Purchasing power. A recent study reported that it’s the number one concern among French consumers. My students frequently alternate between grumbling and fretting over it. Even advertisers have taken note, as a recent LastMinute.com billboard in the Métro boasted you could provide your family with a vacance “bling-bling” while still protecting your pouvoir d’achat.
The issue is most deeply felt in the area of food prices, a global crisis that shows no sign of letting up. Yet while the French population worries about the soaring cost of a kilo of apples, it also wants desperately to hold onto one of the oldest and dearest of French values—product quality. France has a long, long tradition of farming and people take the terroir very seriously. Each region is known for its agricultural specialties, and only the best producers boast the appellation d’origine contrôlée (or AOC) seal of approval, a government certification that the products (such as wine, dairy goods, produce) are indeed grown or made in said region. It’s a stamp of authority that the California avocado farmers could only dream of, and that New York apple-growers should seriously pursue for Macintoshes. (The fact that I think these are the best apples in the world is probably proof that I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart).
This meticulous attention to quality is reflected in the way one can shop for food. The French government has (of course) generated some laws that protect smaller businesses, limit competition, and therefore prevent prices from dropping. But is this completely a bad thing? Let’s take a deeper look in the shopping cart.
In France, you can shop at a large, chain supermarket. There you can find a wide variety of products, but not necessarily at reduced prices. Due to some bizarre law, chain markets are able to charge different prices for the same products depending where the store is located. Therefore, the same box of cereal can cost two euros more at a Monoprix in the tony 16th arrondisement than in the grittier, bohemian Belleville district. The supermarket offers the convenience of one-stop shopping, but depending on where you live, doesn’t necessarily offer savings.
You can turn to the hypermarkets if you want to shave off pennies, but those are few and far between. France has tried to restrict expansion as much as possible in order to protect small, independent businesses and avoid going the way of fiercely competitive capitalist markets. There are indeed zoning laws that prohibit more than one hypermarket within a wide geographic area, and even more laws that prevent more than one large supermarket from opening within a certain range.
This may seem strange to American consumers, yet there’s something to it. First of all, you may be able to pick up much-needed non-perishable items and household products at a supermarket or hypermarket, but the perishables aren’t necessarily of the highest quality. Second of all, there’s something sterile and uninviting about strolling the fluorescent-lit aisles of a grocery store, where employees are impassive and don’t know a whole lot about the products they’re peddling.
A much richer experience awaits shoppers in the small commercial areas of their quartiers,, a tradition that has been rendered extinct in the strip-mall-thatched expanses of America. Picking up groceries can sometimes be a chore, but I often look forward to it in my neighborhood. First, I stop at the small open-air marché where I select from a gorgeous display of produce—and most of it isn’t imported. Plus, it’s better than anything I’ve ever found in the States, even at Whole Foods (maybe just with the exception of my all-time favorite, California heirloom tomatoes). I regularly eat fruit from the market that really epitomizes the way fruits should taste. When’s the last time I savored berries or peaches of that quality back in the States? Too often in the U.S. you get produce that looks fantastic, only to have a mealy or diluted, watery taste. What also makes my shopping experience at my local petit marché so pleasant is the friendly greengrocer and his son who greet me with smiles and small talk every time.
On special occasions, I can also hit up the large outdoor markets, which tend to have lots more selection at slightly lower prices and aren’t nearly as bobo as U.S. farmer’s markets. However, I have to be lucky enough to have time in my schedule to visit these markets, as they’re often on weekday mornings and severely crowded on weekends.
Next, I’m off to the butcher. This is a relatively new experience for me, as I never shopped at a butcher in San Francisco. The miracle that is Trader Joe’s offered high-quality free range, organic poultry and meat at reasonable prices and so I usually bought my proteins there. At first, I bought meat at the supermarkets, but a recent scare (it came to light that at cheaper groceries they were repackaging nearly-expired meats to look fresher and giving them new expiration dates) made me a bit paranoid. So, I conceded to pay a bit extra to ensure that I was getting safe, quality meat. I couldn’t be more satisfied. The meat not only tastes fantastic, but there’s always such a huge variety of cuts to choose from. I still don’t dare venture into offal territory, but I could if I wanted to—it’s all proudly laid out in the display case. My butchers happily offer to butterfly chicken filets and pound them into thin breasts, cut up beef into cubes for a stew, or explain the best method for cooking certain cuts of lamb. The purveyors are also extremely smiley and gregarious, a quality which many French shopkeepers seem to lack.
Finally, I stop at the bakery. It goes without saying that French bakeries are proof of the divine. How else could something smell and taste so good? American bread—even when baked fresh on the premises with lots of love and care—doesn’t even come close. Not only is it a simple pleasure to pick up a fresh tradition or pain cereals, but it’s also (by French standards) cheap! Amen to that. There are tons of tiny boulangeries scattered throughout the city, with no zoning laws to restrict the reach of their delicious output.
While those are my top three food-shopping spots, I have many more artisinal, specialty shops to choose from: the fishmonger, the wine shop, the charcuterie (French equivalent of deli), the dedicated poultry vendor (complete with the always-spinning rotisserie), the chocolatier, and the cheese shop. At the latter, you can spend as much time as you want asking the shopkeepers about their endless varieties of fromage and they will never bat an eyelash. (This is in ironic contrast to the surly service we—and everyone else, for that matter—always received at Say Cheese on San Francisco’s Cole Street. It seems the shopkeepers there have swapped typical cultural roles with the upbeat cheesemongers on our current shopping street.)
Although I pay a bit extra for the privilege of filling my fridge with the bounty of the small, independently-run shops, it’s only marginally more than what I’d pay at the supermarket—and the quality is far better, from the perspective of what goes on my plate and my overall shopping experience. I’m with the French government on this one.
22 July 2008
15 July 2008
Le Quatorze Juillet
July 4th came and went in France without even a whimper, but the 14th (aka Bastille Day) went out with a bang.
There was a grand parade and air show on the Champs-Elysées. N and I missed the fanfare due to a late morning and leisurely lunch, but we caught some of the daytime revelry. We walked two miles from our home to la place de la Concorde, catching a military expo of sorts along the way, in a small square between the Louvre and the Palais Royal. There was an army camper showing military footage (it was so crowded we couldn’t get close enough to see any), but we had fun checking out the mannequins of legionnaires throughout the ages – particularly the prominently featured WWI soldiers. There was also a tent showcasing military-branded wine (where else would you see that but in France?), which was also thronged. We squeezed past an endless torrent of tourists by the Louvre and in the Tuileries to get to Concorde, the endpoint of the parade, where we witnessed hordes and hordes of decorated soldiers and navy sailors in their dandy outfits posing for pictures and savoring ice cream cones in the heat.
In the evening, we went to N’s family friend’s rooftop dinner party in the swanky 16th arrondisement. This sport afforded us a perfect view of La Tour Eiffel and the annual spectacle des feus d’artifice (fireworks show) right beside it. Let’s just say that the French know how to do fireworks, and seeing them streaking through the skyline beside La Tour Eiffel was magical. Overheard on the rooftop was the poignant quip, “Here are our tax dollars at work, people!” Ha. We took an insane amount of pictures, so I’ll let the ones I’ve included do the rest of the talking.
It was nice to be in a secluded spot for the occasion. Tons of locals and tourists pack themselves onto the Champ de Mars in front of La Tour Eiffel. Apparently the crowd was enormous and the gendarmerie were checking people’s bags and confiscating alcohol (only to drink it themselves, I’m sure).
After being nestled in the serene cocoon of the rooftop party, we eventually had to rejoin the masses, which were pouring out of every street—people partying, strolling, eating ice cream on their way to the Metro from the nearby Champ de Mars. Uh oh. The Metro ride started out semi-comfortably, but got more and more crowded as we made our way across town, eventually reaching a crisis point of transport strike-levels of suffocation about halfway home. The crowds waiting on the platforms were mind-bogglingly huge. At one point, we couldn’t take it anymore and instantaneously bolted off the train, although it took quite a while to wade through the dense thicket of people packed onto the platform and staircases until we finally made it outside—at Concorde, the exact point where we ended our daytime walk.
And so we did the same walk twice in one day, as there were no Velibs to be found anywhere. We caught the mini-carnival festivities in the Tuileries, which were even livelier at night than during the day, what with all the flashing neon and people high on booze and/or cotton candy. We topped off the day with a great late-night walk, with the sounds of revelry carrying all the way into the Marais.
There was a grand parade and air show on the Champs-Elysées. N and I missed the fanfare due to a late morning and leisurely lunch, but we caught some of the daytime revelry. We walked two miles from our home to la place de la Concorde, catching a military expo of sorts along the way, in a small square between the Louvre and the Palais Royal. There was an army camper showing military footage (it was so crowded we couldn’t get close enough to see any), but we had fun checking out the mannequins of legionnaires throughout the ages – particularly the prominently featured WWI soldiers. There was also a tent showcasing military-branded wine (where else would you see that but in France?), which was also thronged. We squeezed past an endless torrent of tourists by the Louvre and in the Tuileries to get to Concorde, the endpoint of the parade, where we witnessed hordes and hordes of decorated soldiers and navy sailors in their dandy outfits posing for pictures and savoring ice cream cones in the heat.
In the evening, we went to N’s family friend’s rooftop dinner party in the swanky 16th arrondisement. This sport afforded us a perfect view of La Tour Eiffel and the annual spectacle des feus d’artifice (fireworks show) right beside it. Let’s just say that the French know how to do fireworks, and seeing them streaking through the skyline beside La Tour Eiffel was magical. Overheard on the rooftop was the poignant quip, “Here are our tax dollars at work, people!” Ha. We took an insane amount of pictures, so I’ll let the ones I’ve included do the rest of the talking.
It was nice to be in a secluded spot for the occasion. Tons of locals and tourists pack themselves onto the Champ de Mars in front of La Tour Eiffel. Apparently the crowd was enormous and the gendarmerie were checking people’s bags and confiscating alcohol (only to drink it themselves, I’m sure).
After being nestled in the serene cocoon of the rooftop party, we eventually had to rejoin the masses, which were pouring out of every street—people partying, strolling, eating ice cream on their way to the Metro from the nearby Champ de Mars. Uh oh. The Metro ride started out semi-comfortably, but got more and more crowded as we made our way across town, eventually reaching a crisis point of transport strike-levels of suffocation about halfway home. The crowds waiting on the platforms were mind-bogglingly huge. At one point, we couldn’t take it anymore and instantaneously bolted off the train, although it took quite a while to wade through the dense thicket of people packed onto the platform and staircases until we finally made it outside—at Concorde, the exact point where we ended our daytime walk.
And so we did the same walk twice in one day, as there were no Velibs to be found anywhere. We caught the mini-carnival festivities in the Tuileries, which were even livelier at night than during the day, what with all the flashing neon and people high on booze and/or cotton candy. We topped off the day with a great late-night walk, with the sounds of revelry carrying all the way into the Marais.
10 July 2008
The Art(lessness) of the Gaze
The French love to stare. And they’re not subtle or coy about it at all. They never aim a ginger look out of the corner of their eyes and then quickly turn away when the object of their gaze looks in their direction. Oh, no. Rather, they’ve perfected the habit of full-on, without-a-doubt, shameless staring right at you. This lack of discretion seems odd and more than a little bit nosy, because where I come from, staring is rude and something best remained hidden; on the other hand, there’s something so honest about unabashed staring—“yeah, I’m lookin’ at you”—that gets lost in the tangled web of American social niceties.
It used to bother me, because I’m often the target of stares. As an outsider, I tend to do certain quotidian things just differently enough to merit curiosity. After a while, though, I got used to the staring and decided to turn it around by defiantly staring right back, as if to say, “You lookin’ at me? What? WHAT?” Such a gesture would certain make most American starers back down, but the French usually keep staring. They cannot be deflected. Are they robots? Sigh. It at least makes me feel a bit better to (somewhat) take charge of my objectification.
Anyways, I’ve been able to determine a pattern to the long, uninterrupted gaze of the French:
1) Be a tourist. Well, I don’t fall into this category, but I’ve seen people stare at tourists like their lives depend on it. I suppose foreigners hold a certain universal curiosity, but come on, this is Paris, a large, international city—not some hick country town in the middle of nowhere. Just yesterday, a family of German tourists got on the RER. The dad was filming their entrance to the train, which admittedly was a tad stare-worthy because who needs to capture getting on the RER Ligne A, aka the oven of B.O., sweat, and suffocation? Anyhow, the guy turned off his camera once his troupe was safely on board and the family proceeded to talk quietly amongst themselves. I noticed nearly everyone on the train continue to stare at them for the next few minutes. Sorry, but they were not even remotely fascinating.
2) Speak a foreign language. This may have had something to do with the example above. Any time I’ve spoken English in public, I’ve almost invariably gotten stared at, especially on public transportation. I don’t like to speak on my mobile on public trans, but sometimes it happens, and I feel a lot less self-conscious doing it here because a) everyone else does it, and b) not everyone understands me. However, they stare at me anyway. It’s worse if you’re speaking to someone on the train in English, as you become the focus of attention. Big whoop! If I’m reading anything English, I also get stared at. Maybe the people are trying to test their English skills—that’s the only good reason I can come up with for why people feel the need to actually peek at the text in the book, essentially reading (or just staring?) over my shoulder. Yes, Philip Roth is that compelling.
3) Eat on public transportation. I don’t do this often, because let’s face it, it’s not ideal. However, I’m forced to do so once a week, when I have from noon to half past to get from one client in the center of town to the next client at La Défense on the western outskirts. It’s tight, but doable—just as long as I eat lunch on the RER. Everyone in my vicinity stares at me almost the entire time I’m eating. I’d understand it if I was a boorish, slobby eater with baguette crumbs all over my clothes, but I usually have a fairly neatly packaged salad or non-crumbly sandwich, keeping myself and the train car floor squeaky clean. I still can’t tell if the staring is due to people thinking I’m crude regardless, or to people being jealous. In case of the latter, I throw in a few satisfied, this-is-so-yummy looks.
4) Carry or drink out of a large water bottle. I’ve written about this issue before. The French cannot comprehend drinking out of a container that is bigger than a juice glass or small water bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that my Nalgene was made out of a chemical-leaking plastic (eek), so I discarded it and have since been shelling out the big bucks for disposable plastic bottles for when I’m on the go. However, I tend to go for one- or two-liter bottles so I don’t have to constantly refill. Whether I’m sipping or simply toting such a gargantuan bottle, I get stared at on the street, on the train, in lunch spots—nothing to see here, just staying hydrated.
5) Wear gym clothes on the street. For prolonged staring, wear gym clothes on the street after you have worked out. For X-Ray strength staring, do the latter while really, really sweaty and running various errands. Now, I’m not in danger of running into diplomats or other VIPs while doing so, and I admit it’s not my finest-looking hour, but I refuse to shower and primp at the gym (like 98% of Parisian gym members) when I live only a seven-minute walk away. And if I need to pick up milk and veggies on my way home, I will do so in full gym regalia. Sweat included. So be it.
Conveniently, the one time Parisians don’t stare at you is when they’re trying to board a Métro or RER train. This is the one time when you become completely invisible to them, so much so that they practically walk right through you—or into you, as it were. And there are two occasions when Parisians don’t stare at each other, but can become the object of my gaze:
• Excessive making out in public. Anyone who’s been to Paris has seen a young couple all unabashedly hot and heavy in public. What’s funny is that they seem to choose the most visible spots in which to do so. I’ve seen: people sucking face right after the turnstiles to get into the Métro, on crowded Métro cars within inches of someone else’s head, nearly dry-humping on park benches, and against building walls on busy street corners. I’d rather not be a voyeur of all the hardcore PDA, but the openness of these acts (you’re not in Puritan America anymore!) tends to catch my attention for at least a couple seconds. Then I laugh to myself and look away.
• Vociferous complaining. This is pretty much a national sport in France. People love to sigh, cluck their tongues, “oh la la” miserably, or rant—loudly—over the most trivial mishaps. Is the five-minute delay on the train so horrible that you need to rattle off a thesis about the ills of RATP? Is the rain really such a menace to society that you have to gasp like you just saw the Four Riders of the Apocalypse? When N and I were at Orly airport, on our way to Barcelona, the airline reps announced that we would have to walk down one flight of stairs to a new gate. A middle-aged woman in front of us cried out, “Oh la la la la la la la la la la, on descend” (translation: oh crap, we’re going downstairs) with such bitterness, agony, and injustice that N and I burst out laughing. The woman’s teenage daughter noticed, which only made us giggle louder. The French may stare at me, but every now and again they give me good reason to ogle them, with hilarious results.
It used to bother me, because I’m often the target of stares. As an outsider, I tend to do certain quotidian things just differently enough to merit curiosity. After a while, though, I got used to the staring and decided to turn it around by defiantly staring right back, as if to say, “You lookin’ at me? What? WHAT?” Such a gesture would certain make most American starers back down, but the French usually keep staring. They cannot be deflected. Are they robots? Sigh. It at least makes me feel a bit better to (somewhat) take charge of my objectification.
Anyways, I’ve been able to determine a pattern to the long, uninterrupted gaze of the French:
1) Be a tourist. Well, I don’t fall into this category, but I’ve seen people stare at tourists like their lives depend on it. I suppose foreigners hold a certain universal curiosity, but come on, this is Paris, a large, international city—not some hick country town in the middle of nowhere. Just yesterday, a family of German tourists got on the RER. The dad was filming their entrance to the train, which admittedly was a tad stare-worthy because who needs to capture getting on the RER Ligne A, aka the oven of B.O., sweat, and suffocation? Anyhow, the guy turned off his camera once his troupe was safely on board and the family proceeded to talk quietly amongst themselves. I noticed nearly everyone on the train continue to stare at them for the next few minutes. Sorry, but they were not even remotely fascinating.
2) Speak a foreign language. This may have had something to do with the example above. Any time I’ve spoken English in public, I’ve almost invariably gotten stared at, especially on public transportation. I don’t like to speak on my mobile on public trans, but sometimes it happens, and I feel a lot less self-conscious doing it here because a) everyone else does it, and b) not everyone understands me. However, they stare at me anyway. It’s worse if you’re speaking to someone on the train in English, as you become the focus of attention. Big whoop! If I’m reading anything English, I also get stared at. Maybe the people are trying to test their English skills—that’s the only good reason I can come up with for why people feel the need to actually peek at the text in the book, essentially reading (or just staring?) over my shoulder. Yes, Philip Roth is that compelling.
3) Eat on public transportation. I don’t do this often, because let’s face it, it’s not ideal. However, I’m forced to do so once a week, when I have from noon to half past to get from one client in the center of town to the next client at La Défense on the western outskirts. It’s tight, but doable—just as long as I eat lunch on the RER. Everyone in my vicinity stares at me almost the entire time I’m eating. I’d understand it if I was a boorish, slobby eater with baguette crumbs all over my clothes, but I usually have a fairly neatly packaged salad or non-crumbly sandwich, keeping myself and the train car floor squeaky clean. I still can’t tell if the staring is due to people thinking I’m crude regardless, or to people being jealous. In case of the latter, I throw in a few satisfied, this-is-so-yummy looks.
4) Carry or drink out of a large water bottle. I’ve written about this issue before. The French cannot comprehend drinking out of a container that is bigger than a juice glass or small water bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that my Nalgene was made out of a chemical-leaking plastic (eek), so I discarded it and have since been shelling out the big bucks for disposable plastic bottles for when I’m on the go. However, I tend to go for one- or two-liter bottles so I don’t have to constantly refill. Whether I’m sipping or simply toting such a gargantuan bottle, I get stared at on the street, on the train, in lunch spots—nothing to see here, just staying hydrated.
5) Wear gym clothes on the street. For prolonged staring, wear gym clothes on the street after you have worked out. For X-Ray strength staring, do the latter while really, really sweaty and running various errands. Now, I’m not in danger of running into diplomats or other VIPs while doing so, and I admit it’s not my finest-looking hour, but I refuse to shower and primp at the gym (like 98% of Parisian gym members) when I live only a seven-minute walk away. And if I need to pick up milk and veggies on my way home, I will do so in full gym regalia. Sweat included. So be it.
Conveniently, the one time Parisians don’t stare at you is when they’re trying to board a Métro or RER train. This is the one time when you become completely invisible to them, so much so that they practically walk right through you—or into you, as it were. And there are two occasions when Parisians don’t stare at each other, but can become the object of my gaze:
• Excessive making out in public. Anyone who’s been to Paris has seen a young couple all unabashedly hot and heavy in public. What’s funny is that they seem to choose the most visible spots in which to do so. I’ve seen: people sucking face right after the turnstiles to get into the Métro, on crowded Métro cars within inches of someone else’s head, nearly dry-humping on park benches, and against building walls on busy street corners. I’d rather not be a voyeur of all the hardcore PDA, but the openness of these acts (you’re not in Puritan America anymore!) tends to catch my attention for at least a couple seconds. Then I laugh to myself and look away.
• Vociferous complaining. This is pretty much a national sport in France. People love to sigh, cluck their tongues, “oh la la” miserably, or rant—loudly—over the most trivial mishaps. Is the five-minute delay on the train so horrible that you need to rattle off a thesis about the ills of RATP? Is the rain really such a menace to society that you have to gasp like you just saw the Four Riders of the Apocalypse? When N and I were at Orly airport, on our way to Barcelona, the airline reps announced that we would have to walk down one flight of stairs to a new gate. A middle-aged woman in front of us cried out, “Oh la la la la la la la la la la, on descend” (translation: oh crap, we’re going downstairs) with such bitterness, agony, and injustice that N and I burst out laughing. The woman’s teenage daughter noticed, which only made us giggle louder. The French may stare at me, but every now and again they give me good reason to ogle them, with hilarious results.
07 July 2008
...in the Summer, When It Sizzles
Now that it’s summer (or some approximation of it, given the inconsistent weather we’ve been having), I’ve realized there’s one thing I kind of miss: air conditioning. It’s taken me by surprise. After all, I don’t live in a sweltering, smog-infused metropolis near the equator, nor a steamy jungle—but I have to say that sometimes Paris can feel like either one. By general rule, there’s no A/C in many homes, office buildings, shops, restaurants, and certainly not on the Métro and RER, neither on the platform nor on the train cars themselves. Summer temperatures can be akin to those in the Northeast U.S., but even on days in the low 70's, navigating all of the above locations can turn me into a hot, wilted mess.
The Métro and RER can be fairly bearable on a hot day at off-peak hours. It’s not cool on the trains, by any stretch, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve entered a boiler room—unless you’re riding during rush hour. All that densely packed commuter flesh can really raise the temperature quite a bit. The RER Line A, which I use four days a week, is a friggin’ oven. I get on the train feeling just fine, but after being wedged on it like a sausage for only eight stationary minutes, I’m sweating.
Once I’m outside, even if it’s hot out, the fresh air and light breeze are welcome sources of relief. But that all ends when I reach a client’s office building. Those of you who live in hot places with abundant A/C know the near-orgasmic pleasure of walking into a frigid lobby after trekking around in the muggy outdoors. Here in Paris, the sensation of walking into an uncooled lobby is the exact opposite. The heat hits you like a ton of bricks. At larger, more modern buildings, like the 37-story tower where I have several clients, the situation improves once you go upstairs. There must be some light A/C in the halls because they just feel cooler, and each meeting room has heat and A/C controls. (Getting a French person to agree to turning on the A/C is another story. More on that below.)
However, if you suffer the misfortune of working in a smaller, older building (the norm in Paris), you are screwed. My company’s office building doesn’t have the infrastructure for A/C, reducing our top-story office to a veritable furnace. The hottest spot within is the teachers’ room, which houses the copying machine (in other words, the device we need to use the most), which emanates radioactive levels of heat.
It can be just as bad in the shops, too. On one particularly hot day, I was thirsty and on my way to a client, and couldn’t find a little grocery, so I stopped at a Monoprix (higher-price supermarket chain) to buy a cold drink. Walking inside was like suddenly being transported to Mumbai: over 90 degrees and air so humid you could slice it with a butter knife, which is never a good sign indoors. How can the fanciest supermarket in Paris not have A/C? At this rate, I’d have to buy two drinks—one just to hydrate me enough to make it out of the store.
Although many restos don’t have air-con, they very often have one magic ingredient: la terrasse. And if you aren’t lucky enough to snag a seat there, the doors and windows are always open, creating some soothing cross-ventilation inside. The same can be done at home, where we also have fans to get us through what could be too-warm, sleepless nights.
My aversion to the lack of A/C deems me a freak. The French are nearly always cold. I don’t know what in their genetic disposition makes them so sensitive to cold temperatures; Paris is on the same longitude as Vancouver, for crying out loud. C’est bizarre--and also, kind of hysterical. I’ll be on the boiling-hot RER during rush hour, perspiring in short sleeves and a skirt, and women will be sporting light sweaters while men will be keeping on the jackets of their wool-blended suits. I’ve entered relatively cool conference rooms at my students’ buildings, smiling in relief, only to have my dreams shattered by the eternal complaint, “Ah, il fait froid! Oh la la la la, la climatisation est la merde.” Then my student will invariably fiddle with the A/C control panel, gasping in horror at the temperature reading of 20 degrees (that’s roughly 72 F). I’ve had to talk students down from cranking it up to 26 C (approx. 84 F). Just the other night at a restaurant (which had a perfect room temperature), N and I noticed two parties ask to change their table “because of the draft.” Ha! Now you know why the French all wear scarves: to protect their delicate, draft-endangered necks.
I used to be like them, kind of. I always used to get cold back in the States. An SF summer was a time to bust out the fleece, not turn up the air-con. At a summer job in NYC I used to wear a sweater in the office because it was freezing due to full-blast A/C. Geography didn't even really have much to do with it--I always had temperature wars with students in my never-quite-right classroom and also at home with my husband, who would be perfectly happy if it never went above 73 degrees, anywhere. How things have changed. Well, it may be more energy efficient in France, but they could maybe spread the love...just a little bit? I mean, this is the country where thousands of senior citizens died in an unprecedented August heatstroke five years back (a big part of the problem, aside from lack of A/C, was that almost the entire country was on vacation).
When I visit NYC this summer, I know it’ll probably hot as Hades—but at least on the subway, there will be air-conditioning.
The Métro and RER can be fairly bearable on a hot day at off-peak hours. It’s not cool on the trains, by any stretch, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve entered a boiler room—unless you’re riding during rush hour. All that densely packed commuter flesh can really raise the temperature quite a bit. The RER Line A, which I use four days a week, is a friggin’ oven. I get on the train feeling just fine, but after being wedged on it like a sausage for only eight stationary minutes, I’m sweating.
Once I’m outside, even if it’s hot out, the fresh air and light breeze are welcome sources of relief. But that all ends when I reach a client’s office building. Those of you who live in hot places with abundant A/C know the near-orgasmic pleasure of walking into a frigid lobby after trekking around in the muggy outdoors. Here in Paris, the sensation of walking into an uncooled lobby is the exact opposite. The heat hits you like a ton of bricks. At larger, more modern buildings, like the 37-story tower where I have several clients, the situation improves once you go upstairs. There must be some light A/C in the halls because they just feel cooler, and each meeting room has heat and A/C controls. (Getting a French person to agree to turning on the A/C is another story. More on that below.)
However, if you suffer the misfortune of working in a smaller, older building (the norm in Paris), you are screwed. My company’s office building doesn’t have the infrastructure for A/C, reducing our top-story office to a veritable furnace. The hottest spot within is the teachers’ room, which houses the copying machine (in other words, the device we need to use the most), which emanates radioactive levels of heat.
It can be just as bad in the shops, too. On one particularly hot day, I was thirsty and on my way to a client, and couldn’t find a little grocery, so I stopped at a Monoprix (higher-price supermarket chain) to buy a cold drink. Walking inside was like suddenly being transported to Mumbai: over 90 degrees and air so humid you could slice it with a butter knife, which is never a good sign indoors. How can the fanciest supermarket in Paris not have A/C? At this rate, I’d have to buy two drinks—one just to hydrate me enough to make it out of the store.
Although many restos don’t have air-con, they very often have one magic ingredient: la terrasse. And if you aren’t lucky enough to snag a seat there, the doors and windows are always open, creating some soothing cross-ventilation inside. The same can be done at home, where we also have fans to get us through what could be too-warm, sleepless nights.
My aversion to the lack of A/C deems me a freak. The French are nearly always cold. I don’t know what in their genetic disposition makes them so sensitive to cold temperatures; Paris is on the same longitude as Vancouver, for crying out loud. C’est bizarre--and also, kind of hysterical. I’ll be on the boiling-hot RER during rush hour, perspiring in short sleeves and a skirt, and women will be sporting light sweaters while men will be keeping on the jackets of their wool-blended suits. I’ve entered relatively cool conference rooms at my students’ buildings, smiling in relief, only to have my dreams shattered by the eternal complaint, “Ah, il fait froid! Oh la la la la, la climatisation est la merde.” Then my student will invariably fiddle with the A/C control panel, gasping in horror at the temperature reading of 20 degrees (that’s roughly 72 F). I’ve had to talk students down from cranking it up to 26 C (approx. 84 F). Just the other night at a restaurant (which had a perfect room temperature), N and I noticed two parties ask to change their table “because of the draft.” Ha! Now you know why the French all wear scarves: to protect their delicate, draft-endangered necks.
I used to be like them, kind of. I always used to get cold back in the States. An SF summer was a time to bust out the fleece, not turn up the air-con. At a summer job in NYC I used to wear a sweater in the office because it was freezing due to full-blast A/C. Geography didn't even really have much to do with it--I always had temperature wars with students in my never-quite-right classroom and also at home with my husband, who would be perfectly happy if it never went above 73 degrees, anywhere. How things have changed. Well, it may be more energy efficient in France, but they could maybe spread the love...just a little bit? I mean, this is the country where thousands of senior citizens died in an unprecedented August heatstroke five years back (a big part of the problem, aside from lack of A/C, was that almost the entire country was on vacation).
When I visit NYC this summer, I know it’ll probably hot as Hades—but at least on the subway, there will be air-conditioning.
06 July 2008
Of Cantaloupes and Chameleons
On a recent gorgeous Sunday, I saw the legendary Herbie Hancock play at a free jazz festival in the business district outside Paris. I was pretty far from the stage, although I managed to capture some short footage of show highlights. The audio far outweighs the video quality, but you can still enjoy:Cantaloupe Island
(while you can barely see the stage, you can observe one of the foremost French social rituals: people schmoozing over cigarettes)
Chameleon
(better view of Herbie and his HAWT electric keyboard; note the super enthusiastic chick in the bottom right corner)
Spotted: The Elusive Sandwitch
I love this. Especially given the illogical spelling, as 'sandwich' is THE SAME in both English and French.
Meanwhile, the Wiccan Sand People are busy plotting their revenge.
05 July 2008
Comment dit 'awkward'?
My developing language skills have been met with various attitudes from the French, ranging from kind and forgiving (“Don’t worry, you haven’t been here long and you’re making great progress”), to ill-at-ease (I’ve had several uncomfortable moments when my French skills and the person’s English skills finally reached their limits and the person didn’t really know what to do with me), to what could pass as politeness but what I take as impatient and slightly condescending (despite my attempts to speak French, the person responds in English – I hate this). But never, ever has a French person bullied me into speaking English...not until last night, that is.
Let me set the scene. I was at a French friend’s birthday picnic on the Seine. The evening temperature was perfect, the slightly cloudy sky made for some beautiful, soft sunset colors, and our spot on the south side of Île St. Louis afforded us a lovely view of Left Bank apartment buildings, the elegant Tour d’Argent, the impressive Institut du Monde Arabe, the edge of Notre Dame, and an endless parade of bateaux mouches cruising the river from the golden hour into the night. There was a mix of (mostly) Frenchies and some Anglos, including myself, N, another American, and several Aussies. Everyone was sipping wine, munching on light picnic fare, chatting, and generally enjoying themselves when things took a turn for the strange.
The Instigating Event occurred out of my earshot, so I’m reconstructing events from hearsay. Apparently one of the French women was taking pictures of people and asked N, two of the Aussie ladies, and a French guy to pose for her. After she took several minutes to first try to snap the photo, she noticed one of the Aussies, fellow blogger Le Tigre in France, “wasn’t smiling” (even though apparently she was—you know those parents who take a light year to fiddle with the camera and get it just right, turning your initial natural smile into a sullen clenched-jaw? Well, apparently that was the situation). The Frenchie called the Aussie out on it in a “what’s wrong with you?” tone, some banter ensued, the French woman continued to harp on it, and eventually the Aussie said she was fed up with the situation and so could they please move on. The French woman didn’t cotton to that idea.
The ensuing tirade would be just about the time I and the people I was chatting with started to take notice of the situation. My friend was trying to mediate, arguing that the language barrier had probably caused a huge misunderstanding, but this angle wasn’t making progress with the French woman, who just wouldn’t back down. Blah blah why does she not want to smile for my picture blah blah (I mean, seriously?) and the Aussie got more and more irritated, eventually storming off and leaving my friend to continue unsuccessfully appeasing the Frenchie. My little posse just behind them went from awkwardly trying to pretend to not be listening to forming a Peanut Gallery, snarkily commenting on how ridiculous the situation had become. Eventually one of us, an Anglo with great French skills, intervened and tried to convince the Frenchie to let it go, it wasn’t important, this wasn’t a family member or a spouse so why continue bickering? (The real question was, why was a woman in her 40’s acting like a tween scorned in a schoolyard scuffle?) But no, she kept going, now having clocked a total of over 10 minutes. Incroyable.
“Why can’t anyone smile? What’s wrong with smiling?” This, directed right at me, who hadn’t even been involved up until this point. I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m smiling! We’re all smiling! You’re the one who isn’t smiling! It’s all good. Everyone’s having a good time.” My little outburst either threw her off-guard or only incensed her more, because then she switched gears entirely and focused her insanity on me and the two innocent Aussie ladies standing next to me.
“Il faut mélanger. Vous ne mélangez pas”: her accusation that we hadn’t been mingling, when for the past couple hours we’d (well, I can only speak for myself) been talking to different people, Anglo and French. Then she forcefully grabbed the three of us by the hands, and despite our protests, dragged us over to a circle of three French men. “Tiens. Now you can speak English.” She then introduced each of us to a French man, essentially pairing us off, and then yelled patronizingly at us girls, “Now you can SPEAK ENGLISH!!” in a manner that told us this wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. OK, I thought, this woman is batshit crazy. Was this a warped attempt to play matchmaker? Have her French friends practice their English? Carry out some strange, misplaced revenge scenario? I felt like a linguistic rag doll.
I could’ve simply walked away, but that would’ve been rude to my assigned ami. I turned my back to the French woman completely and loudly exclaimed to the French guy, “Je peux parler français, en fait, tu ne dois pas parler anglais.” I started blathering on in French, going through the small-talk motions. But what did this guy do? Throughout the entire conversation that ensued, he only spoke English. Grrrrr!!! Is my French really that bad, or was he too scared to cross Notre Dame de la Folie? I overheard the other Aussies speaking English to their assigned dudes. With most of us speaking English, how did that crazy lady manage to win?
Anyhow, as strange as it was (and other Frenchies among the crowd agreed), the Incident of Infamy at least provided some humor to what was an otherwise pleasant, peaceful evening. The party continued, the vin rouge kept flowing, and the laughter carried across the river on the July nocturnal breeze.
Let me set the scene. I was at a French friend’s birthday picnic on the Seine. The evening temperature was perfect, the slightly cloudy sky made for some beautiful, soft sunset colors, and our spot on the south side of Île St. Louis afforded us a lovely view of Left Bank apartment buildings, the elegant Tour d’Argent, the impressive Institut du Monde Arabe, the edge of Notre Dame, and an endless parade of bateaux mouches cruising the river from the golden hour into the night. There was a mix of (mostly) Frenchies and some Anglos, including myself, N, another American, and several Aussies. Everyone was sipping wine, munching on light picnic fare, chatting, and generally enjoying themselves when things took a turn for the strange.The Instigating Event occurred out of my earshot, so I’m reconstructing events from hearsay. Apparently one of the French women was taking pictures of people and asked N, two of the Aussie ladies, and a French guy to pose for her. After she took several minutes to first try to snap the photo, she noticed one of the Aussies, fellow blogger Le Tigre in France, “wasn’t smiling” (even though apparently she was—you know those parents who take a light year to fiddle with the camera and get it just right, turning your initial natural smile into a sullen clenched-jaw? Well, apparently that was the situation). The Frenchie called the Aussie out on it in a “what’s wrong with you?” tone, some banter ensued, the French woman continued to harp on it, and eventually the Aussie said she was fed up with the situation and so could they please move on. The French woman didn’t cotton to that idea.
The ensuing tirade would be just about the time I and the people I was chatting with started to take notice of the situation. My friend was trying to mediate, arguing that the language barrier had probably caused a huge misunderstanding, but this angle wasn’t making progress with the French woman, who just wouldn’t back down. Blah blah why does she not want to smile for my picture blah blah (I mean, seriously?) and the Aussie got more and more irritated, eventually storming off and leaving my friend to continue unsuccessfully appeasing the Frenchie. My little posse just behind them went from awkwardly trying to pretend to not be listening to forming a Peanut Gallery, snarkily commenting on how ridiculous the situation had become. Eventually one of us, an Anglo with great French skills, intervened and tried to convince the Frenchie to let it go, it wasn’t important, this wasn’t a family member or a spouse so why continue bickering? (The real question was, why was a woman in her 40’s acting like a tween scorned in a schoolyard scuffle?) But no, she kept going, now having clocked a total of over 10 minutes. Incroyable.
“Why can’t anyone smile? What’s wrong with smiling?” This, directed right at me, who hadn’t even been involved up until this point. I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m smiling! We’re all smiling! You’re the one who isn’t smiling! It’s all good. Everyone’s having a good time.” My little outburst either threw her off-guard or only incensed her more, because then she switched gears entirely and focused her insanity on me and the two innocent Aussie ladies standing next to me.“Il faut mélanger. Vous ne mélangez pas”: her accusation that we hadn’t been mingling, when for the past couple hours we’d (well, I can only speak for myself) been talking to different people, Anglo and French. Then she forcefully grabbed the three of us by the hands, and despite our protests, dragged us over to a circle of three French men. “Tiens. Now you can speak English.” She then introduced each of us to a French man, essentially pairing us off, and then yelled patronizingly at us girls, “Now you can SPEAK ENGLISH!!” in a manner that told us this wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order. OK, I thought, this woman is batshit crazy. Was this a warped attempt to play matchmaker? Have her French friends practice their English? Carry out some strange, misplaced revenge scenario? I felt like a linguistic rag doll.
I could’ve simply walked away, but that would’ve been rude to my assigned ami. I turned my back to the French woman completely and loudly exclaimed to the French guy, “Je peux parler français, en fait, tu ne dois pas parler anglais.” I started blathering on in French, going through the small-talk motions. But what did this guy do? Throughout the entire conversation that ensued, he only spoke English. Grrrrr!!! Is my French really that bad, or was he too scared to cross Notre Dame de la Folie? I overheard the other Aussies speaking English to their assigned dudes. With most of us speaking English, how did that crazy lady manage to win?
Anyhow, as strange as it was (and other Frenchies among the crowd agreed), the Incident of Infamy at least provided some humor to what was an otherwise pleasant, peaceful evening. The party continued, the vin rouge kept flowing, and the laughter carried across the river on the July nocturnal breeze.
02 July 2008
A Shift in the Force
When I first moved here, I was awash in a rainstorm of illogic. The catch-22 of needing a lease to open a bank account but also not being able to sign a lease without one was just mind-boggling. Only being able to complete certain banking transactions with my particular account manager never failed to amaze. People’s tendency to act impatiently (cutting lines, aggressively hopping onto train cars) was in sharp contrast to their tendency to be completely dazed and oblivious (stopping short right in front of you on the street and not considerately moving out of the way…and then getting mad if you at all bumped into them). None of it made any sense! At the time, when I expressed my confusion and frustration, my American friend who’d been living in Paris for over six years said, “See, that’s your mistake: looking for logic where there isn’t any!”
During the months that followed, I experienced more than my fair share of the small paradoxes of French life. Over time, my friend’s advice started to sink in. And lately, I seem to be crossing a threshold. The illogical things that used to completely blow my mind have by now become so commonplace that they’re expected rather than a cause for surprise.
Take yesterday, for example. I went to deposit some cash at the bank and was told that that particular type of transaction would no longer be possible with a teller. Apparently after an inexplicable “transition period,” customers have to stop depositing with tellers and use the ATMs. No matter that I had done it a few weeks before and every month since August. You may recall how much my bank is despised in my household (see: here, here, and also here). This would have put me over the edge even a season ago. However, I have no idea what the “transition period” means, how long it is, or whom it applies to, because I didn’t even think to ask. I just took the absurdity of the situation in stride, shrugged my shoulders, and thought, It figures. Next.
Then there was my reaction to yesterday’s impromptu RER strike. Usually transportation strikes must be preceded by two weeks’ advance notice, but the workers took matters into their own hands in protest of one of their own getting attacked. Monday night, an off-duty conductor was on his way to work in the RER station when some young hooligans asked him for a cigarette. When he said he didn’t have any, they harassed him to the point of physically aggressing him. The poor man wound up in the hospital. That’s just awful.
But what did the RER Line A workers do? They went on strike, inconveniencing a whole lot of people (the line has the highest passenger volume in all of Paris and its suburbs). Public transport commute times were quadrupled in length; the news reported a total of 400 km of traffic trying to get into Paris. Is the state, or the community for that matter, responsible for the actions of a few young asshats?
Months ago, this kind of thing would have send me onto a sarcastic, seething downward spiral about the irrationality and misplaced actions and blah blah blah. But no, I shrugged and like every single French person does in the face of ludicrousness, said apathetically, “C’est normal. C’est la France.”
Post-Script: I just got home from having drinks and heard yet another tale that got barely a raised eyebrow out of me. An acquaintance had dinner at a Parisian restaurant and she wanted to have two starters instead of a starter and a main dish. The restaurant refused her request. Of course, service is notoriously brusque here, but that just takes the cake. Me, I just smirked and muttered, "Typical, typical..." I think this new phase of assimilation is making me as cynical as the French.
During the months that followed, I experienced more than my fair share of the small paradoxes of French life. Over time, my friend’s advice started to sink in. And lately, I seem to be crossing a threshold. The illogical things that used to completely blow my mind have by now become so commonplace that they’re expected rather than a cause for surprise.
Take yesterday, for example. I went to deposit some cash at the bank and was told that that particular type of transaction would no longer be possible with a teller. Apparently after an inexplicable “transition period,” customers have to stop depositing with tellers and use the ATMs. No matter that I had done it a few weeks before and every month since August. You may recall how much my bank is despised in my household (see: here, here, and also here). This would have put me over the edge even a season ago. However, I have no idea what the “transition period” means, how long it is, or whom it applies to, because I didn’t even think to ask. I just took the absurdity of the situation in stride, shrugged my shoulders, and thought, It figures. Next.
Then there was my reaction to yesterday’s impromptu RER strike. Usually transportation strikes must be preceded by two weeks’ advance notice, but the workers took matters into their own hands in protest of one of their own getting attacked. Monday night, an off-duty conductor was on his way to work in the RER station when some young hooligans asked him for a cigarette. When he said he didn’t have any, they harassed him to the point of physically aggressing him. The poor man wound up in the hospital. That’s just awful.
But what did the RER Line A workers do? They went on strike, inconveniencing a whole lot of people (the line has the highest passenger volume in all of Paris and its suburbs). Public transport commute times were quadrupled in length; the news reported a total of 400 km of traffic trying to get into Paris. Is the state, or the community for that matter, responsible for the actions of a few young asshats?
Months ago, this kind of thing would have send me onto a sarcastic, seething downward spiral about the irrationality and misplaced actions and blah blah blah. But no, I shrugged and like every single French person does in the face of ludicrousness, said apathetically, “C’est normal. C’est la France.”
Post-Script: I just got home from having drinks and heard yet another tale that got barely a raised eyebrow out of me. An acquaintance had dinner at a Parisian restaurant and she wanted to have two starters instead of a starter and a main dish. The restaurant refused her request. Of course, service is notoriously brusque here, but that just takes the cake. Me, I just smirked and muttered, "Typical, typical..." I think this new phase of assimilation is making me as cynical as the French.
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