Many of you enjoyed N’s irate rant against the banking system. When he last reported on our banking situation, our account had been kicked back into unverified status because I’d been officially added to the joint account (only after 3 months of intermittent attempts). We therefore couldn’t complete any wire transfers and other regular banking tasks. Well, just when we thought our banking situation couldn’t get any worse, we experienced a true Christmas miracle. We went to the bank on Sat. to manually request a wire transfer of rent to our landlord. The banker (not our normal inefficient, garrulous, can-never-do-two-things-at-once banker, but a weekend substitute) informed us that not only was our account verified and able to handle electronic wire transfers from the Internet, but also that our new checks and my ATM card had arrived. What’s going on? We can actually handle multiple banking tasks on one visit? Our job is not to truly question this miraculous efficiency, but rather bask in it…and of course, to not get too used to the feeling.
Otherwise the city has become relatively quiet. We’ve had an easier time getting seated at restaurants, waited on a miniscule line at Centre Pompidou to see the Giacometti exhibit (très cool), and have observed a pervasive tranquility about town. Except on the Champs-Élysées the other night, where we went to check out the famous holiday light displays. It was booming with activity (both tourists and locals), but it was well worth navigating through the throngs to see the sparkles and streaks of luminescence in the four rows of trees lining the grand boulevard. While there, we strolled by what must be the flagship Louis Vuitton store—four stories high, with signature bags upon bags bedecking the window displays, and an enormous LV logo in garish lights at the very top of the building. There was a waiting line to get in, complete with velvet rope, but the store was kind enough to put heating lamps outside to warm those who braved the cold just to get in. (Can we say, SUCKAS?!)
Today people are running around crazed, doing their last-minute shopping. I waited on the longest line ever at the bakery this morning, just to get some bread (and not mountains of baked goods for Christmas dinner). However, it wasn’t so terrible waiting for 15 minutes, as I got to ogle the gorgeous bouchettes de Noël (miniature log-shaped Christmas cakes) that our bakery had decked out with all kinds of adorable accoutrements, some edible (candy tuille, chocolate shavings, cassis berries and other fruits, marzipan, mini-macarons) and some inedible but absolutely precious (miniature wrapped gifts, Xmas trees, mistletoe, and elves). It may sound tacky, but believe me when the French go OTT (over the top) with pastries, it is always to absolutely, flawlessly tasteful effect. They are such works of art that one almost doesn’t want to eat them.
And although we don’t technically celebrate Christmas, I got a pretty darn fabulous Xmas present this year: a vendor lavished a generous gift certificate to the Four Seasons George V spa upon N and he in turn gave it to me. Oh yeah!! I’ll be spending Christmas getting a massage and enjoying their sauna and hammam, followed by some cozy time chez nous, a delicious home-cooked dinner, and Bordeaux. Then we jet off to Cali for a few days to reconnect with our old home and dear friends.
And with that, L’Étrangère is on hiatus until the New Year. Happy holidays and wishing you a marvelous ’08.
24 December 2007
20 December 2007
Corporate Extravagance
Company holiday parties. If you work in the private sector, they can merit getting dressed up for the open bar, decent cocktail food, and funny memories of coworkers getting trashed and embarrassing themselves. Or, if you work for a public school, they’re mediocre luncheons that you have to pay $20 to partake in (yes, I speak from experience). Basically, they’re usually fun but nothing to really write home about—with the exception of the famously cool Yahoo! holiday functions featuring performances by of-the-moment bands. (A friend once somehow worked an invite to one of said parties and got to bop around on stage in an animal suit with The Flaming Lips, as part of their customary stage theatrics.)
However, my previous perceptions of holiday parties were completely bowled over last week. N’s company’s French office was rumored to pull out all the stops for their Christmas (read: NOT US-style politically correct “holiday”) soiree. We’d heard bits and pieces of these parties’ former greatness from both French and American employees, but nothing prepared us for what amounted to the most impressive corporate holiday affair either of us has ever attended.
We entered the nightclub located on a quai of the Seine right underneath the Pont Alexandre III (a stellar location—the most beautiful bridge in Paris). Immediately we had two choices—enter via Paradis (Heaven) or via Enfer (Hell). This was the party’s theme, after all. Partygoers roamed about with champagne flutes in hand (sometimes as many as 3), wearing halos and angel wings or sporting horns and carrying pitchforks. Apparently costumes and props were being doled out by the door. We balked at the blinding white light emanating from Heaven and went straight into the fiery depths of Hell (well, more like the faux flames that are actually red Mylar strips being blown about by a fan…but still, A for effort).
Hell was dark, decadent, and pumpin’, with a hint of S&M. Not only was the DJ set up in that room, but there were also several cages (replete with cage dancers—not hired “help,” but actual employees giving it a go-go), several people roaming around with whips ready to give anyone willing a licking, and, I kid you not, a mechanical bull. The dance floor was packed and it was cool to see people dancing salsa and swing steps with each other regardless of gender (more proof that the French are so not uptight).
On the brighter side of the party, in the Heaven wing, everything gleamed white and silver. The diversions were just a tad less kinky. First, there was an acrobatic harness that one could climb up into and dangle from the ceiling, doing their best Cirque de Soleil impressions. Second, the massage room—two massage chairs were set up with pros working their magic fingers. Third, the Garden of Eden-esque chill room decked out with an Astroturf floor and cushions, real trees, plants, and flowers…and ultimately, the token passed-out chick near the end of the night (poor girl).
Apparently one could earn massage tickets after riding the bull or getting whipped. One of N’s coworkers visiting from the US attempted the bull not once, not twice, but four times, and was thrown from the bull after a grand total of one second each time. No massage for him! The French ladies had the right call – some told me all they had to do was bat their eyelashes to procure a massage ticket, avoiding humiliation or getting tossed around on the bull to the point of regurgitating all the freely-flowing champagne.
I really like the French coworkers! People went out of their way to be friendly to me, which I attest to N’s supreme likability (as if there was any doubt). They are also no shrinking violets when it comes to the dance floor, not to mention they aren’t afraid of having a super-late school night. We left the party at 2:30am and it wasn’t necessarily still going strong, but there was still a decent crowd left (apparently it totally wound down at 3:30—not bad for a Wednesday!). Having arrived back from NYC the day before, I was jet-lagged to the point of sharp alertness, which helped me stand strong at the party but wasn’t so convenient when I had to wake up at 7:30 for work later that morning. I felt like a college student again…good times.
I don’t know what budget they were working with (they certainly didn’t need $20 contributions from the employees, unlike one of my former employers), but the company threw a fabulous fête that I can only hope they top next year.
PS-OK, I found pictures - these are not ours, but were circulated by an employee. Pretty darn good shots!
However, my previous perceptions of holiday parties were completely bowled over last week. N’s company’s French office was rumored to pull out all the stops for their Christmas (read: NOT US-style politically correct “holiday”) soiree. We’d heard bits and pieces of these parties’ former greatness from both French and American employees, but nothing prepared us for what amounted to the most impressive corporate holiday affair either of us has ever attended.
We entered the nightclub located on a quai of the Seine right underneath the Pont Alexandre III (a stellar location—the most beautiful bridge in Paris). Immediately we had two choices—enter via Paradis (Heaven) or via Enfer (Hell). This was the party’s theme, after all. Partygoers roamed about with champagne flutes in hand (sometimes as many as 3), wearing halos and angel wings or sporting horns and carrying pitchforks. Apparently costumes and props were being doled out by the door. We balked at the blinding white light emanating from Heaven and went straight into the fiery depths of Hell (well, more like the faux flames that are actually red Mylar strips being blown about by a fan…but still, A for effort).
Hell was dark, decadent, and pumpin’, with a hint of S&M. Not only was the DJ set up in that room, but there were also several cages (replete with cage dancers—not hired “help,” but actual employees giving it a go-go), several people roaming around with whips ready to give anyone willing a licking, and, I kid you not, a mechanical bull. The dance floor was packed and it was cool to see people dancing salsa and swing steps with each other regardless of gender (more proof that the French are so not uptight).
On the brighter side of the party, in the Heaven wing, everything gleamed white and silver. The diversions were just a tad less kinky. First, there was an acrobatic harness that one could climb up into and dangle from the ceiling, doing their best Cirque de Soleil impressions. Second, the massage room—two massage chairs were set up with pros working their magic fingers. Third, the Garden of Eden-esque chill room decked out with an Astroturf floor and cushions, real trees, plants, and flowers…and ultimately, the token passed-out chick near the end of the night (poor girl).
Apparently one could earn massage tickets after riding the bull or getting whipped. One of N’s coworkers visiting from the US attempted the bull not once, not twice, but four times, and was thrown from the bull after a grand total of one second each time. No massage for him! The French ladies had the right call – some told me all they had to do was bat their eyelashes to procure a massage ticket, avoiding humiliation or getting tossed around on the bull to the point of regurgitating all the freely-flowing champagne.
I really like the French coworkers! People went out of their way to be friendly to me, which I attest to N’s supreme likability (as if there was any doubt). They are also no shrinking violets when it comes to the dance floor, not to mention they aren’t afraid of having a super-late school night. We left the party at 2:30am and it wasn’t necessarily still going strong, but there was still a decent crowd left (apparently it totally wound down at 3:30—not bad for a Wednesday!). Having arrived back from NYC the day before, I was jet-lagged to the point of sharp alertness, which helped me stand strong at the party but wasn’t so convenient when I had to wake up at 7:30 for work later that morning. I felt like a college student again…good times.
I don’t know what budget they were working with (they certainly didn’t need $20 contributions from the employees, unlike one of my former employers), but the company threw a fabulous fête that I can only hope they top next year.PS-OK, I found pictures - these are not ours, but were circulated by an employee. Pretty darn good shots!
18 December 2007
Winter Wonderlands
It’s winter, so naturally temperatures are dropping. But it’s been many years since I’ve lived in a cold winter climate, so I’ve been piling on the woolens and whimpering like a little baby. The past couple weeks have taken me outside Paris twice, to also fairly chilly destinations, but I had plenty of good times to warm me on the inside.
First I jetted to New York to attend the wedding of a dear friend and visit family. It was a trip rife with familiarity, both social and cultural. First, seeing loved ones – how wonderful! I didn’t consciously realize I was homesick until I entered my mother’s apartment, dropped my suitcase, and gave her a huge hug (aw). My visit was way too short, but I managed to squeeze in some quality time with mom, dad, sis, grandparents, cousin, family friends, and some friends. The wedding was a blast and I’m so happy I was able to be there. I made a strong case for my entire Big Apple contingency to visit Paris, but let me reiterate once again…free crashpad in Europe! Free crashpad in Europe!
My brief jaunt to the States was also long enough to give me some cultural comfort. Imagine being able to understand everything I heard! In France, I strive to eavesdrop just to listen to the natural rhythms of French speech, with comprehension coming in a distant second. In America, I could once again eavesdrop with ease, and it felt great – not because I really was interested in strangers’ conversations, but because it felt so deliciously familiar. Plus there was the warm, tingly sensation of freely conversing in English or reading English material on public transportation in anonymity. (Parisians are chronic starers, especially when anything Anglo is dangled in front of them, and it has been my experience to be openly stared at every day on the Metro. At this point I’m beyond feeling self-conscious or creeped out, but it’s still an odd reality.)
The only discomforting aspect was dealing with US domestic flights and all the aggravation that comes with them. As I had booked with frequent flier miles, I wasn’t able to procure a direct flight, and so had to deal with long layovers, even longer delays, and astonishing security lines. In France, the security agents could barely be bothered to question the contents of my suitcase. Too much work, perhaps?
My second short trip of the season was to Bruges, Belgium just this past weekend, and it was also full of social and cultural comforts. Nate and I had been hankering for a trip outside Paris before the year was through, and it so happened that a slew of his SF co-workers were going to be in town this week. We invited some along, and before we knew it, the posse snowballed into a group of 9 people strong. My company was comfortingly San Franciscan, and although I traveled with 8 employees of a video game company, it wasn’t an uber-geeky crowd – just fun and easy to be with.
Aaaaaaaah, Bruges. It’s a box of chocolates wrapped in a gingerbread house wrapped in a vest. I had been there in 1996 during my debut whirlwind European tour. I think I’d only spent 2 days in the city, and my recollections of it were hazy…beer, a beautiful park, medieval architecture, and accidentally breaking a street-level window with my backpack and being told by a local to “Make a run for it! Quick!” (let it be known that the beer-drinking was on a separate occasion). This time I got through the weekend vandalism-free, but indulged in the best Belgian treats available: beer again (those monks really have a good thing going), mussels, frites (best in the world), waffles, and the piece de resistance, CHOCOLATE. The latter must be written in all-caps because it puts the rest of the world’s so-called best chocolate to shame. Sorry, France, Switzerland, and Italy – there’s just some special love and magic that gets infused into Belgian chocolate. It stops you in your tracks, makes your eyes roll into the back of your head, and fills you with a warm surge of adrenaline to last you the rest of the day. Yes, it’s that good.
Lest you think we were slovenly consuming all weekend long, I can also tell you that we bravely walked all over the city (it’s very, very walkable and compared to Paris, delightfully clear of dog shit) in freezing daytime temperatures, checked out a magnificent church and the Town Hall museum, and took many photos of the gorgeous architecture and charming canals. It was the perfect place for just a 2-day, 2-night trip (just a quick 2.5 hour train ride away) and left me hungry for more European travel. 2008 will be a big year for exploring!
First I jetted to New York to attend the wedding of a dear friend and visit family. It was a trip rife with familiarity, both social and cultural. First, seeing loved ones – how wonderful! I didn’t consciously realize I was homesick until I entered my mother’s apartment, dropped my suitcase, and gave her a huge hug (aw). My visit was way too short, but I managed to squeeze in some quality time with mom, dad, sis, grandparents, cousin, family friends, and some friends. The wedding was a blast and I’m so happy I was able to be there. I made a strong case for my entire Big Apple contingency to visit Paris, but let me reiterate once again…free crashpad in Europe! Free crashpad in Europe!
My brief jaunt to the States was also long enough to give me some cultural comfort. Imagine being able to understand everything I heard! In France, I strive to eavesdrop just to listen to the natural rhythms of French speech, with comprehension coming in a distant second. In America, I could once again eavesdrop with ease, and it felt great – not because I really was interested in strangers’ conversations, but because it felt so deliciously familiar. Plus there was the warm, tingly sensation of freely conversing in English or reading English material on public transportation in anonymity. (Parisians are chronic starers, especially when anything Anglo is dangled in front of them, and it has been my experience to be openly stared at every day on the Metro. At this point I’m beyond feeling self-conscious or creeped out, but it’s still an odd reality.)
The only discomforting aspect was dealing with US domestic flights and all the aggravation that comes with them. As I had booked with frequent flier miles, I wasn’t able to procure a direct flight, and so had to deal with long layovers, even longer delays, and astonishing security lines. In France, the security agents could barely be bothered to question the contents of my suitcase. Too much work, perhaps?
My second short trip of the season was to Bruges, Belgium just this past weekend, and it was also full of social and cultural comforts. Nate and I had been hankering for a trip outside Paris before the year was through, and it so happened that a slew of his SF co-workers were going to be in town this week. We invited some along, and before we knew it, the posse snowballed into a group of 9 people strong. My company was comfortingly San Franciscan, and although I traveled with 8 employees of a video game company, it wasn’t an uber-geeky crowd – just fun and easy to be with.
Aaaaaaaah, Bruges. It’s a box of chocolates wrapped in a gingerbread house wrapped in a vest. I had been there in 1996 during my debut whirlwind European tour. I think I’d only spent 2 days in the city, and my recollections of it were hazy…beer, a beautiful park, medieval architecture, and accidentally breaking a street-level window with my backpack and being told by a local to “Make a run for it! Quick!” (let it be known that the beer-drinking was on a separate occasion). This time I got through the weekend vandalism-free, but indulged in the best Belgian treats available: beer again (those monks really have a good thing going), mussels, frites (best in the world), waffles, and the piece de resistance, CHOCOLATE. The latter must be written in all-caps because it puts the rest of the world’s so-called best chocolate to shame. Sorry, France, Switzerland, and Italy – there’s just some special love and magic that gets infused into Belgian chocolate. It stops you in your tracks, makes your eyes roll into the back of your head, and fills you with a warm surge of adrenaline to last you the rest of the day. Yes, it’s that good.
Lest you think we were slovenly consuming all weekend long, I can also tell you that we bravely walked all over the city (it’s very, very walkable and compared to Paris, delightfully clear of dog shit) in freezing daytime temperatures, checked out a magnificent church and the Town Hall museum, and took many photos of the gorgeous architecture and charming canals. It was the perfect place for just a 2-day, 2-night trip (just a quick 2.5 hour train ride away) and left me hungry for more European travel. 2008 will be a big year for exploring!
11 December 2007
ST20071204_0000001304 ASSISTANCE BNPPARIBAS.NET
A Post-Script to Nate's Guest Blog, Written by Nate and Posted by the Editorial We, Meaning Jess
In an Orwellian finale, I just received an email from my bank. Here are the highlights:
1) Incomprehensible subject line (see blog post title above). Did anyone actually test this feature?
2) Apparently my email address does not allow me enter into contact with the bank. That's fucking odd, since they're communicating with me RIGHT NOW USING THAT EMAIL ADDRESS. I think we've entered the logic-free zone. [Editor's note: Wait...we've just now entered it?]
3) They've helpfully reminded me that checking on my account online is free! Wow! What a deal.
4) They didn't solve my problem at all.
I'm obviously up against a kind of invincible logic black hole with a gravitational pull so powerful that even previously established facts are sucked in and systematically disproven.
In an Orwellian finale, I just received an email from my bank. Here are the highlights:
1) Incomprehensible subject line (see blog post title above). Did anyone actually test this feature?
2) Apparently my email address does not allow me enter into contact with the bank. That's fucking odd, since they're communicating with me RIGHT NOW USING THAT EMAIL ADDRESS. I think we've entered the logic-free zone. [Editor's note: Wait...we've just now entered it?]
3) They've helpfully reminded me that checking on my account online is free! Wow! What a deal.
4) They didn't solve my problem at all.
I'm obviously up against a kind of invincible logic black hole with a gravitational pull so powerful that even previously established facts are sucked in and systematically disproven.
09 December 2007
Down the Rabbit Hole (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love French Banking)
A Guest Blog By Nate
Ok, so I realize that Jess has previously touched on the banking “issue” in this blog. However, I never felt that her treatment of the subject achieved the proper mixture of outrage and loathing that it should have. Plus, I’ve had all new experiences at the bank in the past few days which has reinforced my conviction, formed slowly over the past few months, that the Official Position of Banks in France (yes, caps intended) is that they would much rather you didn’t bother them with, say, banking, since that would require the bank staff to engage in, you know, work and thinking and other icky stuff best left to those crazy workaholic Anglo Saxons.
Also, being that Jess is back in the States visiting family, she’s not really here right now to defend herself and her blog from my angry rant. Ha! Oh and by the way, the title of the post is just for humorous effect and because I couldn’t resist the reference. I hate French banking. Deeply.
So perhaps in order to more fully understand what it is I dislike about the French banking system, I should start by explaining my expectations about banking. When I go to the bank during business hours, I expect to be able to do things such as deposit and withdraw money, and speak with a banker about my account. Let’s call these two things Core Banking Activities, since for a consumer banking experience I feel I can safely conclude that a majority of everyday banking transactions falls under one of these categories. Reasonable, right? Wrong! At least in France.
Before I get into the everyday banking experience in France, I should probably back up and explain the central paradox of French banking, which we ran into as soon as we arrived in the country. You see, in order to rent an apartment in France, landlords expect that you will provide them with all kinds of guarantees that you’re not a deadbeat, including identification, recent paystubs (to make sure you earn enough to pay the rent), financial guarantees from other individuals/companies (to make sure that if, for some reason you can’t pay the rent, possibly due to excessive fois gras consumption, someone else can), and yes, your bank account information. Unfortunately – and here’s the fun part – in order to open a bank account, the bank expects you to provide a proof of residence – a utility bill or signed lease for example. So what this amounts to is a situation where you can’t open a bank account without a place to live, but you can’t rent a place to live without a bank account. Neat how that works, eh?
Getting back to my expectations, my years of banking in the U.S. has lead me to believe that banks, in a highly competitive market, will vie for my business by offering such perks as free checking, a free credit card, a toaster, whatever. Most U.S. consumers have multiple credit cards and often the motivation to use a particular card is driven by what points a card awards with purchases, such as airline miles. With that in mind I was shocked to learn that French consumers basically don’t have credit cards readily available, and not only would my debit card not be free – I’m paying $15 a month for the privilege of retrieving MY OWN MONEY from the ATM. As if that weren't enough, there’s a limit to how much of my own money I can spend on this card per month!! I’m not even talking about a per-transaction limit or U.S.-style ATM withdrawal limit here – there’s simply a monthly cap and you can’t spend more of your own money than that using the card, although I’m told you can upgrade to a more expensive card that allows you to access more of your own money, but there’s still a limit. And we’re not talking credit-card style limits of $15,000 or more – the limit for me seems to be around 2,000 Euros. On top of all that, our banker looked at me like I was crazy when I asked to have a duplicate card for Jess, so we can both access the account. Even when you’re paying $15 a month, they don’t do that here apparently. Huh?
Depositing cash has become an important activity for Jess and I since unfortunately, we’ve discovered that the most efficient way to transfer money from a U.S. bank account to here is to withdraw from the ATM and then deposit the cash. If anyone reading this knows of a better solution let me know, but I’ve looked at everything I can think of and this seems to be the best solution. So when our bank representative, an odd, bespectacled woman whose wardrobe is limited to black and white, told us that the branch is open on Saturdays, Jess and I were delighted since the bank opens after I go to work and closes before I get home. Thus, we were more than surprised when we visited the bank to make a deposit on a Satuday not long after that they don’t actually accept deposits on Saturday. Again, huh? Isn’t this what a bank does? Why bother being open? I was feeling a little sneaky when I discovered a branch of my bank near my office, but when I headed in to make the deposit there, during my lunch break, I was told that – get this – they don’t handle cash AT ALL.
After a few weeks of having the account solely in my name, Jess and I started running into issues since Jess was unable to make deposits. We wanted to create a joint account from the beginning but were told that until Jess had her official residency card, the infamous titre de sejour, it would not be possible for her to be on the account or have her own account. This in itself led to another quirky situation – Jess was allowed on one occasion to deposit money into the account, but not on another. Hello inconsistent application of the rules! Anyway, we eventually found out that there existed a way to allow Jess to perform operations on the account without her name being on the account. Great! “Where do we sign up?”, we asked. Stupid us, we had made the mistake of assuming that we could be assisted in this process by any bank representative. Nope. Only *our* bank representative could assist us in this. Come back later, sorry. Sigh.
Ok, this is getting long (and there’s SO much more to tell), but in the interest of brevity I’ll tell one more piece of the story. It turns out that Jess really needs to get her name on the account after all, in order to secure a needed piece of government documentation (the carte vitale). So on a recent visit to the bank we asked again about this and, after a few calls to more senior bank officials we were told by our monochromatic bank rep that we could in fact get Jess listed on the account with Jess’s temporary titre de sejour. Great news, sign us up! Seven forms, fourteen signatures, and one hour later (I shit you not), this simple procedure was executed and off we went. A few weeks later, when rent was due, I logged on to our bank’s website and executed a wire transfer to our landlord, as I have done many times in the past. Everything appeared to go smoothly and the requested transfer showed up, as normal, on the “account history” page. A few days later I noticed that the money was still in my account – it had not been debited. I called my bank’s customer service number – an action whose cost the consumer is expected to bear, and it’s not cheap. Quick aside – France’s companies universally charge consumers by the minute for calls to customer service, constituting a diabolical, anti-consumer stance that is unthinkable in the U.S. Anyway, after spending about 30 minutes and over $5 talking to three different bank representatives I had no explanation for the malfunctioning of the wire transfer. I was advised to simply try the transfer again, but was given no guarantee that I wouldn’t be debited twice, incurring overdraft charges if it happened. However, I was promised that technical support would work on it and give me a call back. It’s been over four days now, and I’m not holding my breath for a call back. Instead, I took matters into my own hands and made no less than three trips to the bank over two days to resolve this issue. I actually did end up trying the transfer again via the bank’s website, only to be told there wasn’t enough money in the account for the transfer to go through (there was, and bank’s site even said so).
As it turns out, when we transformed the account into a joint account, Jess’s temporary status put our account back into a state of “unverifiedness” which prevents wire transfers from happening without special authorization, requiring a visit to the bank every time. Given that Jess is still months away from obtaining her official residency card, we are now left with the unsavory prospect of making monthly visits to the bank to authorize special wire transfers. Of course, they didn’t mention this when we made the account a joint account, and god forbid the bank’s website, their customer service reps, or anyone at the bank provide helpful information about why the operation failed in the first place without three visits and an expensive call to customer support. I think a nice error message when I first attempted the wire transfer would have done nicely.
Ok I’m done.
Ok, so I realize that Jess has previously touched on the banking “issue” in this blog. However, I never felt that her treatment of the subject achieved the proper mixture of outrage and loathing that it should have. Plus, I’ve had all new experiences at the bank in the past few days which has reinforced my conviction, formed slowly over the past few months, that the Official Position of Banks in France (yes, caps intended) is that they would much rather you didn’t bother them with, say, banking, since that would require the bank staff to engage in, you know, work and thinking and other icky stuff best left to those crazy workaholic Anglo Saxons.
Also, being that Jess is back in the States visiting family, she’s not really here right now to defend herself and her blog from my angry rant. Ha! Oh and by the way, the title of the post is just for humorous effect and because I couldn’t resist the reference. I hate French banking. Deeply.
So perhaps in order to more fully understand what it is I dislike about the French banking system, I should start by explaining my expectations about banking. When I go to the bank during business hours, I expect to be able to do things such as deposit and withdraw money, and speak with a banker about my account. Let’s call these two things Core Banking Activities, since for a consumer banking experience I feel I can safely conclude that a majority of everyday banking transactions falls under one of these categories. Reasonable, right? Wrong! At least in France.
Before I get into the everyday banking experience in France, I should probably back up and explain the central paradox of French banking, which we ran into as soon as we arrived in the country. You see, in order to rent an apartment in France, landlords expect that you will provide them with all kinds of guarantees that you’re not a deadbeat, including identification, recent paystubs (to make sure you earn enough to pay the rent), financial guarantees from other individuals/companies (to make sure that if, for some reason you can’t pay the rent, possibly due to excessive fois gras consumption, someone else can), and yes, your bank account information. Unfortunately – and here’s the fun part – in order to open a bank account, the bank expects you to provide a proof of residence – a utility bill or signed lease for example. So what this amounts to is a situation where you can’t open a bank account without a place to live, but you can’t rent a place to live without a bank account. Neat how that works, eh?
Getting back to my expectations, my years of banking in the U.S. has lead me to believe that banks, in a highly competitive market, will vie for my business by offering such perks as free checking, a free credit card, a toaster, whatever. Most U.S. consumers have multiple credit cards and often the motivation to use a particular card is driven by what points a card awards with purchases, such as airline miles. With that in mind I was shocked to learn that French consumers basically don’t have credit cards readily available, and not only would my debit card not be free – I’m paying $15 a month for the privilege of retrieving MY OWN MONEY from the ATM. As if that weren't enough, there’s a limit to how much of my own money I can spend on this card per month!! I’m not even talking about a per-transaction limit or U.S.-style ATM withdrawal limit here – there’s simply a monthly cap and you can’t spend more of your own money than that using the card, although I’m told you can upgrade to a more expensive card that allows you to access more of your own money, but there’s still a limit. And we’re not talking credit-card style limits of $15,000 or more – the limit for me seems to be around 2,000 Euros. On top of all that, our banker looked at me like I was crazy when I asked to have a duplicate card for Jess, so we can both access the account. Even when you’re paying $15 a month, they don’t do that here apparently. Huh?
Depositing cash has become an important activity for Jess and I since unfortunately, we’ve discovered that the most efficient way to transfer money from a U.S. bank account to here is to withdraw from the ATM and then deposit the cash. If anyone reading this knows of a better solution let me know, but I’ve looked at everything I can think of and this seems to be the best solution. So when our bank representative, an odd, bespectacled woman whose wardrobe is limited to black and white, told us that the branch is open on Saturdays, Jess and I were delighted since the bank opens after I go to work and closes before I get home. Thus, we were more than surprised when we visited the bank to make a deposit on a Satuday not long after that they don’t actually accept deposits on Saturday. Again, huh? Isn’t this what a bank does? Why bother being open? I was feeling a little sneaky when I discovered a branch of my bank near my office, but when I headed in to make the deposit there, during my lunch break, I was told that – get this – they don’t handle cash AT ALL.
After a few weeks of having the account solely in my name, Jess and I started running into issues since Jess was unable to make deposits. We wanted to create a joint account from the beginning but were told that until Jess had her official residency card, the infamous titre de sejour, it would not be possible for her to be on the account or have her own account. This in itself led to another quirky situation – Jess was allowed on one occasion to deposit money into the account, but not on another. Hello inconsistent application of the rules! Anyway, we eventually found out that there existed a way to allow Jess to perform operations on the account without her name being on the account. Great! “Where do we sign up?”, we asked. Stupid us, we had made the mistake of assuming that we could be assisted in this process by any bank representative. Nope. Only *our* bank representative could assist us in this. Come back later, sorry. Sigh.
Ok, this is getting long (and there’s SO much more to tell), but in the interest of brevity I’ll tell one more piece of the story. It turns out that Jess really needs to get her name on the account after all, in order to secure a needed piece of government documentation (the carte vitale). So on a recent visit to the bank we asked again about this and, after a few calls to more senior bank officials we were told by our monochromatic bank rep that we could in fact get Jess listed on the account with Jess’s temporary titre de sejour. Great news, sign us up! Seven forms, fourteen signatures, and one hour later (I shit you not), this simple procedure was executed and off we went. A few weeks later, when rent was due, I logged on to our bank’s website and executed a wire transfer to our landlord, as I have done many times in the past. Everything appeared to go smoothly and the requested transfer showed up, as normal, on the “account history” page. A few days later I noticed that the money was still in my account – it had not been debited. I called my bank’s customer service number – an action whose cost the consumer is expected to bear, and it’s not cheap. Quick aside – France’s companies universally charge consumers by the minute for calls to customer service, constituting a diabolical, anti-consumer stance that is unthinkable in the U.S. Anyway, after spending about 30 minutes and over $5 talking to three different bank representatives I had no explanation for the malfunctioning of the wire transfer. I was advised to simply try the transfer again, but was given no guarantee that I wouldn’t be debited twice, incurring overdraft charges if it happened. However, I was promised that technical support would work on it and give me a call back. It’s been over four days now, and I’m not holding my breath for a call back. Instead, I took matters into my own hands and made no less than three trips to the bank over two days to resolve this issue. I actually did end up trying the transfer again via the bank’s website, only to be told there wasn’t enough money in the account for the transfer to go through (there was, and bank’s site even said so).
As it turns out, when we transformed the account into a joint account, Jess’s temporary status put our account back into a state of “unverifiedness” which prevents wire transfers from happening without special authorization, requiring a visit to the bank every time. Given that Jess is still months away from obtaining her official residency card, we are now left with the unsavory prospect of making monthly visits to the bank to authorize special wire transfers. Of course, they didn’t mention this when we made the account a joint account, and god forbid the bank’s website, their customer service reps, or anyone at the bank provide helpful information about why the operation failed in the first place without three visits and an expensive call to customer support. I think a nice error message when I first attempted the wire transfer would have done nicely.
Ok I’m done.
04 December 2007
Parisian Gyms - They Ain't Just About the Exercise
OK, I admit it, I’m on a tear with the blog this week. It became quite apparent that I’d waited too long since my last post when people actually pointed it out to me. It’s not that I’ve lost interest. The truth is, I’ve been obsessively knitting a hat all week. (N has decided that knitting is ‘my WoW’ and keeps asking me what level my hat is at. For those who don’t understand the geeky gamer humor, you’re probably better off that way, heh.)
So today’s topic is the gym, because I beheld the most hilarious sight while departing from there today. To back up a bit, N had previously seen someone exit the gym and immediately light up a cigarette - not too shocking in one of the foremost smoking capitals of the world. Well, today’s scene trumped that: I saw a woman outside the gym smoking in her exercise outfit, finish her cigarette, and then walk back inside for more working out! Hysterical.
And that image perfectly symbolizes one facet of the French attitude toward the gym, and life in general: everything in moderation. Unlike in California, where it's by and large all or nothing where health is concerned, the French have a relatively non-fussy attitude towards health - play sports and afterwards have lunch, including dessert and a glass of wine. Anyhow, that doesn't mean the gym is a serious endeavor. while many people do go to the gym to actually exercise here, I’ve also seen a lot of people at my gym just sitting around, chatting with friends, or checking other people out – hardly what I’d call a workout. Even the people who are breaking a sweat seem distracted. It’s very rare for people to bring reading material to the gym (unlike in the States, at least in my experience), so they do the next best thing – conspicuously stare at yours, as if they truly believe they can read the miniscule magazine print from the cardio machine next to you.
There’s more evidence that the French don’t take their gym time seriously. A big, boldly colored plaque is displayed over each water fountain that implores gym denizens, in French of course: “While working out, it is crucial to frequently drink (water).” I kid you not – they actually have to spell it out! I mean, sure, I usually drink a liter of vodka during my workout, but I didn't realize it was a widespread problem.
Then there’s an almost contrary issue at play, constituting the other facet of gym culture here: pervasive aggressiveness. N has had a difficult time in the weights room because many guys monopolize one machine for way too long. And the thing is, they aren’t doing set after set – they’ll do one set and then just sit there for however long they please, and look challengingly at anyone who approaches with even a remote interest in using the machine. The other problem we’ve noticed is that the cardio machines are popular and tend to be extra scarce over the weekend and early in the week (peak workout days). Now, this was also an issue in our tiny Cole Valley gym in SF, and while no one used the sign-up sheet there, we all abided by an honor system – don’t monopolize the machine for too long, clean it up when you’re done, and also wait patiently for someone to finish. Well, some people haven’t caught on to the wacky, new phenomenon called the honor system here. On more than a couple occasions, people have swooped in like vultures when someone dismounts from the machine (in reality, to walk only a few feet away to grab a paper towel and disinfectant to clean the machine), throwing the vacator’s personal belongings on the ground and just launching into their own workout. This happened to N once and he was not happy to return to the machine, only to find his towel and magazine in a heap on the floor.
I was warned about the gyms here. I’d read Adam Gopnik’s fabulous memoir Paris to the Moon years ago, and even then his chapter recounting his experiences in Parisian gyms had me rolling. He wittily described the gym members as getting dressed to the nines for their workouts, limply exercising so as to not break even a wisp of sweat, and then happily grabbing a snack from the junk-food vending machine conveniently located in the gym. He, on the other hand, was the icky American who actually exercised and grossed people out with his superfluous perspiration.
Well, in certain ways, gym culture has changed since the mid-90’s. Sure, it may not seem as serious and focused as it is in the States (I mean, they have to be reminded to drink WATER and not booze for cryin’ out loud). However, many people actually do exercise there. I’ve attended a variety of classes (there’s actually a great selection, including pilates-esque stretching, conventional aerobics, aqua fitness, yoga, a variety of dance classes, and so on), and they’ve usually been full. People aren’t always rude. In fact, my fellow gym-goers might be so kind as to offer me a post-workout cigarette or swig o’ bourbon someday.
So today’s topic is the gym, because I beheld the most hilarious sight while departing from there today. To back up a bit, N had previously seen someone exit the gym and immediately light up a cigarette - not too shocking in one of the foremost smoking capitals of the world. Well, today’s scene trumped that: I saw a woman outside the gym smoking in her exercise outfit, finish her cigarette, and then walk back inside for more working out! Hysterical.
And that image perfectly symbolizes one facet of the French attitude toward the gym, and life in general: everything in moderation. Unlike in California, where it's by and large all or nothing where health is concerned, the French have a relatively non-fussy attitude towards health - play sports and afterwards have lunch, including dessert and a glass of wine. Anyhow, that doesn't mean the gym is a serious endeavor. while many people do go to the gym to actually exercise here, I’ve also seen a lot of people at my gym just sitting around, chatting with friends, or checking other people out – hardly what I’d call a workout. Even the people who are breaking a sweat seem distracted. It’s very rare for people to bring reading material to the gym (unlike in the States, at least in my experience), so they do the next best thing – conspicuously stare at yours, as if they truly believe they can read the miniscule magazine print from the cardio machine next to you.
There’s more evidence that the French don’t take their gym time seriously. A big, boldly colored plaque is displayed over each water fountain that implores gym denizens, in French of course: “While working out, it is crucial to frequently drink (water).” I kid you not – they actually have to spell it out! I mean, sure, I usually drink a liter of vodka during my workout, but I didn't realize it was a widespread problem.
Then there’s an almost contrary issue at play, constituting the other facet of gym culture here: pervasive aggressiveness. N has had a difficult time in the weights room because many guys monopolize one machine for way too long. And the thing is, they aren’t doing set after set – they’ll do one set and then just sit there for however long they please, and look challengingly at anyone who approaches with even a remote interest in using the machine. The other problem we’ve noticed is that the cardio machines are popular and tend to be extra scarce over the weekend and early in the week (peak workout days). Now, this was also an issue in our tiny Cole Valley gym in SF, and while no one used the sign-up sheet there, we all abided by an honor system – don’t monopolize the machine for too long, clean it up when you’re done, and also wait patiently for someone to finish. Well, some people haven’t caught on to the wacky, new phenomenon called the honor system here. On more than a couple occasions, people have swooped in like vultures when someone dismounts from the machine (in reality, to walk only a few feet away to grab a paper towel and disinfectant to clean the machine), throwing the vacator’s personal belongings on the ground and just launching into their own workout. This happened to N once and he was not happy to return to the machine, only to find his towel and magazine in a heap on the floor.
I was warned about the gyms here. I’d read Adam Gopnik’s fabulous memoir Paris to the Moon years ago, and even then his chapter recounting his experiences in Parisian gyms had me rolling. He wittily described the gym members as getting dressed to the nines for their workouts, limply exercising so as to not break even a wisp of sweat, and then happily grabbing a snack from the junk-food vending machine conveniently located in the gym. He, on the other hand, was the icky American who actually exercised and grossed people out with his superfluous perspiration.
Well, in certain ways, gym culture has changed since the mid-90’s. Sure, it may not seem as serious and focused as it is in the States (I mean, they have to be reminded to drink WATER and not booze for cryin’ out loud). However, many people actually do exercise there. I’ve attended a variety of classes (there’s actually a great selection, including pilates-esque stretching, conventional aerobics, aqua fitness, yoga, a variety of dance classes, and so on), and they’ve usually been full. People aren’t always rude. In fact, my fellow gym-goers might be so kind as to offer me a post-workout cigarette or swig o’ bourbon someday.
03 December 2007
Robert Langdon, Eat Your Heart Out
I’m on an American expats listserve (hey, why not) that recently posted an interesting event: a Saturday night scavenger hunt around Paris. The attendees would meet at a pub on the Right Bank, where they would split into groups of no more than 5, and compete to complete the hunt within 4 hours. An adventure company would provide the entire game, including instructions, clues, and waiver forms (in case any participants encountered danger along the way). And participation was free. COOL! I, Nate, and his fellow American-in-Paris co-worker were in. We ran into another American expat Nate randomly knows at the pub, so we had a perfectly-sized group and were ready to compete…or at least finish the game. We didn’t really care about winning.
We received seven clues, a stylized treasure map, and a cipher. Each clue was written as a poetic riddle. At the bottom of the riddle was a word or phrase encrypted in cipher code. You had to decipher the location of where the clue would be located. Once you got to the location, you either had to find an agent (an actor within the game) who would provide more pieces of the clue or a piece of information (e.g. an inscription on a wall, a name on a building) that would enable you to determine the cipher key. Then you’d have to use the cipher to unscramble the answer to the riddle. Once all six regular clues were unscrambled, you then had to determine the total numeric value of all the answers’ letters and use yet another cipher to determine the answer to the seventh (bonus) clue. If you ever got stuck, you could call the coordinator for small hints. You were instructed to solve the clues in whatever order your team saw fit. When you finished, you were to meet up with the larger group at a pub on the Left Bank.
The first riddle we tackled led us to an “urban waterfall” by the “city’s ancient marketplace,” or in other words, the fountain by Les Halles! We had to look for “two men regarding numbers and suits.” We scoured the plaza for a couple of guys playing cards, but could only find random teens skating, breakdancing, and getting harassed by the cops. We searched and searched and finally found the two guys comfortably sitting in a café, drinking espresso and playing cards. “We can only talk to two of you,” they said mysteriously. Two of us withdrew, but I was one of the lucky ones who got to stay. The agents then entreated us to play blackjack. We lost the first hand, but then won the second with a 17 over the dealer’s 26. “17 is a very good hand…a VERY good hand. And that’s all I can tell you.” Aha, it wasn’t just enigmatic nonsense…17 was the cipher code. We unscrambled the first clue and moved on to our next location…
…At the “seat of city politics” (Hôtel de Ville, we surmised), where “there stands a house with insides made of ice” (the igloo-bubble-shack thingy that serves as an entrance to the temporary ice-skating rink in the plaza at HdV). We determined we had to look for an inscription of a De Gaulle quote on one of the smaller stone walls surrounding the building. This one left us scratching our heads for a while. We jotted down what we thought was good information, and then ran off to the next stop…
…At Notre Dame, where we sought “an agent whose treasure would help you win this race” and (more iambic pentameter blah blah blah) “the light of the color of the night.” Huh? A woman with treasure? Black lights? We roamed around the plaza for a while, but all we could see were people pulling beer stashes out of the bushes and engaging in some major public drunkenness in front of one of the world’s most famous landmarks. Suddenly N noticed a woman pull a strange looking box out of a duffel bag…so our agent hadn’t been ready until now! Indeed, she had an intricately carved wooden chest. She demanded we perform for her in exchange for her treasure. “Whadda you mean, like sing a song or something?” N was not amused. I was ready to do a pseudo-tapdance when our teammate started belting out some silly ditty. It worked. She opened the lid of her chest, revealing fake gold coins and purple objects – she instructed to take a purple thingy. Turns out it was a small black light which, when lit up underneath the clue sheet, revealed the answer written in invisible ink. Neat trick. We then focused on our next location…
…On the “larger of the city’s isles” (ok, still on Ile de la Cité) on “the water’s edge” overlooking "merchants' shops." We determined we needed to find a quai along the Seine overlooking the old Samaritaine department store. The riddle also instructed us to look for a man leaning ever closer over a ledge, who would be saying nonsensical things. Hmm. We reached a stairway leading down to a quai, where a lone figure stood shrouded in darkness. Either a serial killer or our agent…we tempted fate and inched our way towards him. Pfew, it was our agent. He handed us a slip of paper with a chicken-scratch scribble resembling words and whispered, “Smoke makes things clear. You must leave now.” Love the intrigue! Thinking of the telling line from the riddle that when the agent “says smoke, you think fire,” N made the best call of the night – the scribbled message was meaningless; it was the old lemon juice trick. We were pretty cold and hungry at this point, so we took refuge at a café near St-Michel and proceeded to hold a flame under the slip of paper. Eventually, the flame singed the paper enough to reveal the hidden lemon-juice etched message – another number, this riddle’s cipher.
Over mediocre croque monsieurs and marginally better vin chaud, we figured out the answer to the fourth riddle just by using the poem and a city map (awesome). We also nearly tore our hair out trying to pick apart the fifth, and when we finally did, realized we’d done the second riddle all wrong and we’d have to go back to Hôtel de Ville…on across the whole of Ile de la Cité, on the other side of the Seine. What was worse, we also figured out that the sixth riddle’s answer was right around the corner from the pub where we’d started, deep into the 2nd arrondisement. Normally all of this wouldn’t be a formidable distance to walk, but it was cold and now starting to rain. We hopped on the Metro, swung by our two locations and figured out the riddles, hopped back on the Metro a little soaked but not discouraged, and puzzled out the bonus riddle during the time it took to ride to the final meeting place, a pub in the Latin Quarter.
Well, we weren’t the first ones there. It had been four hours since we started! But when we arrived, some teams were still figuring out a few of their answers. Not too shabby! Overall, it was challenging, but not too hard, and it forced us to use a variety of skills to crack the riddles and codes. It was so much fun and a fabulously unconventional way to explore the city. We’re definitely looking out for the company’s future free events.
We received seven clues, a stylized treasure map, and a cipher. Each clue was written as a poetic riddle. At the bottom of the riddle was a word or phrase encrypted in cipher code. You had to decipher the location of where the clue would be located. Once you got to the location, you either had to find an agent (an actor within the game) who would provide more pieces of the clue or a piece of information (e.g. an inscription on a wall, a name on a building) that would enable you to determine the cipher key. Then you’d have to use the cipher to unscramble the answer to the riddle. Once all six regular clues were unscrambled, you then had to determine the total numeric value of all the answers’ letters and use yet another cipher to determine the answer to the seventh (bonus) clue. If you ever got stuck, you could call the coordinator for small hints. You were instructed to solve the clues in whatever order your team saw fit. When you finished, you were to meet up with the larger group at a pub on the Left Bank.
The first riddle we tackled led us to an “urban waterfall” by the “city’s ancient marketplace,” or in other words, the fountain by Les Halles! We had to look for “two men regarding numbers and suits.” We scoured the plaza for a couple of guys playing cards, but could only find random teens skating, breakdancing, and getting harassed by the cops. We searched and searched and finally found the two guys comfortably sitting in a café, drinking espresso and playing cards. “We can only talk to two of you,” they said mysteriously. Two of us withdrew, but I was one of the lucky ones who got to stay. The agents then entreated us to play blackjack. We lost the first hand, but then won the second with a 17 over the dealer’s 26. “17 is a very good hand…a VERY good hand. And that’s all I can tell you.” Aha, it wasn’t just enigmatic nonsense…17 was the cipher code. We unscrambled the first clue and moved on to our next location…
…At the “seat of city politics” (Hôtel de Ville, we surmised), where “there stands a house with insides made of ice” (the igloo-bubble-shack thingy that serves as an entrance to the temporary ice-skating rink in the plaza at HdV). We determined we had to look for an inscription of a De Gaulle quote on one of the smaller stone walls surrounding the building. This one left us scratching our heads for a while. We jotted down what we thought was good information, and then ran off to the next stop…
…At Notre Dame, where we sought “an agent whose treasure would help you win this race” and (more iambic pentameter blah blah blah) “the light of the color of the night.” Huh? A woman with treasure? Black lights? We roamed around the plaza for a while, but all we could see were people pulling beer stashes out of the bushes and engaging in some major public drunkenness in front of one of the world’s most famous landmarks. Suddenly N noticed a woman pull a strange looking box out of a duffel bag…so our agent hadn’t been ready until now! Indeed, she had an intricately carved wooden chest. She demanded we perform for her in exchange for her treasure. “Whadda you mean, like sing a song or something?” N was not amused. I was ready to do a pseudo-tapdance when our teammate started belting out some silly ditty. It worked. She opened the lid of her chest, revealing fake gold coins and purple objects – she instructed to take a purple thingy. Turns out it was a small black light which, when lit up underneath the clue sheet, revealed the answer written in invisible ink. Neat trick. We then focused on our next location…
…On the “larger of the city’s isles” (ok, still on Ile de la Cité) on “the water’s edge” overlooking "merchants' shops." We determined we needed to find a quai along the Seine overlooking the old Samaritaine department store. The riddle also instructed us to look for a man leaning ever closer over a ledge, who would be saying nonsensical things. Hmm. We reached a stairway leading down to a quai, where a lone figure stood shrouded in darkness. Either a serial killer or our agent…we tempted fate and inched our way towards him. Pfew, it was our agent. He handed us a slip of paper with a chicken-scratch scribble resembling words and whispered, “Smoke makes things clear. You must leave now.” Love the intrigue! Thinking of the telling line from the riddle that when the agent “says smoke, you think fire,” N made the best call of the night – the scribbled message was meaningless; it was the old lemon juice trick. We were pretty cold and hungry at this point, so we took refuge at a café near St-Michel and proceeded to hold a flame under the slip of paper. Eventually, the flame singed the paper enough to reveal the hidden lemon-juice etched message – another number, this riddle’s cipher.
Over mediocre croque monsieurs and marginally better vin chaud, we figured out the answer to the fourth riddle just by using the poem and a city map (awesome). We also nearly tore our hair out trying to pick apart the fifth, and when we finally did, realized we’d done the second riddle all wrong and we’d have to go back to Hôtel de Ville…on across the whole of Ile de la Cité, on the other side of the Seine. What was worse, we also figured out that the sixth riddle’s answer was right around the corner from the pub where we’d started, deep into the 2nd arrondisement. Normally all of this wouldn’t be a formidable distance to walk, but it was cold and now starting to rain. We hopped on the Metro, swung by our two locations and figured out the riddles, hopped back on the Metro a little soaked but not discouraged, and puzzled out the bonus riddle during the time it took to ride to the final meeting place, a pub in the Latin Quarter.
Well, we weren’t the first ones there. It had been four hours since we started! But when we arrived, some teams were still figuring out a few of their answers. Not too shabby! Overall, it was challenging, but not too hard, and it forced us to use a variety of skills to crack the riddles and codes. It was so much fun and a fabulously unconventional way to explore the city. We’re definitely looking out for the company’s future free events.
The Little Moments That Bring Smiles to My Workday
While I strive to weave humor into most lessons I teach, sometimes I inadvertently strike comedy gold. My source? The students themselves. Here is my first-ever greatest hits collection, compiled over 3 months of teaching English to the French. I’ll definitely add new installments in the future, as the parade of hits is sure to continue in 2008.
[Disclaimer: I’m aware of the irony that I’m affectionately mocking my language students, when I, too, am currently a language student who has made her French teacher laugh on occasion at my knowingly atrocious errors. At the end of the day, it’s all about being able to laugh at yourself...and, of course, at everyone else.]
When Pronunciation Gets in the Way #1
Me (to determine who in the group will go first in a game): I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 10. Whoever guesses it or a number closest to it will go first.
Student A: Four.
Student B: Sex.
Me (in my head): Bwahahahahaha.
When Proununciation Gets in the Way #2
I’d just reviewed present simple tense with a lower-level student. She was doing quick oral conjugation drills of random verbs I’d task her with.
Me: Talk
Student: I talk, you talk, he talks, she talks…(you get the picture)
Me: Sit
Student: I sit, you sit, he sits, she shits, we shits…
Me, trying not to lose it and chastising myself for reacting like a 12-year-old
Oh, Waiter…
I was working on a Dining Out language unit with a group of lower students (they loved it) and we played a game in which the game board had various restaurant-based communication tasks. One student lands on the ‘Ask your waiter for the bill’ square. Keep in mind this student is a petite and effete French male with fabulous mannerisms.
Student (oh so enthusiastically, but with a hint of ‘tude): Oh, BOY!! The bill, please.
I then had to explain to him (more euphemistically than what follows, of course) that even though the French may call their waiters ‘garcons’ (boys), we DO NOT do this in Anglophone countries – unless we want to get our asses kicked or get serious b*#%h-face.
Cannibalism is SO in This Year
While teaching a group how to formulate basic questions, I had them pretend they were interviewing each other as potential roommates. I supported them with several pre-fab sentence stems, but then they had to come up with original questions.
Student: Who do you cook for dinner?
Me (unable to stop myself from cracking up): So, you eat people, do you?
Man, My Hangover Is, Like, So Heavy
OK, so this wasn’t from a student, but it was from one of Nate’s French co-workers with whom we were coordinating dinner plans over email.
N’s Coworker: Can we meet later than 8:30? We are going to a party the night before, so we might carry a hangover.
Idiom Gone Awry
While teaching a workshop on presentations, I was reviewing language for closing the talk (e.g., So to wrap things up…, In conclusion…, etc.). One student suddenly perked up and got excited.
Student: Ooh, I know another good one!
Me: Great! Let’s add it to our list. What is it?
Student (enthusiastically): ‘To put the nut into the shell.’
Me: Uh, well, in reality the expression is a bit different…
[Not to mention, it’s not a necessarily appropriate expression for concluding a presentation!]
Fatchy Pog
Students always get bubbly when they learn I’m from New York and San Francisco (so much more interesting to talk about than, say, Duluth). They love talking about past visits to these cities or at least reciting everything they know about them. One student got especially excited when he discovered my SF past.
Student: San Francisco! Oh yes! I hear they have a lot of frog.
[No, he wasn’t referring to the city’s sizable French population. He just threw in an “R” where it didn’t belong.]
Which Travel Guides Have You Been Reading?
Speaking of US cities and their attractions…Students and I were discussing taxation in France vs. the US. They were blown away by the 8.25% rate in California – a mere pittance compared to the French 18% sales tax. They inquired if that was a flat rate across the US, so then I explained the system of state/local sales tax.
Student A: Is there places where the tax is high and in other places it is low? [Poor grammar, yes, but they’re on a lower level and grammar ain’t the punchline.]
Me: Yes, certain states and especially certain cities are more expensive places to live, partially because of the sales tax. For example, New York, California, etc.
Student B: Yes, yes, of course. But not…(he thinks for a moment)…not Nashville!
Me (smirking and already starting to wish I could somehow vodcast the scene to Blaire and Whit): No, not Nashville, you’re right.
Student B (giggling a little): Nothing is in Nashville.
Me (also giggling): I’ll have to tell my friends who live there that you said that.
Student B: Nothing in Nashville…(he thinks for a moment)…OH!!! No, there is the home of Elvis!
Me: Uh, Graceland? That’s near Memphis. Same state, different city.
Student B: Oh (dejectedly)…(he thinks for a moment)…OH!!! (brightening) Nashville is home of the blues (proudly)!
Me: Uh, that’s also Memphis.
Student A: Bwahahahahahaha…
Student C: Nashville, it’s for country music!
Student B: OH! Yes! Country! Hank Williams!
[Pfew, he finally got one fact straight.]
Prepositions Have Never Been Sexier
I’d been reviewing phrasal verbs with an intermediate class, with “to turn to” among my list of high-frequency business phrases (e.g. To turn to another point…). One student just could not get that one right and kept coming up with better and better variations.
Variation #1: To turn it on…
Me: That means you want to operate electricity, a machine, a gadget.
Student laughs, slightly embarrassed in front of the group.
Variation #2: To turn on you…
Me: That means you want to betray us.
Student laughs, group laughs even harder and starts teasing the guy about his traitorous intentions.
Variation #3: To turn you on…
Me: Um, that’s something you should never, ever say, especially to an American colleague, because then you’ll probably get sued for sexual harassment (the French love talking about how prudish and litigious we are when it comes to that stuff).
Group: Huh?
Me (really not wanting to get into the sticky areas of the phrases ‘hit on’ and especially not ‘come-on’): Let’s just say it’s better for the bedroom and not the boardroom (inwardly groaning at my terrible one-liner, while the students eat it up).
[Disclaimer: I’m aware of the irony that I’m affectionately mocking my language students, when I, too, am currently a language student who has made her French teacher laugh on occasion at my knowingly atrocious errors. At the end of the day, it’s all about being able to laugh at yourself...and, of course, at everyone else.]
When Pronunciation Gets in the Way #1
Me (to determine who in the group will go first in a game): I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 10. Whoever guesses it or a number closest to it will go first.
Student A: Four.
Student B: Sex.
Me (in my head): Bwahahahahaha.
When Proununciation Gets in the Way #2
I’d just reviewed present simple tense with a lower-level student. She was doing quick oral conjugation drills of random verbs I’d task her with.
Me: Talk
Student: I talk, you talk, he talks, she talks…(you get the picture)
Me: Sit
Student: I sit, you sit, he sits, she shits, we shits…
Me, trying not to lose it and chastising myself for reacting like a 12-year-old
Oh, Waiter…
I was working on a Dining Out language unit with a group of lower students (they loved it) and we played a game in which the game board had various restaurant-based communication tasks. One student lands on the ‘Ask your waiter for the bill’ square. Keep in mind this student is a petite and effete French male with fabulous mannerisms.
Student (oh so enthusiastically, but with a hint of ‘tude): Oh, BOY!! The bill, please.
I then had to explain to him (more euphemistically than what follows, of course) that even though the French may call their waiters ‘garcons’ (boys), we DO NOT do this in Anglophone countries – unless we want to get our asses kicked or get serious b*#%h-face.
Cannibalism is SO in This Year
While teaching a group how to formulate basic questions, I had them pretend they were interviewing each other as potential roommates. I supported them with several pre-fab sentence stems, but then they had to come up with original questions.
Student: Who do you cook for dinner?
Me (unable to stop myself from cracking up): So, you eat people, do you?
Man, My Hangover Is, Like, So Heavy
OK, so this wasn’t from a student, but it was from one of Nate’s French co-workers with whom we were coordinating dinner plans over email.
N’s Coworker: Can we meet later than 8:30? We are going to a party the night before, so we might carry a hangover.
Idiom Gone Awry
While teaching a workshop on presentations, I was reviewing language for closing the talk (e.g., So to wrap things up…, In conclusion…, etc.). One student suddenly perked up and got excited.
Student: Ooh, I know another good one!
Me: Great! Let’s add it to our list. What is it?
Student (enthusiastically): ‘To put the nut into the shell.’
Me: Uh, well, in reality the expression is a bit different…
[Not to mention, it’s not a necessarily appropriate expression for concluding a presentation!]
Fatchy Pog
Students always get bubbly when they learn I’m from New York and San Francisco (so much more interesting to talk about than, say, Duluth). They love talking about past visits to these cities or at least reciting everything they know about them. One student got especially excited when he discovered my SF past.
Student: San Francisco! Oh yes! I hear they have a lot of frog.
[No, he wasn’t referring to the city’s sizable French population. He just threw in an “R” where it didn’t belong.]
Which Travel Guides Have You Been Reading?
Speaking of US cities and their attractions…Students and I were discussing taxation in France vs. the US. They were blown away by the 8.25% rate in California – a mere pittance compared to the French 18% sales tax. They inquired if that was a flat rate across the US, so then I explained the system of state/local sales tax.
Student A: Is there places where the tax is high and in other places it is low? [Poor grammar, yes, but they’re on a lower level and grammar ain’t the punchline.]
Me: Yes, certain states and especially certain cities are more expensive places to live, partially because of the sales tax. For example, New York, California, etc.
Student B: Yes, yes, of course. But not…(he thinks for a moment)…not Nashville!
Me (smirking and already starting to wish I could somehow vodcast the scene to Blaire and Whit): No, not Nashville, you’re right.
Student B (giggling a little): Nothing is in Nashville.
Me (also giggling): I’ll have to tell my friends who live there that you said that.
Student B: Nothing in Nashville…(he thinks for a moment)…OH!!! No, there is the home of Elvis!
Me: Uh, Graceland? That’s near Memphis. Same state, different city.
Student B: Oh (dejectedly)…(he thinks for a moment)…OH!!! (brightening) Nashville is home of the blues (proudly)!
Me: Uh, that’s also Memphis.
Student A: Bwahahahahahaha…
Student C: Nashville, it’s for country music!
Student B: OH! Yes! Country! Hank Williams!
[Pfew, he finally got one fact straight.]
Prepositions Have Never Been Sexier
I’d been reviewing phrasal verbs with an intermediate class, with “to turn to” among my list of high-frequency business phrases (e.g. To turn to another point…). One student just could not get that one right and kept coming up with better and better variations.
Variation #1: To turn it on…
Me: That means you want to operate electricity, a machine, a gadget.
Student laughs, slightly embarrassed in front of the group.
Variation #2: To turn on you…
Me: That means you want to betray us.
Student laughs, group laughs even harder and starts teasing the guy about his traitorous intentions.
Variation #3: To turn you on…
Me: Um, that’s something you should never, ever say, especially to an American colleague, because then you’ll probably get sued for sexual harassment (the French love talking about how prudish and litigious we are when it comes to that stuff).
Group: Huh?
Me (really not wanting to get into the sticky areas of the phrases ‘hit on’ and especially not ‘come-on’): Let’s just say it’s better for the bedroom and not the boardroom (inwardly groaning at my terrible one-liner, while the students eat it up).
22 November 2007
Thanksgiving in Paris
The strike seems to be letting up, slowly but surely (slowly being the key word). Many Metro lines have increased capacity, and not a moment too soon. While today the situation had improved somewhat, that's remarkable in light of my worst ride yet yesterday morning – only 6 stops, but nearly one hour on an extremely overcrowded, stuffy train that stopped at least three times in between stations, with shut-down engine, lights off, and a swell of panic rising like a wave at Mavericks. To top it off, a homeless man got on the packed car at one point to vociferously beg for change (of all the weeks). Some prickly passengers actually started haranguing the guy. The worst part was trying to get off the train, as all of the people waiting on the platforms wouldn’t move out of the way and started pushing their way onto the train before everyone had exited. While courteously semi-stepping off the train for a moment to let other passengers off, I got shoved to the back of the waiting crowd before I could defend my turf and almost didn’t get back on the train. Yes, the population has become increasingly irritable and belligerent over the course of the week. The strikers have gotten more aggressive, too – the news broke yesterday of acts of arson on railways across the country.
Thanksgiving arrived as a strange counterpoint to the coordinated acts of violence and Lord of the Flies-meets-the underground. While the French aren’t feeling so thankful right now, we at least wanted to honor the spirit of the holiday at home. N had taken the day off and my workday ended after an hour and a half (due to more strike-related cancellations by students), so it almost felt like a holiday. We headed out for an afternoon of food shopping in order to gather the requisite ingredients for a “poor man’s Thanksgiving.” We knew our options would be slim. Christmas is a big time for roast turkey in France, so shops aren’t yet stocked. You need to special order a bird in this town. Well, we weren’t quite that ambitious, as it was just going to be the two of us dining, and the prospect of so much leftover turkey wasn’t too appealing. So, on the recommendation of my mother-in-law, we resolved to look for a hearty pre-cooked piece of roast turkey from a local volailler (poultry shop) or butcher. Now, if we’d planned ahead (as early as this morning), we’d have been fine. However, by the time we hit the shops, all the pre-cooked turkey had been sold out to American expats in search of the same comfort as us.
We also needed some other TG staples to make our facsimile complete. We went to the Marais store appropriately named Thanksgiving, which sells all manner of typical American products: Cheerios, marshmallow Fluff, peanut butter, Kraft mac and cheese, pepper flakes (which you oddly cannot find here), and more. Seeing all these little pieces of home made me a bit wistful for being with family and participating in the annual tradition. However, the obscene prices ripped me out of my homesick reverie; for one, the small spice jar of pepper flakes cost 7 euros, which these days converts to over $10! Well, they’re imported, after all. We splurged on Stove Top stuffing and gravy, but balked at the 6 euro package of cranberries. OK, we may have to eat food from a box, but it’s the closest we could come to the real thing.
We picked up fresh veggies and rather than feast on roast chicken (blasphemy), we headed to one of the better supermarkets in hopes of something…anything resembling traditional TG turkey. We found pre-packaged, pre-cooked hunks of roast turkey. They looked potentially gross, but at that point our exhaustion from wandering the Marais for over two hours in search of the holy grail of poultry clouded our decision-making. While waiting on the check-out line, I felt a glimmer of empathy with French people stuck in some part of the US where the only obtainable croissants are of the frozen Pillsbury pop-n-fresh variety.
The stuffing and gravy were surprisingly good (I guess that’s what homesickness can do to one’s palate). N made awesome sautéed potatoes, I rocked honey-ginger glazed carrots, and because I need something green in most meals, we had steamed green beans, too. I’d heard N make some minor sounds of doubt while putting the turkey into the oven to warm, but I was more focused on veggie prep rather than fret. Once he pulled the meat out of the oven, though, it was time to be concerned.
As you can see in the picture, the meat couldn’t be farther from turkey, let alone any poultry. In fact, in terms of color, shape, and consistency, it most resembles Spam. And no offense to those who like it, but I’ve never even contemplated trying it. Just…no. Needless to say, I was so disgusted by this so-called turkey, I couldn’t even think about putting any on my plate. Nate served himself a slice, though, and upon one bite, was pretty sorry he had. At one point, curiosity got the better of me and I had a tiny taste. Um, let’s just say there are things that a human should never have to undergo. In the end we had a vegetarian Thanksgiving, which isn’t so bad after all. Even N had to agree, which for him is saying a lot. We felt very thankful we had the means to even attempt a half-assed version of Thanksgiving – not to mention, we’re not in a tryptophan-induced food coma!
But in all seriousness, although the strikes have been a pain and we’re very far from home, we’re very thankful to have recreated our home in Paris and still be at the beginning of this wonderful adventure together. We send lots of love to our family and friends in the States and hope you’re immensely enjoying your feasts, long weekends, and that most of all you have lots to be thankful for.
Thanksgiving arrived as a strange counterpoint to the coordinated acts of violence and Lord of the Flies-meets-the underground. While the French aren’t feeling so thankful right now, we at least wanted to honor the spirit of the holiday at home. N had taken the day off and my workday ended after an hour and a half (due to more strike-related cancellations by students), so it almost felt like a holiday. We headed out for an afternoon of food shopping in order to gather the requisite ingredients for a “poor man’s Thanksgiving.” We knew our options would be slim. Christmas is a big time for roast turkey in France, so shops aren’t yet stocked. You need to special order a bird in this town. Well, we weren’t quite that ambitious, as it was just going to be the two of us dining, and the prospect of so much leftover turkey wasn’t too appealing. So, on the recommendation of my mother-in-law, we resolved to look for a hearty pre-cooked piece of roast turkey from a local volailler (poultry shop) or butcher. Now, if we’d planned ahead (as early as this morning), we’d have been fine. However, by the time we hit the shops, all the pre-cooked turkey had been sold out to American expats in search of the same comfort as us.
We also needed some other TG staples to make our facsimile complete. We went to the Marais store appropriately named Thanksgiving, which sells all manner of typical American products: Cheerios, marshmallow Fluff, peanut butter, Kraft mac and cheese, pepper flakes (which you oddly cannot find here), and more. Seeing all these little pieces of home made me a bit wistful for being with family and participating in the annual tradition. However, the obscene prices ripped me out of my homesick reverie; for one, the small spice jar of pepper flakes cost 7 euros, which these days converts to over $10! Well, they’re imported, after all. We splurged on Stove Top stuffing and gravy, but balked at the 6 euro package of cranberries. OK, we may have to eat food from a box, but it’s the closest we could come to the real thing.
We picked up fresh veggies and rather than feast on roast chicken (blasphemy), we headed to one of the better supermarkets in hopes of something…anything resembling traditional TG turkey. We found pre-packaged, pre-cooked hunks of roast turkey. They looked potentially gross, but at that point our exhaustion from wandering the Marais for over two hours in search of the holy grail of poultry clouded our decision-making. While waiting on the check-out line, I felt a glimmer of empathy with French people stuck in some part of the US where the only obtainable croissants are of the frozen Pillsbury pop-n-fresh variety.
The stuffing and gravy were surprisingly good (I guess that’s what homesickness can do to one’s palate). N made awesome sautéed potatoes, I rocked honey-ginger glazed carrots, and because I need something green in most meals, we had steamed green beans, too. I’d heard N make some minor sounds of doubt while putting the turkey into the oven to warm, but I was more focused on veggie prep rather than fret. Once he pulled the meat out of the oven, though, it was time to be concerned.
As you can see in the picture, the meat couldn’t be farther from turkey, let alone any poultry. In fact, in terms of color, shape, and consistency, it most resembles Spam. And no offense to those who like it, but I’ve never even contemplated trying it. Just…no. Needless to say, I was so disgusted by this so-called turkey, I couldn’t even think about putting any on my plate. Nate served himself a slice, though, and upon one bite, was pretty sorry he had. At one point, curiosity got the better of me and I had a tiny taste. Um, let’s just say there are things that a human should never have to undergo. In the end we had a vegetarian Thanksgiving, which isn’t so bad after all. Even N had to agree, which for him is saying a lot. We felt very thankful we had the means to even attempt a half-assed version of Thanksgiving – not to mention, we’re not in a tryptophan-induced food coma! But in all seriousness, although the strikes have been a pain and we’re very far from home, we’re very thankful to have recreated our home in Paris and still be at the beginning of this wonderful adventure together. We send lots of love to our family and friends in the States and hope you’re immensely enjoying your feasts, long weekends, and that most of all you have lots to be thankful for.
20 November 2007
Strike Fever: A Post-Script
The other day, my students were very curious about my reaction to the transport strike. They asked about the frequency of such a strike in the US. I told them it happens…well, at least I’ve heard of it happening. I’ve never seen one in my lifetime. While they were tickled by my response, it made me reflect on how lucky I’ve been to not have to endure such a major inconvenience in the States.
And while American union members aren’t usually as trigger-happy as the French, France isn’t the only country cashing in on strike fever. In a striking (heh, couldn’t help it) parallel, Hollywood and Broadway are currently engaged in union battles of their own. (And my sympathy lies with the creatives, if it means no new eppies of Lost or BSG this winter.) While the French are finding it impossibly difficult to get to work, Americans could face an entire winter (and spring) of no new installments of TV shows or performances of musicals. They may have to find better things to do with their time than sit around channel-surfing or spending close to $100 on theater tickets on their holiday trips to the Big Apple. Something tells me this would be more difficult for our entertainment-obsessed culture to bear than one week of lousy transportation services, dense traffic, and pervasive moping (as has been the case here). Maybe Americans will be more active, read more, and spend more time with loved ones…Nah, it’s probably all a conspiracy to get more people into movie theaters to counter increasingly waning box office sales (in favor of DVDs).
And while American union members aren’t usually as trigger-happy as the French, France isn’t the only country cashing in on strike fever. In a striking (heh, couldn’t help it) parallel, Hollywood and Broadway are currently engaged in union battles of their own. (And my sympathy lies with the creatives, if it means no new eppies of Lost or BSG this winter.) While the French are finding it impossibly difficult to get to work, Americans could face an entire winter (and spring) of no new installments of TV shows or performances of musicals. They may have to find better things to do with their time than sit around channel-surfing or spending close to $100 on theater tickets on their holiday trips to the Big Apple. Something tells me this would be more difficult for our entertainment-obsessed culture to bear than one week of lousy transportation services, dense traffic, and pervasive moping (as has been the case here). Maybe Americans will be more active, read more, and spend more time with loved ones…Nah, it’s probably all a conspiracy to get more people into movie theaters to counter increasingly waning box office sales (in favor of DVDs).
18 November 2007
Surviving the Strike
Whenever I learn a new French expression, I try to incorporate it into my speech as much as possible to reinforce my knowledge. It was uncanny that I should learn the phrase “c’est la galere” (it’s a disaster) recently, because the past week gave me ample opportunities to use it in conversation.
The transportation strike has certainly put the city into a collective tizzy. Unlike the last strike, when services stopped entirely for one day, this strike has produced extremely limited transportation services and is set to last a week. Some Metro lines aren’t running at all, some are “quasi nulle,” some are “non assurée,” and some are running in intervals of 30-45 minutes. Only one line is running fairly regularly, at 10-minute intervals. The operational lines therefore not only require long waits, but also force passengers to pack themselves into hazardously crowded trains. Because of these conditions, the trains also stop for a longer time at each station in order to allow enough time for passengers to disembark and get on safely…Well, at least that’s the intention. The words muttered under my breath every time I had to take the Metro? “C’est la galere.”
Why are the transportation agencies striking (again), you might ask? The seed was planted when civil servants announced they would go on strike Tues the 20th. Their beef? Sarkozy’s initiative to increase the time a public employee must work in order to receive full pension benefits – from 37.5 to 40 years. [Granted, that’s a long time, but the same standard was implemented in the private sector not too long ago as well.] The transportation agencies span both public and private management, but in a gesture of solidarity (or in a ruse to simply work less – hey, it’s a national sport here) they decided to go on strike for a FULL WEEK leading up to the 20th. This decision inconveniences millions of people and impacts the economy. But the workers don’t really care, because the unions have enough money to pay all the strikers for at least a full week of missed pay. My contribution when discussing the politics with peers? “C’est la galere.”
So maybe I’m being insensitive, but I just can’t muster all that much sympathy. I’m admittedly particularly miffed because while the strikers are off enjoying a free week with pay, my livelihood has suffered the consequences. You see, I have to travel to various parts of Paris and its outlying ‘burbs throughout the work week and get paid by the hour to boot. Many of my students have cancelled, leaving gaping holes in my schedule (and my paycheck). Plus taking into consideration the two days I missed last week due to my unfortunate malady, I was a bit stressed about recouping teaching hours. While at the office, moaning and groaning over the impact to our business, my colleagues and I all heaved a heavy sigh and intoned, “C’est la galere.”
The work I did do this week was some of the best I’ve done – I had great groups of students, felt so on my game as a teacher, and taught some stimulating content. (In addition to my usual language instruction and business English curriculum, I got to teach a four-hour course on regional foods of America and another four hours of creative writing – SO FABULOUS and that’s a whole other blog post in the making.) But however fun-filled my working hours were, commuting was a journey to hell and back. C’est la galere.
I had two full days booked in the ‘burbs, one on the day before the strike and the consecutive day, when the strike was to commence. I’d have no trouble on Tuesday, but how would I handle Wednesday? My manager (of sorts) happens to live a 10-minute walk from the client, so she offered for me to crash at her place Tuesday night. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being displaced from home, but the pressures of needing work convinced me. My company was classy enough to allow me to expense a cab ride home to Paris Wednesday evening. While it was really the only way I could get home, the traffic was insane, especially once we got into the city and needed to cross the Seine. Amid small talk with the cabbie (entirely in French – I was proud), while sitting in a dense thicket of gridlock, I griped “C’est la galere.” “C’est la France,” he replied with a chortle and a shake of his head.
Thursday wasn’t so bad (relatively speaking). I walked 20 minutes from home to the 1 line (which has been running fairly regularly – the 10-min interval success story), rode it as close as I could to my client, and then walked 20 minutes to that office. What is usually a 15-minute door-to-door trip took an hour, but at least it was doable and the weather was cooperating.
Friday was a total nightmare. I had to get to Boulogne Billancourt, an area just outside the Péripherique of the city, to the southwest. On a normal day the trip would take about 40 minutes by Metro. The line I needed was running, albeit in 20-minute intervals. I gave myself 90 minutes, thinking it would be enough. Two hours later I disembarked from a claustrophobic ride, crammed into an awkward pretzel-like standing position. I was late, which I never feel good about, especially when meeting a new client for the first time. However, I won the students over when I finally sat down at the head of the conference room table, exhaled deeply, and said, “My name is Jessica, and this is only my second strike.” Well, just a little bit of dry humor had the room erupting in sympathetic laughter. Disaster somewhat mitigated.
The ride home that evening was even worse. The line was running in even longer intervals. I wound up waiting an hour just to get on a train because I couldn’t fit on the first one that passed. The train I rode was even more packed than the one I took in the morning and people were getting cranky, aggressive, crazed, and downright nasty. People were shoving and elbowing their way onto the train car before people could even disembark, which resulted in a lot of yelling from the people ensconced on the car. The doors often couldn’t close because so many people were in their path, which made the conductor occasionally join in the collective rage. Some of us were able to handle the situation more civilly than others…one section of my train car was on the verge of mass rioting for my entire ride and all I could think about was the headline: “American Expat Squished to Death by Apeshit Commuters.” C’est la galere, indeed.
Needless to say, the weekend has been more relaxing, but we’ve walked quite a bit! I have a forced holiday on Monday and possibly Tuesday, as classes have been canceled and I’m not even sure I can withstand a repeat of Friday’s commute. The strike is supposed to come to a close Tuesday night. I’m just praying that when the strike ends, it really ends…unlike last month, when transportation services were disrupted for days afterward. It is a huge disaster, but at least it’s no 1995. That was the year the transportation agencies went on strike for a whole month. A whole month! C’est la France.
The transportation strike has certainly put the city into a collective tizzy. Unlike the last strike, when services stopped entirely for one day, this strike has produced extremely limited transportation services and is set to last a week. Some Metro lines aren’t running at all, some are “quasi nulle,” some are “non assurée,” and some are running in intervals of 30-45 minutes. Only one line is running fairly regularly, at 10-minute intervals. The operational lines therefore not only require long waits, but also force passengers to pack themselves into hazardously crowded trains. Because of these conditions, the trains also stop for a longer time at each station in order to allow enough time for passengers to disembark and get on safely…Well, at least that’s the intention. The words muttered under my breath every time I had to take the Metro? “C’est la galere.”
Why are the transportation agencies striking (again), you might ask? The seed was planted when civil servants announced they would go on strike Tues the 20th. Their beef? Sarkozy’s initiative to increase the time a public employee must work in order to receive full pension benefits – from 37.5 to 40 years. [Granted, that’s a long time, but the same standard was implemented in the private sector not too long ago as well.] The transportation agencies span both public and private management, but in a gesture of solidarity (or in a ruse to simply work less – hey, it’s a national sport here) they decided to go on strike for a FULL WEEK leading up to the 20th. This decision inconveniences millions of people and impacts the economy. But the workers don’t really care, because the unions have enough money to pay all the strikers for at least a full week of missed pay. My contribution when discussing the politics with peers? “C’est la galere.”
So maybe I’m being insensitive, but I just can’t muster all that much sympathy. I’m admittedly particularly miffed because while the strikers are off enjoying a free week with pay, my livelihood has suffered the consequences. You see, I have to travel to various parts of Paris and its outlying ‘burbs throughout the work week and get paid by the hour to boot. Many of my students have cancelled, leaving gaping holes in my schedule (and my paycheck). Plus taking into consideration the two days I missed last week due to my unfortunate malady, I was a bit stressed about recouping teaching hours. While at the office, moaning and groaning over the impact to our business, my colleagues and I all heaved a heavy sigh and intoned, “C’est la galere.”
The work I did do this week was some of the best I’ve done – I had great groups of students, felt so on my game as a teacher, and taught some stimulating content. (In addition to my usual language instruction and business English curriculum, I got to teach a four-hour course on regional foods of America and another four hours of creative writing – SO FABULOUS and that’s a whole other blog post in the making.) But however fun-filled my working hours were, commuting was a journey to hell and back. C’est la galere.
I had two full days booked in the ‘burbs, one on the day before the strike and the consecutive day, when the strike was to commence. I’d have no trouble on Tuesday, but how would I handle Wednesday? My manager (of sorts) happens to live a 10-minute walk from the client, so she offered for me to crash at her place Tuesday night. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being displaced from home, but the pressures of needing work convinced me. My company was classy enough to allow me to expense a cab ride home to Paris Wednesday evening. While it was really the only way I could get home, the traffic was insane, especially once we got into the city and needed to cross the Seine. Amid small talk with the cabbie (entirely in French – I was proud), while sitting in a dense thicket of gridlock, I griped “C’est la galere.” “C’est la France,” he replied with a chortle and a shake of his head.
Thursday wasn’t so bad (relatively speaking). I walked 20 minutes from home to the 1 line (which has been running fairly regularly – the 10-min interval success story), rode it as close as I could to my client, and then walked 20 minutes to that office. What is usually a 15-minute door-to-door trip took an hour, but at least it was doable and the weather was cooperating.
Friday was a total nightmare. I had to get to Boulogne Billancourt, an area just outside the Péripherique of the city, to the southwest. On a normal day the trip would take about 40 minutes by Metro. The line I needed was running, albeit in 20-minute intervals. I gave myself 90 minutes, thinking it would be enough. Two hours later I disembarked from a claustrophobic ride, crammed into an awkward pretzel-like standing position. I was late, which I never feel good about, especially when meeting a new client for the first time. However, I won the students over when I finally sat down at the head of the conference room table, exhaled deeply, and said, “My name is Jessica, and this is only my second strike.” Well, just a little bit of dry humor had the room erupting in sympathetic laughter. Disaster somewhat mitigated.
The ride home that evening was even worse. The line was running in even longer intervals. I wound up waiting an hour just to get on a train because I couldn’t fit on the first one that passed. The train I rode was even more packed than the one I took in the morning and people were getting cranky, aggressive, crazed, and downright nasty. People were shoving and elbowing their way onto the train car before people could even disembark, which resulted in a lot of yelling from the people ensconced on the car. The doors often couldn’t close because so many people were in their path, which made the conductor occasionally join in the collective rage. Some of us were able to handle the situation more civilly than others…one section of my train car was on the verge of mass rioting for my entire ride and all I could think about was the headline: “American Expat Squished to Death by Apeshit Commuters.” C’est la galere, indeed.
Needless to say, the weekend has been more relaxing, but we’ve walked quite a bit! I have a forced holiday on Monday and possibly Tuesday, as classes have been canceled and I’m not even sure I can withstand a repeat of Friday’s commute. The strike is supposed to come to a close Tuesday night. I’m just praying that when the strike ends, it really ends…unlike last month, when transportation services were disrupted for days afterward. It is a huge disaster, but at least it’s no 1995. That was the year the transportation agencies went on strike for a whole month. A whole month! C’est la France.
11 November 2007
And They Say French Food Is the Best...
Some stories have happy endings. This one, au contraire, has a happy beginning. It all started a couple weeks ago when one of Nate’s coworkers from the States contacted him with an interesting proposition. An industry contact from L.A. with whom he does a great deal of business was going to be in Paris and wanted to take someone from the company out on the town to express his gratitude for the thriving business relationship. Would Nate and his lovely wife be interested in meeting the guy for a swanky dinner? Uh, let’s see…gotta untwist our arms before we can answer. Over a series of email exchanges, N ascertained that the guy seemed very friendly. He charged us with selecting a restaurant and instructed us to “go big.” So we chose the legendary Brasserie Bofinger, a Parisian dining institution since 1854 known for its decadent seafood.
We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).
Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.
Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.
When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.
The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?
Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”
After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.
There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.
And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?
We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).
Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.
Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.
When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.
The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?
Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”
After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.
There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.
And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?
05 November 2007
Hôtels and Hawkers, or How I Spent the Holiday Weekend in Paris
November 1 is a French national holiday. As it fell on a Thursday this year, most people took the 2nd off of work as a “bridge day” (day between a holiday and the weekend). Ok, so Halloween may have come and gone with a whimper, not a bang, but a subsequent four-day weekend was the least the French could do to make up for it. We had a lovely time exploring different parts of the city during a period of relative calm, when many Parisians fled the city for the pleasures of la campagne (the country).
We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.
We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.
On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.
We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)
Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).
Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.
We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.
We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.
We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).
Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.
01 November 2007
Hallow-won't
Halloween has always loomed large in my life. It’s my birthday and I love dressing up and wearing costumes, so each year I’ve looked forward to the double whammy. As a little girl, I relished amassing a pirate’s haul of candy. As a teenager, my high school posse would coordinate group costumes; my junior year, we dressed up as the characters from Alice in Wonderland and I made a fabulous Queen of Hearts costume that I wore not only to school, but also to the legendary Greenwich Village Masquerade Parade. The latter prepared me for the grand-scale revelry in San Francisco, where Halloween is practically a city holiday. Interestingly, in all the years I lived in SF, I never ventured to the raging Halloween festivities in the Castro. That’s largely because for most of my years there, I lived in Cole Valley, a neighborhood that closes streets to traffic and has a kiddie wonderland of trick-or-treating. Children from all over the city come and we would host a candy give-away / costume party / birthday celebration at our home. I’ve always put effort into home-made costumes, including a black widow spider (brandishing furry spider legs), Medusa (replete with a snake headdress), the Swiss Miss (gotta love dirndls), and my all-time fave, Carmela Soprano (which allowed me to get into character and show off the NY/NJ accent that I can slip into on cue). Yes, it’s always been a cherished tradition.
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
25 October 2007
The Road to Domestic Bliss Is Paved With Dealing (and Some Dessert)
I’d be remiss not to share some of our weekend adventures with Nicole and Mark, our second guests in the new place. As Candice was truly here at the beginning, she had only seen the apartment’s true form begin to take shape. In the weeks between her departure and N’s parents’ arrival, we’d set up the majority of our space, but still had a laundry list of finishing touches to apply. N+M were more than happy to help with the final phases of home improvement, as they’re practically pros – they redecorate, rearrange, and embellish their space more frequently than one changes a Brita filter. And as many of you know, their taste is unconventional and totally killer.
N+M had generously offered to have curtains and pillowcases made for us in Indonesia, as fabric and labor costs are “la rupee de sonsonnet” (a lovely idiom which roughly translates to a drop in the bucket) compared to retail prices in France. The silk pillowcases slid onto our couch pillows perfectly and are now awaiting their new home on our recently purchased sofa, which won’t arrive until January. The curtains, as beautiful as they are to behold, were not as much of a cinch to set up. The velvet fabric was too heavy for the curtain rod holders we’d already taken great pains to screw into the walls. After a failed attempt at hanging them – which nearly resulted in ripping all the hanging apparatuses out of the walls – Nate, Nic, and Mark spent the better part of Friday marching back and forth between our place and the nearest hardware store in order to implement the sturdiest solution. I arrived home (after my traumatic Metro experience) to discover that they’d just finally succeeded. Phase one of home improvement was complete.
Creaky floorboards and an irritable downstairs neighbor spurred the next phase on. The first night of N+M’s visit was spent quietly schmoozing, dining, and otherwise chillin’. As we got up to begin bedtime prep, we were surprised to hear a knock on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, with semi-crazed desperation in her eyes. “Have you been moving furniture?” I was flabbergasted. We’d already realized that the floorboards were old and noisy, but we’d barely moved an inch for the past couple hours. After calming her down, we resolved to get some wall-to-wall carpet for our living room, the most used room in the apartment. We planned to go to a nearby store, where we could find carpeting in bulk, on Saturday morning. Cut to me, Nate, and Mark hoisting a 15’ roll of carpeting on our shoulders for the 10-minute walk home through narrow streets and raucous crosswalks.
If only that were the hardest part of Operation Carpet. Nate and I braced ourselves for the subsequent task – taking apart all of our carefully constructed work in the living room. Bookshelves were emptied, electronics were unplugged (and obviously there were more than a few cables what with N’s monstrous computer center), and nearly all the furniture was removed from the room so the carpet could be unrolled, cut, and installed. Nate and Mark expertly took care of business, and now we can proudly say that it really ties the room together.
While the gentlemen worked on Operation Carpet, the ladies concentrated on decoration. We spent quite a while finding the perfect spots for our masks, puppets, artwork, and other bric-a-brac. Nic’s stylish eye and my laser-sharp focus were whipped up into a frenzy that eventually consumed Mark (we had lost Nate to a nearly catastrophic reassembly of his computer scene, as one of his machines wouldn’t power up again for hours). After lots of tweaks, we had produced a chic and definitively bobo ambience throughout the apartment. 
Home improvement was more or less complete! Exhausted, we four sat down for dinner at 11pm and while extremely satisfied with all our hard work, we vowed to relax and enjoy Paris on Sunday.
And so, on a brisk yet gorgeous afternoon, we braved the Metro (almost fully back to normal) and headed to St-Germain, the heart of the Left Bank and an area that I’ve barely explored since our arrival in August. Mark’s lovely sister, Pat, and brother-in-law, Howard, were visiting Paris, so we met for brunch at one of Paris’s most elegant and legendary tearooms, Ladurée. It’s a Paris institution, and while the restaurant is nothing to shake a stick at, Ladurée is more widely known for its pastries and chocolates.
These confections are so preciously packaged and branded that we felt we’d wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory by way of Tiffany’s. We were seated in an airy room with murals of 18th-century garden scenes and feasted on some heavenly delights. My salad was comprised of ingredients so fresh they were virtually straight out of the veggie patch…soooooooo good, but merely foreplay for the food-gasmic desserts that followed. As Ladurée prides itself on its macarons, I had to try the mini-macaron sampler plate. These are NOT your bubbe’s kosher-for-Passover variety of macaroons. On the contrary, they are little sandwiches of sweet, airy coconut-infused pastry with a cream center. They come in an array of dazzling flavors and colors; I had chocolate with fruits rouge, rose petal, cassis-and-violet, and crème de caramel. I don’t even remember what everyone else ordered for dessert, so good were these dainty little treats.
We recovered from our decadent brunch wandering through the streets and hidden courtyards of St-Germain, soaking up the autumn sun and live jazz wafting through the streets.
N+M had generously offered to have curtains and pillowcases made for us in Indonesia, as fabric and labor costs are “la rupee de sonsonnet” (a lovely idiom which roughly translates to a drop in the bucket) compared to retail prices in France. The silk pillowcases slid onto our couch pillows perfectly and are now awaiting their new home on our recently purchased sofa, which won’t arrive until January. The curtains, as beautiful as they are to behold, were not as much of a cinch to set up. The velvet fabric was too heavy for the curtain rod holders we’d already taken great pains to screw into the walls. After a failed attempt at hanging them – which nearly resulted in ripping all the hanging apparatuses out of the walls – Nate, Nic, and Mark spent the better part of Friday marching back and forth between our place and the nearest hardware store in order to implement the sturdiest solution. I arrived home (after my traumatic Metro experience) to discover that they’d just finally succeeded. Phase one of home improvement was complete.
Creaky floorboards and an irritable downstairs neighbor spurred the next phase on. The first night of N+M’s visit was spent quietly schmoozing, dining, and otherwise chillin’. As we got up to begin bedtime prep, we were surprised to hear a knock on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, with semi-crazed desperation in her eyes. “Have you been moving furniture?” I was flabbergasted. We’d already realized that the floorboards were old and noisy, but we’d barely moved an inch for the past couple hours. After calming her down, we resolved to get some wall-to-wall carpet for our living room, the most used room in the apartment. We planned to go to a nearby store, where we could find carpeting in bulk, on Saturday morning. Cut to me, Nate, and Mark hoisting a 15’ roll of carpeting on our shoulders for the 10-minute walk home through narrow streets and raucous crosswalks. 
If only that were the hardest part of Operation Carpet. Nate and I braced ourselves for the subsequent task – taking apart all of our carefully constructed work in the living room. Bookshelves were emptied, electronics were unplugged (and obviously there were more than a few cables what with N’s monstrous computer center), and nearly all the furniture was removed from the room so the carpet could be unrolled, cut, and installed. Nate and Mark expertly took care of business, and now we can proudly say that it really ties the room together.
While the gentlemen worked on Operation Carpet, the ladies concentrated on decoration. We spent quite a while finding the perfect spots for our masks, puppets, artwork, and other bric-a-brac. Nic’s stylish eye and my laser-sharp focus were whipped up into a frenzy that eventually consumed Mark (we had lost Nate to a nearly catastrophic reassembly of his computer scene, as one of his machines wouldn’t power up again for hours). After lots of tweaks, we had produced a chic and definitively bobo ambience throughout the apartment. 
Home improvement was more or less complete! Exhausted, we four sat down for dinner at 11pm and while extremely satisfied with all our hard work, we vowed to relax and enjoy Paris on Sunday. And so, on a brisk yet gorgeous afternoon, we braved the Metro (almost fully back to normal) and headed to St-Germain, the heart of the Left Bank and an area that I’ve barely explored since our arrival in August. Mark’s lovely sister, Pat, and brother-in-law, Howard, were visiting Paris, so we met for brunch at one of Paris’s most elegant and legendary tearooms, Ladurée. It’s a Paris institution, and while the restaurant is nothing to shake a stick at, Ladurée is more widely known for its pastries and chocolates.
These confections are so preciously packaged and branded that we felt we’d wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory by way of Tiffany’s. We were seated in an airy room with murals of 18th-century garden scenes and feasted on some heavenly delights. My salad was comprised of ingredients so fresh they were virtually straight out of the veggie patch…soooooooo good, but merely foreplay for the food-gasmic desserts that followed. As Ladurée prides itself on its macarons, I had to try the mini-macaron sampler plate. These are NOT your bubbe’s kosher-for-Passover variety of macaroons. On the contrary, they are little sandwiches of sweet, airy coconut-infused pastry with a cream center. They come in an array of dazzling flavors and colors; I had chocolate with fruits rouge, rose petal, cassis-and-violet, and crème de caramel. I don’t even remember what everyone else ordered for dessert, so good were these dainty little treats.
We recovered from our decadent brunch wandering through the streets and hidden courtyards of St-Germain, soaking up the autumn sun and live jazz wafting through the streets.
23 October 2007
La Grève Strikes Back
The official day of the transportation strike was sunny and carefree, and not much of an obstacle. The population expected the disruption of transportation services and could thus plan accordingly. However, the following day was overcast and dismal – in more ways than one. Services were expected to resume and so things would be back to normal…or so I, in true expat naïveté, thought.
I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.
14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?
Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.
Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.
An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.
It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.
Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.
I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.
It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?
The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.
I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.
14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?
Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.
Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.
An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.
It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.
Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.
I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.
It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?
The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.
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