RocamadourI am intrigued by McCannell’s concept of “front” and “back” spaces in terms of authenticity. I recently took a trip to the south of France over spring break, or to be more specific to the no-man’s land of fertile farmlands and river valleys between Orléan and Toulouse. Deep in the countryside, in tiny, quaint villages, a small number of people live and work off of the tireless flow of fleeting tourists. People rarely stay more than a few hours, at most a night, before floating on to the next town or region. I found a steep contrast between the vast “front” region of mystical, medieval villages untouched by time except for the vast array of tourist goods, and the miniscule “back” region tucked into living rooms safely hidden from the many prying eyes. I almost felt like I had stepped into a Disney version of a French town, a scene from Beauty and the Beast offered to roaming visitors, everything was meticulously conceived to herd tourists towards the right places, while performing a spectacle of authenticity and charm. Having traveled a decent amount, including several trips to various Disney parks, I was skeptical of the illusion, and curious about the lives of the few people who live in these idyllic places. Thanks to French skills and the fact that we didn’t have a car, and so were often walking from train stations to towns on tiny trails past private houses, empty woods, and trailer parks, I managed to catch a glimpse of what the “back” areas might be like. I had a long conversation with a waiter, born and raised within 10 miles of the restaurant, as the buses had left and we were the only customers. I watched a single woman return from a walk with her dog and enjoy a cup of tea and a book on her porch. I glimpsed into every nook and cranny, every back alley and open kitchen door, looking for a taste of genuine life. And I found it, or bits of it. My favorite town had a population of 120 in the summer, and only 24 in the winter. There aren’t any bakeries or grocery stores in town, so they have to drive at least 20 – 40 minutes to get basic necessities. But they are very proud of the natural beauty that surrounds them, proud that it is worth coming to visit from every corner of the globe, even if they take it for granted on a daily basis. But most of all, I noticed the toll that the language barrier between the performers and the audience takes on the residents of these towns. Any time I spoke French they were so enthused to not have to try to speak English. I found that there was a steep contrast between the simple, measured life that people were trying to live and the bustling, hectic, English-speaking masses that invade the towns on a daily basis. The irony is, that each one of those tourists is looking for the “authentic” experience that their mere presence makes impossible. They want to experience the calm, beautiful life of the deep countryside, but their presence makes these small towns feel more like a commercial shopping mall.

Down and Out in Paris

The first book I read for our class was Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Published in 1933, this vivid memoir, written in two parts, details Orwell's life as a penniless writer living among the poor and destitute of society, first in Paris then in London. The book documents in painstaking detail the squalor of the lives of those of the poor underworld--washing dishes in a grungy hotel kitchen, staying alive on scraps and stolen loaves of bread and starving in between, pawning every last coat and pair of trousers just to scrounge enough money to pay the next month's rent. Orwell's account of what it is really like to be down and out is desperately touching and sadly familiar looking at modern Paris; the number of homeless in Paris is staggeringly high, and it is all too obvious walking around the streets of the city. Every corner is home to a beggar man and his dog. Every street is another poor man's territory. Their signs all read the same sad lines: "S.V.P. J'ai faim." Please. I'm hungry. A few coins in a tattered old hat, a moth-eaten coat, faces buried in thin dusty blankets. As I go through my weekly routine, I pass the same homeless people, over and over again. The woman outside the Sorbonne, her face as brown and tired as beaten leather. The hunched old grey-haired man outside the Passy subway who's constantly clutching his arms around him to keep warm.

Each time I see them, walk by and look at them, a certain part of Orwell's memoir comes to mind. He is discussing a Russian friend of his he met in the public ward of a hospital who, once a waiter making a hundred francs a day, had since become bed-ridden and therefore as poor as Orwell himself. A war veteran, this friend Boris often entertained Orwell with stories of his glorious fighting days. He had since been forced to pawn almost everything in his possession just to buy food. The few things he had kept, refused to sell regardless of their potential value, were his old war medals and photographs, which he treasured with all his heart. Almost every day, he'd lie them across his bed and talk about them proudly with a glaze in his eye. They were the things he deemed too important to let go of, the few remnants of his past life, the few things he still had that belonged to his person. I think of this each day I walk by a certain homeless man on Rue St. Jacques. He is a dirty-faced man with a long grey beard and a sharp chin with black pirate eyes. He sits on a crude brown blanket with his spotted dog, and reads a tattered old book whose title I've never seen. Sprawled around him on the blanket is a collection of various trinkets, photographs, and books. There is a mint green oval tin, worn and rusted on the edges, inside which are a few coins and crumbs of dirt. There is a photograph of a grand two-masted ship, its edges curling and tea colored worn. There is a stack of flaking paperbacks at his feet, pieces of paper (letters? lists? wind carried flyers?) stuck throughout as bookmarks. He is there every Thursday and Friday afternoon, and every day I walk by, I look, and I wonder about this man and his collection. These things he's chosen to save are perhaps mementos of a past life, a past real life, full of things, family, purpose. This tin, did it once hold his mother's stamps, or his wife's jewelry, or his own life savings? The ship, did it belong to his father, did it take him across the world, is it merely a dream he refuses to let go of? These books, were they gifts from a best friend, did they comfort him in summer nights of his youth, or once accompany him across vast oceans of travel?

Each Thursday and Friday afternoon I walk past him, southbound to my job where I stay well into the evening. Walking back at the grey twilight of dusk, he is always gone, the rusty square outline of his blanket the only evidence of his presence. I wonder where he goes. Does he have a home, a friend, as Orwell did? Does he have a family, a circle of companions? I sigh and walk on, down the hill towards the Seine, and don't look back. I know I will see him tomorrow.

The days before I left for Prague were a blur. I packed, met up with friends one last time, went to restaurants and shoved in as much of my favorite foods as I possibly could to stave off cravings. As I did all those things, I remember feeling such a sense of excitement. I was ready for the impending adventure.

And now, it is suddenly all over. I feel like the ends of all semesters are marked with shock but relief as well – you’re both amazed at how quickly time flew by, but when you think about all that was accomplished in between, you realize that a hell of a lot was done and that you could possibly be on the verge of getting burned out.

While I definitely am looking forward to lazy days of doing absolutely nothing once I get home, I still wish I had a few more weeks in Prague so that I could leave without a sense of “Oh, I wish I still did this” or “If only I had more time!” I don’t want my last few memories of the place to be filled with the panic and lists that accompany the end of a semester and moving. And with the summer buzz on the upswing, our departure in two short weeks becomes even more bittersweet.

I’ve had plenty of conversations with friends where someone has said, “In 10 years, when I look back at my time here in Prague, I KNOW I will remember this.” We’ve all met such crazy characters (some of them our professors), explored fascinating places, and stumbled on completely “what the hell” situations. I know a lot of what I will remember won’t be the touristy things I made myself do but rather the small moments, like the many times I was hopelessly lost around town and practically pounced on anybody with broken English for instructions on how to get back home, or when my friend and I sang along to “All By Myself” with a AAA taxi driver. I’ve become so settled here, easily navigating the metro system and becoming a familiar face to the baristas at Coffee Heaven.

I will leave Prague with nothing but great memories, and a great deal of sadness as well. Na shledanou… but I will be back!

PudongPudong New Area is the vanguard economic development zone of China. The Chinese have a tradition of naming cities and areas based on direction and natural landmarks. For example, Shanghai literally means “up” or “above the sea.” Beijing means “northern capital” and Hainan, the southern most part of China means “south of the sea.” Fittingly, Pudong means “east of the Huangpu river”, “dong” means east and “pu” is short for Huangpu. Shanghai is divided into two main districts, Pudong and Puxi, west of the Huangpu. Puxi is the largest district of Shanghai and is home to 90% of its residents, it is developed and has been for decades. Pudong was farmland and factories as of 1990 and is now home to one of the fastest changing skylines in the world. Pudong is also home to Pudong International Airport, which is the 3rd busiest airport in the world in terms of freight, and is home to the world's first commercial high-speed maglev train.

There are several notable structures in Pudong's Lujiazui Trade and Finance Zone. Perhaps the most famous one, and the oldest, is the Oriental Pearl Tower. At a height of over 1,500 ft, this enormous tower features fifteen observation levels, a revolving restaurant, and an exclusive 20 room hotel. It is the only building I remember from my trip to Shanghai in 2001. Next to the Oriental Pearl Tower is the 88 story Jin Mao Tower. The final construction price is estimated to be over $530 million and sits at just under 1,400 feet. Chicago based architecture firm Skidmore, Owings & Merrill incorporated the lucky number 8 within the building's design. There are 88 floors built into an octagon shear wall, surrounded by 8 exterior super-columns and 8 steel columns. The Chinese are highly superstitious and tend to include that in their architecture. Planning for the Beijing Olympics included lucky numbers, lucky directions, and ying and yang. Jin Mao Tower has a shopping mall, restaurants, and a 5-star Hyatt hotel. It is home to the world's highest swimming pool on the 57th floor, and home to the world's highest bar on the 87th floor.

The current tallest building in China, and world's tallest completed building, is the Shanghai World Financial Center. At more than twice the cost of Jin Mao Tower, this super tall building boasts 101 floors and a glass-floor observatory on the 100th floor. I conquered my fear of heights and visited the glass floor observatory and was truly blown away by the view. Even the current tallest building in the world is going to be dwarfed by an even taller building in 2014. Shanghai Tower is currently being constructed right next to Jin Mao Tower and Shanghai World Financial Center. This eco-friendly building features an insulating outer skin, wind turbines that generate energy for the building, a glass facade that reduces wind loads by 24%, and a rainwater collecting system that is recycled for air-conditioning. It is projected to be completed at over 2,000 feet and will be the tallest building in China. These three super skyscrapers are going to be the future of Shanghai and will be a symbol of Shanghai and China's place in the modern world.

Radost FX

Take the green line to the Namesti Miru metro stop, or the red metro line or tram to I.P. Pavlova and walk a short distance on the cobblestone streets, and prepare yourself for a wonderful state of mind sure to last all day with a morning stop at the slightly touristy, but still amazingly fun Radost FX. Upon your arrival on a weekend morning, you can expect to find a wonderful brunch that is easily accessible for almost any budget. What most people don’t realize, however is that Radost FX’s brunch is geared toward vegetarians. However, don’t let the lack of bacon and sausage deter you; Radost’s breakfast is a staple not to be missed whilst in Prague. Whatever you choose to order, from Radost’s famous “Elvis” bagel, to its equally scrumptious Greek God omelet, the establishment is never one to disappoint at any given part of the day, thanks in part to its ambience, as well as its surprisingly well speaking English staff. You see, Radost FX has a bit of a Clark Kent complex. Yet on weekend mornings before 11 a.m., it is a place for a leisurely meal where one can be assured to eat something both satisfying and delicious. By night however, Radost FX gets its Superman on, and transforms itself into a nightclub worthy of mention in any Prague guidebook.

The club is so noteworthy in fact, that famed international pop artist Rihanna shot the music video for her hit single “Please Don’t Stop The Music “ inside its nightclub. One step inside Radost FX, and the rich deep red velvets envelop you, beckoning you to come in further. Once inside, a Moulin Rouge inspired décor surrounds you, as plush couches with regal embroidery help establish a swanky upscale atmosphere that would not be out of place in New York City’s SoHo or the East Village neighborhood. Bass rhythms shake the black lacquered floors, pleading you to dance atop them. Once downstairs in the main area, a bar glowing a cool blue serves up any sort of concoction one can imagine. Decadent chandeliers hang from the ceiling, threatening to come loose and crash to the ground as they shake from the vibrations rattling from the dance floor. The dance floor is a bit cramped, but those seeking refuge can climb the steps to the DJ platform which acts as a pseudo-dance floor that often ends up being the best place to dance. Those looking for a more relaxed night can opt to sit in Radost’s expansive lounge area that also glows a distinct cool blue, while getting a drink from the contrasting red bar area, located close by. Whatever time of day you choose to come to Radost FX, or whatever your mood is, whether it be leisurely or party-friendly, you can be assured to have a great time at Radost FX.

Caminito
Calle Caminito, a street in the barrio of La Boca, is the most popularly used image on postcards from Buenos Aires. A photo of Caminito, whether of the cobblestone streets, the colorful buildings or the live tango shows, is always picturesque. Visuals of the street, which is one of the most touristic attractions in the city, typically suggest it is a place with a unique history, rich with culture and vibrant arts. Walking down Calle Caminito on a Tuesday afternoon, mid-Argentine fall, I am surprised to find that the street is only sparsely occupied by tourists photographing the colorfully painted buildings. On weekends and during the months of Spring and Summer the street must attract many more visitors. Regardless, the realization that this attraction--one the few popular tourist destinations in Buenos Aires--still has "offtimes" during which it draws little attention, seems to say a lot about the city and the country.

A stroll down Caminito feels ironic and artificial. Overpriced restaurants line the street and each one is identical to the previous, consistently offering the same mediocre-quality Italian influenced foods and cheesy decor. As you pass, men approach you with no concept of personal space to stubbornly push flyers into your hands. They aggressively speak into your face insisting that "they have the best food, the best deals, the best shows". They are relentless and their persistence is annoying, suggesting that they are likely paid by how many tourists they successfully lure into their employer's trap.
Tables for outdoor dining line the cobblestone streets, the seating organized around various elevated stages where couples perform La Boca's famous open air tango shows. Melodies of traditional milonga music radiate from scratchy speakers intending to transport listeners to the time and place of tango's birth. Since each tango show is only storefronts away from the next, one show's music inevitably becomes part of another . Thus a walk through Caminito is like walking through a tunnel of sound. The drifting tunes of traditional, time-specific tango conflict with one another and Caminito becomes confusing.

On this Tuesday afternoon, the outdoor dining spaces are barely occupied. Of the few there, there is a lonely couple sipping cafe, ignoring the live tango dancers with their noses buried in their Buenos Aires tour guides. At another tango show, all but one of the surrounding tables are empty. Still, men in kitschy suits and women in cheap fishnets continue to dance on their stages, performing the same routines over and over again despite the lack of an audience. The dancers are not the only aspects that seem staged. The famous brightly painted houses made of wood and metal that line the streets are difficult to grasp-- they begin and end abruptly and walking amidst them you feel as if you are living inside the artistic set of play. A close look at the buildings reveals pealing paint and poor quality construction; the street is aged. The artificiality makes it feel timeless and surreal, as if the entire street is incapsulated, frozen in time. Calle Caminito is like a broken record. The music keeps playing, the dancers keep dancing, and the buildings, the souvenir shops, the restaurants, will never change. It is depressing and backwards. Few would expect that an attraction like Caminito, frequented by crowds of of tourists, is actually located just steps away from some of the poorest and most neglected areas of the city. Beyond Caminito, the streets become dirt and the buildings become increasingly deteriorated. On a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the surrounding poverty of La Boca seems evident through an underlying sadness of Caminito. I assume that the entertainers that spend their days dancing relentlessly and that the people that work the souvenir shops and the restaurants are likely local inhabitants. To me, there is something very twisted and ironic about this and about Caminito in general. It is the most artificial of places, but it is located right in the middle of reality.

When I get back home, I'll just give people my URLTwo more blogs to go and I don't think I've actually turned any of them in on time. Maybe I shouldn't be admitting that when finals are just around the corner and GPAs are creeping into every one's minds, but studying abroad has drastically loosened my perception of the word "deadline." Late or not, my posts have been a chance for me to look at Prague in an often micro view and explore and reflect on places and people I might have passed by. I've never had a blog before, and most of my journals have remained half filled. Not one to spend much time on the computer and known to some as a technophobe, my excursion to the 'blogosphere' was something I really enjoyed. I can only imagine myself with a twitter account, BBM-ing and IM-ing, g-chatting and skyping while keeping up with my new online community…or maybe not. Either way, I liked tossing around the phrase, "Oh, I wrote about that on my blog." While I'm sure only the people in the class read them, it was fun getting feedback and comments and reading about everyone's experiences. It's something we've all shared this semester, and even though we all had to write on the same topics, the variety of stories opened my eyes to how big the world really is and how much I want to travel and experience the things my peers had the chance to experience this semester. I have to say I wasn't too much of a fan of DeBotton's Art of Travel. I think a wider selection of travel readings from more contemporary authors or perhaps by authors from the places we're all studying would have been a nice way to see a place. Overall, I enjoyed the course a lot. On top of my two journalism classes, my fingers were permanently affixed to the keyboard this semester, but as an aspiring journalist, I've discovered my voice, my passion for travel, and my love for writing and sharing stories.

MovingFor me this course came as kind of a culmination of my time spent at Gallatin, especially as I begin prepare for graduation. Throughout the past four years, I have delved into the design and history of places, urban planning, the sociology of urbanites, and even ethnographic studies of place. My studies in the past have always personal in a sense, as could always relate what I learned to my own life, yet it was this course that allowed me to reflect, through the medium of a blog, on all of my collected knowledge through my own experiences of place, tying in my education and travel experience. In looking back over my past blogs, I realized how many verying places I have grown to identify with throughout my college experience, and this has been especially nostalgiac for me to reflect on as am about to begin making a new place for myself, moving from the dorm I have lived in for the past three years, at that intersection of Broome and Center, up to 10th Street and Avenue C, close by to the garden I wrote about. The process of making place is both exciting and stressful for me, as I pack up all my belongings only to bring them 15 blocks away to be rearranged in a new space with new people. I think what sticks most in my mind, however, is that in this class we seem to have always gravitated towards the idea that it is the people and our belongings that make the places we identify with. Each thing I pack up brings back memories, from the blanket I always take with me to central park that used to be my table cloth, to the beer glass I brought back from my study abroad time in Berlin, to the picture of my family and I in Paris that I have brought with me everywhere I have lived since. As we have all moved around, traveled, etc. it seems that we have most connected with the things and individuals that we have shared experiences with, and that have shaped our memories. So as I move forward that is what I will take will me in order to build this new sense of place, with new roommates and new experiences to come, merging both as I create a new identify for myself, no longer a student.

Note: Image from http://blogs.townonline.com/campolitics/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/movin... (could not get link to work on image...)

Ode to a Bra Tree: There are links to opinions at the bottom of the blogWhile reading Frazier’s essay, “Bags in Tress”, I wanted to give him my full attention. I, too, get annoyed with trash in trees. It makes me feel the filth of the city even more readily. As if seeing filled trash bags all over the street weren’t enough. I wanted to read and commiserate. Finally someone raised the issue.
But instead of simply jumping onboard I got distracted. I kept thinking about bra trees. What is a bra tree, you ask? I’ve never heard of a tree that bears supportive lingerie fruit!
Well, to allay your concerns, it doesn’t actually grow brassieres. It’s an entirely normal tree, but with special human enhancement. On most ski mountains there is at least one tree, the bra tree, which becomes the focal point of an annual ritual. Every year people throw their bras and other undergarments onto it. These ornaments come to litter nearly every branch by the end of the winter. The tree transforms into a cotton and timber reminder that no matter how prissy the resort, there are people there that still want to have a good time.
It was easy to tell the difference between the two in the beginning. Bra trees are enjoyable because they give energy and become a funny emblem, while bags in trees are only a reminder of bad littering habits. But when I learned that there is actually a faction of people that enjoy this sight, that just relish in the rough glittering of shopping bag strips, I wasn’t so sure of where to draw the line anymore.
I assume that there are also people that get offended by the bra trees. Some older people probably think it’s a sign of cultural decay, or just don’t want their grandchildren to witness the horrors of lace. As well, others may see it as an intrusion on the beauty of the pristine mountain. So there are contending points of view around this type of tree embellishment. It became confusing.
I started thinking about how, since there were clearly polarized views regarding both, I could formulate an educated opinion about why I like one and not the other. Why did I think the bra tree was fun and festive, while the bag tree was disgusting? It seemed that the way I perceived these defined places came down to a question of ratios. This is relevant because bags litter trees everywhere. I hardly think that people would get upset enough to make a totally new invention, the bag snatcher, if there weren’t many trees like it. The bra tree, conversely, stands alone in a natural setting: a single reminder of human presence. In the former case, it seems that man is ruining nature while in the latter, man is only making a small mark on nature. giving himself a place of reference.
It seems interesting in terms of place making because it speaks to the uniqueness of a place and what people value in it. When a place, no matter good or bad is unique it will be much more valuable and noticed, while once it becomes ubiquitous it loses its value and people may come to dislike it.
In my research I came across a few links that discuss the bra trees and their origins/
Here’s a link to a discussion Group about bra trees, most of the bloggers are older women: http://www.theskidiva.com/forums/showthread.php?t=749
This one has more about the history of them:
http://skiinghistory.org/forums/showthread.php?t=183&highlight=tradition