Paris, Technology, and Learning

I am, as friends and colleagues know, not among those who feel that technology is all too often a distraction or an unwelcome intruder in learning spaces or in the learning process; I’ve had wonderful instructors and mentors who have shown me otherwise. I have consistently, for more than a decade, supported the idea that technology, when used mindfully and well-integrated into learning, can tremendously augment the learning experiences we pursue. I was, in fact, astounded a decade ago when I read of a private university that placed strict limits on the use of technology—including a policy preventing the use of cellphones and other handheld devices with wireless or cellular date on campus—a set of policies that continues to this day, a visit to the school’s website shows; I felt at the time—and continue to feel—that helping students learn how to effectively and productively understand when and when not to use it is part of preparing them for positive, active engagement in the world we inhabit.

Combining technology and learning was very much on my mind as I prepared for a three-week trip to Paris since I very much saw the journey as, among many other things, an extended learning opportunity. I was firmly committed to not being drawn into work or anything else that is part of my day-to-day life here in San Francisco, and I also wanted to be sure I had whatever tech tools I needed to navigate the city, write, take photographs, and have the essential moment-to-moment ability to stay in touch with the friends with whom I would be spending time while in Paris.

Arriving with a lightweight travel laptop, a tablet, a cellphone, a couple of large empty notebooks and a fountain pen and bottle of ink seemed to provide what I expected to need. Deciding to rely on limited local wi-fi access rather than having a data plan or SIM card that would give me 24/7 Internet access also seemed to be a good way to be sure I didn’t fall into the habit of continually checking for messages or being interrupted by calls, text messages, or social media alerts when I was immersed in exploring the city, learning, and spending time with friends. But technology, in the most unobtrusive of ways, became an integral part of the myriad experiences I had in Paris, beginning in an unexpected way within the first few days of our arrival.

I stand beside that world-famous pond in Monet’s garden, in Giverny, fairly early one morning a few days after our arrival is Paris. I hear robins and sparrows. The rushing of water in a nearby stream. Feel the moisture of the gently falling rain on my face and hands. Am overwhelmed by the explosively spectacular vibrant purple wisteria flowing over and around the Japanese bridge I have seen in reproductions of Monet’s paintings over the span of many decades. And look at those water lilies floating in the same pond which Monet helped create and from which he drew so much of his inspiration. I need nothing else to feel as if the moment is a complete expression of perfection. Then, after absorbing the sounds fragrances textures colors that are caressing me, it finally occurs to me to pull out my cellphone and snap a few photographs so I can later return to those images to keep the memories alive. And that’s when magic happens: I focus on a small, tight grouping of water lilies. Make sure the lighting is just right to pick up the undulating ripples formed as raindrops hit the surface of the water. Snap the shot.  Look at it. And am amazed by all the photograph reveals. While it is far from being a Monet painting, it does make me realize that this is what Monet might have been seeing and experiencing as he produced some of those lovely works of art. It makes me realize that the century that has passed since he was here is not something completely lost in time. The use of that camera and my decision to look at the photograph while also looking at the living setting makes the entire stretch of time from the day he used his technology—paint and brushes—to the day I’m immersed in the setting and the paintings he produces one lovely uninterrupted extended moment—something I might not have felt as viscerally if my technology had not so unobtrusively revealed something that was waiting to be discovered learned absorbed.

The moment affects everything that happens for the remainder of that three-week trip. I begin thinking about how he paints the haystack series to play with light and color over extending periods of time, and that inspires me to take photographs at least twice a day—in the morning and the evening—from the same spot (the room where we are staying not far from the Place de la Nation). Look for subtle differences each photograph reveals. Use the settings on my cellphone to manipulate those images to produce varying highlights of brightness and darkness. Crispness and softness. Clarity and obfuscation. And the more I play, the more I learn, for I have never before fully explored how the cellphone allows me to manipulate the photographs in so many ways. Shots that initially are somewhat drab and lacking in contrast come to life with the simplest of alterations. Colors that initially are pleasant become enticingly sensual, nearly hyperreal. Details that are distractions are easily removed through repeated cropping. And I even discover the long-ignored function that allows for the removal of distracting elements—the person who inadvertently stepped into the picture frame just as I captured the image. All of this means I am living experiencing enjoying capturing memories, creating memories and learning in ways that would have been impossible without the intervention of the simple technology that is augmenting the experiences as they happen.

Learning more fully how to effectively incorporate the available technology into the creation and sustainability of the experiences I am having continues unexpectedly and consistently. I find myself lingering over the sight of the Paris skyline from the restaurant near the top of the Centre Pompidou at one point and, after simply luxuriating in the view for an extended period of time, decide to see what would happen if I photographed it with my cellphone camera pushed directly up against a rain-speckled window, and am pleasantly surprised that the result is a distant cousin of an impressionist painting—shapes and colors just clear enough to suggested the more crisp image our own eyes provide. Sitting in Saint-Germain-de-Prés—that gorgeous centuries-old cathedral full of brilliant stained-glass, brightly-colored pillars (not long ago refurbished), beautiful sculpture, and acoustics that embrace you like the friend who is the center of your life—provides an unexpected learning experience when my finger slips and I inadvertently begin to create a video rather than capturing a single photograph; it doesn’t take me long to realize that if I use that video function to photograph parts of the interior while the organist is rehearsing, I’ll have that moment at my fingertips anytime I have the urge to relive it as fully as I can. Similar rehearsals, a cappella services, and even the chiming of church bells at noon provide additional opportunities in other Parisian churches to learn while augmenting experiences through experimenting with the use of the video function on my cellphone, and I know this is something that I will continue to explore and incorporate into my training-teaching-learning as well as into my writing long after I return home.

The three-week long-extended learning moment in Paris continues here in San Francisco as I compose this piece on my word processor. Something makes me look up. Through the open door into our backyard, where water from our fountain flows melodiously and comfortingly into its basin, and spring-soft midday light dramatically calls my attention to the red-tailed hawk that is perched on top of the fountain, less than 10 feet from where I am sitting. I slowly pick up my cellphone. Start to zoom in and focus on the resting hawk to capture it in a single photographic image. But before I can snap the first shot, it extends its wings. Floats away with the sounds of its wings cutting through the air. Is gone before I’ve had a chance to think of what I just missed capturing. And then, as my learning continues, I realize I haven’t missed a thing. There is no photographic image. But the moment is burned indelibly in my mind and captured here in this piece. To be relived whenever I have the urge to read and bring it back to life again.

NB: This is the twelfth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Ateliers, and Creativity

Artists’ workspaces fascinate me. They hint of what goes into shaping the sacred space that is itself so integral a part of what an artist is inspired and driven to create. They allow my imagination to run wild with thoughts of how it must have felt to live and work within that space. And they make me look for similarities between what the artists included and excluded and what I include and exclude from the spaces I create and use to produce my own writing. So it is no surprise to me that visiting several ateliers in Paris proves inspirational and somewhat overwhelming even though I recognize that most of them are much different today than they were while still in use by their creator/occupants.

There are, for example, those in and near Monet’s home in Giverny. The first, which is part of the self-guided tour we follow while onsite, feels like a sacred space the moment I enter it even though Monet is obviously physically long gone and those of us tromping through it are little more than temporary visitors preceded by millions of others and, no doubt, to be followed by many more. Our presence and my awareness of myself, however, seem to fade as I walk into that gorgeous room. Mid-morning light pours through the panes in the large window and dances off the furniture collected from the period during which Monet lived and worked there. The spirit of creativity—even though one step removed by the restoration of what once existed there as a living, working space—flows from the beautifully reproduced copies of the paintings he cherished and kept on those walls while living in that home. Imagination runs wild both while I am here and later, as I look at photographs that show how the room was used for everything from an initial atelier to a reception room during a wedding—photographs that briefly capture the moment his stepdaughter/daughter-in-law and painter Blanche Hoschedé Monet sat on a sofa there in the corner, or the moment when the Monet and Hoschedé families gather there for a meal in celebration of the marriage (captured in a painting by Theodore Robinson) of Suzanne Hoschedé and Theodore Butler, in 1892. Past mingles inextricably with the present moment. And all around me, life swirls gleefully. Flourishes in moments of creativity. And will continue to exist as long as this moment remains firmly animated within my memory.

Musée Monet Marmottan

A second atelier, which has been transformed into the wonderfully expansive bookstore/boutique, is where he painted the large-scale water lilies that draw so many of us to the Musée de l’Orangerie to view them in their contemporary setting. My appreciation for it as a sacred creative space is not immediate—that only comes much later, when I am reading the copy of Un jour avec Claude Monet à Giverny that I purchase while there, and see the wonderful combination of contemporary and historical photos that further bring that space to life. It takes on even more life as I remember seeing the water lilies in the Musée de l’Orangerie. And, a week later, see more in the Musée Monet Marmottan. As I have so often observed during this visit to Paris, the entire city becomes the most engaging of classrooms. And, even more, the most engaging of ateliers in and of itself.

A few days later, the atelier visits continue when we finally stumble upon the home and refurbished atelier of Eugène Delacroix—now a small museum. There isn’t much of the sense of an active working space here; for that, I go online to find historical photographs to compare to what I presently see. But there is no denying that simply being in the space he helped create and used to produce some of his work sparks my imagination enough to make the visit worth the time it takes. And then, stepping back out from the studio and descending the steps into the garden which is such an important part of what remains, I sit, first with eyes closed, and take in the sounds and fragrances. Then, reopening my eyes, look up toward the outer wall of the atelier. Glance at the walls of the nearby buildings that shape that garden space. And, simply through the act of sitting there, feel a bit closer to the giants who preceded me and continue to exert an influence over any of us who take the time to sit or stand where they have sat or stood.

Days and walks begin melting one into another as I take what can best be called a modified flȃneur approach—not quite wandering without destination, yet never completely driven by having any single place in mind. I stand in Monet’s ateliers, gain what I can from Delacroix’s, and soon am also happily ensconced within another reconstruction: the studio of Suzanne Valadon, which now is housed in the Musée de Montmartre. The early-afternoon sun that brightens the space flows over a worktable that has palettes, brushes, and other tools suggesting the work that came out of the atelier when it was actually a living artist’s studio. The stacked canvases and standing easels almost beg to be used once again. And the reminder that an artist’s workspace is as much a creation as anything else he or she produces serves as another source of inspiration that painting and other products of the creative spirit are far from being historical artifacts—which becomes crystal clear a few nights later when we are having dinner in a friend’s apartment in Paris’s 20^th arrondissement. It begins as an opportunity to spend an evening of conversation, over a wonderful homecooked meal. But immediately succumbing to memories of the visits to historical ateliers immediately makes it so much more, for this particular friend, among other things, is himself a working artist. His work adorns his walls. Brings the space to life. Suggests acts of creation completed as well as yet to come. And, most importantly, creates an unexpected bridge between the work of those who have come before us, those who currently at least in part dedicate their lives to acts of creation, and those who will, within their own ateliers, continue the tradition of expression through creative endeavors far into whatever future we all contribute to producing.

I look around my own workspace here in San Francisco as I continue recreating memories of the trip to Paris which still feels so alive, so overwhelming, so representative of eternal moments blending one into another. I think of where I’ve been and where I hope to be. Of those who take the time to read what I produce and somehow find themselves inspired/transformed for having spent some time with me. And, for this particular moment, I know that I am doing exactly what I was meant to do. And will continue doing as long as other creative spirits are there to carry me along with them.

NB: This is the eleventh in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Flȃnerie, Mindfulness, and Learning

Paris skyline

There are few better ways to learn than to engage literally as well as figuratively in flȃnerie—a richly nuanced word grounded in the art of strolling—in the most positive sense of the word. The flȃneur (or flȃneuse) in learning includes those among us who want far more than a quick, superficial introduction to a topic that is of interest to us; we want to spend time exploring its paths and detours. We want to luxuriate in each moment of satisfaction great learning produces within us. We want to completely immerse ourselves in what we are seeing hearing smelling touching tasting. And we want to connect it to all the other learning strolls we’ve taken in our ongoing lifelong learning journey.

Which is pretty much how I am experiencing Paris at the beginning of the second week of our three-week stay in the city. The months of reading I did before arriving have paid off nicely: when we get up in the morning, we don’t spend a lot of time looking through guidebooks or going online to figure out where we are going; we make a fairly quick general decision about what sort of places we want to see—museums, parks, churches, unfamiliar city streets—then draw upon those months of reading to plan a very loose itinerary with one or two main destinations in close proximity to each other and set out along a meandering route that promises plenty of unexpected pleasures. (The intense preparation involved in reading a significant amount about the city and its history before we arrived and watching French-language videos, by the way, parallels another approach to learning I very much admire: the flipped classroom approach, in which learners watch videos or read about a topic before entering an onsite or online classroom to put their knowledge to work by applying it to specific learning goals. When you combine a flipped classroom with flȃnerie, you are setting yourself up for learning at its most rewarding levels.)

So, combining flȃnerie with a bit of flipped classroom learning and adding in a dollop of mindfulness (the process of focusing on, absorbing, enjoying, relishing, and learning with and from each moment lived) for good measure, we decide our main destination will be the Centre Pompidou, which among other things is offering a chance to see a special exhibition of work by Constantin Brâncuși in addition to wandering through numerous galleries filled with selections from the Center’s permanent collections. We start learning by walking, in the spirit of the learner as flȃneur/flȃneuse, from the place where we are staying (near the Place de la Nation) to the Place de la Bastille, looking into bookstores and other shops. Detour into alleyways that feed into small squares formed by shops and flats and trees and benches. Smell fresh-baked goods. Dodge cars, bicyclists, and other pedestrians. Occasionally check a map to be sure we haven’t strayed too far from where we want to go. And, when finally reaching the Centre Pompidou, join the line fill of people watching other people watching other people as it slowly snakes toward the ticket counter at the entrance to the multi-story ultra-modern complex with its galleries, bookstore, dining spaces, library, movie theaters, and more.

Flȃnerie continues to mingle with learning as we try to absorb all we are seeing. There is, of course, the art. And the wonderfully descriptive wall text and labels providing additional information about what we are seeing in the Brancusi exhibition. And there is the sense of watching others see and react to what they are seeing: some simply snapping photographs quickly so they can “see” the exhibit later, in the comfort of their own homes, rather than in galleries where it is impossible to not occasionally be jostled by our fellow co-conspirators in learning; others stopping in front of specific pieces to listen to recorded descriptions of the artwork; children and teens giggling not quite surreptitiously as they come across “Princess X,” Brancusi’s sculpted figure of a woman that so strongly looks like the most unfeminine of all objects that it was removed from a Parisian exhibition a century ago. And, for me, that wonderful moment when I am looking at one of Brancusi’s “Bird in Space” figures and seeing so much more: the figure itself. The other similar figures nearby. The way the light plays off the figure. The way the figure fits into the space it has been granted by the designers of the exhibition. And, as my eyes refocus yet another time, they capture, through an enormous window and off in the distance, the familiar outline of the Basilica of Sacré Coeur de Montmartre. So much to see and absorb, from so many different directions, yet all at once. And as I have done so many times during this trip (in Giverny, for example), I use the camera on my cellphone to isolate some of the images so I can better see, with distractions removed, what I am really trying to see in this particular moment. And the experiment continues as we walk from the special exhibition to the magnificent dining area near the top of the Center, snapping pictures as we go and while we eat—sometimes going for direct representation so we will remember what we are (trying to) see, sometimes going for the effect that comes from photographing parts of the Paris skyline through rain-speckled windows so that the result appears to be a distant cousin of an Impressionist painting.

More and more and more. My eyes fill. My heart explodes with joy. And then comes the moment that ties it all together—flȃnerie, flipped classroom learning, mindfulness, and viewing what we see from a variety of perspectives. For as I am absolutely emotionally overwhelmed in a room with several magnificent paintings by Marc Chagall, I see a group of very young students walk into that gallery with their instructor. Sit in front of one of those break-your-heart-beautiful paintings. And, with complete lack of self-consciousness, they learn by drawing and taking notes about what they see. Continue learning to see the world of art as something integral to their daily existence. And in the seeds planted in that moment, I see the birth of another generation of trainer-teacher-learners. Flȃneurs/flȃneuses in the best, most positive sense of all the word suggests. And feel the child that is not so deeply buried within me realize he once again has found his way back home.

NB: This is the tenth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Greenery, and Learning While Walking

The Coulée verte René Dumont—Paris’s 4.7-kilometer greenbelt built upon the remnants of a raised set of railroad tracks and which includes the Viaduc des Arts with a series of shops featuring the works of artists and artisans—is not unique. There are, among others, the similar bits of pedestrian paradise in New York—the High Line—and in San Francisco’s expansive Tunnel Tops park above the reconstructed roadway that replaced the raised bypass running through the Presidio to connect the Marina District to the Golden Gate Bridge. But it doesn’t have to be unique to be spectacular; it’s an invitation to lift oneself above the busy city streets and immerse oneself in an extended period of learning and contemplation while strolling through a set of gardens that can’t help bringing us relief from noise and crowds and commerce.

It takes us several minutes to find the entrance to the Coulée verte after we step outside the Bastille subway station. The map we are using doesn’t clearly mark an entrance, and the sensory overload from all the people, shops, mixture of old and new buildings, and enticing side streets threaten to completely derail this planned immersion into another learning space before it is even underway. But Licia and I are determined learners. We want to see and experience what we set out to learn by walking that raised path, so we make mental notes to come back another day for further explorations and focus on the lessons that call to us today.

As is often the case, the initial journey to reach the “classroom” pays off immediately. After we climb a set of stairs and gain access to the beginning of what will initially be a long, somewhat narrow landscaped path with lush green vines and shrubs and vibrant purple iris that opens up at unexpected intervals into larger spaces, we linger on benches. Watch women engaged in Tai Chi. Look down into the city streets from angles not normally accessible in this densely populated city. And remind ourselves that any learning experience grows in intensity when interspersed with periods of reflection.

We incorporate the act of taking photographs into the process of learning about and absorbing what we are seeing. We generally stop. Observe. Linger. Make an effort to become aware of fragrances as well as the sound of robins, sparrows, and doves that make each setting what it is. And only then do we try to frame a photograph in a way that makes us see it differently than it initially appeared to us. Eyes to setting to photograph then back to setting and eyes in a completely immersive learning experience which makes it memorable. And transformative. Suggestive of how all learning might so easily be approached if we were to give it the time it deserves rather than racing through it to acquire a grade or certificate of completion that is quickly set aside and easily forgotten.

I draw myself back into the moment. Realize again that the views of nearby buildings are magnificent. There is one with an impressive band of sculpted figures calling attention to its top floor—something its own inhabitants probably rarely, if ever take the time to notice, appreciate, and enjoy. Another building hints at Art Deco roots, but is playfully given a modern look through the addition of at least a couple of dozen hanging pots—blues, reds, yellow, terra cotta—filled with plants; it all suggests an apartment where the plants have taken over the entire unit and now are spilling out onto the balcony and threatening to run down the side of the building and, in a moment of complete rebellion and abandon, take over the entire neighborhood. The side of yet another stone structure that helps form the viaduct has terraced levels of greenery flowing as if the plants were water streaming toward a basin at the foot of the entire wall.

Our walk takes us through a tunnel with walls featuring painted works and sculpture. An unexpected detour when police route us off the Coulée verte to pass a section that has been temporarily closed off puts us at street level, eyeball to eyeball with some of those spaces now featuring the work of artists, architectural model makers, and other craftsmen whose proximity to each other creates a view of what is possible when artists and artisans feed off of and are inspired by each other. A small set of what appear to be publicly maintained gardens. A set of undisturbed tracks reminding us of what was here long before we were. And, finally, to the end, where we are routed back onto a city street. An invitation to find lunch at a nearby bistro. And a reminder that, in walking and observing, we learn far more than we had hoped to learn about our surroundings. And ourselves.

NB: This is the ninth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris and Learning With the Angels

There are angels, angels everywhere, in Paris. At least, that’s the impression I have while reading Rosemary Flannery’s charmingly engaging book Angels of Paris: An Architectural Tour Through the History of Paris and sinking into her numerous sensual photographs accompanying her text, long before arriving here a couple of weeks ago. But after walking around for several days looking for them in public spaces and on buildings, I realize how much time and effort Flannery spent seeking them out. Photographing them. Researching them in a variety of local libraries. Writing about them. And sharing them with locals as well as with readers all over the world through her book and through some of the interviews she has done. Because, as our second week in Paris begins, three of us (my wife, a friend, and I) meet her in the Place Saint-Michel to begin a private three-hour Angels of Paris walking tour with her as rain softens the already luminescent streets of Paris.

She is the consummate teacher/trainer/learner. She loves her subject and, more importantly, loves opening that subject up to others by immersing them in her world. It would be one thing for the three of to stand there in the Place Saint-Michel with a copy of her book, comparing the lovely photograph to the large-scale figure of Saint Michael standing before us on the vanquished, writhing Lucifer above the flowing water of the fountain which the bronze statue dominates. It’s quite another to realize nearly half an hour passes unnoticed with us standing there captivated, enraptured, and engaged as she sets the context for the tour by talking with us—not at us—about the angel, the history of that lovely work of art, the architectural setting that makes the experience of spending time with that particular angel something extending beyond awareness of the passage of time—all the while, word by wondrous word, drawing us into the world inhabited by this and other angels. This is interactive learning—learning at its best. A reminder of what we should attempt to create and recreate each we enter a sacred space of learning with those who are our co-conspirators in the learning process. Comprised of interplays of questions, comments. Exchanges as lovely and as conversational as a piece of chamber music in which each player uses a specific instrument to create something so tightly intertwined that, while it is happening, it seems without beginning and without end. As focused on us as on what we are exploring. And, ultimately, memorable. Transformative. Leaving us hungry for even more.

As we leave Place Saint-Michel and meander through the narrow streets of Paris’s Latin Quarter in search of other angels, Flannery employs the art of storytelling to further draw us in. Not just telling us about the beautiful cherubic angel carved into the architectural element above the door to a home once owned by someone who sent many to their deaths—the “Executioner’s Angel.” Or the angels encircling the spire above Sainte-Chapelle. Or those that are part of the oldest public clock in Paris, in the tower of the Conciergerie. She leavens this immersive learning experience with some of the stories behind how she researched and wrote the book. Carrying around a ladder so she could stand in just the right position to capture precisely the photograph she knew she had to capture. Wearing a dark coat that apparently made her so distinctive that one passerby asked her, as she was photographing yet another angel, whether she were a spy.

It doesn’t take me long to realize we are engaged in far more than an art and architecture tour. Flannery herself, acknowledging the sense she has of the angels in her life, rekindles in me a long-held belief that we are, nearly every day, surrounded by unnoticed angels. Those who seeing us about to step into the path of an oncoming automobile, gently pull us back, then vanish into a crowd as if they were never there. Those who see us struggling to find change while purchasing something in a local shop, reach into their own pockets, pull out a coin to make up for what we temporarily lack, nod demurely, and are gone so quickly we barely have a chance to thank them. Those who free us from an ersatz escape room. Or fix a lens that has popped out of the frame of our glasses. Or liberate trapped luggage from a locked, unmoving elevator. Or offer us sanctuary when we unexpectedly find ourself in the middle of a large-scale political demonstration. Those who attend the onsite and online classes that we facilitate, set aside their fears and trepidations, and engage so completely with what we are all doing that they make the learning experience far more deep, far richer, than it would have been without their presence. Those who come to us for mentoring, spend precious time with us ostensibly seeking guidance and support, and then return to what they were doing, having given us far more than we could ever give to them.

The tour, as planned, ends after three hours, but the conversation continues over lunch in a restaurant so full of life that I can’t help but suspect that angels are working in the kitchen. Flannery, the three of us who took the tour, and another friend who joins us for the meal linger as long as possible, overseen by whatever angels conspired to bring us all together. And when she finally has to leave to prepare for another tour late in the day, we trust our angels to continue to protect us and to guide as we wander aimlessly for another hour or two. Learning. Absorbing. Finding angelic inspiration all around us in and above the streets of Paris. And through continuing conversation cultivated on the wings of angels.     

NB: This is the eighth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Learning, and Letting Go of Baggage

Standing in the lobby of our friends’ apartment building earlier this week, I am observing something I wished I were not seeing: the closed doors of an elevator. With me on one side of it, in the lobby. And our suitcases, on the other side. Just a foot or two away. And yet, since they are unretrievable, locked in the elevator, they might as well be worlds away.

Everything, up to this moment, has seemed so simple. (Well, OK, maybe not everything. There was that evening when we were trapped in the lobby of the first place where we were staying. And the moment when one of the lenses of my glasses popped out of the frame before we even entered the airport to begin our journey. And the moment when the power goes off in our flat even though all we have done is turn on an oven and an electric teapot. And the moment I was inside the entry gates to a subway station and Licia was still outside because we had somehow used up the last of the tickets we had purchased on the card she was forlornly holding in her hand. And and and.) All we are trying to do, as I stare at our all-too-distant bags, is complete the move with a checkout time of 11 a.m. from one (large) flat, shared with a friend during the first week of our time here in Paris, to a smaller place with a 3 p.m. check-in time and close to our two Parisian friends (Peter and Regis). But this moment is in a class all its own.

Yes, as friends suggest after I begin describing the luggage locked in its own personal escape room, it is customary to lose luggage during a flight, not long after arriving at a destination. But we have never claimed to take a traditional approach to our travels or anything else who choose to do. We are pioneers, dammit. We are going to follow our own path. Beat our own drums. And stare forlornly at our luggage when it is trapped in an elevator, and there is no immediate way to retrieve it.

The luggage-in-an-escape-room situation is the result of the elevator being so small that it can either accommodate one person and one bag at a time or two bags and no people. (I hope you are already learning, from my choice to go with two bags and no people, that there definitely is a right answer and a wrong answer in this situation.) We put the bags in the elevator to send them down to the lobby—three floors below us—and I descend by way of a spiral staircase to meet and retrieve them. (An aside: it’s interesting to notice the symbolism inherent in descending/spiraling down in a situation like this in retrospect. This might be a good time to take another class or workshop in spotting and identifying literary symbolism before rather than after a scene is put into play.) Having missed the forewarnings, I arrive in the lobby, pull on the elevator door, and discover it still is locked. Assuming it may take a few seconds for the door to unlock, I wait and try again. And again. And again. (As my friend Jared Bendis suggests, we will continue playing a game until we realize there is no hope of winning; then we walk away.)

I obviously can’t walk away. I wait for Peter, Regis, and Licia to call the elevator back to their floor so they can begin using it to join me. But, of course, they can’t join me by way of the elevator. The doors remain firmly shut when it arrives before them. Because the bags obviously somehow shifted just enough to be holding the inner door in place. And without the inner door functioning, the outer door will be on an extended holiday.

Peter attempts to come to the rescue by using information outside the elevator to call the elevator maintenance company. Yes, they assure us, they can send someone out. Later this afternoon. Or this evening. Or at least by sometime tomorrow.

I hear a familiar, unwanted in this situation response from Peter: Oh là la. Oh là la là la. I also hear plenty of other words I don’t quite catch, but the sense is clear. We’re going to be traveling much more lightly than anticipated when we check in to the new place later this afternoon. But, in the meantime, there is little we can do other than wait. So, knowing that our bags are safely secured in that inaccessible elevator, Peter and Regis take us back upstairs to their flat so we can sit. Talk. And, of course, watch TV a bit to pass the time. They continue our education into all things American—yes, they are in many ways more culturally attuned than we will ever be—by having us watch a couple of episodes of the Netflix series “Emily in Paris.” Which, for obvious reasons, is making me laugh uncontrollably as I recognize the familiar challenges this completely unprepared American faces as she tries to settle into Paris after flying in, with no preparation, for a year-long job in the City of Light. There’s the moment when she blows out the power in her entire building by plugging in an appliance. (You’ll have to watch that initial episode to find out what she plugs in; no spoilers here.) There’s the moment when her shower stops delivering hot water and she is told it could take a day or two or even a few weeks to have the shower repaired—and I start thinking about how long might take to have the elevator functioning again. Or the many moments when she struggles to understand or make herself understood. Art imitates life, and life imitates art, until we are unsure where one begins and one recedes until it’s all a seamless tapestry of adventures, misadventures, and layered moments that remind us that in spite of all the plans we make, life has other offerings, including ending up witnessing a major protest march when all we want to do is have a cup of coffee and read.

Afternoon melts into evening. We successfully check into the flat that will be our home for the remainder of our journey. Engage in acquiring some new vocabulary and essentials as we learn how to say toothbrush (brosse à dents) and toothpaste (dentifrice) in French to replace what remains safely ensconced inside that stationary ascenseur. (We will save, for a more advanced language lesson, the question of whether to buy une brosse à dents électrique or une brosse à dents manuelle. Remember: great learning involves providing just what the learner needs in this particular moment; the rest is icing on an overly rich gateau.) Have a wonderful dinner with Peter and Regis. Return to our room, where I am bursting at the seams to begin capturing this entire story to post it on my blog.

But that is not to be. My laptop is in the suitcase. In the elevator. In that building a couple of blocks away. But wait! I can at least prepare a draft in my notebook. Which, I realize with a sinking feeling, is also in my suitcase. In the elevator. In that building a couple of blocks away. Perhaps I can return to another episode of “Emily in Paris” to see what she does when her luggage is trapped in an elevator. But that, too, is not to be, for we can’t even find a way to turn on the television. Even Regis has tried, without success. (Turns out that you have to press one button on a remote control, then press another button. Then wait a couple of minutes for everything to begin to function. Mais oui! Everyone knows you press a series of button and then wait two minutes for the device to respond. What could I have been thinking?)

Sleep comes blissfully. As does the subsequent dawn. When light flows through the blinds. Hope springs eternal. We remain in the game. And a text from Peter tells us that our bags have been liberated. Another day of learning, exploring, wandering, and eating in Paris begins.

NB: This is the seventh in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

May Day 2024 in Paris

I have learned a lot during my first week in Paris, but I did not expect to learn what it means to be caught up in a major demonstration while far away from home.

We did not set out to see or be part of the May Day demonstrations today. Quite to the contrary, we glanced at maps of the demonstration route provided by friends here. Took a mid-morning walk along the beautiful Coulée verte René-Dumont—the nearly three-mile landscaped pathway which follows an old railway line. Returned to our flat briefly for an early afternoon break. Then deliberately headed away from where we thought the marchers were going to be, found an outdoor table at a wonderful café, ordered coffee, and sat down to what we thought would be a couple of hours of reading and relaxing.

The first hint that something is amiss is the slow-moving orderly caravan of at least a dozen police vans passing the café, heading toward the Place de la Nation. Then we start to hear intermittent explosions, as if someone were setting off smoke bombs. And when we look up to see the beginning of what eventually becomes a two-hour stream of what feels like tens of thousands of people—not the 18,000 that Reuters is (inaccurately?) estimating were there—we quickly join others in abandoning the sidewalk tables and allowing ourselves to be shepherded, by staff, into the safety of a covered area of the café with a tremendous view of what is happening. As if by magic, the staff also quickly transports and tables and chairs into the building, raises the awnings, and closes the doors as something acrid begins wafting through them and irritates our throats.

I could easily post a picture of the one demonstrator I saw being walked, by several policemen, away from the march at that moment. Or the picture of the trash receptacle that someone set on fire not far from where we are sitting. Or the woman, who as the final marchers are passing us, tries to hit one of our waiters because he is grabbing her arm and forcibly attempting to remove her from one of the chairs and tables he is setting up outside to accommodate returning customers—which clearly she is not. But this is not Dante’s Inferno. So I’ll leave that to the reporters who are looking to draw attention to the most dramatic, confrontational moments they are able to record rather than acknowledging the tens of thousands of people who felt strongly enough about the world around them to peacefully—but far from quietly—make their feelings known.

Instead, I’ll say that in spite of what our colleagues who are professional journalists are reporting, I am struck by how few altercations and how little violence I see from where I am sitting in a position of relative safety, seemingly a step removed from all that is unfolding. With approximately 300 people walking by every few minutes for nearly two hours, I might expect a steady stream of smoke bombs, broken windows and numerous confrontations much more than the brief whiffs of tear gas that blow our way, but that only happens during those first few minutes of the two-hour march we witness.

What is even more interesting to me is our differing perceptions of whatever focus there is to the entire demonstration. The news reports I’m skimming after the event ends focus on the protests against social conditions; handmade signs and printed banners in favor of better labor conditions; and a variety of other calls to action. But what I see from start to finish over a two-hour period are countless people of all ages and backgrounds calling for freedom for Palestinians and an end to attacks on Palestinians, with only one banner, near the end of that steady flow of marches, calling for Israelis and Palestinians to stop the violence and find a way to work together to bring an end to wars. The calls for labor rights, greater reactions to the global climate crisis, better treatment of women, and a variety of others issues seem to be more prevalent among those who pass us during the second half of the march—yet never completely outnumber those reacting to the ongoing tragedies and heartbreaking violence in the Middle East.

In spite of the intensity of the issues at the center of the march through this part of Paris (between the Place de la Bastille and the Place de la Nation), what is clearly visible is the same thing I have seen in other demonstrations—including those in San Francisco when our elected leaders were on the verge of taking our country into the war in Iraq. People are walking together out of a sense of commitment to what is important to them. Many of them walk quietly. Others are singing. And some shout messages through microphones and loudspeakers. There are a few marching bands, as if this were a festival rather than a demonstration designed to offer support-by-presence for causes they feel they can’t ignore. And there are sound trucks blaring music from different parts of the world.

I capture as much of this as I can with the camera in my cellphone. The signs. The banners. The seemingly never-ending passage of thousands of people. And even those poignant moments like the one in which a woman carrying a bright bouquet of flowers literally swims upstream by gently walking against the flow of the immense crowd—just as all of us, at some point, need to swim upstream and learn by observing and reflecting on what we otherwise might overlook.

These are clearly political moments. Social moments. Moments that are ephemeral and yet moments that are part of something rhizomatically spreading around the world. Moments that we may initially feel do not really matter and political expressions with which we may vehemently disagree—particularly if we are witnessing them as visitors rather than willing participants—as if we can observe them from safe places without allowing them to touch us. Yet they are also moments that we might (and should) review at some point in our future and realize, with open eyes, that they are world-shaping in what they help create.

They cannot be ignored.

They are moments that remind us that no matter how far we travel, we cannot and should not make the mistake of thinking that we ever can completely slip away from being part of what surrounds us.

NB: This is the sixth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Giverny: Gardens, Home, and Learning by Seeing

Photo taken in Monet’s garden

There is a stunning moment during a visit to Giverny that must transform anyone who surrenders to Monet’s home and gardens: focus on the water lilies floating in that pond, take a tightly-framed photograph, and, in looking at the results, realize that Monet’s paintings of his water lilies on display in the Musée de l’Orangerie in Paris and so many other museums around the world are far from being frozen moments in time. They are portals to ongoing captivating moments where life and art and learning are inextricably interwoven. Invitations to allow ourselves to flow into and become part of exquisite extended timeless moments that stimulate and overwhelm our senses beyond anything a photograph or words can capture. And they transform the way we view and experience the world.

See those water lilies onsite one time, and you will never be the same.

Which, of course, describes any first-rate learning moment. We dive into our subject. We feel it. We hear it. We smell it. We experience it. We acknowledge it and reflect upon it so its meanings and nuances completely obliterate us. We cherish it. We absorb it. And we carry it with us for the rest of our lives, transformed and reinvigorated every time we recall and re-experience it.

Arriving onsite in Giverny early enough on a damp gray Saturday morning recently to first enjoy coffee and croissants in a restaurant immersed in a prelude to flowers spread throughout the artist’s gardens, those of us who made the trip together immediately found ourselves melting into the environment. Just like a great learning space sets the mood for exquisite learning moments, the restaurant and the damp-glistening narrow streets removed all sense of time and obligations. When we walked through the entrance and strolled through the initial gardens to reach Monet’s house, we began to feel the presence of the artist and appreciate the pinks and greens and blues and yellows that make Monet’s home shimmer. The flow of light into those rooms. Even hints of the inspiration that must have caressed the artist each day he lived within the setting he so lovingly created.

The same sense of learning-through-experience that has been with me nearly every moment since I arrived in Paris more than a week ago continues to make me live each moment at least three times: once as I experienced it. Once as I become aware of how much it is transforming me by giving me glimpses into the mind and heart and soul of such a seminal figure in our cultural history. And a third time as I reflect upon it and try to capture it through these pieces on my blog. Each moment makes me appreciate how much of a commitment Monet made to create an environment that so completely supported his daily life and his creative spirit. And thinking once again about the learners with whom I have the luck to work, it makes me think of how important it is—every day, every minute we have together—to help create environments that are equally enticing, supporting, inspiring, and transformative since anything less than that robs all of us of possibilities to learn and thrive and grow that we cannot afford to overlook.

I move deeper into that house. Then spend a couple of hours—completely unaware of the passage of time—meandering through the wild profusion of fragrances, birdsong, founds of water flowing past in a nearby stream in the company of friends and strangers. Feeling the crisp morning air caressing my skin, and raindrops tickling my face and arms and the surface of the pond. I sink into the setting. Into memories of having seen the paintings in l’Orangerie a few days earlier. Into all I’ve ever read and studied about Monet and all he produced. And it comes together in a lesson that slams years of learning into a stunningly emotional moment of revelation. The revelation that what the artist captures is, above all, an essential element of what drives each of us, in our own way and at very personal levels, to be all that we can: the desire to create, reflect, share what we experience, and then repeat the process as long as we have the energy to sustain it.

When we finally leave the garden and finish a leisurely lunch back at the same restaurant that had served as a gateway to the house and gardens, we gently make the transition from that sensual paradise back into the larger world we inhabit by walking through the nearby Impressionist museum which displays wonderful paintings—and extends our understanding of and appreciation for what Monet and others have given to us. We work our way back to our car and prepare for the return to the very different, equally transformative settings of Paris in all its splendor. And, if we have learned anything worth learning, we have once again learned that every moment we fully live offers another opportunity to learn what is important to us. And how to keep it alive through everything we do.   

NB: This is the fifth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Crowds, and the Art of Learning

Learning anything in a formal classroom often runs the risk of engaging in learning removed from its context. While building foundations and creating frameworks, it can also be overly academic. Somewhat stultifying. Sort of like looking at a dessert you love without allowing yourself to take a bite, savor the taste, enjoy the fragrance, and relish its textures during the instant it first danced upon your tongue. Or gazing at a set of cliffs without being aware of the wind on your face or the smell of ocean spray caressing your nostrils. Or watching a sunset without feeling the air around you suddenly turn chill as day melts into dusk melts into nights that lead to sunrises and other sunsets.

I think of the hours I have willingly spent in formal language courses, or working with fantastically creative and supportive private tutors, or poring over grammar books, or struggling with literature and nonfiction in the languages I’m studying, or absorbing the vocabulary and rhythms of that language by watching television programs, viewing videos online, or listening to a radio. All useful. All productive at a certain level, as far as they go.

But it all comes back to life for me, meaningfully and enjoyably, as I am visiting wonderful art exhibitions in uncomfortably crowded museums here in Paris. Listening to the conversations all around me in French and other languages as they cajole and embrace me. Struggling to read the labels and pamphlets that introduce me to the content and provide useful information—which I can use immediately to add to my appreciation of all that in this moment surrounds and entices me—about the work into which I willingly am diving.

You could make me sit at a desk all day, drilling vocabulary into me and making me repeat it until I replicate it mechanically, without feeling, without understanding it essentially. But I can assure you I’m not going to feel and viscerally understand that a falaise is the French word for what I know in English to be a “cliff” until I’m standing here (in Paris, in an exhibition in l’Orangerie) in front of a magnificent Impressionist painting of a young woman stretched out on the ground at the seaside and gazing toward a falaise. Or, a couple of days later, strolling through the galleries of the Impressionist museum near Monet’s house and gardens in Giverny and finding myself in a gallery with paintings united under the theme of falaise. I know, when I return to California, I will once again be captivated by cliffs that line the coast north and south of San Francisco, but I also know that when I see them and briefly connect them to the word falaise, it will be the French settings that come to mind as opposed to all the cliffs in Pacifica, Big Sur, and Point Reyes that come to mind when I use that English-language word.

In the same way, when I see paintings grouped within a gallery under the theme of coucher de soleil (sunset), I begin to see and think about what the French term suggests intrinsically: putting the sun to bed, or the sun going to sleep. The vocabulary is no longer a set of tools mechanically to be employed, forgotten many times and then relearned until it is anchored into memory. It is an extension of the art, a connection to the world as it is perceived by those who use French rather than English to think about and describe their world. It is art reflecting and describing life, life reflecting and describing art, and learning as an essential act of living/breathing/embracing all that is around us.

This does not mean in any way that formal classrooms—onsite as well as online—no longer have a place in my world; they are, in fact, a part of my daily life and my ability to earn a living. But what it does remind me of is what is at the center of all I try to bring to those learning opportunities I provide: immersing my co-conspirators in learning—aka, my students—in situations that immediately connect the lessons learned to the world into which they will carry and apply those lessons. It reminds me—and the colleagues with whom I so often explore the ways we approach training-teaching-learning—that learning comes to life and becomes meaningful when we stop treating it as something that pulls us away from work or our day-to-day existence long enough to engage in it before we return to work or our day-to-day existence. When we carry the falaise and the coucher de soleil back into our workplaces and our daily existence, we acknowledge we have somehow been transformed. Have somehow connected learning, life, and yes, even art into all that we do. And in that act of connecting learning to our daily experiences and our daily experiences to learning, we work together to create a better, more compelling and stimulating playful world, a world so enticing that the concept of being bored no longer has a place in it.

NB: This is the fourth in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.

Paris, Friends, and Support Through Social Learning

There are clearly parallels between entering a new learning space onsite or online and stepping into an unfamiliar city. There is a sense of anticipation as well as one of fear of failure—particularly if the city into which we are stepping is one where the language is one in which we are nowhere close to being fluent, the subway and bus system is one we have not begun to master, and even the challenge of learning how to activate the systems that unlock doors or find someone to repair our glasses when one of the lenses chooses that moment to pop out of its frame.

Musée d’Orsay, Paris

In learning spaces, friends help each other; prop each other up; and, in the best situations, celebrate the positive, transformative learning moments that came from their collaborations; in immersing ourselves in unfamiliar cities, we immediately begin to make those cities feel somewhat familiar through the presence of our friends—those who timed their visits here to at least partially overlap with ours as well as those who, living here, are welcoming us as warmly as we welcome them each time they visit San Francisco.

Both in those learning spaces and in those unfamiliar and enticing new places—“classrooms” in their own right—we quickly realize that all that comes naturally, all that is familiar, suddenly is not at all available. Buying a ticket to gain access to a subway platform becomes a struggle; it is as if a lifetime of experiences has suddenly been snatched away, and even finding the right words to ask for help becomes a challenge, an exercise in redefining how we interact with the world that now surrounds us—and how, in turn, it responds to us. It changes, at a basic level, how we see ourselves.

The presence of our friends and newly-found acquaintances, on the other hand, keeps us from completely feeling adrift and disconnected—something I realize and appreciate as I willingly dive into the challenges of exploring and continuing to learn about Paris while I am handicapped by woefully inadequate knowledge of the language the Parisians speak. There is, of course, that completely liberating moment of realizing and accepting that I, like everyone else I know, am never completely alone, and none of us needs to function without the support and assistance of others. Each of us brings some overlapping experiences to the situation. And each of us brings a separate strength. Some of us, having been born in France and lived here all their lives, are here to walk us through what baffles us but is as natural to them as inhaling and exhaling is. Some of us have spent months preparing for our immersion by reading everything we can find about Paris—its history, is geography, its art, its churches, its parks—while others have continued to augment their knowledge of and comfort with the all-important art of communicating in French and translating for those of us who struggle tremendously with the language.

The central concept here is the concept of developing, nurturing, and sustaining a sense of community. One where each person brings something unique to the community. Contributes something important as well as pleasurable. And, when absent even for a moment, leaves the rest of us feeling as if the community is incomplete. And whether it is the shared and cherished moment of finding a small, welcoming sandwich shop where we enjoy a meal and conversation with each other as well as with the people who created, own, and make that inviting space what it is—a safe space for social learning in every sense of that term—or whether it is that experience of making reservations to see a popular new art exhibition in a series of very uncomfortably crowded galleries and then finding out that the reservation process didn’t work as it was meant to work, which requires us to renavigate the process of successfully gaining entry to the world-changing set of painting with which we are about to engage.

Restaurnt, Musée d’Orsay, Paris

Our friendships grounded in years of common experiences grow deeper. Richer. Because we share and meet that challenge, or share a meal provided by the most welcoming and accommodating of service staff in the lovely setting of a world-class museum. Because we create new memories that bind us together more tightly than before and, as we look at Monet’s paintings of water lilies, we are simultaneously anticipating our upcoming visit to the home and garden where those exquisite images were brought into the world. Our friendships become richer as we have coffee at a table outside a café we have never seen before this moment and may well never see again. They become more firmly intertwined as we interact, together, with someone kind enough to put us back on track when we have unexpectedly taken a wrong turn.

The presence of our friends in unfamiliar settings is like the presence of colleagues with whom we struggle while engaged in a particularly challenging workshop or webinar. We thrive in our willingness to throw ourselves into the unfamiliar. To expand the sense of who we are and how we fit into the places we have entered. And we realize—and relish—that the more we push ourselves into those unfamiliar places—cities as well as learning spaces—accompanied by friends, the more we find ourselves.

NB: This is the third in a series of reflections on traveling and learning in Paris.