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.

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).

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.

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?

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.

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…