Notes from a Woolf conference

Wednesday evening. Arrive, fresh faced and excited, though slightly confused when I emerge from the train station into a mall. I consult a map and find it lacks a “you are here” indicator. With the help of a Balti guard I find my way out, learn that in Birmingham people say “ramp” instead of “hill,” and get promptly quite lost, rolly-bag in tow, trying to find my cheapie hotel, which I've been told is walking distance from both the train station and the hotel where the conference will be held. I find another “Brummie,” as those crazy Birmingham residents are known. He takes me on his way with him—through the library, a giant modern glass building with a McDonald’s in the lobby. I quickly learn you can get very few places in this town without passing through, under, or over other buildings which are wholly unrelated to your destination. Kind Mr Brummie points me towards the bus stop, reminds me they run on the lefthand side, and departs. I'm in a bit of a hurry; it's already 6 pm and I haven't finished writing the paper I'm slated to deliver on Friday afternoon. I'm not worried, though-- I have visions of myself working in the light of a window in a charming provincial Inn, this bein gthe fantasy conjured up by the ever-so-Anglo Norfolk Inn where I've booked a single room for the four nights of the conference. I arrive at my hotel and though the exterior is charming, rambling brick, I am dismayed to find it run by dimwitted Ukrainian women who are baffled by the intricate workings of the credit card machine. I get up to my room and find it identical to the one I lived in senior year at Barnard, in the crappy dorm where some girl killed herself three years before. Except Barnard didn’t smell like an odd combination of cleaning fluid, Ukrainian perfume and ass. Distressed, I escape to a nearby Indian restaurant but am not down with the Balti-style saag paneer. I long for my hometown variety, replete with la vache qui rit. I watch the Argentina match with the wait staff and write in my journal.

Thursday noon. Still haven’t finished the paper. Set out early to get to conference ahead of time. Plot out itinerary on map; satisfied with map-reading skills; leave feeling confident. Disembark at appointed stop. Continue up street which curves and twists in ways not reflected on map. Begin to feel queasy when two men leer at the sight of my knees peeking out from in-between long grey shorts and knee-high black boots. Walk faster and turn down iPod in order to hear in case leering men approach me from behind. Spy sign for Crowne Plaza Hotel over the rooftops, not too far off, due north. Five minutes later, hit canal. Look left; look right: no way of crossing in view. The queasiness solidifies into a little ball of frustration, takes on additional power from the stress from the day before and the fact of not having finished the paper and the fact that there are still three and a half days to get through in what I am increasingly identifying as a hostile environment.

After fifteen minutes of walking in the wrong direction, I hit a main street and reevaluate how to get to the hotel that I can no longer find in front of me. Seeking momentary solace, I duck into a phone booth to call Nicolas. Surprise: the phone doesn’t work. Surprise: neither does the one next to it. Fuming, I hit the road, arriving sweaty and out of breath at the hotel at the same time as another woman, who looks at me queerly when I mutter “putain j’en ai marre de cette merdique ville” under my breath. I later learn she is one of the distinguished French Woolf scholars I had planned to seek out at the conference.

Thursday night. I skip the evening reception, forgoing socializing, free booze and snacks to hole myself up in my smelly hotel room working on my paper. Pay T-mobile 5 pounds to check email on the only Wifi available for miles. So stressed that I feel like a Sumo wrestler has me trapped beneath his massive loins. Actually, that's pretty much what my hotel smelled like.

Friday afternoon. Success: I have finished my paper by morning, and though it might not be the most profound meditation on the influence of Lawrence on the fluidity of gender in Woolf's work, I believe in it and damn it, I think I'm right. The woman giving her paper before me reads from Cesare Lombroso. She has the audience in stitches. Turns out she’s my opening act: by the time I’m wisecracking about Lawrence and his tree-phalluses, they’re rolling in the aisles. Our panel on Sexuality was reputed to be the “trendy panel,” but it’s actually turned in to the comic relief in a conference otherwise preoccupied with such earnest topics as Victorian mothers and daughters and tangentially related talks on obscure Bloomsbury figures.

Afterward, we are treated to a wonderfully insightful talk on the queer coding in 1920s British Vogue by art historian Christopher Reed, the author of Bloomsbury Rooms. Vampy, campy, and as gay as a lark, that magazine was while it was edited by Dorothy Todd (under whose auspices Woolf wrote for the magazine). Not overtly so-- that's the thing about queer codes, you have to know them to recognize them. And no, dears, you don't have to be gay to know the codes, just someone who went to graduate school in a post-Eve Sedgwick/Judith Butler era.

However, a rather militant member of the audience took the opportunity of the question-and-answer session after Reed's talk to castigate him for the crime of attempting to decipher those codes. "As a lesbian, I can tell you, those are our codes, and they are very complex, and there's a lot that you don't know," so don't even try, she didn't need to add as she chased him away from "her" subject matter and "her" people's cultural heritage. I exhaled a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't attended my panel-- she probably likes straight girls doing queer theory even less. Reed looked out at the audience for help, but no one in that crowd was going to pick a fight. Everyone I spoke with afterward, however, agreed that the woman who spoke out was entitled to her opinion but was out of line.

Friday evening. Relieved that my paper is over and no one attacked me for caricaturing Lawrence or being reductive about Woolf, I'm ready to meet people and enjoy the rest of the conference. Dinner at a restaurant in the ultra-trendy Mailbox with new friends Katie and Ana; we gossip and talk shop and have a grand old time. I'm deliriously happy to be among Anglophone academics again. After listening to me kvetch several times about my hotel, Ana generously invites me to crash on her extra bed the next night.

Saturday morning. At breakfast I catch out two fellow Woolfians discussing Deleuze before I've had my morning coffee. Feel inferior; must read more Deleuze; must sleep less. Check gleefully out of unbearably smelly hotel. Drag suitcase to conference feeling lighter than air.

Saturday afternoon. Somehow I find myself having lunch with Ruth Gruber, one of the most phenomenal people I've ever had the honor of speaking with. [Do follow the link and read about her; she's astonishing]. I skip off afterwards to buy books at Waterstone's down on New Street, which is followed by a complete meltdown when I try to make contact with the outside world by telephone. Have finally reached the point where not speaking to Nicolas or my parents has affected my ability to function, I am desperate to hear one of their voices, but every credit card I try to use--three of mine and two of my parents'-- to call them is declined. Worse, it appears someone has hacked into my bank account and taken all my money.** The only people I can reach on the only telephone I find that works are the operators and the people at the toll-free number on the back of my credit card. I came to learn about Woolf but find myself trapped in Kafka. All I want in the entire world is to go home. I get the concierge to help me call British Airways but there are no more flights to Paris until the one I'm scheduled to take the next day. I'm stuck and defeated: all the credit cards anyone in the Western world could hope for and I'm cut off from civilization.

Saturday night. Decide to make the most of the place while I'm stuck there. Ana and I head to Ladywood Rd, in the Balti triangle, a part of Birmingham not even on my map. Something possesses us to walk home instead of taking another taxi. We have a great time bashing Birmingham, and we take advantage of the permissive UK open container law to buy a couple of those flourescent alcopop drinks for the road. Back in the room we try to decode "Meet Joe Black," as we miss a ten-minute chunk fifteen minutes into it.

Sunday morning. Wake up after dreaming that Leonard and Virginia Woolf have hosted a party at their flat and me and the other conferenciers are hanging out in the basement smoking pot and dressed in scrubs like the cast of "Grey's Anatomy." That's after Virginia took me for a ride on her scooter to get the booze.

A few more panels and back on a plane to Paris. Many hours later, when I get home I fall into Nicolas's arms and sob rather dramatically for a few minutes.

So, an educational weekend overall. In addition to hearing some really excellent scholarship on Woolf, I learned some other things: 1) I'm not going anywhere without my boyfriend for awhile. 2) I'm not going anywhere in the UK for awhile, except maybe London. 3) Flourescent pink alcopop gives me weird dreams. 4) Next time I'm speaking at a conference splurge for the higher priced room in the same hotel as the conference. 5) Finish the freaking paper before arriving at the conference!

**Luckily, this turns out to be a computer glitch and not true in the slightest. Whew.

moving questions

Maitresse is just back from Birmingham, UK, where she gave a stunning performance in the role of "young and ambitious Virginia Woolf scholar." Scenes and sounds from the conference to come.

For now, a couple of questions regarding her upcoming move across town:

1. Does anyone know where to buy moving materials like boxes and bubblewrap? This town is in urgent need of a Mailboxes, Etc.

2. Do I have any readers who are somewhat burly and/or strong who would like to help with the move? Either loading up in the 9th or unloading in the 13th? Compensation in the form of food, alcohol, and my eternal gratitude...

Thanks!

oui, paris blogue

moi je serai là, et vous?

moving sale

It's official: I'm moving on July 2nd from the 9th to the 13th. I'm extremely psyched about the move, since I'll be living in my own apartment (read: a real one, not a tiny studio) for the first time in my life. And, as with every move, there are certain things I won't need at the new place, so I'm selling them off. They include a closet, a fridge, and a washing machine; my roommate is selling her (slightly damaged) bed and/or mattress (which is in perfect condition).

If you or anyone you know needs any of the above items for extremely reasonable prices, please put them in touch! Photos and prices are here. Thank you!

the evil truth your jeweller doesn't want you to know...

When N brought this up at a small gathering last night, I couldn't help but laugh. Apparently not a day goes by in France that some poor unlucky soul has their ring finger torn off when the ring they wear on it gets caught on some door or other daily obstacle. Talk about the perfect excuse for men not to wear their wedding rings... I told him if the day does come for us and he refuses to wear a ring I'll make him tattoo my name around that finger.

The language the writer uses in the story, however, makes me think a deeper fear lurks in the French male psyche... Jean-Michel Bader isn't just afraid of having a ring take his finger off "like a wire through butter, slicing and taking with it skin, veins, tendons." I think the fear of the doigt découpé stands in for the potential loss of another member. Or maybe they're really afraid of having their droits découpés...

Of course women must lose their fingers just as often as men (the article doesn't break down the statistics). But this whole story just seems like a load of butter to me.

I wonder what the stats are in the States.

[Incidentally, I found an apartment, and will soon be a proud denizen of the Butte aux Cailles, but am still on semi-hiatus while I finish my Woolf paper...]

short hiatus

just a note to say that I'm crazy busy right now looking for an apartment and preparing a paper that I have to give in ten days at a conference in the UK. in trying to stay on top of all of my responsibilities here at maitresse centrale, blogging has to momentarily take a backseat. will return soon!

I was born in Dusseldorf and that is why they call me Borf Rolf

Family, friends, yadda yadda yadda, it's been good to be in New York. But for sure the highlight of my trip has been hanging out in the den with my mom watching the film based on the musical based on the film "The Producers." Will Farrell is a scream. Roger Bart's not bad either ("Can I take your hats, your coats, your swastikas?"). I make no secret of it-- I'm a musical theatre nerd, the kind of person who knows all the words to "Hello, Dolly!" and isn't afraid to trot them out. But when you get Mel Brooks involved, there is no hope for me. I'm a captive audience. Pardon the pun.

["Was there a pun?" "No, he thinks he's witty."]


A close second was hitting the Tara Jarmon collection at Target. I went home with this sassy number for only thirty bucks:



Check out this blog, apparently the collection is making quite an impression Stateside!

So tomorrow night I head back to Paris, bringing back lots of goodies from home, but minus one important member of my household... actually the only other member of my household. Baxter will be spending the summer with his grandparents while Mommy travels and moves house. I'm going to be ok without my little furball, right? right? Good thing I have a technophilosopher to come home to. Isn't it semantic...

reverse culture shock

you know you've been living in France too long when, upon arriving in the States, you:

1. Are no longer capable of waiting in an orderly line, or of even finding where the line is supposed to begin or end. Seriously. This happened to me twice yesterday-- once at Banana Republic, and once at Blockbuster. Both times, there was no discernable waiting line, so I just kind of hovered near the register. My backpack (containing laptop, thank you), newly shorn haircut, cuffed jeans and Chuck Taylors must have made me look like some truant high schooler, because I was eyed warily and treated like I couldn't possibly know any better: "She's not in the line, but take her anyway, Tameeka!" I fumed, inwardly and outwardly. "Tameeka, there really was no line," I explained. And if we were in France no one would care anyway, I wanted to add.

2. Prefer using the handheld apparatus in the shower, because it can be manoeuvered into the crevices that the overhead spout just can't reach. Plus you can be sure to get all the conditioner out of your hair.

3. No longer know how to respond when people hit on you in your own language. It just seems so... direct. I stammered and blushed, feeling extremely violated, when the pizza man was trying to chat me up, without the buffer of a foreign language.

4. Are regularly almost knocked over in the streets by people trying to get where they're going-- when normally you're the one mowing down anyone who gets in your way.

5. Are confused when you overhear two women discussing the merits of the Pisarro-Cezanne show. You're not sure where you are or where you're supposed to be, since it's currently on at the Musée d'Orsay. Then one of them mentions MoMA and everything is illuminated. Except you feel like time and space have just compressed around your cranium.

That's all I've got for now. Mostly I'm enjoying New York-- the air conditioning, the pace, the smells, the driving everywhere on Long Island, the pizza and bagels. But I heard it just got sunny in Paris, and I have to say... I'm starting to feel homesick.

A day in the library; a night in Murray Hill

I started moving differently the minute I got off the train at Penn Station. I climbed those stairs like a badass New Yorker, like I was packing more than just an attitude, know what I'm sayin'? Jeff Buckley wailing "Back in NYC" on my iPod, I strode across 34th Street assertively, thumb tucked into the strap of my bag, elbow down, sunglasses on, pseudo-French pout replaced by a determined "I've got somewhere to be and it ain't here" scowl.

This lasted a few blocks. Then I reached 6th Avenue and Bryant Park and I turned into a fawning tourist. It's so beautiful, I love it here, why don't I live here anymore? I began to ask myself.

Then it hit me: visiting Manhattan is like hooking up with your ex. It's so familiar and feels so good that you start questioning why you broke up in the first place. But beware, my friend, beware. Steel yourself against the insintuating nostalgia. Remember: there was a reason things didn't work out between you. He never treated you right, you had no quality of life whatsoever, and he was pretty dirty when you think about it. He might be tall and sexy but you're only in his arms for the day. And night.

A few hours later, by the time my sister and I had finished our dinner (at Josie's, at an organic restaurant in Murray Hill), it had dawned on me that New York, my ex lovah, had changed. The city that was once a mystery, full of dark nooks and alluring alleyways, had become a pastel imitation of itself. The cigarette has been replaced by edamame. The gin and tonic by anything ending in the suffix -tini. And the innate sense of style by cookie-cutter outfits sold in bulk at the same chain stores you can find across the country. No creativity; no punctum, grabbing your attention and luring you in to admire the parts composing the whole. Just glossy; shallow even; impenetrable, but boring.

Of course had I been on the West Side, or in Brooklyn somewhere, it would have been a totally different story. But I was on the East Side, in a restaurant full of newly minted college graduates sporting their business casual with the tags just cut off. But my sister, herself a recent college grad, put them all to shame. She was sporting business cahj, no doubt about it; her black pleated skirt, black top, cardigan and chunky jewelry were fresh from the office. But she was working it, whereas her Murray HIll cohorts were just wearing it.

And so this post is for her, on her 23rd birthday. If anyone can save NYC from turning into the rest of the country, she can. CKE, I'm counting on you. You're carrying the torch now. Show them how it's done.