to waste!  David brought a colleague of his from work, an older man named Yakov or Yorkie or something along those lines.  To my relief, Kinga and Anja chose him as their victim of the evening.  We bonded by making fun of him and gossiping about boys of different nationalities (always one of the first questions Slavic girls pose me is about men.  For someone like me w/ occidental sensibilities that demand more discretion, these inquiries can seem quite intrusive.  It’s not just girls either.  I remember my cousin Olesia’s husband Vassily being like, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?  What’s wrong w/ American boys?  Are they shy?”).  It’s a sad truth, but groups of people are always happiest when there is someone for them to collectively dislike.  Also there was Mischa’s friend Kim, a half-German half-African American guy, who was huge and had dreadlocks.  He came w/ his Polish girlfriend Anna, to whom I accidentally said “Tchus” (German for “bye”) instead of “Czesc” (Polish for “hello”) by way of greeting.  Mischa asked me later whose English I thought was the best, and I unequivocally nominated Kim for the position, over David, Kinga, and Yorker.  Interestingly enough, Kim was the only one who hadn’t actually been to America (as far as Mischa knew).  I’m not surprised; he is American.  The language is in his blood. 

A fruit fly got into Mischa’s wine.  Ah, Drosophila melanogaster, I thought.  We meet again.  Except this time I don’t care what color your eyes are.  He hadn’t noticed yet, and I was suddenly terrified that he would take a drink of it and embarass himself.  I could maybe get it out, and replace the glass, but then the drink would have been soiled by my hand.  So while he was engrossed in conversation w/ Yuker, I quickly switched our glasses, and fished the fly out w/ my fingers.  ”What’s in there?” Kinga asked, as I hurriedly smeared the fly on my coaster.  

“Nothing,” I said, taking a swallow.  

When I care deeply about people, they always invoke in me a strong need to protect them.  This feeling is stronger and more breathtaking than anything else I have experienced, and in its scope far outweighs what I know of “passion” (esp. as I am not v. good at expressing my feelings, and/or putting people at ease when they make declarations to me.  It has been implied both subtly and otherwise that at times I am cold, even frigid).  So yeah, I may have overreacted in snatching Mischa’s glass away, but at the time I literally could not bear the thought of his chagrin.  I calmed down later though, and I have to admit, when another fly landed in his glass, I didn’t do anything.  You’re on your own for this one, buddy, I thought.  I did my best. 

We took periodic smoke breaks.  At one pt. I found myself standing alone w/ David and Yaker.  Being bored, I indulged in some gentle flirting (“Oh, but German isn’t really a v. beautiful language.  For example, when I say ‘Ich liebe dich,’ it doesn’t sound nearly as nice ’je t’aime’ or even ‘я тебя люблю.’”). 

It was after 1am when we left.  There was just enough time for me to catch the last bus back to the city center.  Mischa asked if I would be all right going alone.  I assured him I would be.  It was true, although I was secretly a little disappointed at the lack of chivalry.  Not that I blamed him; it was a long way, and he would have to pay for a taxi to get back to the university. 

The next day we met at the train station at 9:30 so we could go to Luxembourg.  Well, he was there at 9:30.  I was running late–my usual 15 min.–and when I got there I found he had already bought my train ticket.  I felt guilty b/c he had been paying for everything of mine, from drinks to bus fare, and slipped €10 into his pocket. 

Luxembourg was fun.  Our first stop was les Casemates du Bock, the ancient fortifications that had been built to protect the city.  They had been largely dismantled after the Treaty of London, then somewhat restored, presumably so that tourists like us could explore the passageways that ran along the cliffs.  Japanese tourists were ubiquitous, stopping every 5 sec. to take a picture, always w/ the same grin, always in the same pose: one hand held out in a peace/victory sign, the other gesturing to the background.  Mischa and I kept having to stop and wait for them to finish.  “They ought to forbid them from doing that,” he said, after about the eighth time. 

We then when to the national art museum, which was smaller than I had expected.  Also, I was painfully conscious of the fact that it was quite boring for Mischa, since all the displays were only in French.  Was this so tourists would have to pay the hefty audioguide fee? I wondered.  I translated what I could for him, but my Russian wasn’t really up to it.  I had thus far used surprisingly little English on the trip.  I could get around by myself w/ German, since I knew the basic standard phrases like “Bitte, ich möchte…” and “Ich bekomme,” &c., and of course when Mischa was w/ me he could speak German and then translate into Russian.  In Luxembourg, of course, I spoke French.  I was surprised to learn that the French had actually controlled the duchy for a relatively short period of time, since they had managed to have such a profound influence on it.  

Afterwards at my behest, we went to the Cimitière de Notre Dame and wandered around the graves.  I have always had a passion for cemeteries, esp. larger and more elaborate Catholic ones.  The German word for graveyard is “friedhof,” which means “court of freedom,” a description I find splendid in its apt poetry.  I treasure the feeling of peace there, the same feeling that attracts me to forests and libraries.  It’s fun to wander around the old stones, deciphering the faded inscriptions, many of which are quite poignant.  I imagine the people who are buried there, and am always a little sad when the yrs. on the grave reveal the death of a child.  Mischa did not share my fascination, and thought I was a little strange, but the visit provoked a philosophical discussion that was interesting.  I did not, even out of respect to the former aspiring priest, pretend to hold any kind of religious convictions. 

“What do you think will happen after death?” he asked, as we contemplated the tombstones.

“Nothing,” I replied.  “This is it.”

I also explained that I wanted to be cremated.  After all, I won’t care what happens to my body.  I explained that funerals in the U.S.A. had become a commercial industry (comme les mariages, d’ailleurs), and that I didn’t want my relatives to have to pay.

“Some people set aside money for their funerals, so it’s free for their families.” he said. 

“Forget it.  I want to spend my money on things for myself, while I’m alive!” 

I posed him the same question: did he want cremation or enterrement?  Fire or earth? 

“Neither.  I don’t want to die.” 

I laughed.  ”Who does?”  

After that we (well, I) decided to see Fort Thüngen.  We got somewhat lost along the way, and it ended up taking a frustratingly long time to arrive.  After all that, the fort was closed for remodeling.  Immediately behind it was the MUDAM museum.  I don’t usually go for modern art, but figured I might as well, since it was right there.  Mischa demurred, and so I spent only 45 min. in the museum, still managing to see quite a bit, including the exhibition on “Paper Fashion.”  

We ended up in la Vallée de la Pétrusse.  I took a picture of Mischa, to his annoyance.  I asked why he didn’t like pictures.  “Are you in any of your pictures?” he asked.  “No, I don’t like it,” I replied.  This is true.  Unlike the Japanese tourists, I don’t need to be in all my pictures.  I prefer to remember the places as I saw them, and obviously, I had a first-person POV, uninterrupted by the presence of my big fat head.  It’s true that this has the effect of depersonalizing my photos.  Anyone could have taken them; anyone could have been there.  I might as well have not been there at all.  But then, isn’t that the point?  I was there, certainly, but I didn’t leave any lasting impression on the place.  Einmal ist keinmal, as they say.  And so I have photos.  And they do matter, but only to me, who knows their context. 

I lost one of my gloves in Luxembourg.  It was bound to happen; I had been shedding possessions the way the trees were losing leaves.  I can only carry so much, and winter weather requires so many accessories! (“It’s difficult to be a girl,” I had complained to Mischa in the Amphitheatre, after he had rescued my gloves from some forgotten nook.  ”We have all sorts of things to wear.”  I had already lost my hat earlier that day.  “Well, if you keep losing things, soon you’ll have v. little,” he observed.)  I regretted the loss, but at the same time, I was somewhat enamored of the idea of having left a piece of myself behind, of having enacted a change, no matter how small, upon the landscape of the city.  I had given it a token, a keepsake, something to remember me by.  I wondered who would find my glove, and what they would think.   

My feet were aching terribly.  It was about 6 o’clock, and I was ready to call it a day.  We got back to Trier at around 7pm, and went to Burger King for dinner.  I had not been to one in yrs., but Mischa liked it, and was eager to make use of some coupons he had.  I had said something earlier about it being unhealthy, b/c he assured me more than once that he rarely ate there.  I didn’t finish my meal.

“I don’t think you’ve eaten anything since you got to Trier,” he said in mild accusation.

“I have so!  I just ate a lot.”

“You didn’t have any lunch.”

“Neither did you.”

“So I ate a huge dinner.”

“Me too.  Do you want to finish my fries?”

By then it was almost 8.  We agreed to meet up again in 2 hrs. so we could catch up w/ a group of Mischa’s friends.  He walked me home, brushing off my polite protestations that there was no need for him to go out of his way.  “I was worried about you last night,” he said.  “I was saying to myself, ‘What an idiot for letting her go alone!’  And of course, you know, that if you didn’t have a phone, I would have escorted you regardless.  Of course.”

I took a shower and read a little, but didn’t nap, for fear of oversleeping.  Our compatriots weren’t students this time; Mischa had worked w/ one of them as a deliveryman for a Pianohaus.  We only stayed for about an hr. before retiring.  I had been lucky for the past two nights to have only two other people in the room, but that evening a quintet of loud German girls had invaded.  They came back after I had already gone to sleep, conversing in loud whispers, and giggling.  One of them got on her phone and called someone named Felix, in order to tell him that she loved him.  I groaned inwardly.  WOULD THEY NEVER SHUT UP?   

Sunday was my last day.  I had a slow morning, and made great use of the fact that the hostel offered free coffee.  After dropping off ma valise aux consignes de gare, Mischa suggested that we go to Saarburg, a nearby city.  He said it was small, but pleasant, and that we could look around.  I acquiesced, and we boarded the train. 

Saarburg was indeed charming.  It was perched above the Saar river, and thus everything in town, and indeed the town itself, was prefixed w/ the word “Saar.”  “Very original,” I commented. 

“That’s the Germans for you,” Mischa replied. 

We climbed to an old fort, and admired the city below.  Then we took a gondola up a nearby mountain, w/ the idea of descending on foot.  This was to be the setting for what was w/o doubt the most humiliating part of my journey.  The mountain had a “Sommerrodelbahn.”  I don’t know what the word is in English, but it was a sort of plastic sled that went down a smooth metal track.  A bit like street luge, I guess, although not nearly as fast (you never got above 40 km/hr).  I led the first time, and afterwards Mischa made fun of me for going slow.  I protested that it wasn’t on purpose.  We decided to go again.  I didn’t feel like carrying my purse, so he volunteered to do it for me.  At the end of the track, there was a yellow curtain, after which you were supposed to stop.  I knew this, sort of, so I can’t really explain why I didn’t stop.  I think I had assumed that the slowdown would be automatic.  Also, the signs were all in German, so I had no reminder, and was already past the curtain and slamming into Mischa, who was halted ahead of me, before I could rectify my error.  This stupidity would not have been so bad by itself, except that the attendant who nearby flipped shit, and started shouting at me in German.  I could only stare at him in shock as he turned an unflattering shade of puce and screamed “AUS, AUS!”  On his cheek there was a large brown mole.  I tried to stutter an explanation, but my poor brain wasn’t sure if it should speak Russian or English or what.  Mischa put his arm around my waist and hustled me away.  By then I regained my power of speech and was babbling flustered apologies.  I couldn’t believe it.  What had I been thinking?  Or rather, what hadn’t I been thinking?  We had to walk all the way up the hill on our own.  I was still mortified, cursing myself, and crushed by an extreme chagrin.  I tried my best to shake it off.  Disenchanted, we left immediately, exacting a poor revenge on the way down by divesting some nearby grape vines of their fruit. 

“Do you want to eat anything?” Mischa asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

This was becoming a point of contention, and he had been prodding me about it since last night.  I could tell he was becoming annoyed, and so I finally relented.  I agreed to ice cream, and then kebab.  I tried to drown out my mental cries of “ARGH, THE GREASE, THE GREASE!  YOU’LL MAKE ME FATTER THAN I ALREADY AM YOU HOG!” w/ conversation about books.  Mischa is v. well-read, and we talked about Shakespeare, Conan Doyle, Stendhal, Dostoevsky, Verne, and more.         

Afterwards we went home and watched the end of Heat (“Men,” I said, as Robert DeNiro wheeled the car back around so he could go to the hotel, and to his ultimate doom.  “A woman would have just gone to the airport”).  Mischa also showed me an album of pictures from his time w/ the Scouts and in seminary.  More than anything, this trip had been a chance to get to know him.  Over the past few days he had told me about his childhood in Ukraine, his friends in Poland, his life in the Seminary, his difficulties in the present, and his dreams for the future.  Qu’il fume comme un pompier. In the album, there was a picture of a smiling green-eyed girl.

“Who’s this?”

“Thay was my girlfriend.  She’s Polish.  We were together for two years, but not anymore.  She’s already found another guy, apparently.”

AHA!  I thought.  Not gay.  Good to know.

“So why aren’t you together anymore?”

“These things happen.  I went and met her when she came to Germany, but…” he shrugged.  “She was in another city, far away.  It was hard.”

“Distance is really difficult,” I agreed, thinking of my own experience.

“It is.  And I know my life.  It wouldn’t work.”

“You need to find a German girl, I guess,” I said lightly.

“Mmmn,” was the only non-commital reply.  I had been kidding; Mischa doesn’t like Germans any more than he likes Russians.  Actually, I knew he disliked the fact that we had to speak Russian.  I had called him out on it a couple of nights ago.

“You hate Russian.”

“Not true.  I loved it, I love it, and I will love it.”

“I heard you tell your friend that you don’t like Russian.”

“It’s just that I’m ashamed to speak to you in Russian.  I make a lot of mistakes.  I can’t think.”

“You make mistakes?  You?  I’m much worse!”

“And also, I should be able to speak in English.”

“Yeah, and I should be able to speak in German.  But I can’t.”

“You know why I don’t like speaking it on the street with you?  B/c then people think I’m Russian.  And that also makes me ashamed.”  I nodded, though I didn’t really understand.  Well…maybe I did.  I didn’t have trouble w/ the idea of being taken for a Russian.  On the other hand, I have always been reluctant to let people know I’m American.  It’s not shame, exactly, more of a wish to avoid the onus of the myriad stereotypes that my nationality evokes.  Almost everyone I encountered on this trip, Mischa’s friends, the people in the hostel, seemed surprised to find out that I was from the U.S.  And I took it as a compliment.  Who wants to be a cheeseburger-munching, soda-slurping, obese, ignorant, uncouth American? 

There was a beaded bracelet on Mischa’s desk.  I was attracted by its pretty red color.  Black beads spelled ”DORA 2004″ in Cyrillic letters.  Almost my name, I thought.

Mischa caught me examining it.  “Do you want it?” he asked.

I put it down hurriedly.  I hadn’t meant to imply that. 

“Where’s it from?”

It was from camp.  I didn’t understand the entire explanation, but gathered that there had been a workshop, some woman had made it, and that he had made several as well.  “It’s for you,” he said. 

At this point it would be more impolite to refuse than not.  “Thank you,” I said sincerely, unsure of what had just transpired.  I tied it around my wrist.     

I v. sneakily took this picture when Mischa wasn’t looking.  I thought it would turn out much cooler and artier than it did, even after I played around w/ the contrast a bit and made it black and white.  Still, there’s something appealing about it.  To other viewers it may seem a bit melancholy, this image of the lone smoker at the window, but for me, it reminds me of fleeting moments of peace snatched in Moscow, when I could be alone w/ my thoughts, away from fretful Tanya, sulky Christina, and my roommate (who was not unkind, but w/ whom I had practically nothing in common).  ”Sometimes, when it’s v. late at night, 3 or 4 in the morning, I lean outside the window to smoke,” Mischa told me.  “ Across the way, there lives a guy, and over there there’s another one, and when everything is dark, they are the only other ones awake.  The only thing I can see is the tiny light of their cigarettes, and they of mine.  I don’t know who they are, but it’s nice.”

Time passed quickly, and before we knew it we were having to rush out the door so we could pick up the rest of my stuff, and then hurry to the bus stop so I could get a ride to the airport, and catch my flight to London.  We arrived w/ 10 min. to spare.  Mischa had left his cigarettes at home, so I offered him one of my Vogues.  “На здоровье,” he said, and we chuckled over the irony. 

The bus arrived.  I was only halfway done w/ my cigarette, but my momentarily alarm passed when the driver also got out to take a smoke break. 

“When are you going to come back?” Mischa asked me.

“I don’t know,” I replied.  I hadn’t really been planning to come back.  But I wanted to.  Mischa was surprisingly easy to be w/, despite (because of?) the language barrier. 

“Will you have time?”

“Maybe.”  Actually, I probably wouldn’t.  And money would also be an issue. 

“Hmn.”

“Do you want me to come back?  I’m not too boring?”

“Sure, why not?  Whenever.”  I had been hoping for a warmer response than that.  I still wasn’t sure if Mischa actually liked to hang out w/ me, or if he was just amazingly polite.  He and Igor are some of the more inscrutable people of my acquaintance.  For all I knew, he wanted to shove me in front of a bus, just to get rid of me.  Meanwhile I was experiencing a delicate sort of heartache.  I wanted to get home, to do laundry and sleep in my own bed.  Also, the humiliation of Saarburg haunted me.  But I had grown accustomed to Mischa, which is one of the highest compliments I know to bestow.   

It was time to go.  I hugged him good-bye.  “Write to me, and say if you can come again,” he said.  “Papa.” And we has gone.  On the bus, I realized I hadn’t properly thanked him for everything.  I tend to lose my head when I am saying goodbye, and I hardly know what’s coming out of my mouth.  It’s never the right thing, though, and I always regret it later.  In recompense, I wrote him a text message.  “Thank you so much I hope I can come again and annoy you. “

The trip home was miserable.  The obnoxious people at the gate tried to cut me in line (damn you, Ryanair, and your free-boarding policy!).  The plane was late.  I was desperately tired.  I wanted to die of fatigue as I waited for entry into the UK (only in the UK does one have to wait, I’ve noticed.  I’ve basically walked into to practically every other country in Europe).  I had underestimated the time it would take me to get through customs and reclaim my bag, and thus missed the Cambridge bus that I had reservations for, and would have to take the next one.  I clutched my confirmation slip, praying the the driver simply wouldn’t notice the hour’s difference in time.  Luckily, he didn’t, and I made it home w/o a hitch.  

Coming home was unpleasant.  The kitchen was a smelly mess, as I discovered when I went to do a load of laundry.  Ah, reality.  Exhausted, I went up to bed.  I read for perhaps a quarter of an hr. and then sleep engulfed me.