I made a walk through the Marais, just north of the Hotel de Ville, and west of Place Bastille. It’s the “mansion district” of Paris, built of “hotels particuliers” built in the late 1500s to 1600s when the Marais was fashionable, grand stone edifices looking into courtyards or garden. Some are open.

The Carnavelet is the museum of Paris—I’ve been there at least once, possibly twice. Closed Mondays. But I’d missed the Place de Vosges just to the east. The square of cloistered pink brick buildings was once a royal parade ground, now a public park. Most of the shops in the cloisters sell fine art, a good share of it sculpture. A couple cafes. Victor Hugo’s house, closed Mondays, apparently.

A short walk east and slightly south is the enormous Place de la Bastille, with no Bastille, but a column commemorating the rebellion that led to the July Monarchy, 1830. My bet is that one tourist in a hundred knows what the 1830 revolution was. Sidewalks surround the column, with writing on all sides, but you can’t actually get there—without crossing some four lanes of roundabout traffic, and no crosswalk. The new Paris opera is modern and chromed, sticks out as all modern buildings do in Paris, but this city never wants to look old. (London, on the other hand, rather does want to.) Supposedly, stone markers show where the original Bastille stood. I’ve looked for these before, without success. This time I made a determined effort. I walked around the entire square (crossing about nine intersections), determined to find those markings. I thought I found some. Turned out to be the markings for vehicles stopped at red lights. I never did find that outline. Apparently it’s there, as all the tour guides talk about it.

—Feb. 21, 2005, Paris

I passed my—I think it’s the 10^th Tae Kwon Do test Saturday, so now only two more to black belt. I began this in Cambridge, at age 34, and with fits and starts, after 6 instructors and all 3 Tae Kwon Do federations, have finally made some progress. Am I really very good? Well, let’s say that of all my hobbies, this is my single worst.

As a legacy of many decades of being last chosen for sports teams, being cut from other sports teams, being the slowest runner on the phy ed track, and losing just about every spots competition I ever had the foolishness to try—athletic endeavors clearly have not brought me great self-esteem. Here, too, I’m clearly among the weakest. I could give the excuse that I’m also the oldest in the club at 42, but that’s not really the only reason. I realize I’m slow and inflexible, always have been, and speed, flexibility and resultant coordination are essential to performance in any athletic sport.

Despite that, through persistence and work through setbacks, I was able to overcome one of my most severe weaknesses, and learned to swim reasonably well (though not competitively, being one of the slowest). And despite some pretty glaring weaknesses, I’ve been able to advance in the very difficult sport of Tae Kwon Do. So I suppose one can conclude from this that pursuing sports for self-goals is worth while in itself, and keeps your healthy and alert. I still cringe at competition, however, and avoid it here whenever possible. In fact, when I dragged myself to the Fargo one last fall, I proved the old standard built through decades of athletic underachievement still stands true: I cam in last of my age group.

— Feb. 17, 1997, Fargo, North Dakota

Valentine’s Day: got no cards, but a check from Queens’ College for £100 from their hardship fund so a not empty Valentine’s day after all! Actually, Queens’ has probably given me about £400 over the last 3 ½ years, so I can hardly complain. American universities do that , then ask you to be a TA for about a year. It certainly helps me hold out.

This morning I rewrote the conclusion to the dissertation, recommended by Winter, or at least a I think he recommended. After reflection I concluded the “structure” of the dissertation was perfectly fine just the way it is, and tried to write a conclusion defending my choice. I’m getting more scrappy and pugilistic as I have begun to smell the distinct odor of some sharks gathering around to try and keep my from getting this degree. If my usual submission isn’t going to work, I’m going on the defensive to defend my work against those who seem to want to give me shit for it. One sign of professionalism, I suppose, is to stake your position and not back down to attacks by others who are in loftier positions and think therefore that they know better.

It strikes me that if I could do the conclusion in an hour, I could probably do a whole new thesis in a day or two. Well, not quite, but this has been my point all along: instead of waiting on my butt I could make the changes and get out of here.

It also occurred to me that I did the same thing at Warwick: I left not knowing whether what I did was good enough for the degree or not, whether I ‘d even be called back for viva. Then I was more confident and secure, however, probably because the degree wasn’t as important and meant nothing to my future career, on which this degree hinges. But if I only truly have 1 in 100 chance of failing, odds look pretty good.

Reading others’ theses, I really can’t see why mine is in any way inferior, and I’ll make a big scrap if I need to, to get this degree. Unlike in the past, I’m now realizing that sometimes the best defense is a good offense….

As I think about my situation right now, in anxious limbo…then not knowing about jobs, where or if, and the heavy load and demands that will be placed upon me for success, which means retention as opposed to failure, which means “not tenure.” I wonder what my life would have been like had I just stayed working as a journalist….I think back to those days on the Forum, rushing out here and there to cover meetings or other stories, typing into these old IBM “Selectric” typewriters and their queer “scanner copy” letters, which had to be produced perfectly on the page (what an absurd system!).

—Feb. 14, 1991, Cambridge, England [I was a Ph.D. student at Queens’ College Cambridge at this time waiting for word on my dissertation. I ended up having to revise. “Winter” was my advisor, Jay Winter.]

Lady hairdresser who cut my hair today:

“I really like bald men. Just can’t wait until my husband’s goes, nice and smooth!”

“Yah, right, I don’t believe you. Women don’t like bald men.”

“Now who told you that?”

“Ah, well, according to the polls in magazines…”

“Well, you’re wrong. Lots of women like bald men.”

I wonder if they pay her extra to tell her clients that?

Weather is snow again, very old, especially when you’re on bike and the snow hits the bald head… As no one shovels and you have to get around in the slush by bike, everything you have gets laden with mud and salt. The coat is a mangy mess. I must admit, this waiting business is making my crabby.

The Gulf War: Bush says he “won’t be pushed ” into an early ground war. The bombing goes on, relentlessly, thousands of sorties still a day. You have to consider what can be left after all this—but it reminds me of the relentless pounding of artillery from the British before the Somme Offensive in 1916. After which the attackers found there was a helluva lot left. Could the same situation exist now? I wouldn’t be at all surprised. It seems quite clear now that the allies’ hope foe an efficient air campaign has not materialized as optimistically as expected. There will probably come a point when more bombing really won’t do much good—until an actual attack, when troops now hiding will be forced to come out. That’s when air superiority will tell a more grisly tale.

Many Arabs now have become supporters of Saddam in this war, even if their governments are not. You have to wonder—would these Arabs really like to be under a government of a ruthless and cutthroat dictator like Saddam?

—Feb. 12, 1991, Cambridge, England

Now I do not think of myself as “extremely judgmental…excessively critical.” BUT—I am rather judgmental and somewhat critical. Look at my common small talk: “How’s work going? Aha! Too much partying again, eh?” or “Been swimming/exercising lately? Aha! Getting flabby, eh.”

Note however these innocuous and cheery seeming comments are somewhat negative and judgmental. How would I like to have someone who, every time I see him or her, remind me of the work I should be getting done? What business do I even have to remind them? Although my comments my be jocular, they tend to nearly always imply some criticism, some negative judgment.

Indeed, I seldom, so seldom, compliment people—I feel truly not at ease encouraging and complimenting. I worry about the windy, smarmy puffs of insincere compliments which emanate from people such as… [I’ll skip the names here].

And this is definitely something to be careful about—such insincerity is contemptuous, although, I observe, those who are such kinds seem to fool people often enough, because everyone likes to have a compliment, sincere or not. But what needs to be done is—look, seriously and honestly, for the positive in people’s lives or people’s plans. Make your compliments specific—saying “you look good today” is too general to sound honest or worth while; saying “your sweater really is a beautiful match to your slacks” is better. “I liked that story you wrote” is too general; “your analysis of John’s hobby was particularly incisive” is better.

But we must not compliment unless one truly means it, I believe. Nevertheless, it’s not hard to find at least some good in everyone.

The next week or two I am going to try an experiment: for every person I see, I’m going to try very hard to find something complimentary to say. I’m going to make my small talk positive instead of negative. I’m going to truly take an optimistic viewpoint, as much as I can. Let us see how people react, if there’s any change. It will be awkward for me at first, but as anything does, it will become easier with practice.

In recent years , instead of becoming depressed at my frustrations or my lack of great successes, or my inability to get along with people at times, or my occasional anger at things I detest and people who annoy me, I’ve more and more adopted this philosophy: “I’m doing the best I can. If I fail if I don’t write brilliant pieces, if I can’t make friends or lovers with the people I wish to, if I can’t persuade people to do what I’d like them to; so be it. I’m doing what I’m able to do, considering my own abilities, personality and circumstances.

This is a philosophy well-prepared to avoid the stressful life, but the original question still goes begging: am I doing the best I can? How might I improve? Sometimes saying, “I’m doing the best I can” is mere co-out for people too lazy to change, to better themselves. In this case socially, I do not think I am doing the best I can. I have to change. I’m going to try to do better.

—Feb. 10, 1985, Moorhead, Minnesota

Five minutes after I was on the bus for the three hour ride, I began to feel like I was ready to throw up. I was about ready to bail out—but—too late! The doors closed and we were off. I was trapped! No bathroom…no chance of stopping…. So I dragged out my duffel bag, found my plastic bag with toothbrush, dumped it out, and got ready, just in case! I was feeling worse by then…the bus, jiggling and bumping…the smoke wafting from the smoker one row behind me…the hot air…but, I thought “I’ve been in this shape before, and I’ve made it through without losing it.” Then I thought, “Yes, but sometimes I didn’t make it through—like the time on the deep sea boat in Seattle.”

But then, I thought, “Yes, but that was really the only time, and very seldom do I really throw up. Almost never.” But then I thought, “what about the time I got drunk and threw up without even realizing it?” And so on.

I kept looking at my watch: two hours, fifty-five minutes to go. Two hours, fifty minutes. Two hours, forty minutes… I closed my eyes and tried to remember song lyrics, to keep my mind off it. I looked at my watch: Two hours! One third done!

Could I make it? I had to. No stopping. I looked around to see what other passengers were there, how embarrassed I’d be if I puked. I closed my eyes again.

Then…miracle! After half way through, the feeling started to go away. I started feeling like—well, maybe I wouldn’t throw up. Bu wait! It made little stabs back again! Just to warn me! Soon, though, I was clearly better. I knew I’d make it then. I put the plastic bag away.

Whew! So much for the bus trip to Oxford. When I arrived, I still wasn’t feeling very good, and felt very stupid and a poor guest, but what could I do? Helen and I walked through a few Oxford colleges. I had half a salad for lunch, then I begged off time for a couple hours’ sleep at St. Catherine’s College, where she had reserved a guest room for me. After the nap—I felt some better, and we went out do dinner.

— Feb. 7, 1988, Cambridge, England. [Helen was a friend, originally from Moorhead, who attended Oxford at the same time I was at Cambridge.]

[I worked as an evening blackjack dealer in Fargo from 1982-83 while trying to make it as a freelancer during the daytime.]

January was the “snowiest” month on record—30 inches of snow—and the 5^th coldest—7 below average temperature. Well, I know January was a tough month, but it didn’t seem that tough.

A most interesting group of conversations lately, about an old custom. The question is this: do men pay for the movie, dinner, drinks, etc., on a date, or does each person pay his or her own way? I mentioned above the feeling of one man (“assets and liabilities”) but that hardly encompasses the considerable divergence of opinion on this.

Last night I spoke with Rachelle, 19, who works at the Advocate. [Minnesota State University Moorhead student newspaper.] Her comments: “Oh, I think it’s the normal situation nowadays that I’m expected to pay for mine, not him. I think all the kids around expect it that way nowadays—when I go out on dates, that’s the way it usually is.”

Joan, 26, blackjack dealer: “The man should always pay. Always, even when he’s just a buddy. I used to go out with a guy and we were just good friends, but he always paid anyway. I think the guy is cheap if he doesn’t pay.”

“What if the woman offers?”

“Well, if the woman offers he shouldn’t accept it. If he accepts the offer, he’s cheap.”

Katie, 25, married, another dealer: “Oh, I think the guy should pay if it’s the first date. After that , well, perhaps something could be worked out. But if the woman offers to, say, buy a drink or something, that should be OK.”

Paul, pit boss: “I always pay. I think I would not like it at all. I would get very uncomfortable if the woman bought the drinks or something. I don’t know; I just don’t like it. We men should pay for everything—of course we expect something in return….”

I said I would always just go ahead an pay, unless the woman was rather strident in wanted to pay her half. I believed, however, the situation changed from person to person: if it was a “buddy” the person could pay herself; if it was a “date,” I’d pay. And after one got to know the person, I said, expenses should be shared. I totally denounced the male theory that “something” (meaning sexual, of course) should be received for the cost incurred for the date.

I might reflect that it could be a partial generation-shift in attitude. The ideas about how men should treat women have changed vastly in the space of a few years—whereas in previous times one generation may think differently from another, now there are differing attitudes within the same generation, the one side being only a few years older than the other. My company of three in their mid-20s, in this case, would be more “old-fashioned,” and would believe the man should pay, but the next sub-generation, now 18, 19 and 20, would consider it perfectly normal for each to pay his or her own, like Rachelle.

—Feb 2, 1982, Moorhead, Minnesota

12:30 a.m.—Very sad tonight. I’ve said goodbye to everyone, packed my things. Today I had the opportunity to have lunch with Françoise, whom I met on the ski trip, at her parents’ home in Marsannay-la-Côte. Her house is across the street from a pretty vineyard in the beginning of the Burgundy wine district. She speaks quite good English—and we got on very well together. I spent the afternoon there, and she said, “If only I had known you earlier. I could have introduced you to some of my friends, we could have done lots of things. If only you could have stayed longer.” It made me very sad to say goodbye to someone I liked very much.

Today I took a last walk around the streets of Dijon—which I didn’t particularly like at all when I arrived. Peculiar—in the States, before I left, I was not sure whether I should go or not, and now that I’m here I’m not sure whether I should return yet. It was perhaps the money problem which decided it for me, but if it were solely the money, I would have managed, I think. It was more—the feeling that it’s time to go back and try to work, my missing people at home, my feeling that, at my age, I can’t afford to trip about much longer. But it is hurting me a lot right now to say goodbye just when I’m starting to handle the language, just when I’m starting to know the people. And the fear of going back home haunts me too—fear of final joining reality in the real “adult world,” which I suspect I’ll be doing.

—Feb. 1, 1983, Dijon, France

I’m tired tonight after a rather bizarre day of skiing in the “haut Jura” east of here. Bizarre because it was the first time I’d ever snow skied in the rain.

When we left Dijon (at the unholy hour of 6 a.m.) it was starting to rain. As we progressed so did the rain, but I couldn’t believe it would be raining actually in the mountains where the snow is. Wrong. By the time we pulled all the skies out of the bus and got ready to go, we were already quite thoroughly drenched.

I had thoughts of quitting before I started but if anyone else was in agreement with that, no one mentioned it. I and seven others forming one small group of hardy cross-country skiers (most people would rather give their ass a ride down the slopes) set off slogging through the mushy snow.

The start was indeed inauspicious but things improved as we pushed our way passed all the downhillers and into the trails through the pines. The rain let up some, later turning to pelleted snow, and a layer of fog veiled the pine-lined tips of Jura hills to backdrop the snow. Now and then we came across broken-down cabin sheds, many made of stone.

We stopped for lunch at a chalet tucked back in the trail—and very well patronized by other cross-countryists. There was actually a bar there—how the stuff gets up there with the food I’ve no idea, since no roads appear to lead there in the winter. The unfortunate failing of this little haven was the W.C., which was nowhere within my view. In consequence the other side of a large pine tree had to do.

The trek was arduous—the wet snow clung and made pulling the skis difficult, especially since any trace of wax on them had long been a memory, and, I think, the bizarre method of providing a “kicker surface” dragged the ski back (the surface is not wax, or plastic, but tufts of cloth laid in grooves at an angle. Weird. It worked, in any case).

The people in our group were especially cooperative—not too experienced but “good sports.” I particularly liked a student named Françoise, from Marsannay-la-Côte, and I was lucky enough to get an invitation to lunch at her parents’ house Monday. It’s too bad that I’m finally starting to meet people here just when I’m ready to go.

We finished up back t the bus around 4 p.m., a good full day of skiing. In passing the downhillers I had a chance to observed then and decided I really should try it—it doesn’t look all that hard, compared to cross-country. Someday.

—Jan. 29, 1983, Dijon, France

It is, really, a time of change as the century comes to an end, both for me personally and, though it’s such a cliché, for the world around us. Locally we’re seeing fast change in our physical surroundings: the American elms are coming down left and right around us, four big dinosaurs first on 7^th street. That’s the last of a pioneer legacy. Houses, too, are being smashed everywhere near the river in an, I think misguided, attempt to keep the flooding clear in case of another 1997 flood. Which, of course, only happens once a century, if that. The neighborhood Julie loved around Oak Grove High School, North Terrace and South Terrace, is being beaten to shreds by the bulldozers, all those houses from the 1920s and 30s smashed to splinters. One targeted is Ann Preston’s old house. This area flooded but once in 100 years. Is such destruction necessary?

Those are a couple physical changes—our technology is also changing the way we live and work. Computers are as cliché right now, but in the printing/publishing business, it’s caused as a great a change as the invention of moveable type. Well, almost: certainly in photography, the biggest change since Kodak’s George Eastman came out with roll film. Darkrooms, now called “wet darkrooms,” are being recycled into broom closets all over the photographic world, as computers scan and print images from negatives, and digital cameras, I’m sure, will soon replace film cameras, marking the end of a chemical legacy dating right back to Daguerre.

For the first time in history, photographers will have to learn computers, no chemistry. (Well, they already are.)

And need we talk about the Internet’s possibilities? I have already.

It is an exiting time—economically the country is at perhaps the best run it’s ever going to have. Fargo’s unemployment is lowest in the nation, at 1%. We’ll never see this again. Of course, a caveat is that low wages still plague the city’s workers, an average 20% lower than elsewhere. Wages of people like me merely reflect the state I work in. On the other hand, there is the quality of life equation: in L.A. they’re buying gasoline at stations from attendants behind bullet-proof cages, paying in advance. What’s bad about America can be experienced in microcosm in southern California.

You can’t predict what we’ll miss of today’s world a generation from now, but locally at least, I’ll bet we’ll miss the trees and the houses of today. Fargo does not have a good track record of replacing things it destroys with things of beauty. North and South Terrace are likely destined to become a hill and a lawn, if not a parking lot (but no—nothing close by makes it worth parking there).

Photographers who want to do their own photos will buy a computer and a printer—but it will cost a lot more than the old wet darkroom equipment did. In fact, I suspect the “darkroom end” of the hobby will dwindle. Just like cars today, with their computer-controlled systems under the hood, have put off a new generation of tinkerers and racers. You hear on pop radio today no odes to the automobile. You can’t really love a car you can’t tinker with . (Not to say this is so bad for those of us who no longer tinker—cars working a lot better today than they used to.) I predict “pre-computer” cars will become a hot item.

Computers regenerate themselves into newer, more powerful machines almost yearly. We throw away millions. Ironic as this seems, I predict that early “Apple IIe” machines will one day be as collectible as Model T Fords (also produced in the millions).

In any case, much of what we know today is changing, and it’s an exciting time—just as was the turn of the last century, I guess. I hope, however, considering what the first 5 decades of this century brought, that it’s not going to presage the start of this century. One day, if I live that long, they’re going to say about me, “well, what can you expect? He’s a product of the 20^th century, and thinks like they did back then.” (After all, we said the same things about 19^th century products, such as my grandmother.) The thing that I can’t answer is—what will “thinking like that” consist of, 30 years from now?

—Jan. 29, 1998, Fargo, North Dakota [Julie, whom I married in 1994, died in 2004. Ann Preston was a colleague at NDSU.]