Although I missed out on a lot of the summer festival season due to various vacations and such (yes, life in France is tough), I did manage to catch one of the final big outdoor musical events of the season the other night, Rock en Seine. It was fantastic.
First, let me get my semi-sarcastic commentary out of the way. The #1 fashion item on display was not super-super-almost-painted-on-skinny jeans or a bold-colored keffiyeh, as one might have expected, but rather a “I♥NY” logo. It was plastered on T-shirts, hoodies, and tote bags. Apparently, it is what Parisians like. Because the French may be conflicted about Americans, but New York? New York, they love. Aw. On the contrary, something baffling was discovered at one of the food vendors, which sold “Specialités Libanaises” yet boasted an image on its stallfront of a large cactus sporting a sombrero and shaking maracas. Huh? Who did their marketing? Something else of note was the festival campgrounds, which were divided into two sections: Camping and Rock Camping. How cool do you, like, have to be to get into Rock Camping? Is there a guest list I can get on? Heh. OK, time for me to stop with the sarcasm and compliment the festival for its remarkably low drink prices, compared to at U.S. events (if you don’t factor in the exchange rate, natch). Glasses of wine for 3 euros and pints of beer for 5? Not bad.
And now, the music. We unfortunately couldn’t get to the all-day festival early enough to catch The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and The Roots, but we did see some greats. The Raconteurs played a ripping show. It was the perfect summertime rock-n-roll soundtrack. Plus, Jack White! Justice came on 45 minutes late, but then pumped out a tight set. I danced, danced, danced. I didn’t notice too many people around me dancing, which I thought was odd given Justice are FRENCH DJ’S, but maybe things were different closer up to the stage—you know, where all the hardcore fans are.
The big disappointment of the night was that Amy Winehouse canceled at the very last minute. The non-irony was that this was not unexpected. In fact, everyone I was with was joking about the probability throughout the evening. Apparently she pulled the same thing at Rock en Seine last year. Guess who’s not going to be invited back in ’09? Jeez, pull it together, woman. She is one very talented train wreck and I would’ve liked to see her perform, but alas. I wasn’t anywhere nearly as upset as the many people who had driven from all over the country to see her play at her only scheduled gig in France this year.
The Streets made up for it, though. They were purely fun and put on a surprisingly great live show. I used to find their frontman Mike Skinner annoying, but the band has grown on me and now I’m re-sold. Skinner was a bit humorous, making little Amy Winehouse cracks that got the entire audience laughing (he is British and spoke only English, so this is how I know people understood what he was saying). However, I kind of felt bad for him when he tried to get some audience participation going mid-show and failed miserably. First, he said (I’m paraphrasing), “I’m gonna count to 5 and when I say 5, I want you to turn toward someone you don’t know, look them in the eye, and say, ‘I love you!’” The crowd started tittering nervously. When he reached 5, I turned to a gaggle of French girls and threw an Iloveyou in their direction and they just continued to titter nervously. I tried. A few minutes later, Skinner tried for #2 (paraphrasing again): “Now when I say ‘go low,’ I want you to put your arm around the person you said ‘I love you’ to’s shoulders and go low [translation: crouch down to the ground].” Judging from the lack of reciprocity earlier, N and I opted to do this one together. Well, when the big moment to go low finally came, I think N and I were among only a handful of people who actually went for it. Let’s analyze the situation. Yes, it was cheesey as hell, and yes, I’m sure some people in the crowd had no idea what he was talking about due to language issues. But come on, what’s wrong with a little cheesey audience interaction? To me, it spoke to the French’s aversion to engaging with strangers and acting a little silly just for the hell of it. Where I come from, these are not barriers to entry. Skinner saw the audience’s reaction and said in a mock-defeated tone, “OK, OK, I get it. I won’t ask you do anything else.” It was an odd-yet-amusing little blip in the midst of a really upbeat performance.
Overall it was a great time. I need more outdoor music!
31 August 2008
30 August 2008
I Heart NY
For the past five months, I feel like almost half of my lesson time has been devoted to telling my students all about New York. Why? Because, like almost every other European, most of them recently went or will soon go on holiday to the Big Apple. Verb tenses and idioms have been often pushed aside to make way for expressions related to asking for directions and ordering from a menu—not to mention endless discussions on the true must-sees, restaurant recommendations, the lowdown on where to shop, and a crash course on how to survive as a tourist in America. My students have been happy to learn how to order a steak at the desired cuisson (level of cooking) and to know that in America wines are classified by the French name of the grape, but have been duly shocked that it’s customary to pay up to a 20% tip on dining (the French don’t tip, as servers’ wages are higher and the menu prices account for that).
What’s been even funnier is hearing their impressions after they’ve returned from their NYC getaways. “Oh la la, ze portions—zhey are so beeeg! And ze beeeldeeengs aussi!” (Typical, and, well, 100% true.) “I don’t ahnderstand zhis Abaire-crahm-BEE and Feeetch. Why do zhey have the yahng guy weeeth no shehrt?” (I think I laughed for a whole day after hearing this.) “Ze pee-pahl are so friendleee! So nice! Eet eez a soorprise.” (New Yorkers have always gotten a bad rep. We are a friendly bunch, if not a little rowdy. Parisians are relatively cold and distant.) I’ve also been tickled by some students’ tourism choices. Several went to see Yankees games (no Mets love from this side of the pond, apparently) and absolutely loved it! Who knew the French could get behind baseball? Also, several went to see a Gospel Mass at churches in Harlem (must be in the guidebooks?) and were nuts about this experience. Plus, I’ve been happily encouraging them to help boost the American economy. Oh yes, they Shopped. With a capital S. Suitcases were filled. Debit cards were maxed (too bad the French don’t have credit cards in the true sense). Many “eee-Puhds” (iPods) were purchased. To those who are toying with the idea of visiting Manhattan this fall, I tell them to hurry. The dollar is rising in value. Gotta cram in crazy shopping sprees while you can! Tick tock!
You’d think all this New York talk would have turned me off to the idea of actually joining the masses and visiting the city myself, but nah. It is my homeland, after all. I had almost no work to speak of in August (since most of my students were away themselves) and a free ticket to the States burning a hole in my pocket, so off I went for 10 glorious days.
I had SUCH a great time. I spent a lot of quality time with family, which is always a nourishing experience, and had a blast hanging with good friends and meeting some of my sister’s. The weather was stellar. I cycled in Central Park, said hello to the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, saw lots of films (including a free screening of Velvet Goldmine in the old, emptied pool at McCarren Park in Brooklyn), ate some great kosher deli, and, with my American Monopoly-style money in hand, shopped. Not with a capital S, per se, but my suitcase certainly put on some weight for its return trip.
My impressions? Oh la la, the portions are huge! The buildings, too. And the people are SOOOOOOO nice and I can recognize every freakin’ last word they say. I’m walking in public in my sweaty gym clothes after a Pilates or yoga class and no one is staring at me or looking at me funny (and I understood 100% of what the instructors said—first time in a year!). In Williamsburg, my sister’s friend parked in front of a 24-hour natural food store. Oh Jesus, this is what is great about America, I thought. Total excess, but delivered in such a convenient, shiny way. Such a thing does not exist in France.
It dawned on me that all these superficial comforts aside, I was really, really happy to be back in the States. Home. And so I returned to my new home a bit more homesick than before.
What’s been even funnier is hearing their impressions after they’ve returned from their NYC getaways. “Oh la la, ze portions—zhey are so beeeg! And ze beeeldeeengs aussi!” (Typical, and, well, 100% true.) “I don’t ahnderstand zhis Abaire-crahm-BEE and Feeetch. Why do zhey have the yahng guy weeeth no shehrt?” (I think I laughed for a whole day after hearing this.) “Ze pee-pahl are so friendleee! So nice! Eet eez a soorprise.” (New Yorkers have always gotten a bad rep. We are a friendly bunch, if not a little rowdy. Parisians are relatively cold and distant.) I’ve also been tickled by some students’ tourism choices. Several went to see Yankees games (no Mets love from this side of the pond, apparently) and absolutely loved it! Who knew the French could get behind baseball? Also, several went to see a Gospel Mass at churches in Harlem (must be in the guidebooks?) and were nuts about this experience. Plus, I’ve been happily encouraging them to help boost the American economy. Oh yes, they Shopped. With a capital S. Suitcases were filled. Debit cards were maxed (too bad the French don’t have credit cards in the true sense). Many “eee-Puhds” (iPods) were purchased. To those who are toying with the idea of visiting Manhattan this fall, I tell them to hurry. The dollar is rising in value. Gotta cram in crazy shopping sprees while you can! Tick tock!
You’d think all this New York talk would have turned me off to the idea of actually joining the masses and visiting the city myself, but nah. It is my homeland, after all. I had almost no work to speak of in August (since most of my students were away themselves) and a free ticket to the States burning a hole in my pocket, so off I went for 10 glorious days.
I had SUCH a great time. I spent a lot of quality time with family, which is always a nourishing experience, and had a blast hanging with good friends and meeting some of my sister’s. The weather was stellar. I cycled in Central Park, said hello to the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, saw lots of films (including a free screening of Velvet Goldmine in the old, emptied pool at McCarren Park in Brooklyn), ate some great kosher deli, and, with my American Monopoly-style money in hand, shopped. Not with a capital S, per se, but my suitcase certainly put on some weight for its return trip.
My impressions? Oh la la, the portions are huge! The buildings, too. And the people are SOOOOOOO nice and I can recognize every freakin’ last word they say. I’m walking in public in my sweaty gym clothes after a Pilates or yoga class and no one is staring at me or looking at me funny (and I understood 100% of what the instructors said—first time in a year!). In Williamsburg, my sister’s friend parked in front of a 24-hour natural food store. Oh Jesus, this is what is great about America, I thought. Total excess, but delivered in such a convenient, shiny way. Such a thing does not exist in France.
It dawned on me that all these superficial comforts aside, I was really, really happy to be back in the States. Home. And so I returned to my new home a bit more homesick than before.
12 August 2008
Working Out, or Working It?
You’ve heard it before: Parisian women are the height of style. After a year of living among les Parisiennes, I’m not convinced that it’s a universal truth, but I give them major bonus points for experimenting with fashion. Even if they miss the mark, they’re worlds more daring, fashion-wise, than the Anglos. I can also now attest that this adventurousness extends into the realm of gym wardrobes, as well, but I’m not as generous with doling out the bonus points in this case.
After reading the fabulous Stuff Parisians Like’s claim that Parisians consider exercise anathema (“for people who are either stupid or gay”), I have to respectfully disagree. My gym is always packed and yeah, there are lots of lollygaggers, but also a lot of hardcore exercisers who treat some of the gym classes like cult gatherings. However, I think the one thing Parisians are intrinsically adverse to is the unmentionable sin of appearing unkempt or...gasp...dull. Even after schvitzing it up on the Stairmaster for 40 minutes. I’ve mentioned before that it’s unheard of to walk around in gym clothes in public. But things get a bit out of hand within the protective walls of the gym, too. Some of the getups are not to be believed.
There’s a woman about twice my age who seems to have time traveled into Jane Fonda’s workout closet from 1983 (or just never bought a new workout outfit since then). She consistently wears a neon pink leotard with black leggings, a hot pink sweatband around her head with wristbands to match, and always, without fail, sports her gold necklace and diamond earrings.
Then there are the younger chicks. One girl wears 1970’s roller-skating rink red shorts with white piping and a barely-there red halter top to match. On her feet are gleamingly white sneakers. Left foot: no sock. Right foot: black sock pulled up to mid-shin length. I’ve puzzled over what the reasons could be for covering her lower right leg. Embarrassing lovelorn tattoo of Sarkozy? Fungal infection of the ankle? Flashing colors to the Right Bank Crips? All are possible if not extremely farfetched explanations, but then why no left sock? I’m stumped, people.
Another girl dresses like she’s ready for a set of tennis in a bygone decade when women first discovered the wonders of exposing their legs for sporting activities. She wears a short-sleeved sweater, very short madras shorts, and thigh-high sheer stockings, the lacy tops of which aren’t even covered by the shorts hems. It’s just…bizarre. Is she afraid of getting her legs dirty? Is she too lazy to change out of the pantyhose she’s been wearing under a skirt during the workday? Pantyhose are really never a good idea. As a Parisienne, she should know better.
The worst offender is a woman in her 40’s who is like Pat Benatar on a fashion bender. She seems to alternate between two ensembles. One is a black thong leotard with the torso cut out, leaving a gaping hole that reveals a neon green bandeau top. The other is a red thong leotard that covers her entire torso, thank goodness. Both outfits are worn with fishnets and color-coordinated legwarmers and high-top sneakers—not to mention the fringed arm-band. She has super-straight jet-black hair with severe bangs and looks like she’s been tanning or smoking or both for too many years. Frankly, she terrifies me.
I’ve so far neglected the men’s fashions because they’re generally beyond reproach, except for one troubling guy who always wears a long, very baggy, low-cut tank top with tiny little shorts. Aside from the fact that it sometimes looks like he's not wearing anything on the bottom, do we need to always see his man-cleavage?
Maybe I’m just a simple-minded American, but the gym is where I go to work out, sweat a lot, and therefore not preoccupy myself with clothes. Standard stretchy exercise pants topped off with a plain tee or tank always suffices. Dressed like that, am I going to win any fashion awards? Of course not. But is my outfit 100% functional? Yessir. And will I ever be accused of shopping for gym outfits at a vintage costume shop or at Burning Man? Hells no.
After reading the fabulous Stuff Parisians Like’s claim that Parisians consider exercise anathema (“for people who are either stupid or gay”), I have to respectfully disagree. My gym is always packed and yeah, there are lots of lollygaggers, but also a lot of hardcore exercisers who treat some of the gym classes like cult gatherings. However, I think the one thing Parisians are intrinsically adverse to is the unmentionable sin of appearing unkempt or...gasp...dull. Even after schvitzing it up on the Stairmaster for 40 minutes. I’ve mentioned before that it’s unheard of to walk around in gym clothes in public. But things get a bit out of hand within the protective walls of the gym, too. Some of the getups are not to be believed.
There’s a woman about twice my age who seems to have time traveled into Jane Fonda’s workout closet from 1983 (or just never bought a new workout outfit since then). She consistently wears a neon pink leotard with black leggings, a hot pink sweatband around her head with wristbands to match, and always, without fail, sports her gold necklace and diamond earrings.
Then there are the younger chicks. One girl wears 1970’s roller-skating rink red shorts with white piping and a barely-there red halter top to match. On her feet are gleamingly white sneakers. Left foot: no sock. Right foot: black sock pulled up to mid-shin length. I’ve puzzled over what the reasons could be for covering her lower right leg. Embarrassing lovelorn tattoo of Sarkozy? Fungal infection of the ankle? Flashing colors to the Right Bank Crips? All are possible if not extremely farfetched explanations, but then why no left sock? I’m stumped, people.
Another girl dresses like she’s ready for a set of tennis in a bygone decade when women first discovered the wonders of exposing their legs for sporting activities. She wears a short-sleeved sweater, very short madras shorts, and thigh-high sheer stockings, the lacy tops of which aren’t even covered by the shorts hems. It’s just…bizarre. Is she afraid of getting her legs dirty? Is she too lazy to change out of the pantyhose she’s been wearing under a skirt during the workday? Pantyhose are really never a good idea. As a Parisienne, she should know better.
The worst offender is a woman in her 40’s who is like Pat Benatar on a fashion bender. She seems to alternate between two ensembles. One is a black thong leotard with the torso cut out, leaving a gaping hole that reveals a neon green bandeau top. The other is a red thong leotard that covers her entire torso, thank goodness. Both outfits are worn with fishnets and color-coordinated legwarmers and high-top sneakers—not to mention the fringed arm-band. She has super-straight jet-black hair with severe bangs and looks like she’s been tanning or smoking or both for too many years. Frankly, she terrifies me.
I’ve so far neglected the men’s fashions because they’re generally beyond reproach, except for one troubling guy who always wears a long, very baggy, low-cut tank top with tiny little shorts. Aside from the fact that it sometimes looks like he's not wearing anything on the bottom, do we need to always see his man-cleavage?
Maybe I’m just a simple-minded American, but the gym is where I go to work out, sweat a lot, and therefore not preoccupy myself with clothes. Standard stretchy exercise pants topped off with a plain tee or tank always suffices. Dressed like that, am I going to win any fashion awards? Of course not. But is my outfit 100% functional? Yessir. And will I ever be accused of shopping for gym outfits at a vintage costume shop or at Burning Man? Hells no.
Breizh Practices
I’ve neglected my blog for quite a while, it’s true. I had a multi-week run of family visitors followed by a week of vacation in the French countryside, because, well, it’s August, naturally.
We spent the week in Bretagne (aka Brittany or Breizh), a region in the northwest of France. It was my first French road trip, and I was completely floored to learn that you can actually spy castles from the highway. Seriously??? Ah, France, you’re too good to me. Maybe that’s why the road toll was an exorbitant 26 euros—aside from all the road maintenance, motorists are provided with knock-their-socks-off views that they probably shouldn’t be straining their necks to look at given the aggressiveness of French drivers.
Anyhow, it was such a joy to get out of the city and into the country. Oh, greenery, how I missed you! Oh, ocean, how nice to see you - I’ve always known I need to live near a big body of water and the Seine just doesn’t cut it. We rented a house in south-central Bretagne with N’s mom, sister, her boyfriend, and his three-year-old son. It was a nice mix of generations, personalities, French and English, and everyone got along swimmingly.So what did we do? A lot of our activities were limited by weather. Bretagne may be gorgeous, but le temps is not. We had two clear, sunny days but the rest were overcast and always on the verge of sprinkles. On the nicer days, we enjoyed brisk beach walks, breathing in the invigorating seaside scent that my mother-in-law and I dubbed eau de wakame.
On the grayer days, we jumped in the car to explore the region: tiny villages boasting charming stone houses, gardens bursting with hydrangeas, lively marketplaces, and many ancient archaeological sites featuring menhirs (stone pillars believed to be placed in patterns by Druids and peoples before them, used for a variety of things from human sacrifice to acting as a primitive calendar).
One of the biggest kicks out of being in Bretagne was reveling in the old Breton language, which isn't really spoken that much anymore but lives on through town names and on many street signs. Just when I thought I was getting a handle on French, I was thrown into a strange world with places named Inzinzac-Lochrist, Kerveneac, and Plouhinec. In fact, due to its proximity to the UK, Breizh can trace some of its cultural roots to the Celts. It's most evident in traditional Breton music, which features kilt-wearing bagpipers. 
We also sampled plenty of the local cuisine, including lots of fresh seafood and the ultimate treat, buckwheat crepes washed down with a crisp cider followed by the fabulously named, buttery, sticky-sweet dessert, kuign aman (pronounced kun-yah-mahn). Delish.Then it was time to return to concrete jungle of Paris, where we had a very Parisian welcome indeed on our first evening back. Forebodingly gray sky, check. Ghost town atmosphere due to everyone being on holiday, check. Random urban violence, check: a middle-aged drunk couple in a bit of a melee—she had him in a headlock and he was gripping her ponytail, both of them were lying on the ground and too weak to fight the other off. Ah, how nice it is to be home.
To soften the blow, I have a tiny bit of work this week and then I head off on my second August vacation (I’m Frenching it up big time), this time to…drumroll...NYC! Aka, the homeland. It’ll be relatively quiet on the blogfront for most of the rest of the month. Yes, even la blogue must take its vacances d’août.
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