A German, an Indian, and two Americans walk into a café…

Today, after gathering together from the eight Theatre des Arts bus stops by the metro and the bridge the eight people who responded to my invitation, we set out to explore the Foire St-Romain. It was erected along the Seine on the Left bank not long before Toussaint. At night coming down the hill from school its colored lights whirl like sparklers on the horizon. Today we saw it from the inside.

It was much the same as any American fair. Fun houses. Kiddy rides. Scramblers. Games with big ugly stuffed animals as prizes (meaning no offense to Heathcliff or the Blue Kangaroo, bro). Only take your average county fair and multiply it by forty. Add a few roller coasters (les montagnes russes) and a large Ferris Wheel (la grande roue) into the mix…big enough that you wonder how you can set it up in a night, take it down a month later, and it still be sturdy enough to, well … and lots of dead animals roasting over open fires. And enclosed sit down restaurants in tents. And coffee vending machines every fifty feet between the coke and orangina machines. And every twenty feet- a kebab (they have these on every block in Rouen. Greek in origin, they usually feature a huge hunk of meat rotating on a vertical spit- usually lamb, but usually cone shaped, not identifiable as any particular part. The meat is shaved off onto bread for sandwiches) selling saur kraut and fries as well. And every ten feet—long long counters under canopies lit up like new automobile showrooms, featuring crèpes, ice cream, these things like fried funnel cake dough only twice as greasy, apples on sticks decorated with every conceivable combination of chocolate, sprinkles, and dried fruit (les pommes d’amour), homemade lollipops twisted and twirled and chunked, and something which hung in huge hunks on hooks in every color (la guimauve). Anastasia had told me about it. She’d looked it up in the dictionary and all they had was "marshmallow" for a definition. But it was really more like thick taffy, which they drew out from the hunks and cut with huge scissors, twirling it around a wooden stick like one of those old fashioned unicorn lollipops. When you pulled it off to eat it it turned shiny, like pink package ribbon. There was something else too, called "la reglisse américaine," I think. I’ve never seen it in the states. Something like a long rope of licorice or chewy, flavored vinyl with a marshmallowy core. Not bad.
(it’s really hard to write about this without wanting to go back and sample more…)
After that, Hannah, Hans, and Patel had coffee (sorry, it’s the only Indian name I can think of. Besides Apu.) Hannah and I had met Patel at the Catholic center. We had a long difficult conversation in which Patel told story after story about how awful the American government can be, looking me hard in the eye the entire time, insisting he’s not blaming us personally. Persecution complex twitching, but I’m conflicted. I can’t say I agree with the war we’re in. It still makes no sense to me.
Not that we didn’t have a great time together. And not like other countries weren’t implicated in the world’s problems. I learned some really disturbing things about India. And Hans had the courtesy to talk of "us" exploiting Africa, not "you." All and all I’m left with a sense of how much evil is spread about the world at large, how little I know about anything and how much I want to do something- anything- good for the world. But it seems I can only be certain of how I am, I can only have power over me, and sometimes I’m not so sure of that…
At least I can make progress towards dispelling the monolingual American stereotype- Hans has agreed to teach us all German. Das ist gut, jah?