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).
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