What not going to the Louvre can teach you about art.

Paris.

Where to begin?

You can make fun of the French for just about anything, the protests ranging from petty to substantial. On the serious end of the spectrum, you have the occasional display of racial backwardness, the undeviating tendency to go on strike and the labyrinthine bureaucracy (try procuring a visa from the consulate; you’ll think you’re being ushered through the Château d’If).

Ever since French President Nicolas Sarkozy infamously stated that the burqa was “not welcome” in his country, triggering a contentious debate between Muslims, secularists and everyone in between, I’ve been struggling to identify what exactly is at issue. Women’s rights? Secularism? National security? French culture? Is the French parliamentary panel’s proposed ban on full-veils — the burqa and the niqab — legitimate legislation or the latest form of Islamophobia?

When former Sun Associate Arts Editor Rebecca Weiss ’09 sent me a text message last spring asking me if I wanted to go on an “all expenses paid trip to France,” I promptly ignored her.

Those of you who read her Weiss-a-roni column last year might have seen the silly language and ridiculous ideas and guessed, as I did, that it was just another of Rebecca’s practical jokes. But two weeks later, when Rebecca called to ask why I hadn’t gotten back to her, I realized she was serious.

Any film whose title is in the form of an amorous solicitation must meet certain criteria. First, it should concern the awkward physical beginnings of love: the glances, the touches, the timid approaches. Second, it must address lovers’ preliminary insecurities, the kind that lead such questions to be voiced in the first place. And, finally, and perhaps most importantly, the film must showcase the best that the art form — that is, the kiss — has to offer.

In all likelihood, you probably have never heard of the 2007 French film Un Secret (or “A Secret”, for all you non-French speakers out there). Not only was the film solely distributed in its native country, but it is a wholly sub-titled picture that is performed, written, and directed by an entirely French ensemble. And the film’s anonymousness with American audiences is a shame, as Secret is a poignantly heart-wrenching affair whose anguish and tenderness transcends any language barrier. Through its untraditional plot structure and intimate character storylines, Un Secret intrigues the mind and satisfies the heart with vigorous poignancy.

Last Tuesday in Paris, I was at last psyched and actually kind of proud to be an American. After spending nearly two weeks trying hard to cloak my accent and telling all the lecherous dudes that I was vacationing from South Africa because I wanted to experience the cold (and no, I’m really not interested in grabbing a cup of coffee with you), January 20th might have been the only day during my whole abroad experience that I am allowed — and almost encouraged — to speak in full-blown American English (i.e. pronouncing all of my R’s).

A description of French President Nicholas Sarkozy as dynamic would only touch the surface of his personality. While his defeat of Jacques Chirac finally gave me a reason to like the French, L'American (as he's called) has gone on to become a national obsession across the Atlantic Ocean according to The New York Times.

The article leads with a psychiatrist identifying a new mental illness: obsessive Sarkosis. It gets even more interesting than that, and if I read this article without knowing who it was about, I would go for a mix of the Miley Cyrus and a crazy stalker obsession.

And you thought Obamamania was bad.