For the past few months, I’ve been giving private, weekly English lessons to a family of three young children, ages eight, six, and four. The experience has been nothing short of adorable, as well as humorous in a very different way than is teaching adults.
First, there are the looks. Children have no emotional filter, and they wear their hearts on more than just their sleeves. The lessons always start out with expressions of joy and enthusiasm, but that all stops short when they can’t remember a particular word or expression. The kids get this look that’s packed with so many feelings: fear, shame, stress, and a twinge of constipation. I always wonder if this is a product of internal pressure, or of the way French schoolteachers handle “failure.” It’s cute, though, and I always have to stifle a small giggle before telling them in my most reassuring voice, “Ne vous inquietez pas! On va reviser.” (Don’t worry! We’ll review.)
Au contraire, they have the funniest range of looks when they successfully remember the vocabulary: the eight-year-old boy shows off his biceps all Popeye-like, the six-year-old girl flashes a smug little grin, and the four-year-old boy bounces in his seat while waving a fist in the air.
Second, there’s the way they speak English. Hearing a thick French accent from the mouths of babes is just heart-melting. Every time I arrive, they belt out, “Eh-llo Jess-EE-kah! Ow ah yooo?” And when I respond and ask them in kind, I get a resounding chorus of, “Varrreeee gude!” So darn cute.
I teach them orally, as two thirds of them can’t really read in French yet, and the only visual aids are pictures, not words. Therefore their pronunciation is based solely on what they hear—or what they think they hear. We do lots of repetition to avoid situations like these:
Me: Pur-ple
Them: Po-po!!!
Me: Wa-ter-me-lon
Them: Wah-dah-meh-now!!!
Me: Hi-ppo-pa-ta-mus
Them: Ee-po-pah-dah-sance
It’s great when they have a eureka moment and make connections with other words they’ve heard before:
Me: Yellow
Little girl: Ah, ouai, yellow! C’est comme eh-llo [hello]!
Me: Turtle
Little boy: Toh-toh, comme po-po!
Which invariably results in the others confusing the sounds of purple and turtle, but that’s not too strange of a mix-up.
The funniest is when they forget a word, they make that anxious face described above, and then guess—which usually entails making up a word derived from French, with a little twist. For example: bread becomes ‘pehn’ (based on the French pain, milk becomes ‘laid’ (based on the French lait, and rabbit becomes ‘lapahno’ (based on the French lapin).
Third, there are the games we play. I have lots of little pictures of the vocab we’ve learned, which are often parlayed into a game of “Meh-moh-rrrreeeee.” They love it, although it can get frustrating because the oldest kid (who is the fastest learner) tends to dominate and answer before his siblings get a chance. I think I’ve given him the “you have to play fair” speech 50 times—but as it’s in my broken French (more on that later), perhaps my admonishment loses some of its teeth. When we learned animal vocab, I took a risk with a boisterous game of “name that animal,” featuring the best of barnyard sounds (i.e., I name an animal in English and you make the sound, or vice versa). I discovered that animal sounds cross language barriers. Sheep, dogs, cats, cows, horses, you name it—their noises are identical in French. Except for roosters, which go, “Co-co-ri-co!” I think I much prefer the French version to 'cock-a-doodle-do,' which is kind of stupid and little bit dirty, depending on how you look at it.
Their absolute favorite thing, ever, is “See-mone Sez.” Oh, how they love this game. I used it a while back to review the vocab of the body—you know, “Simon says touch your nose/back/shoulders/etc.”—and ever since, they ask me first thing if we can play Simon Says immediately. I’ve found that it’s a very effective carrot to keep them focused until the end of the lesson. We play it during the last five minutes every week, and they get super competitive, counting their points in English (sweet) and squabbling over who touched their ears or eyes first. The truly hilarious part is that even though we play it every.single.time, they tend to come down with vocab amnesia. I’ll say, “Simon says…touch…your…feet!” And then it’s a fast-paced process of trial-and-error. “Les bras?” “Les genous?” “La visage?” And so on. Sometimes they forget a word we did several turns previous. But it’s fun and educational and how could I deny them these five minutes of English bliss?
Lastly, there are the opportunities to laugh at myself. Somehow, almost every week, I wind up suffering the humiliation of getting my French corrected by an eight-year-old. My French can be on fire one day, and then just crumble on other days, particularly when I work with these kids. I don’t know what it is—perhaps it’s because I come to their house after a full work day and a hot-as-f*#& ride on the RER and I’m just spent, or perhaps I’m mimicking my surroundings (their English is in its earliest, earliest stages). I make little mistakes, really, but whenever I do, the eight-year-old will get all haughty and say in his best approximation of an adult voice, “Mais, non, Jess-eee-kah, c’est ‘très pres,’ pas ‘très presque.’” I'll smack my head in mock self-deprecation and say, “Bein, ouai, bien sûr—vous savez que mon français n’est pas pafait.” Then the little girl will clasp my hand in hers and says in a very serious voice, “C’est pas grave. C’est normal quand on apprend une nouvelle langue. Surtout, vous êtes prof d’anglais.” (It’s not so serious [that you made a mistake]. It’s normal when we learn a new language. Above all, you’re an English teacher.) Aawwwwwww! Children may not be able to hide their emotions, but their capacity to be sensitive is impressive.
28 June 2008
26 June 2008
Serenity, No
I had two experiences this week that were supposed to bring a bit more tranquility to my fast-paced, jet-setting, ultra-urban life (ha ha), but left me feeling a bit deflated and more than a bit cheated.
France may be more expensive these days due to the low value of the dollar against the euro, but some things are just plain cher. Sodas at restaurants shockingly cost over 4 euros. Apparently McDonald’s is in a higher price bracket than in the States, even without the conversion rate. The price of gas is clearly a global crisis, but to put things into perspective, in France it costs roughly double the price in America (when taking the conversion rate into account). And as if those things weren’t enough, we can now add mani-pedi’s to the list of Egregiously Expensive Things.
I’ve been wanting to get a pedicure for months, but I’ve been told by many a femme how pricey they are here – over 30 euros. That’s crazy. I’ve never paid more than $15 for a pedicure, even at a relatively nice nail salon. The other day when I was walking around the Opera district, from one client’s office to another’s, I was utterly delighted to come across a nail salon that boasted a 15 euro beauté de pieds on the price list hanging in the shop window. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to have found the one good deal in town! What suckers all those other ladies must be, paying over 30 euros for a pedi. Ha! I poked my head into the place and quickly asked if the listed price of 15 was indeed for a pedicure. Getting an affirmative response, I dashed out to make it to my client on time and resolved to return later that afternoon.
I did just that, got a lovely pedicure, and was super relaxed from this rare moment of pampering. But then it was time to pay. “Quinze euro, c’est ça?” I asked at the register. “Ah, non, madame, ça fait quarante six.” Cue the Bernard Herrmann screeching violins. My jaw dropped. “Comment?” I said, to clarify that I had indeed heard her say 46 and I wasn’t imagining it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a hallucination. She then went on to explain that because I don’t have a membership at the nail salon, the cost of a pedicure for us peons is actually 36 euros. Plus, getting your toes painted with polish costs another 10 euros. OH.MY.GOD. I have entered the fifth dimension. And apparently the laugh’s on me--who’s the sucker now?
But wait--I received some fishy information. I had, after all, been told that the price was 15. Although I rushed out right after getting this information, the employee, at the time, had pulled the oldest page in the book of French illogical behavior: don’t give any more information than what someone has asked for. As I didn’t think of the remote (and, quite frankly, ridiculous) possibility that there was member and non-member pricing, I didn’t ask about it, and therefore, she didn’t consider telling me. (Believe me, this is typical and part of it is because the French don’t want to insult your intelligence by giving you information you may already know; the other part of it is, as I’ve indicated in the past, many of them just can’t be bothered to “draw outside the lines.” But I digress.) If I had known the true cost, I would've never come back and spent nearly two hours of my life gearing up for the priciest pedi imaginable.
In situations like these, when you have been clearly misled or swindled, it’s time to put on your game face and aggressively pursue some consumer justice. Many expat friends who’ve lived here much longer than I have advised that if such situations arise, and if you don’t have the French vocabulary to voice your grievance, just start going off in English. Loudly. With a vengeance. That’s what I should’ve done, but a) I was so shocked at the reality unfolding before me, b) I was exhausted from a super long day of teaching and couldn’t muster the energy to go ballistic, and c) inconveniently forgot the English tirade advice and instead used my meager French. Big mistake. Without the requisite amount of righteous anger and accurate language, I was no match for the manicure mafia—all seven employees got super defensive and claimed that blah blah blah blah blah. There was some back and forth, and in the end all I got was a discount for a future pedi. Big friggin’ whoop. I stormed out of the place, livid at them for their chicanery and absurd price points and at myself for not putting up more of a fight (how do you say 'pushover' in French?). If there’s a next time, WATCH OUT. At least my toes look fabulous.
The next day, I decided to finally check out the yoga class offered at my gym. In truth, I had low expectations to begin with. I assumed there would be no chanting in Hindi, no meditation, no “Namaste”-ing. Fine. I assumed the type of crowd to attend a yoga class at a gym would be nowhere near the level of hardcore practitioners I was familiar with in my past yoga days. Fine. So it wouldn’t be the warm, fuzzy, SF-style yoga group hug I was used to, but then again I hadn’t done yoga regularly for years and I was happy just to run through the poses and get back into it.
I was right about the lack of spirituality. The teacher went straight into breathing and sun salutations. Not a whisper of Hindi was spoken. He didn’t guide us through the final relaxation exercise; we just kind of lay there. Throughout the hour, you could hear the soft thumping of the cheesey techno music coming from the main exercise room adjacent to the studio (good luck trying to completely relax yourself!). I found that I missed all the regular spiritual trappings of a yoga class, but, fine, whatever, I could do without it this time. Just happy to be doing yoga at all. However, as I was really rusty, I really would’ve appreciated some support from the teacher. He did nothing but talk us through the poses and model them somewhat. He walked around the room but not once did he ever adjust anyone’s warrior pose or assist people to get into a shoulder stand. I’d made lots of assumptions about what this class would be missing, but the one thing I had thought for sure was that the teacher would do what I consider to be the bare minimum of teaching—that is, to help the students! Guess not. I didn’t feel as bilked as I had at the nail place, but I felt cheated in a different way. Even though it had some positive physical results, it was the most soulless, uneducational yoga class ever. At least I was semi-prepared for the possibility.
The real punch line came at the very end of the class, after we’d climbed out of our pseudo-meditative corpse poses and started gathering our things. The teacher turned to one of the students (probably a regular) and in his best kvetchy tone, started whining about how annoyed he was with his job and how much he had to work (OK, ‘soulless’ really is the mantra at this yoga class). And his anti-work comment was an amusing reminder that not only am I at a yoga class at a gym, but I’m at a yoga class at a gym in France.
France may be more expensive these days due to the low value of the dollar against the euro, but some things are just plain cher. Sodas at restaurants shockingly cost over 4 euros. Apparently McDonald’s is in a higher price bracket than in the States, even without the conversion rate. The price of gas is clearly a global crisis, but to put things into perspective, in France it costs roughly double the price in America (when taking the conversion rate into account). And as if those things weren’t enough, we can now add mani-pedi’s to the list of Egregiously Expensive Things.
I’ve been wanting to get a pedicure for months, but I’ve been told by many a femme how pricey they are here – over 30 euros. That’s crazy. I’ve never paid more than $15 for a pedicure, even at a relatively nice nail salon. The other day when I was walking around the Opera district, from one client’s office to another’s, I was utterly delighted to come across a nail salon that boasted a 15 euro beauté de pieds on the price list hanging in the shop window. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to have found the one good deal in town! What suckers all those other ladies must be, paying over 30 euros for a pedi. Ha! I poked my head into the place and quickly asked if the listed price of 15 was indeed for a pedicure. Getting an affirmative response, I dashed out to make it to my client on time and resolved to return later that afternoon.
I did just that, got a lovely pedicure, and was super relaxed from this rare moment of pampering. But then it was time to pay. “Quinze euro, c’est ça?” I asked at the register. “Ah, non, madame, ça fait quarante six.” Cue the Bernard Herrmann screeching violins. My jaw dropped. “Comment?” I said, to clarify that I had indeed heard her say 46 and I wasn’t imagining it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a hallucination. She then went on to explain that because I don’t have a membership at the nail salon, the cost of a pedicure for us peons is actually 36 euros. Plus, getting your toes painted with polish costs another 10 euros. OH.MY.GOD. I have entered the fifth dimension. And apparently the laugh’s on me--who’s the sucker now?
But wait--I received some fishy information. I had, after all, been told that the price was 15. Although I rushed out right after getting this information, the employee, at the time, had pulled the oldest page in the book of French illogical behavior: don’t give any more information than what someone has asked for. As I didn’t think of the remote (and, quite frankly, ridiculous) possibility that there was member and non-member pricing, I didn’t ask about it, and therefore, she didn’t consider telling me. (Believe me, this is typical and part of it is because the French don’t want to insult your intelligence by giving you information you may already know; the other part of it is, as I’ve indicated in the past, many of them just can’t be bothered to “draw outside the lines.” But I digress.) If I had known the true cost, I would've never come back and spent nearly two hours of my life gearing up for the priciest pedi imaginable.
In situations like these, when you have been clearly misled or swindled, it’s time to put on your game face and aggressively pursue some consumer justice. Many expat friends who’ve lived here much longer than I have advised that if such situations arise, and if you don’t have the French vocabulary to voice your grievance, just start going off in English. Loudly. With a vengeance. That’s what I should’ve done, but a) I was so shocked at the reality unfolding before me, b) I was exhausted from a super long day of teaching and couldn’t muster the energy to go ballistic, and c) inconveniently forgot the English tirade advice and instead used my meager French. Big mistake. Without the requisite amount of righteous anger and accurate language, I was no match for the manicure mafia—all seven employees got super defensive and claimed that blah blah blah blah blah. There was some back and forth, and in the end all I got was a discount for a future pedi. Big friggin’ whoop. I stormed out of the place, livid at them for their chicanery and absurd price points and at myself for not putting up more of a fight (how do you say 'pushover' in French?). If there’s a next time, WATCH OUT. At least my toes look fabulous.
The next day, I decided to finally check out the yoga class offered at my gym. In truth, I had low expectations to begin with. I assumed there would be no chanting in Hindi, no meditation, no “Namaste”-ing. Fine. I assumed the type of crowd to attend a yoga class at a gym would be nowhere near the level of hardcore practitioners I was familiar with in my past yoga days. Fine. So it wouldn’t be the warm, fuzzy, SF-style yoga group hug I was used to, but then again I hadn’t done yoga regularly for years and I was happy just to run through the poses and get back into it.
I was right about the lack of spirituality. The teacher went straight into breathing and sun salutations. Not a whisper of Hindi was spoken. He didn’t guide us through the final relaxation exercise; we just kind of lay there. Throughout the hour, you could hear the soft thumping of the cheesey techno music coming from the main exercise room adjacent to the studio (good luck trying to completely relax yourself!). I found that I missed all the regular spiritual trappings of a yoga class, but, fine, whatever, I could do without it this time. Just happy to be doing yoga at all. However, as I was really rusty, I really would’ve appreciated some support from the teacher. He did nothing but talk us through the poses and model them somewhat. He walked around the room but not once did he ever adjust anyone’s warrior pose or assist people to get into a shoulder stand. I’d made lots of assumptions about what this class would be missing, but the one thing I had thought for sure was that the teacher would do what I consider to be the bare minimum of teaching—that is, to help the students! Guess not. I didn’t feel as bilked as I had at the nail place, but I felt cheated in a different way. Even though it had some positive physical results, it was the most soulless, uneducational yoga class ever. At least I was semi-prepared for the possibility.
The real punch line came at the very end of the class, after we’d climbed out of our pseudo-meditative corpse poses and started gathering our things. The teacher turned to one of the students (probably a regular) and in his best kvetchy tone, started whining about how annoyed he was with his job and how much he had to work (OK, ‘soulless’ really is the mantra at this yoga class). And his anti-work comment was an amusing reminder that not only am I at a yoga class at a gym, but I’m at a yoga class at a gym in France.
24 June 2008
Say What?
Months ago, while discussing Spanish culture with a student, I happened upon a strange phenomenon. I had said something about the siesta, only to see the perplexity spread across my student’s face. “You know, the siesta,” I stated, hoping some repetition would help her see the light. No reaction. “The siesta,” I continued, “The pause they take in the middle of the day, when the shops all close.” A slight glimmer of recognition ensued, but still no dice. Seeing no other alternative, I resorted to French: “La sieste, tu vois?” “Ahhhhhhhhhhh! La sieste!” she replied. Then it was my turn to be perplexed. How could she not make this auditory, or cognitive, leap? To the naked eye, the words differ by just one vowel. And indeed they’re pronounced almost exactly the same. But to her French-attuned ears, the addition of one little syllable rendered the word unrecognizable.
After this incident, I started noticing the phenomenon more and more often. While introducing myself to a new student, I explained that I had worked in marketing for five years before becoming a teacher. Again, a forehead scrunched and mouth agape. “Je travaillais en mar-ket-EENG,” I said, pronouncing the English word the way the French have co-opted it, with the longer-vowel sound and emphasis on the final syllable (a feature of French intonation). “Ahhhhhhhhhhh, mar-ket-EENG!” Vòila. While American friends were in town, they tried to order a broccoli and chevre quiche at a bakery, but were hung up on one pesky word. “Broh-coh-lee,” they repeated over and over, having no luck with the shopkeeper. “Broh-coh-lee, broh-coh-lee, broh-coh-lee,” finally pointing at the troublesome quiche. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh, brrrrrrrrrrchhh-oh-coh-LEEEEE!” Pfew, got it.
Every time this happens, once the French person in question has managed to figure out what the word actually is, he has this “well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” tone of voice that simultaneously bugs me but also kind of cracks me up. Actually, it used to bug me a lot more—I used to think it was a sign of mental slowness. But I’ve come to realize that it’s not that at all, but rather it’s that the French language has a far lower tolerance for mispronunciation than English does. It’s ironic that in French, there’s an identical vowel sound with six different spellings, yet one tiny flub of another vowel or consonant sound can change the word entirely and thus throw off even the sharpest of listeners.
Take it from me, the girl who made a seriously off-color error (but lived to tell the tale). When I first moved here, I had barely two months of French instruction under my belt and was making tentative progress with accurate pronunciation. There were many times when I knew exactly how a word should sound, but it somehow came out wrong. Cut to my first weekend in Paris: N and I are on a fantastic walk around the city, and we pass a news kiosk with a blown-up magazine cover featuring a cat and the triumphant headline, “Vive le chat!” Now, many of you probably know that the final ‘t’ is silent in French. I knew it. But I went ahead and flubbed it anyway. I was in a goofy mood, so I shouted out the headline, but mistakenly pronounced the final ‘t,’ saying, "Vive le chate," which transformed the innocuous “Hail cats!” into a ringing endorsement of the feline-esque synonym for female genitalia. Oops.
All of this is why it’s important to apply 100% precise French pronunciation to English words that have been appropriated into French, no matter how silly this makes you feel. I have cringed every time I’ve ordered a “ahm-boor-ghaire” (hamburger), discussed a new “baste sellaire” (best seller), asked someone for a piece of “schweeng gum” (chewing gum), or explained that a CEO is in fact a “tupp mah-nah-gaire” (top manager). Although as I don’t like the things, I’ve been thankfully spared the inner humiliation of having to ask for a “uht-dugg” (hot dog) at a charcuterie.
It’s funny that native English speakers think you’re a pretentious wanker if you pronounce French expressions accurately when speaking English, hence the ‘raisin debt’ mangling of raison d’être. In French, if you pronounce English words accurately, people simply don’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.
After this incident, I started noticing the phenomenon more and more often. While introducing myself to a new student, I explained that I had worked in marketing for five years before becoming a teacher. Again, a forehead scrunched and mouth agape. “Je travaillais en mar-ket-EENG,” I said, pronouncing the English word the way the French have co-opted it, with the longer-vowel sound and emphasis on the final syllable (a feature of French intonation). “Ahhhhhhhhhhh, mar-ket-EENG!” Vòila. While American friends were in town, they tried to order a broccoli and chevre quiche at a bakery, but were hung up on one pesky word. “Broh-coh-lee,” they repeated over and over, having no luck with the shopkeeper. “Broh-coh-lee, broh-coh-lee, broh-coh-lee,” finally pointing at the troublesome quiche. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh, brrrrrrrrrrchhh-oh-coh-LEEEEE!” Pfew, got it.
Every time this happens, once the French person in question has managed to figure out what the word actually is, he has this “well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” tone of voice that simultaneously bugs me but also kind of cracks me up. Actually, it used to bug me a lot more—I used to think it was a sign of mental slowness. But I’ve come to realize that it’s not that at all, but rather it’s that the French language has a far lower tolerance for mispronunciation than English does. It’s ironic that in French, there’s an identical vowel sound with six different spellings, yet one tiny flub of another vowel or consonant sound can change the word entirely and thus throw off even the sharpest of listeners.
Take it from me, the girl who made a seriously off-color error (but lived to tell the tale). When I first moved here, I had barely two months of French instruction under my belt and was making tentative progress with accurate pronunciation. There were many times when I knew exactly how a word should sound, but it somehow came out wrong. Cut to my first weekend in Paris: N and I are on a fantastic walk around the city, and we pass a news kiosk with a blown-up magazine cover featuring a cat and the triumphant headline, “Vive le chat!” Now, many of you probably know that the final ‘t’ is silent in French. I knew it. But I went ahead and flubbed it anyway. I was in a goofy mood, so I shouted out the headline, but mistakenly pronounced the final ‘t,’ saying, "Vive le chate," which transformed the innocuous “Hail cats!” into a ringing endorsement of the feline-esque synonym for female genitalia. Oops.
All of this is why it’s important to apply 100% precise French pronunciation to English words that have been appropriated into French, no matter how silly this makes you feel. I have cringed every time I’ve ordered a “ahm-boor-ghaire” (hamburger), discussed a new “baste sellaire” (best seller), asked someone for a piece of “schweeng gum” (chewing gum), or explained that a CEO is in fact a “tupp mah-nah-gaire” (top manager). Although as I don’t like the things, I’ve been thankfully spared the inner humiliation of having to ask for a “uht-dugg” (hot dog) at a charcuterie.
It’s funny that native English speakers think you’re a pretentious wanker if you pronounce French expressions accurately when speaking English, hence the ‘raisin debt’ mangling of raison d’être. In French, if you pronounce English words accurately, people simply don’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.
22 June 2008
Que C'est Chic
I finally got around to giving my little web home a makeover. Hope you like! Merci beaucoup to my ultimate partner in crime, who coached me through advanced Photoshop and inserted some HTML tweaks of his own. I only made a strip of images (and an abandoned text graphic), but I have a newfound appreciation for the Photoshop monkeys graphic designers of the world.
Music Fête-ish
It’s wonderful living in a country where the government truly puts the arts on a pedestal. There are numerous annual country- and city-wide festivals that offer up cultural events and attractions FOR FREE. Numerous. Free. Amazing! Did I say free? (Quite a worthwhile offshoot of paying such high taxes.)
Yesterday was the solstice, the first day of summer, and the weather arrived accordingly. It was thus the perfect day for the annual Fête de la Musique. Musicians of all kinds play all over France throughout the day. In Paris, there were hundreds of performances alone to choose from. But rather than strategize, I just wanted to roam and see what I’d find. I headed out at 6:00 to meet friends and do a lazy crawl around the Marais and Bastille area. Here’s the musical collage I experienced:
Down Boulevard Beaumarchais – There are tons of people out! It’s well over 80 degrees F and Parisians have abandoned the scarves and layers of clothes they usually wear, even when it’s in the 70’s. People of all ages are Velib’ing, strolling, smiling. It’s infectious. Some French-Indian guy stops me and asks me to be a sari model for his photography project (it took three times before I fully understood). No, sorry, got people to meet and music to see! I pass a Nirvana cover band (no audible French accent, but not gritty enough to sound like Kurt Cobain). I find my friends and we happen upon a funk-soul cover band. They’re fun and we stop for a while to bob our heads to Stevie Wonder and Finley Quaye, but bolt when we hear the opening bars of a Doobie Bros. tune.
At Place de la Bastille – We pause at the large stage and catch the tail end of Pascale Picard, a popular French-Canadian chanteuse. She’s a tad Lilith Fair but with slightly more edge. The crowd is big, and keeps getting bigger. I’m pleased to notice that Parisians of all ages are out and taking part in the festivities. A couple people are illegally selling beers and keeping an eye out for the cops. Then Mademoiselle K comes on and proceeds to rawk! They have a Le Tigre-esque sound with more dissonant guitar thrown in. I like it. Eventually it’s time to meet up with some other friends. The couple I’m with want to Velib to our destination, but I choose to walk as it’s not far and I want to take in the unexpected musical surprises along the way.
Around Place des Vosges – I pass six extremely different musical arts within ONE BLOCK. Yet, oddly enough, they are spaced out enough so as to not interfere with the others’ sound. I see:
1. I don’t know how else to describe it other than, clowns-meet-marching band. They have the horns. They have the marching drum. They have the right sound. But they are dressed really eccentrically; the band leader is sporting a row of broom bristles on his head. The crowd is loving them, at any rate—Parisians are not so disaffected that they won’t to clap to the beat!
2. African drumming circle. Always great.
3. Bagpipes and traditional Breton dancing.
4. Organist playing a requiem.
5. Chorus belting out a traditional French song. Lyrics had been handed out to the crowd, so anyone could join in.
6. Young rock band. Harmonic guitars, perfect on a warm summer evening.
Yesterday was the solstice, the first day of summer, and the weather arrived accordingly. It was thus the perfect day for the annual Fête de la Musique. Musicians of all kinds play all over France throughout the day. In Paris, there were hundreds of performances alone to choose from. But rather than strategize, I just wanted to roam and see what I’d find. I headed out at 6:00 to meet friends and do a lazy crawl around the Marais and Bastille area. Here’s the musical collage I experienced:
Down Boulevard Beaumarchais – There are tons of people out! It’s well over 80 degrees F and Parisians have abandoned the scarves and layers of clothes they usually wear, even when it’s in the 70’s. People of all ages are Velib’ing, strolling, smiling. It’s infectious. Some French-Indian guy stops me and asks me to be a sari model for his photography project (it took three times before I fully understood). No, sorry, got people to meet and music to see! I pass a Nirvana cover band (no audible French accent, but not gritty enough to sound like Kurt Cobain). I find my friends and we happen upon a funk-soul cover band. They’re fun and we stop for a while to bob our heads to Stevie Wonder and Finley Quaye, but bolt when we hear the opening bars of a Doobie Bros. tune.
At Place de la Bastille – We pause at the large stage and catch the tail end of Pascale Picard, a popular French-Canadian chanteuse. She’s a tad Lilith Fair but with slightly more edge. The crowd is big, and keeps getting bigger. I’m pleased to notice that Parisians of all ages are out and taking part in the festivities. A couple people are illegally selling beers and keeping an eye out for the cops. Then Mademoiselle K comes on and proceeds to rawk! They have a Le Tigre-esque sound with more dissonant guitar thrown in. I like it. Eventually it’s time to meet up with some other friends. The couple I’m with want to Velib to our destination, but I choose to walk as it’s not far and I want to take in the unexpected musical surprises along the way.
Around Place des Vosges – I pass six extremely different musical arts within ONE BLOCK. Yet, oddly enough, they are spaced out enough so as to not interfere with the others’ sound. I see: 1. I don’t know how else to describe it other than, clowns-meet-marching band. They have the horns. They have the marching drum. They have the right sound. But they are dressed really eccentrically; the band leader is sporting a row of broom bristles on his head. The crowd is loving them, at any rate—Parisians are not so disaffected that they won’t to clap to the beat!
2. African drumming circle. Always great.
3. Bagpipes and traditional Breton dancing.
4. Organist playing a requiem.5. Chorus belting out a traditional French song. Lyrics had been handed out to the crowd, so anyone could join in.
6. Young rock band. Harmonic guitars, perfect on a warm summer evening.
Past Parc Royal – A French solo-artist tries his best with “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” but he’s no match for Nancy Sinatra. Young girls slowly amble with guitars, just strumming and softly singing folk songs.
On the wide expanse of rue des Quatre Fils – A barbeque! And a DJ spinning some rather fabulous Brazilian-sounding stuff. Kids are dancing. Adults are dancing. Note to self: come back here in a little while.
Up rue des Haudriettes – A not-so-good 90’s cover band. I don’t think I’ve heard “Losing My Religion” and the Four Non-Blondes since the 90’s, and this is the last place I expected to do so. I reach my destination of the teeny Place Vivien, find my friends, settle in with a pint, and enjoy some traditional Irish music. The musicians teach some volunteers a dance (no jig, bummer) and it’s a soothing spot for une petite pause from the crowds.
But we get restless eventually so we wander back to the dance party/barbeque, which is raging with lots of young people, but also a considerable amount of families. It’s almost dark at 10:45, but not quite. (It is solstice, after all, and Paris is on higher longitude than you might think.) We grab beers and grilled merguez sandwiches, and enjoy the DJ’s offerings, which evolve past Latin beats into stranger, very eclectic territory—some hip-hop, some funk, a large helping of 80’s, and my personal highlight, a kind of 60’s dancefloor cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.” Must find this track. We while away a couple hours here and eventually bed calls.
Thankfully I’m a five-minute walk from home. People are still going full force! I wish I had their stamina. I laugh a little as I come across a band playing “Under the Bridge” in front of (of all places) my bank. (More 90’s covers? More American music?) Some twentysomethings zoom by on Velibs and sing along: “It’s the city I live in…” Oh happy night.
I wish they had this festival more than once a year.
21 June 2008
Youth Riot
Nothing says finishing up a grueling week of high school exit exams more than partying in a massive crowd outdoors and throwing empty bottles of booze at the police. Future frat boys of France, take a memo: that was just punkish and lame and nowhere near the spirit of '68. This article has all the facts, if you can brave reading French.
Gevalt, Oy.
When the husband and I were strategizing to take up digs in the Marais, the thought of its twin cultural legacies were comforting, as they each have some semblance of my two former cities of residence: the old Jewish quarter (I’m a member of the tribe, from NYC no less) and the epicenter of the city’s gay population (I lived in San Francisco for nearly a decade). The combination would surely make us feel at home.
In reality, you may see the occasional cluster of Hassidim strolling around or rainbow sticker displayed in a storefront window, but our neighborhood is hardly 47th or Castro streets. It’s a fantastic area of Paris, to be sure, with its old, narrow streets; small, leafy parks; myriad boutiques, restos, and cafés; and all-around laid-back charm. But one thing our quartier is for sure is gentrified. The French might call it bobo, or bourgeois bohemian. And this process of gentrification, which began several years ago, may be benign to one of the neighborhood’s key social groups, but is squeezing out the other.
The rue des Rosiers is the heart of Jewish life in the Marais, boasting kosher bakeries, Israeli falafel joints, Judaica shops, and small synagogues scattered on side streets. When you walk the insanely narrow, cobble-stoned street (all three blocks of it), you can see these vestiges of Jewish culture—but they’re few compared to the number of modern fashion boutiques lining the rue. On my first walk down Rosiers, I felt simultaneously heartened and disheartened. The reality was as surprising as the first time I visited the corner of Haight-Ashbury—I wasn’t expecting to see a hippie commune, and to be honest I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a swath of expensive shops. The Haight has been performing a dance for years now, holding onto its bohemian past while making way for its gentrified present. A few years ago, Haight-area residents successfully petitioned against plans to open an Urban Outfitters on the infamous street. People feared that “mall-ification” of the rest of the street would follow, and wanted to prevent the havoc the store would wreak on the already insane weekend crowds and impossible street-parking situation. Back on the rue des Rosiers, people are gearing up to resist the very real threat of an H&M store opening on the grounds of a former hammam. The last thing the largely chain-free yet pedestrian-thronged Marais needs now—especially on Rosiers—is a big, brash H&M store.
I can’t afford to shop in the smart boutiques and don’t need an H&M within 10 minutes of my house, but I support the Jewish businesses by literally putting my money where my mouth is. I relish frequenting the two best eateries on Rosiers, where I can be sure to get my money’s worth for a delicious lunch and also practice my very-rusty Hebrew: the famous L’As du Falafel (best falafel outside the homeland? The long line of locals and tourists proves it) and the kitty-cornered fabulous deli with the blue-tiled exterior (I can’t remember the name and it’s driving me crazy—but they make great turkey and pastrami sandwiches and have all kinds of Sefardic and Ashkenazi goodies). Gentrification may be inevitable, but I know where my loyalties lie.
In reality, you may see the occasional cluster of Hassidim strolling around or rainbow sticker displayed in a storefront window, but our neighborhood is hardly 47th or Castro streets. It’s a fantastic area of Paris, to be sure, with its old, narrow streets; small, leafy parks; myriad boutiques, restos, and cafés; and all-around laid-back charm. But one thing our quartier is for sure is gentrified. The French might call it bobo, or bourgeois bohemian. And this process of gentrification, which began several years ago, may be benign to one of the neighborhood’s key social groups, but is squeezing out the other.
The rue des Rosiers is the heart of Jewish life in the Marais, boasting kosher bakeries, Israeli falafel joints, Judaica shops, and small synagogues scattered on side streets. When you walk the insanely narrow, cobble-stoned street (all three blocks of it), you can see these vestiges of Jewish culture—but they’re few compared to the number of modern fashion boutiques lining the rue. On my first walk down Rosiers, I felt simultaneously heartened and disheartened. The reality was as surprising as the first time I visited the corner of Haight-Ashbury—I wasn’t expecting to see a hippie commune, and to be honest I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a swath of expensive shops. The Haight has been performing a dance for years now, holding onto its bohemian past while making way for its gentrified present. A few years ago, Haight-area residents successfully petitioned against plans to open an Urban Outfitters on the infamous street. People feared that “mall-ification” of the rest of the street would follow, and wanted to prevent the havoc the store would wreak on the already insane weekend crowds and impossible street-parking situation. Back on the rue des Rosiers, people are gearing up to resist the very real threat of an H&M store opening on the grounds of a former hammam. The last thing the largely chain-free yet pedestrian-thronged Marais needs now—especially on Rosiers—is a big, brash H&M store.
I can’t afford to shop in the smart boutiques and don’t need an H&M within 10 minutes of my house, but I support the Jewish businesses by literally putting my money where my mouth is. I relish frequenting the two best eateries on Rosiers, where I can be sure to get my money’s worth for a delicious lunch and also practice my very-rusty Hebrew: the famous L’As du Falafel (best falafel outside the homeland? The long line of locals and tourists proves it) and the kitty-cornered fabulous deli with the blue-tiled exterior (I can’t remember the name and it’s driving me crazy—but they make great turkey and pastrami sandwiches and have all kinds of Sefardic and Ashkenazi goodies). Gentrification may be inevitable, but I know where my loyalties lie.
20 June 2008
The World, He Is Small
I experienced quite the small-world coincidence today, which seldom occurs when almost everyone you know lives across an ocean.
I had two morning classes and two afternoon classes scheduled today at La Défense, the business district situated on the outskirts of Paris. However, my second class got cancelled and so I had a three-hour gap in my schedule. Rather than spend half of it riding back and forth between La Défense and home, I took my laptop and planned to write and hop on a wi-fi connection.
So, I was walking across the Esplanade at a time that I wouldn’t normally be doing so. All of a sudden, I hear my name called, and it turns out it’s an old colleague from my Travelocity days, who I haven’t seen in over four years. She’s French and had lived in the States for several years before returning to the mother country. I had some vague memories of her coming back to Europe, but I wasn’t exactly sure where she’d moved and these memories were so buried in my brain that I hadn’t remembered to seek her out when I emigrated.
Anyhow, coincidence worked in my favor, because she was on her way to work, very late in fact, and thus out on the Esplanade at a time she normally wouldn’t be. It turns out she lives outside Paris and works at La Défense. Our accidental rendez-vous was probably even stranger for her, because although she knows my husband has dual citizenship, what on earth was I doing here, of all places? I’ve never been so glad to have a big gap in my schedule (when they happen at La Défense, I usually spend them alone, drinking coffee and reading or just wandering the local mall, which is the only thing going in those parts). It was great to reconnect and see a familiar face for a change!
What’s even funnier is that this isn’t the first Travelocity-related coincidence to pop up in my life in Paris. After living here for several months, it came to my attention (thanks to my good friend and former TVLY co-worker) that a former colleague of ours was also living in Paris. She and I got in touch and it turns out she and her husband moved here around the same time as us, for the same reason, and lived within a 15-minute walk from chez nous. Parallel lives, much? It was a wonderful discovery, and now we see each other regularly.
Who else is going to come out of the woodwork from my former life in the travel industry? And is this a sign of some sort?
I had two morning classes and two afternoon classes scheduled today at La Défense, the business district situated on the outskirts of Paris. However, my second class got cancelled and so I had a three-hour gap in my schedule. Rather than spend half of it riding back and forth between La Défense and home, I took my laptop and planned to write and hop on a wi-fi connection.
So, I was walking across the Esplanade at a time that I wouldn’t normally be doing so. All of a sudden, I hear my name called, and it turns out it’s an old colleague from my Travelocity days, who I haven’t seen in over four years. She’s French and had lived in the States for several years before returning to the mother country. I had some vague memories of her coming back to Europe, but I wasn’t exactly sure where she’d moved and these memories were so buried in my brain that I hadn’t remembered to seek her out when I emigrated.
Anyhow, coincidence worked in my favor, because she was on her way to work, very late in fact, and thus out on the Esplanade at a time she normally wouldn’t be. It turns out she lives outside Paris and works at La Défense. Our accidental rendez-vous was probably even stranger for her, because although she knows my husband has dual citizenship, what on earth was I doing here, of all places? I’ve never been so glad to have a big gap in my schedule (when they happen at La Défense, I usually spend them alone, drinking coffee and reading or just wandering the local mall, which is the only thing going in those parts). It was great to reconnect and see a familiar face for a change!
What’s even funnier is that this isn’t the first Travelocity-related coincidence to pop up in my life in Paris. After living here for several months, it came to my attention (thanks to my good friend and former TVLY co-worker) that a former colleague of ours was also living in Paris. She and I got in touch and it turns out she and her husband moved here around the same time as us, for the same reason, and lived within a 15-minute walk from chez nous. Parallel lives, much? It was a wonderful discovery, and now we see each other regularly.
Who else is going to come out of the woodwork from my former life in the travel industry? And is this a sign of some sort?
19 June 2008
Risqué Business
A couple weeks ago, she started popping up in some Métro stations. Now I can hardly take the train anywhere without seeing her oiled, tanned, almost completely naked body. It’s not a raving exhibitionist nor poster for a porno, but rather the Galeries Lafayette’s current life-size ad for its bathing suit collection.
Well, it might as well be porn. I’ve had to brush past more than one man blatantly ogling the model in the ad. She lies in profile, gripping a triangle-bikini top to her substantially bare chest, the bikini bottom dangling seductively from her toes. She should be bronzing on the beaches of Rio, yet here she is, brazenly exposed in the Paris underground. Wait, I could’ve sworn this was an ad for women’s bathing suits, not for beer or power tools. Or is this the paragon of seductive beauty that French women aspire to?
My workday took me past the Galeries Lafayette today, where I saw the ad grossly magnified on the edifice of the department store, demanding the attention of passers-by, in an even more aggressive fashion than when Marky Mark graced the giant Calvin Klein underwear ad at Times Square. It’s an overwhelming testament to the French’s casual attitude toward sexuality. After all, this is a country in which nudie magazines are not hidden in the very back corner of a newsstand, but are blown up to ten times the magazine cover size and flaunted on the kiosk’s exterior to beckon customers—and some network television programs feature what is virtually soft-core porn.
Yes, the French are far less prudish than us Americans. But lest you believe in the now-clichéd topless beaches of the Côte d’Azur, take it from les français (and my one allemande student)—the Germans are even more relaxed about sexuality, as many of them apparently love to be nude. For what it’s worth.
Well, it might as well be porn. I’ve had to brush past more than one man blatantly ogling the model in the ad. She lies in profile, gripping a triangle-bikini top to her substantially bare chest, the bikini bottom dangling seductively from her toes. She should be bronzing on the beaches of Rio, yet here she is, brazenly exposed in the Paris underground. Wait, I could’ve sworn this was an ad for women’s bathing suits, not for beer or power tools. Or is this the paragon of seductive beauty that French women aspire to?My workday took me past the Galeries Lafayette today, where I saw the ad grossly magnified on the edifice of the department store, demanding the attention of passers-by, in an even more aggressive fashion than when Marky Mark graced the giant Calvin Klein underwear ad at Times Square. It’s an overwhelming testament to the French’s casual attitude toward sexuality. After all, this is a country in which nudie magazines are not hidden in the very back corner of a newsstand, but are blown up to ten times the magazine cover size and flaunted on the kiosk’s exterior to beckon customers—and some network television programs feature what is virtually soft-core porn.
Yes, the French are far less prudish than us Americans. But lest you believe in the now-clichéd topless beaches of the Côte d’Azur, take it from les français (and my one allemande student)—the Germans are even more relaxed about sexuality, as many of them apparently love to be nude. For what it’s worth.
16 June 2008
(Not) Working, Part Deux: Two Years in the Merde
If you thought my recent skewering of the French work ethic wasn’t enough, I just made an interesting discovery during a discussion with a student. Apparently her company (a very large, leading French financial firm) provides a career development track of urging employees to change their jobs—that correspond to their qualifications, of course—every three to four years. That’s nice, considering finding employment isn’t an easy gambit in this country and the rigid university selection process forces people to stay within one given field—at least this way employees are encouraged to diversify their experiences. Of course, in America, an employee’s career development relies largely on his own motivation and isn’t gently nudged in that direction by his company. But I digress.
The real cherry on top is that when an employee at my student’s company wants to change positions, she can’t just one day make the switch. She must wait for a replacement to come along before she moves on to greener pastures. This can take a while, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which, French employment law dictates that individuals must give three months’ notice when resigning! Three months! (It’s hard to imagine how those employees stay motivated, but apparently a considerable stipend is withheld until the end of this lame-duck period.) Anyhow, my student’s manager was in a real pickle when he was all set to change positions, but nary a replacement could be found. He waited so long that he tried to negotiate several times with his managers, and finally they told him that they’d need him to stay in his current position for another two years (!!!) until they could properly replace him. Wow. Now that’s career mobility.
My student informed me that her manager is not alone—many employees have had to wait months…and months…and more months for replacements. All it does is decrease motivation. My student has benefited from her manager’s lack of it, as he lets her leave early and take vacation during super busy work periods. That’s great for her, but when viewed on a larger scale, that’s terrible for employee satisfaction and worker productivity at her firm. And I don’t have any proof, but something tells me the problem exists at more than just one French company.
The real cherry on top is that when an employee at my student’s company wants to change positions, she can’t just one day make the switch. She must wait for a replacement to come along before she moves on to greener pastures. This can take a while, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which, French employment law dictates that individuals must give three months’ notice when resigning! Three months! (It’s hard to imagine how those employees stay motivated, but apparently a considerable stipend is withheld until the end of this lame-duck period.) Anyhow, my student’s manager was in a real pickle when he was all set to change positions, but nary a replacement could be found. He waited so long that he tried to negotiate several times with his managers, and finally they told him that they’d need him to stay in his current position for another two years (!!!) until they could properly replace him. Wow. Now that’s career mobility.
My student informed me that her manager is not alone—many employees have had to wait months…and months…and more months for replacements. All it does is decrease motivation. My student has benefited from her manager’s lack of it, as he lets her leave early and take vacation during super busy work periods. That’s great for her, but when viewed on a larger scale, that’s terrible for employee satisfaction and worker productivity at her firm. And I don’t have any proof, but something tells me the problem exists at more than just one French company.
14 June 2008
Everybody's (Not) Working for the Weekend
When discussing cultural stereotypes with a student, I was shocked to learn that she wasn’t aware of one of the (in my eyes) most common perceptions of the French: their allergy to work. This stereotype is, of course, propagated by Anglo Saxons, and from that perspective, it seems rather irrefutable, what with the standard five weeks of vacation and 35-hour workweek.
When I moved to France last year, I decided it was time to put the jokes about French slackers aside and get to the bottom of what the work culture was all about. Stereotypes are only partially based in truth; surely, there must be more to the story. Well, nearly a year later, I’m here to tell you that there isn’t. It seems that certain forces have conspired to create a perfect storm of anti-productivity. This phenomenon is complex to be sure (I’ve boiled down book-length material to a handful of paragraphs, mind you) and not without exceptions, but from an American point of view, rather mind-boggling.
On the surface, working in France seems like one, long paid vacation. In addition to the aforementioned five weeks of annual holiday time, employees who work over 35 hours per week (which means practically everyone in the private sector) are entitled to reduction du temps de travail (literally: reduction of work time), more commonly known as RTT: one or two extra paid days off per month. This added PTO amounts to a grand total of seven to nine weeks of vacation per year. The French also grant employees with children three extra days off per year for each child if the child is sick and needs parental care (proof in the form of a doctor’s note is required for these and for employees’ own sick days, because employers apparently don’t trust their employees). Lest you think French companies are going overboard, not to worry—employees must use their vacation within a year, as PTO doesn’t roll over into the following year as in many American companies. Therefore, it’s totally natural to take off weeks at a time—it’s all in the spirit of making the most out of what the unions make sure is an employee’s right.
While Anglos may envy the French’s ability to take such advantage of work-life balance, there’s a dark underbelly to the French employment system. There is an exceptionally high cost of operating a business in France, as companies are obliged to pay a business tax in addition to exorbitant taxes on employees. Moreover, when a company wishes to dismiss someone, they not only have to provide a valid justification for doing so, but also pay a substantial sum to the government. These restrictions have created a climate in which it’s extremely difficult to get hired (see the nearly 10% unemployment rate) and even more difficult to get fired. Therefore, repeated tardiness, persistent loafing, and gross incompetence are not high on the list of reasons for getting fired—the companies just don’t want to go through the trouble of documenting the infractions and paying the fee. People can therefore coast and exploit a system just made for abuse.
To an Anglo, there are several things French employees seemingly “get away with,” yet these “abuses” are relatively benign and practically rote. A two-hour lunch is totally acceptable. It doesn’t mean that everyone regularly takes one, but anything under an hour is deemed unthinkable; don’t even think about telling someone that you’re so busy you need to eat lunch at your desk, unless you want to risk giving them a heart attack. Coffee breaks are also a stalwart feature of the French workday. It’s worth noting that the length of coffee breaks is totally disproportionate to the size of coffees people drink. The French have a knack for making a tiny espresso last 25 minutes—and do so several times per day. On sunny days, I’ve walked past office buildings where nearly everyone seemed to be outside “drinking coffee.” These frequent breaks aren’t clocked and while I’m sure managers notice, they may very well be engaging in similar behavior. Between all of these pauses (and including many employees’ weekly training in languages or tech), it’s hard to imagine that a lot of work actually gets done in a given day.
When the French are actually working, they often attend meetings—an aspect of work culture that is run in a manner far from Swiss-watch efficiency. From what I’ve gleaned from many students who work at a variety of companies, meetings can be quite the sore spot, annoying even those who may not have the most diligent work ethic. People show up late, which often delays the start time. There may or may not be a meeting organizer who runs the show, and if there is one, he/she may or may not have an agenda. Attendees often come unprepared and sometimes unclear on why they’re needed there. Meetings also usually go overtime because a decision can’t be reached, as the French have a tendency to scrutinize a situation from all possible angles—a level of analysis that can be admirable, if not done to a fault. Progress consequently gets halted, generating more and more meetings. Coming from America, where (for the most part) meetings are held to agendas, decisions are made, and action items are assigned, this molasses-like rate of “forward” movement seems CRAZY.
And as if all the above everyday behaviors didn’t seem bad enough, we then have the serious cases of work-sploitation—the ones that even your average glandeur (slacker) cannot tolerate. In fact, the French have invented a term for the type of worker who stretches the system to the limit. These ne’er-do-wells are called bras cassés (broken arms), and they exist at many a company. The bras cassé is either incompetent or just doesn’t care at all about doing a good job, and everyone in his department knows it. However, he can’t get fired (for the reasons delineated above), so he gets shunted into a series of bullshit jobs that have no real purpose or make no real contribution to the company and still receives a paycheck for showing up every day and doing, for all intents and purposes, nothing. Think Milton from the film “Office Space.” Here’s a prime example: my student had a former teammate who used to come in, no joke, at 5pm every day and work for about four hours. This tardy queen extraordinaire would also raise a huge fuss if her chair was being used in a meeting or if even one pencil was out of place on her desk. Then she started to come down with chronic “illnesses,” which caused her to intermittently miss “whole” (well, in reality, half) days of work. Her manager wanted to fire her, of course, but couldn’t. The young blood who joined the team in the midst of all this observed her behavior and felt, if she’s doing it and isn’t getting fired, then why shouldn’t we? And so a vicious cycle begins. We can wag our fingers at the bras cassé for being a bad role model, and I agree, but I also say, bad system! This story may seem extreme, and it is, but I’ve heard similar tales (albeit to lesser degrees) from many students.
While hurdles to getting fired provide employees with a sizable amount of job security, they sometimes take their sense of security too far. The feeling of “I can’t be bothered” has permeated the system. People have rigid definitions of what their jobs entail, and they stick to this script in way that throws the notions of efficiency and customer service out the window altogether. At my bank, only my account executive can assist me with certain tasks. You’d think there is someone else at the bank who’s trained to do those exact same tasks, and I’ve asked that very question more than once, but I’ve gotten the same response: “It’s not my job.” Excuse me? Isn’t keeping your customers happy every employee’s job? At at the local appliances depot, I was having a difficult time finding what I was looking for, so I sought out an employee’s help. I asked a worker in the dishwasher section if he could help me find the fans. I apparently mistakenly assumed that any employee would be able to assist me, because he told me I’d have to find someone else to help me, as fans weren’t in his jurisdiction. Read: it’s not my job. This tunnel vision is seeping into the minds of the future workforce as well. My husband and I were visiting his French relatives recently, and his cousin’s adorable four-year-old daughter was prattling on about cute four-year-old matters when she suddenly stated with utmost seriousness that the poor pigeons poop on the buildings and someone should build them bathrooms (aw, cute). My husband asked her, “Who’s going to build these bathrooms?” “Well,” she replied, “I don’t know—but definitely not me!” And thus, her generation’s aversion to work is given a voice.
You’d think this collective lack of urgency would result in almost nothing getting done, but ironically France was ranked number three on the world productivity index. Huh? Well, of course not all French workers are grand glandeurs. There are many people who are committed to their jobs and truly do work hard. But there are also many who game the system under the guise of diligence. A recent trend in French work culture has been to work long hours in order to be noticed as the last one still in the office. As I laid out above, people aren’t always assiduously working throughout the day. They could be surfing Internet porn after having taken the fourteenth coffee break of the day, but it’s 8:30pm and so therefore they must be dedicatedly chipping away at their gargantuan pile of work. These masters of illusion get recognition for their apparent diligence, while others who may work just as—if not harder—than the midnight-oil burners prefer to leave work at a reasonable hour (due to having young children at home) get passed up for promotions. This screams of a lamentable lack of critical thinking and a system of reward based on performance quantity rather than quality—the opposite of which is rightly valued in Anglo work culture.
Despite the logic-defying productivity index ranking, France has remained relatively uncompetitive on the world business stage for many of the reasons described above. Furthermore, anytime a reform to employment law is proposed, public outcry rages against the threat of France becoming “too Anglo-Saxon.” Oh, the horror! Mind you, a lot of the material for this piece came from long discussions with French people who detest the way the system works and lament the manifold abuses. However, it’s clear that the system is so ingrained that despite some of its denizens’ best intentions and efforts, not much will change and therefore, the French will live to (not) work another day.
When I moved to France last year, I decided it was time to put the jokes about French slackers aside and get to the bottom of what the work culture was all about. Stereotypes are only partially based in truth; surely, there must be more to the story. Well, nearly a year later, I’m here to tell you that there isn’t. It seems that certain forces have conspired to create a perfect storm of anti-productivity. This phenomenon is complex to be sure (I’ve boiled down book-length material to a handful of paragraphs, mind you) and not without exceptions, but from an American point of view, rather mind-boggling.
On the surface, working in France seems like one, long paid vacation. In addition to the aforementioned five weeks of annual holiday time, employees who work over 35 hours per week (which means practically everyone in the private sector) are entitled to reduction du temps de travail (literally: reduction of work time), more commonly known as RTT: one or two extra paid days off per month. This added PTO amounts to a grand total of seven to nine weeks of vacation per year. The French also grant employees with children three extra days off per year for each child if the child is sick and needs parental care (proof in the form of a doctor’s note is required for these and for employees’ own sick days, because employers apparently don’t trust their employees). Lest you think French companies are going overboard, not to worry—employees must use their vacation within a year, as PTO doesn’t roll over into the following year as in many American companies. Therefore, it’s totally natural to take off weeks at a time—it’s all in the spirit of making the most out of what the unions make sure is an employee’s right.
While Anglos may envy the French’s ability to take such advantage of work-life balance, there’s a dark underbelly to the French employment system. There is an exceptionally high cost of operating a business in France, as companies are obliged to pay a business tax in addition to exorbitant taxes on employees. Moreover, when a company wishes to dismiss someone, they not only have to provide a valid justification for doing so, but also pay a substantial sum to the government. These restrictions have created a climate in which it’s extremely difficult to get hired (see the nearly 10% unemployment rate) and even more difficult to get fired. Therefore, repeated tardiness, persistent loafing, and gross incompetence are not high on the list of reasons for getting fired—the companies just don’t want to go through the trouble of documenting the infractions and paying the fee. People can therefore coast and exploit a system just made for abuse.
To an Anglo, there are several things French employees seemingly “get away with,” yet these “abuses” are relatively benign and practically rote. A two-hour lunch is totally acceptable. It doesn’t mean that everyone regularly takes one, but anything under an hour is deemed unthinkable; don’t even think about telling someone that you’re so busy you need to eat lunch at your desk, unless you want to risk giving them a heart attack. Coffee breaks are also a stalwart feature of the French workday. It’s worth noting that the length of coffee breaks is totally disproportionate to the size of coffees people drink. The French have a knack for making a tiny espresso last 25 minutes—and do so several times per day. On sunny days, I’ve walked past office buildings where nearly everyone seemed to be outside “drinking coffee.” These frequent breaks aren’t clocked and while I’m sure managers notice, they may very well be engaging in similar behavior. Between all of these pauses (and including many employees’ weekly training in languages or tech), it’s hard to imagine that a lot of work actually gets done in a given day.
When the French are actually working, they often attend meetings—an aspect of work culture that is run in a manner far from Swiss-watch efficiency. From what I’ve gleaned from many students who work at a variety of companies, meetings can be quite the sore spot, annoying even those who may not have the most diligent work ethic. People show up late, which often delays the start time. There may or may not be a meeting organizer who runs the show, and if there is one, he/she may or may not have an agenda. Attendees often come unprepared and sometimes unclear on why they’re needed there. Meetings also usually go overtime because a decision can’t be reached, as the French have a tendency to scrutinize a situation from all possible angles—a level of analysis that can be admirable, if not done to a fault. Progress consequently gets halted, generating more and more meetings. Coming from America, where (for the most part) meetings are held to agendas, decisions are made, and action items are assigned, this molasses-like rate of “forward” movement seems CRAZY.
And as if all the above everyday behaviors didn’t seem bad enough, we then have the serious cases of work-sploitation—the ones that even your average glandeur (slacker) cannot tolerate. In fact, the French have invented a term for the type of worker who stretches the system to the limit. These ne’er-do-wells are called bras cassés (broken arms), and they exist at many a company. The bras cassé is either incompetent or just doesn’t care at all about doing a good job, and everyone in his department knows it. However, he can’t get fired (for the reasons delineated above), so he gets shunted into a series of bullshit jobs that have no real purpose or make no real contribution to the company and still receives a paycheck for showing up every day and doing, for all intents and purposes, nothing. Think Milton from the film “Office Space.” Here’s a prime example: my student had a former teammate who used to come in, no joke, at 5pm every day and work for about four hours. This tardy queen extraordinaire would also raise a huge fuss if her chair was being used in a meeting or if even one pencil was out of place on her desk. Then she started to come down with chronic “illnesses,” which caused her to intermittently miss “whole” (well, in reality, half) days of work. Her manager wanted to fire her, of course, but couldn’t. The young blood who joined the team in the midst of all this observed her behavior and felt, if she’s doing it and isn’t getting fired, then why shouldn’t we? And so a vicious cycle begins. We can wag our fingers at the bras cassé for being a bad role model, and I agree, but I also say, bad system! This story may seem extreme, and it is, but I’ve heard similar tales (albeit to lesser degrees) from many students.
While hurdles to getting fired provide employees with a sizable amount of job security, they sometimes take their sense of security too far. The feeling of “I can’t be bothered” has permeated the system. People have rigid definitions of what their jobs entail, and they stick to this script in way that throws the notions of efficiency and customer service out the window altogether. At my bank, only my account executive can assist me with certain tasks. You’d think there is someone else at the bank who’s trained to do those exact same tasks, and I’ve asked that very question more than once, but I’ve gotten the same response: “It’s not my job.” Excuse me? Isn’t keeping your customers happy every employee’s job? At at the local appliances depot, I was having a difficult time finding what I was looking for, so I sought out an employee’s help. I asked a worker in the dishwasher section if he could help me find the fans. I apparently mistakenly assumed that any employee would be able to assist me, because he told me I’d have to find someone else to help me, as fans weren’t in his jurisdiction. Read: it’s not my job. This tunnel vision is seeping into the minds of the future workforce as well. My husband and I were visiting his French relatives recently, and his cousin’s adorable four-year-old daughter was prattling on about cute four-year-old matters when she suddenly stated with utmost seriousness that the poor pigeons poop on the buildings and someone should build them bathrooms (aw, cute). My husband asked her, “Who’s going to build these bathrooms?” “Well,” she replied, “I don’t know—but definitely not me!” And thus, her generation’s aversion to work is given a voice.
You’d think this collective lack of urgency would result in almost nothing getting done, but ironically France was ranked number three on the world productivity index. Huh? Well, of course not all French workers are grand glandeurs. There are many people who are committed to their jobs and truly do work hard. But there are also many who game the system under the guise of diligence. A recent trend in French work culture has been to work long hours in order to be noticed as the last one still in the office. As I laid out above, people aren’t always assiduously working throughout the day. They could be surfing Internet porn after having taken the fourteenth coffee break of the day, but it’s 8:30pm and so therefore they must be dedicatedly chipping away at their gargantuan pile of work. These masters of illusion get recognition for their apparent diligence, while others who may work just as—if not harder—than the midnight-oil burners prefer to leave work at a reasonable hour (due to having young children at home) get passed up for promotions. This screams of a lamentable lack of critical thinking and a system of reward based on performance quantity rather than quality—the opposite of which is rightly valued in Anglo work culture.
Despite the logic-defying productivity index ranking, France has remained relatively uncompetitive on the world business stage for many of the reasons described above. Furthermore, anytime a reform to employment law is proposed, public outcry rages against the threat of France becoming “too Anglo-Saxon.” Oh, the horror! Mind you, a lot of the material for this piece came from long discussions with French people who detest the way the system works and lament the manifold abuses. However, it’s clear that the system is so ingrained that despite some of its denizens’ best intentions and efforts, not much will change and therefore, the French will live to (not) work another day.
06 June 2008
Fun With Frenglish
Teaching English to the French does funny things to my brain. It not only helps me learn French (as my students often provide translations of certain words and idioms), but it also simultaneously strengthens and weakens my English. The strengthening part should be fairly obvious—I can easily articulate the grammatical structures of the language, which I’ve never been taught but have learned intuitively (like most native speakers). But the weakening part can be best explained by sharing with you the English I hear day in, day out. And so, it is with a teacher’s loving (and only lightly mocking) heart that I bring you the latest compilation of English gone awry, French style.
Let’s take a journey through what could be a typical conversation on the job (sans teacherly interjections to correct any mistakes):
Me: Can you recommend a good restaurant?
Student: Yes. I am happy to give you the good address. Can you precise me the cuisine you want?
Me: A bistro would be great.
Student: I propose you a bistro, not so touristic, in the first arrondisement. He has very typic French cooking. I suggest you also a sympatic wine bar, not expensive, on the same street. There is a very funny atmosphere.
Me: What are some of the bistro’s specialties?
Student: I always choice the confit de canard. It’s very tasty. And they have sorbets of many unusual perfumes.
Me: Great. And where is it located?
Student: I explain you how to go there. But can you say me your nearest Metro station?
Me: (Give the details)
Student: (Gives directions). And those are all the infos you need to know. Please say me how was your meal. I am very interesting in your feedbacks.
You’ve no doubt noticed what appear to be glaring English errors—but these are mostly instances of the French imposing their own grammar and vocabulary on English. I hear “I propose you…I explain you…I suggest you…I confirm you…” countless times, but that’s just French grammar rearing its head. Say vs. tell is a natural point of confusion. The expression le bon addresse is the French way of saying ‘a great place to go.’ Calling a restaurant “he”? All nouns have genders in French. You can probably guess what 'touristic' and 'typic' should be. 'Sympatic' is derived from sympatique, the French word for nice. Perfume translates to parfum, which could be Chanel No. 5 or a flavor. Info and feedback are always singular in English, but countable in French. Owing to phonological similarity, “choice” and “choose” are frequently confused (my husband got an email from a work event organizer requesting him to “choice his lunch”). In addition, many people don’t realize there’s a distinction between funny and fun; rather, the word funny is used as a catchall, as is done in French. But “I am very interesting” is just a bald-faced mistake, with no language-transfer justification. (I get a kick out of explaining to my students that starting off a sentence that way can cause the false perception that they have highly-inflated senses of self.)
Needless to say, these typical errors are so commonplace that I’ve taken to jokingly using them in my home life, far away from the burning ears of my students. (I know, it’s bad.) I will ask my husband to propose me what he’d like to eat for dinner or to look up infos on the train schedule for our next vacation destination. He’s right there with me, responding in kind, as he hears these same errors every day at his office. The thing is, it’s like the old warning parents give children: if you keep making those faces, one day, they’ll stick. Yes folks, my English skills are starting to deteriorate. Ruh roh.
Let’s go in further depth with Frenglish to show you just how far the rabbit hole things have fallen.
False friends. That’s what the French call English words that appear to have French equivalents, but in reality have different meanings altogether, or no meaning at all. I constantly have to correct my students’ use of these phonies, explaining that people work at companies, not societies; that getting into car accidents can hurt people, not bless them; and that a business can be profitable, not rentable. At a shop, an employee—in an effort to practice his English—asked me if I had any money, because he “have not money.” It seems like a rather obvious, albeit bizarre, question to a customer, right? What he meant was, he was out of small change (in French, monnaie), so did I have any I could pay with? My all-time favorite: a student once said that a certain solution wouldn’t be very “sweatable” (the French souhaitable, sounds just like it if said Anglo style, but it means desirable). It’s all very funny until false friends come unintentionally tumbling out of your own mouth. I once complained to a colleague about the poor organization skills of a ‘formation’ (ahem, training) manager at a client’s office, and on another occasion told someone about the unthinkable scenario I had to face at a certain ‘agency’ (that would be, branch) of my bank. Although these slips have been rare, they give me pause. If my vocabulary is starting to go, what’s next?
The answer to that question lies in certain ubiquitous expressions the French use in English that, while not incorrect, are just a little off. “Normally” is in heavy rotation. For example: How do you like your coffee? “I normally take my coffee with no milk.” How do you get to the Louvre? “Normally, you should exit the Metro and turn on the third street on your left.” Well, normally, Anglos would say ‘usually’ or ‘generally.’ The usage doesn’t mangle the speaker’s meaning, but it’s just different enough. It sometimes slips into my speech when I explain how to use a certain verb tense: “Normally, we use present perfect for actions that…(etc).”
Whenever a French person wishes to confirm something, they’ll undoubtedly say, “It’s OK for me.” Can you meet next Tuesday at 10:00? “It’s OK for me.” Do you mind picking me up from work today? “Yes, it’s OK for me.” While the sentence seems innocuous, it’s not something native English speakers would actually say. Those questions would probably be answered with, “That works for me” or “No problem.” What does being OK have to do with it? But lo and behold, after reading a difficult passage in an article during an English lesson, I’ve started asking students, “Did you understand that? Is it OK for you?” Gah! It makes me cringe a little every time.
But the most amusing offender (if we can call it that) is the standard phrase used to express a positive opinion. Should abortion be legal in Catholic countries? “Yes, why not?” If you find a wallet on the street containing a large sum of money, but no identification, is it justifiable to keep it? “Yes, why not?” This response suggests a rather flippant attitude toward the controversies at hand. We’re not dealing with whether we should choose a Burgundy rather than a Bordeaux. Even though I’m quite accustomed to receiving it as an answer to most opinion-based questions, it still makes me snigger inside every time I hear it. And while I’ve actually never inadvertently used the expression in English, whenever I use its equivalent pourquoi pas? in French, I crack up a little bit, leaving the French person I’m talking to slightly perplexed.
Idioms and slang are two components of my English that have remained, thankfully, 100% intact—which doesn’t make it any less funny when I hear my dear students make verbal guacamole of certain English expressions. The most recent parade of hits include “It is just the small part of the iceberg” and “It isn’t written in the rock.” Fabulous. There’s also the student who commiserated with me over getting sunburns: “I cannot support the sun.” (I know—its policies on immigration are way over the line. It’s not getting my vote this year!) Or take my sexagenarian student who laments the fact that she never speaks English with her British husband, but said when they met, she “was attracted by his English tongue.” Uh…TMI?
The best is when a student has clearly used a translation engine in order to write an email in English. I tell my students again and again that those engines never work, but it doesn’t prevent people from using them anyway—to hilarious effect. I received a real head-scratcher from a student with whom I was trying to schedule lessons. She wrote:
Even if Frenglish has started pecking away at my own English, even if my students’ verbal blunders keep me on my toes, and even if I do sometimes stoop to the level of discreet mockery, I still find all of these linguistic slips quite endearing. It’s OK for me.
Let’s take a journey through what could be a typical conversation on the job (sans teacherly interjections to correct any mistakes):
Me: Can you recommend a good restaurant?
Student: Yes. I am happy to give you the good address. Can you precise me the cuisine you want?
Me: A bistro would be great.
Student: I propose you a bistro, not so touristic, in the first arrondisement. He has very typic French cooking. I suggest you also a sympatic wine bar, not expensive, on the same street. There is a very funny atmosphere.
Me: What are some of the bistro’s specialties?
Student: I always choice the confit de canard. It’s very tasty. And they have sorbets of many unusual perfumes.
Me: Great. And where is it located?
Student: I explain you how to go there. But can you say me your nearest Metro station?
Me: (Give the details)
Student: (Gives directions). And those are all the infos you need to know. Please say me how was your meal. I am very interesting in your feedbacks.
You’ve no doubt noticed what appear to be glaring English errors—but these are mostly instances of the French imposing their own grammar and vocabulary on English. I hear “I propose you…I explain you…I suggest you…I confirm you…” countless times, but that’s just French grammar rearing its head. Say vs. tell is a natural point of confusion. The expression le bon addresse is the French way of saying ‘a great place to go.’ Calling a restaurant “he”? All nouns have genders in French. You can probably guess what 'touristic' and 'typic' should be. 'Sympatic' is derived from sympatique, the French word for nice. Perfume translates to parfum, which could be Chanel No. 5 or a flavor. Info and feedback are always singular in English, but countable in French. Owing to phonological similarity, “choice” and “choose” are frequently confused (my husband got an email from a work event organizer requesting him to “choice his lunch”). In addition, many people don’t realize there’s a distinction between funny and fun; rather, the word funny is used as a catchall, as is done in French. But “I am very interesting” is just a bald-faced mistake, with no language-transfer justification. (I get a kick out of explaining to my students that starting off a sentence that way can cause the false perception that they have highly-inflated senses of self.)
Needless to say, these typical errors are so commonplace that I’ve taken to jokingly using them in my home life, far away from the burning ears of my students. (I know, it’s bad.) I will ask my husband to propose me what he’d like to eat for dinner or to look up infos on the train schedule for our next vacation destination. He’s right there with me, responding in kind, as he hears these same errors every day at his office. The thing is, it’s like the old warning parents give children: if you keep making those faces, one day, they’ll stick. Yes folks, my English skills are starting to deteriorate. Ruh roh.
Let’s go in further depth with Frenglish to show you just how far the rabbit hole things have fallen.
False friends. That’s what the French call English words that appear to have French equivalents, but in reality have different meanings altogether, or no meaning at all. I constantly have to correct my students’ use of these phonies, explaining that people work at companies, not societies; that getting into car accidents can hurt people, not bless them; and that a business can be profitable, not rentable. At a shop, an employee—in an effort to practice his English—asked me if I had any money, because he “have not money.” It seems like a rather obvious, albeit bizarre, question to a customer, right? What he meant was, he was out of small change (in French, monnaie), so did I have any I could pay with? My all-time favorite: a student once said that a certain solution wouldn’t be very “sweatable” (the French souhaitable, sounds just like it if said Anglo style, but it means desirable). It’s all very funny until false friends come unintentionally tumbling out of your own mouth. I once complained to a colleague about the poor organization skills of a ‘formation’ (ahem, training) manager at a client’s office, and on another occasion told someone about the unthinkable scenario I had to face at a certain ‘agency’ (that would be, branch) of my bank. Although these slips have been rare, they give me pause. If my vocabulary is starting to go, what’s next?
The answer to that question lies in certain ubiquitous expressions the French use in English that, while not incorrect, are just a little off. “Normally” is in heavy rotation. For example: How do you like your coffee? “I normally take my coffee with no milk.” How do you get to the Louvre? “Normally, you should exit the Metro and turn on the third street on your left.” Well, normally, Anglos would say ‘usually’ or ‘generally.’ The usage doesn’t mangle the speaker’s meaning, but it’s just different enough. It sometimes slips into my speech when I explain how to use a certain verb tense: “Normally, we use present perfect for actions that…(etc).”
Whenever a French person wishes to confirm something, they’ll undoubtedly say, “It’s OK for me.” Can you meet next Tuesday at 10:00? “It’s OK for me.” Do you mind picking me up from work today? “Yes, it’s OK for me.” While the sentence seems innocuous, it’s not something native English speakers would actually say. Those questions would probably be answered with, “That works for me” or “No problem.” What does being OK have to do with it? But lo and behold, after reading a difficult passage in an article during an English lesson, I’ve started asking students, “Did you understand that? Is it OK for you?” Gah! It makes me cringe a little every time.
But the most amusing offender (if we can call it that) is the standard phrase used to express a positive opinion. Should abortion be legal in Catholic countries? “Yes, why not?” If you find a wallet on the street containing a large sum of money, but no identification, is it justifiable to keep it? “Yes, why not?” This response suggests a rather flippant attitude toward the controversies at hand. We’re not dealing with whether we should choose a Burgundy rather than a Bordeaux. Even though I’m quite accustomed to receiving it as an answer to most opinion-based questions, it still makes me snigger inside every time I hear it. And while I’ve actually never inadvertently used the expression in English, whenever I use its equivalent pourquoi pas? in French, I crack up a little bit, leaving the French person I’m talking to slightly perplexed.
Idioms and slang are two components of my English that have remained, thankfully, 100% intact—which doesn’t make it any less funny when I hear my dear students make verbal guacamole of certain English expressions. The most recent parade of hits include “It is just the small part of the iceberg” and “It isn’t written in the rock.” Fabulous. There’s also the student who commiserated with me over getting sunburns: “I cannot support the sun.” (I know—its policies on immigration are way over the line. It’s not getting my vote this year!) Or take my sexagenarian student who laments the fact that she never speaks English with her British husband, but said when they met, she “was attracted by his English tongue.” Uh…TMI?
The best is when a student has clearly used a translation engine in order to write an email in English. I tell my students again and again that those engines never work, but it doesn’t prevent people from using them anyway—to hilarious effect. I received a real head-scratcher from a student with whom I was trying to schedule lessons. She wrote:
“I am going to try but sometimes with transport I have difficulty in being there at 9:00 am. If it is your only schedule disponnible roaches. When think of courting you, because I have to try to find a room what is not always easy.”OK, we can overlook some of the grammar. And disponible means available in French. But “disponnible roaches”? Who invited them to the lesson? And who’s trying to “court” me—is this the 19th century? Please tell me it’s not the roaches, however available they may be.
Even if Frenglish has started pecking away at my own English, even if my students’ verbal blunders keep me on my toes, and even if I do sometimes stoop to the level of discreet mockery, I still find all of these linguistic slips quite endearing. It’s OK for me.
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