A Tribute: Is Paris Burning?

In light of what happened last Friday evening, I will dedicate my final passion blog post of this semester to Paris.

Considering this is the third time, you all are probably tired of reading about my trips to Paris, but I really can not help but reminisce and work out some thoughts about my favorite city.

So, I visited Paris for a few days last February, right after the January attacks on the satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo.

I was invited by a friend of mine, an exchange student from Antibes who went to my high school, and we stayed for a few days in a small hotel just around the corner from where the Charlie Hebdo attacks happened.
 
"Don't distress. Don't panic. This is what terrorism wants," said my mother when I asked her if she was nervous about letting me go.

Our hotel room was about the size of a postage stamp, and only had one outlet in a far corner. Thus, my friend needed a specific phone charging stature.

This shrine, right outside of our hotel, was one of many around the city built as both a heartfelt memoir and a declaration of strength.

Although more than a few weeks had passed since the violent incident, it was evident that people were still heartbroken because there was always at least one person standing in front of or touching the shrine.

People were sad, but by no means subdued, as could be seen by the murals like this covering walls and buildings everywhere.

These anonymous assertions of strength and outrage seemed louder than any violent revenge because they indicated that, although France was in a time of crisis, the French were still united and refused to be frightened.

I was especially glad to come across stuff on the internet that showed off French strength and anger at the violence.

For example, this song was written and posted the same day as the shootings. If you have the time, watch it, because it's powerful and it’s catchy.

I thought this was extremely inspirational, and I hope that this sentiment is still being fostered after the terrible massacre last weekend.

It seems, however, that the world is using this mass murder as a means by which to talk about other issues at hand because, lately, I’ve been reading more articles criticizing French foreign policy and world wide ignorance about the bombing in Lebanon than about standing strong against terrorism.

Why are people complaining about temporary Facebook profile pictures?

Why are we blaming gun laws in France?

But, hey, at least we stopped talking about Starbucks cups.

I recognize that this is a depressing note to end the semester on, but  I would love to hear anyone's thoughts about the issues surrounding Syria, ISIS, and Governor Wolf's recent decision to offer Pennsylvanian solace to refugees.

 

My thoughts and love go to the people in the world who will not be having a happy holiday season, and I am truly grateful to go home to a whole and happy family this weekend.

#prayforparis

 

Cartagena, Colombia: Statues deserve more respect than this

Have you ever taken a vacation that turned you into an Ivy Leaguer?

For the summer of 2014, I went to Colombia with my parents. This was a nice way to start off my senior year in high school because, every time I’d tell people I visited Colombia, they’d be very impressed and say “I didn’t know you applied to Columbia!”

Anyway, we stayed in a coastal town called Cartagena de Indias and, although it was supposed to be a beach town, the beaches weren’t exactly how you’d expect them to be.
 

Behold a regular swimmer and sun bather.

 

Considering how dangerous wild hogs are, we kept our distance and went to see the colonial ruins and Bolero statues that decorated the city.
 

Here we are in front of a fortress overlooking the ocean, designed to defend and alert the city of any incoming ships.

 

I am in a shoe.

 

 

No words.
 

 

After about 5 days, we ventured on a rickety boat to stay on a very tiny mangrove island called Baru. If you know anything about mangroves, you know that tiny hotels do not grow naturally within them.

Our hotel was essentially a series of cabins scattered and built into the roots of these tough plants, with bridges walking between the structures and a dug out, artificial beach.

The first day was novel, having the island to ourselves. The second day, we took a boat out and went snorkeling in the incredibly colored water.

 

 

The third day, we got bored. Curious as to why the hotel staff wouldn’t let us out onto the street through the back door, we insisted on taking a walk and exploring the island.
 

Eventually, we walked for 45 minutes in the blazing rainforest heat.
 

With hindsight, I realize how reckless this was. Any number of unspeakable things could have happened to us on that walk, or when we arrived to the town only to discover its immense poverty.

But the questionable decisions don’t stop there.

I didn’t mention that there were scads of boys no older than 13, presumably working for a local entrepreneur, zipping around on rusty motorbikes and offering us rides. Tired of walking, but unable to stay in town because it seemed a little dangerous, we took a ride offered by one of these kids.

Naturally, this was terribly frightening.

So, I’m seated behind the boy driving the dirt bike, and my mother is, in turn, behind me. As he starts up the bike, I timidly hold onto his shoulders because, naturally, he’ll drive slowly with three people on an old piece of machinery.

I realized immediately that he’s probably been driving this bumpy, dusty dirt road since he could operate this ancient motorbike, and had full intentions to get us back at the speed of light.

So, I held onto his waist for dear life, and tried not to look at the barbed wire guardrails coming dangerously close to my leg.

And Colombian fish is tasty and photogenic.