nomadic, sedentary, and everything in between

I have always tried to stay away from anthropology.

I faced it only once as an undergraduate, in a Lit. Theory course (remarkable only for its utter irrelevance to my theatre degree). The blood-and-feather-filled pages of an article about Balinese cock fights confirmed at once my hatred of ENGL 317 and general suspicions of the field of anthropology.

It probably didn't help that anthro courses (and professors) were so frequently the objects of harmless derision in our living room.

You understand, then, why my pulse quickened when the professor of my Anthropology of the Body in Islam course produced a photo album of her field work in Central Asia. In my sleep-deprived brain, lights flashed and voices screamed ("Lu village!!! Lu village!!!").

Then I remembered I like being shown pictures and calmed down. Wide green spaces, rough mountains, and the yurtas that were the subject of our discussion. The course is about the construction of Islamic communities through corporeality, gestures, practices of the body -- performance, in short.

Today in particular we talked about architectural patterns across Islam and the practices of the body that they imply/reflect. Central Asian -stans, North Africa, and Muslim communities in Europe. Nomadic groups, sedentary groups, and everything in between.

At the end of class, one of my Erasami leaned across the table. "What she just explained...this is my life. It's a good class, n'est-ce pas?"

This is IM's first time out of Cameroon. He hasn't taken his tuque off since he landed in Brussels. He tags n'est-ce pas on the end of every other sentence and says things like "Il n'est pas nécessaire d'aller chez le marabout pour savoir qu'on va arriver en retard ce matin!" To our potluck yesterday, he brought tree roots with peanut paste. It was the only food that survived the airport check -- probably because the customs agents didn't know it was food.

There are ten Erasmus Mundus students in the MA Performing Arts Studies programme. Nomads, sedentary folk, and everything in between.

We are from Cameroon, Quebec, Venezuela, Ecuador, Chile, India, China, South Korea and Serbia, with interests and goals as varied as our backgrounds.

The medina and the yurta village don't look anything alike, but they obey a shared logic. Maybe we are like that too, structured in our own way by our sensitivity to performance/aesthetics/corporeality?

I am not sure what gestures we have performed -- maybe our anthro prof is observing -- but our community has recognized itself.

now I'm excited

I have fruit in my fruit bowl, dishes in my cupboard, and a plant on my window sill. There are schedules scribbled in my agenda and class notes saved on my laptop. And -- a true indication of permanence -- I have my very own internet connection.

It took three trips to IKEA and some phone calls to tech support, but I am starting to feel settled. My shoebox studio in Res has improved from downright drab to passably dreary, with my messy-haired plant and red pillows putting the cement/brick walls and rougher-than-loofah carpet to shame.

But even all the muddy-coloured curtains in the world couldn't block the ray of sunshine that is following me these days. Being back at university, shielded from the hardships of maturity, is a constant source of bliss. Every core of my being wants to be here, in my little room, looking out at the wilderness that is this part of ULB's campus. It helps that the real sun has been shining, too. That the people in my programme are fascinating. That friendships are so easily forged. That the big decisions are whether my last elective should be museology or architecture and scenography.

All the classes so far -- even the ones that drag me to campus at 8 am -- have been fabulous. My french is in boot camp, but it is the good kind of pain. I am counteracting the nostalgia I feel whenever my Québécois friend speaks by adding daily to my dictionary of beligicismes.

I have so made the right decision.

Now I'm excited.