Whenever I learn a new French expression, I try to incorporate it into my speech as much as possible to reinforce my knowledge. It was uncanny that I should learn the phrase “c’est la galere” (it’s a disaster) recently, because the past week gave me ample opportunities to use it in conversation.
The transportation strike has certainly put the city into a collective tizzy. Unlike the last strike, when services stopped entirely for one day, this strike has produced extremely limited transportation services and is set to last a week. Some Metro lines aren’t running at all, some are “quasi nulle,” some are “non assurée,” and some are running in intervals of 30-45 minutes. Only one line is running fairly regularly, at 10-minute intervals. The operational lines therefore not only require long waits, but also force passengers to pack themselves into hazardously crowded trains. Because of these conditions, the trains also stop for a longer time at each station in order to allow enough time for passengers to disembark and get on safely…Well, at least that’s the intention. The words muttered under my breath every time I had to take the Metro? “C’est la galere.”
Why are the transportation agencies striking (again), you might ask? The seed was planted when civil servants announced they would go on strike Tues the 20th. Their beef? Sarkozy’s initiative to increase the time a public employee must work in order to receive full pension benefits – from 37.5 to 40 years. [Granted, that’s a long time, but the same standard was implemented in the private sector not too long ago as well.] The transportation agencies span both public and private management, but in a gesture of solidarity (or in a ruse to simply work less – hey, it’s a national sport here) they decided to go on strike for a FULL WEEK leading up to the 20th. This decision inconveniences millions of people and impacts the economy. But the workers don’t really care, because the unions have enough money to pay all the strikers for at least a full week of missed pay. My contribution when discussing the politics with peers? “C’est la galere.”
So maybe I’m being insensitive, but I just can’t muster all that much sympathy. I’m admittedly particularly miffed because while the strikers are off enjoying a free week with pay, my livelihood has suffered the consequences. You see, I have to travel to various parts of Paris and its outlying ‘burbs throughout the work week and get paid by the hour to boot. Many of my students have cancelled, leaving gaping holes in my schedule (and my paycheck). Plus taking into consideration the two days I missed last week due to my unfortunate malady, I was a bit stressed about recouping teaching hours. While at the office, moaning and groaning over the impact to our business, my colleagues and I all heaved a heavy sigh and intoned, “C’est la galere.”
The work I did do this week was some of the best I’ve done – I had great groups of students, felt so on my game as a teacher, and taught some stimulating content. (In addition to my usual language instruction and business English curriculum, I got to teach a four-hour course on regional foods of America and another four hours of creative writing – SO FABULOUS and that’s a whole other blog post in the making.) But however fun-filled my working hours were, commuting was a journey to hell and back. C’est la galere.
I had two full days booked in the ‘burbs, one on the day before the strike and the consecutive day, when the strike was to commence. I’d have no trouble on Tuesday, but how would I handle Wednesday? My manager (of sorts) happens to live a 10-minute walk from the client, so she offered for me to crash at her place Tuesday night. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being displaced from home, but the pressures of needing work convinced me. My company was classy enough to allow me to expense a cab ride home to Paris Wednesday evening. While it was really the only way I could get home, the traffic was insane, especially once we got into the city and needed to cross the Seine. Amid small talk with the cabbie (entirely in French – I was proud), while sitting in a dense thicket of gridlock, I griped “C’est la galere.” “C’est la France,” he replied with a chortle and a shake of his head.
Thursday wasn’t so bad (relatively speaking). I walked 20 minutes from home to the 1 line (which has been running fairly regularly – the 10-min interval success story), rode it as close as I could to my client, and then walked 20 minutes to that office. What is usually a 15-minute door-to-door trip took an hour, but at least it was doable and the weather was cooperating.
Friday was a total nightmare. I had to get to Boulogne Billancourt, an area just outside the Péripherique of the city, to the southwest. On a normal day the trip would take about 40 minutes by Metro. The line I needed was running, albeit in 20-minute intervals. I gave myself 90 minutes, thinking it would be enough. Two hours later I disembarked from a claustrophobic ride, crammed into an awkward pretzel-like standing position. I was late, which I never feel good about, especially when meeting a new client for the first time. However, I won the students over when I finally sat down at the head of the conference room table, exhaled deeply, and said, “My name is Jessica, and this is only my second strike.” Well, just a little bit of dry humor had the room erupting in sympathetic laughter. Disaster somewhat mitigated.
The ride home that evening was even worse. The line was running in even longer intervals. I wound up waiting an hour just to get on a train because I couldn’t fit on the first one that passed. The train I rode was even more packed than the one I took in the morning and people were getting cranky, aggressive, crazed, and downright nasty. People were shoving and elbowing their way onto the train car before people could even disembark, which resulted in a lot of yelling from the people ensconced on the car. The doors often couldn’t close because so many people were in their path, which made the conductor occasionally join in the collective rage. Some of us were able to handle the situation more civilly than others…one section of my train car was on the verge of mass rioting for my entire ride and all I could think about was the headline: “American Expat Squished to Death by Apeshit Commuters.” C’est la galere, indeed.
Needless to say, the weekend has been more relaxing, but we’ve walked quite a bit! I have a forced holiday on Monday and possibly Tuesday, as classes have been canceled and I’m not even sure I can withstand a repeat of Friday’s commute. The strike is supposed to come to a close Tuesday night. I’m just praying that when the strike ends, it really ends…unlike last month, when transportation services were disrupted for days afterward. It is a huge disaster, but at least it’s no 1995. That was the year the transportation agencies went on strike for a whole month. A whole month! C’est la France.
18 November 2007
11 November 2007
And They Say French Food Is the Best...
Some stories have happy endings. This one, au contraire, has a happy beginning. It all started a couple weeks ago when one of Nate’s coworkers from the States contacted him with an interesting proposition. An industry contact from L.A. with whom he does a great deal of business was going to be in Paris and wanted to take someone from the company out on the town to express his gratitude for the thriving business relationship. Would Nate and his lovely wife be interested in meeting the guy for a swanky dinner? Uh, let’s see…gotta untwist our arms before we can answer. Over a series of email exchanges, N ascertained that the guy seemed very friendly. He charged us with selecting a restaurant and instructed us to “go big.” So we chose the legendary Brasserie Bofinger, a Parisian dining institution since 1854 known for its decadent seafood.
We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).
Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.
Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.
When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.
The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?
Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”
After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.
There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.
And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?
We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).
Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.
Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.
When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.
The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?
Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”
After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.
There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.
And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?
05 November 2007
Hôtels and Hawkers, or How I Spent the Holiday Weekend in Paris
November 1 is a French national holiday. As it fell on a Thursday this year, most people took the 2nd off of work as a “bridge day” (day between a holiday and the weekend). Ok, so Halloween may have come and gone with a whimper, not a bang, but a subsequent four-day weekend was the least the French could do to make up for it. We had a lovely time exploring different parts of the city during a period of relative calm, when many Parisians fled the city for the pleasures of la campagne (the country).
We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.
We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.
On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.
We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)
Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).
Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.
We discovered that we could walk in a straight line from our doorstep all the way onto Ile St-Louis, one of the two small islands in the Seine. From there it was a stone’s throw to the other island, Ile de la Cité, home of the imperious Catedral Notre Dame. Nate and I had both already been inside and the line to get in was winding practically all the way back onto Ile St-Louis, so we were content to just stroll past the iconic building and marvel at its architectural splendor: intricate spire, flying buttresses, stained glass masterpieces, myriad gargoyles...it’s quite humbling. They just don’t build churches like they used to. We then stopped to use the restroom at Hôtel Dieu de Cité, one of the city’s oldest hospitals kitty-cornered from the cathedral. It has all the makings of a normal hospital, except for the gorgeous open-air courtyard located in the building’s center. Roman columns and a vibrant garden flank the grand limestone quad, lending it the air of an ancient agora where intellectuals or senators orated from pulpits to the gathering masses. Leave it to the French to create the ultimate convalescent paradise. I now know where I’d want to recover from surgery.
We then walked around the corner to our true destination: the Conciergerie. Once the seat of French government and then a prison during the French Revolution, the building dates back to the 12th century. It features impressive interior architecture, small historical exhibits, and replicas of prisoners’ chambers, guard posts, and rooms where the unluckiest of the bourgeoisie would be prepped for the guillotine. We also saw a real, live guillotine blade – duller than a butter knife (we had to check), but apparently weighing in at over 40 kilos to ensure it got the job done.On another day, we went to the legendary Marche aux Puces (flea market) at St-Ouen just outside the city to the north. The market boasts a heady mix of ultra-high and ultra-low merchandise. To get to the really interesting wares, you must elbow your way through the crowded aisles of cheap clothes, boho knick-knacks, tacky souvenirs, and a parade of guys hawking knock-off Dolce & Gabanna belt buckles. (Seriously, the latter itinerant vendors came at you one after another, as quickly and aggressively as the fuzzy yellow orbs flying out of an automatic tennis ball machine. Do they honestly think they can compete when they’re all selling the same exact product in such close proximity? Or are they colluding in an attempt to create an urban army of bling?) Finally, you reach the very back portion of the market, where row after row of magnificent antiques whisk you back in time. Furniture, home accessories, art, weapons, clothes, and jewelry from bygone eras such as the Victorian and Art Deco made for a pseudo outdoor museum experience. A vendeuse selling outrageous Chanel and Shiaparelli baubles even had an article pinned up in her booth about her famous collection; we overheard two customers telling her how they come to Paris once annually to drop major loot at the market (um, do you happen to need any benefactees this year?). We didn’t spend our life savings on crystal chandeliers or 17th century swords, but we had a great time ogling the merchandise.
We then walked back into Paris, eventually climbing steep hills (the first we’ve seen in Paris) and stairways up the back of Montmartre. We ultimately arrived at Sacre Couer, the white chapel of wedding-cake perfection overlooking a nearly 270-degree sweep of the city. Tourists were out in full force, but we had to stop and sit on the steps, taking in the vista and trying to locate our home amid the fray of zinc roofs and architectural landmark after architectural landmark. We couldn’t pinpoint our street, but we could make out the zaniness of Centre Pompidou and the 18th-centry grandeur of Hôtel de Ville; we live roughly just beyond the two. I was reminded of the quaintness of certain parts of Montmartre, as the small chemins surrounding Sacre Couer give the area the feel of a small country village – albeit crammed to the gills with souvenir shops and portrait artists trying to make a quick few bucks sketching out tourists' beaming faces. (In one of the most rarely efficient exchanges I’ve had in Paris to date, one of the portrait artists thought he had me pegged for his next customer and approached me entreatingly, squawking out an eager “Yes?” I curtly replied, “Non” (that is, in French, how you say no), all the while maintaining a brisk pace and hearing Nate snickering under his breath a few feet ahead of me.)Speaking of sidewalk negotiations, our dining experience one evening made us nearly forget we live in the modern Mecca of servers who can’t be bothered (a.k.a., the land of customer non-service). We were craving Indian food, so we went to Passage Brady in the 10th – two blocks crammed back to back with nothing but Indian-Pakistani eateries. The moment we stepped into the alley, we could see the silhouettes of restaurant hosts bounding outside to greet us and make their never-ending pitches. Uh oh. One after another, they call us a lovely couple and oh, it’s so good you came to eat at the best Indian restaurant in Paris, what a great deal, best prices in the neighborhood, oh it would be an honor to have you this evening, best chicken tikka masala you’ll ever eat… And we’re all apologies and sorry just looking, we’re going to keep walking. I mean, with over a dozen restaurants to choose from, why settle for the first, or even fifth, offer? Again, this was an issue of how a business could compete in such close proximity to its competitors, when they all had very little in the way of differentiation. One host was so bold as to follow us, step in front of us, and block us from walking any further. My silent fury was ignited, but Nate toppled like a deck of cards when the guy offered us free aperitifs and naan. Well, there's the differentiation after all, and I guess you can’t argue with bribery. And man, the chicken tikka and lamb vindaloo were delicious, but way too “farang spicy” (and yes, I’m mixing cultures here, but that’s what the Thai serve tourists eager for some kick but who aren’t at all able to handle the indigenous chilis).
Ahhhh, I love long weekends. I really felt like a local this morning as I grumbled my way back to work and silently identified with overheard complaints of employees returning to their offices from their lovely November vacances (vacations). But the toughest part of the day was learning that there is very likely going to be a weeklong transportation strike starting next Tuesday night. Good friggin’ grief, I’ve barely recovered from the last strike and now it’s going to quadruple in length…At least it’ll make for some interesting blogging.
01 November 2007
Hallow-won't
Halloween has always loomed large in my life. It’s my birthday and I love dressing up and wearing costumes, so each year I’ve looked forward to the double whammy. As a little girl, I relished amassing a pirate’s haul of candy. As a teenager, my high school posse would coordinate group costumes; my junior year, we dressed up as the characters from Alice in Wonderland and I made a fabulous Queen of Hearts costume that I wore not only to school, but also to the legendary Greenwich Village Masquerade Parade. The latter prepared me for the grand-scale revelry in San Francisco, where Halloween is practically a city holiday. Interestingly, in all the years I lived in SF, I never ventured to the raging Halloween festivities in the Castro. That’s largely because for most of my years there, I lived in Cole Valley, a neighborhood that closes streets to traffic and has a kiddie wonderland of trick-or-treating. Children from all over the city come and we would host a candy give-away / costume party / birthday celebration at our home. I’ve always put effort into home-made costumes, including a black widow spider (brandishing furry spider legs), Medusa (replete with a snake headdress), the Swiss Miss (gotta love dirndls), and my all-time fave, Carmela Soprano (which allowed me to get into character and show off the NY/NJ accent that I can slip into on cue). Yes, it’s always been a cherished tradition.
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
25 October 2007
The Road to Domestic Bliss Is Paved With Dealing (and Some Dessert)
I’d be remiss not to share some of our weekend adventures with Nicole and Mark, our second guests in the new place. As Candice was truly here at the beginning, she had only seen the apartment’s true form begin to take shape. In the weeks between her departure and N’s parents’ arrival, we’d set up the majority of our space, but still had a laundry list of finishing touches to apply. N+M were more than happy to help with the final phases of home improvement, as they’re practically pros – they redecorate, rearrange, and embellish their space more frequently than one changes a Brita filter. And as many of you know, their taste is unconventional and totally killer.
N+M had generously offered to have curtains and pillowcases made for us in Indonesia, as fabric and labor costs are “la rupee de sonsonnet” (a lovely idiom which roughly translates to a drop in the bucket) compared to retail prices in France. The silk pillowcases slid onto our couch pillows perfectly and are now awaiting their new home on our recently purchased sofa, which won’t arrive until January. The curtains, as beautiful as they are to behold, were not as much of a cinch to set up. The velvet fabric was too heavy for the curtain rod holders we’d already taken great pains to screw into the walls. After a failed attempt at hanging them – which nearly resulted in ripping all the hanging apparatuses out of the walls – Nate, Nic, and Mark spent the better part of Friday marching back and forth between our place and the nearest hardware store in order to implement the sturdiest solution. I arrived home (after my traumatic Metro experience) to discover that they’d just finally succeeded. Phase one of home improvement was complete.
Creaky floorboards and an irritable downstairs neighbor spurred the next phase on. The first night of N+M’s visit was spent quietly schmoozing, dining, and otherwise chillin’. As we got up to begin bedtime prep, we were surprised to hear a knock on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, with semi-crazed desperation in her eyes. “Have you been moving furniture?” I was flabbergasted. We’d already realized that the floorboards were old and noisy, but we’d barely moved an inch for the past couple hours. After calming her down, we resolved to get some wall-to-wall carpet for our living room, the most used room in the apartment. We planned to go to a nearby store, where we could find carpeting in bulk, on Saturday morning. Cut to me, Nate, and Mark hoisting a 15’ roll of carpeting on our shoulders for the 10-minute walk home through narrow streets and raucous crosswalks.
If only that were the hardest part of Operation Carpet. Nate and I braced ourselves for the subsequent task – taking apart all of our carefully constructed work in the living room. Bookshelves were emptied, electronics were unplugged (and obviously there were more than a few cables what with N’s monstrous computer center), and nearly all the furniture was removed from the room so the carpet could be unrolled, cut, and installed. Nate and Mark expertly took care of business, and now we can proudly say that it really ties the room together.
While the gentlemen worked on Operation Carpet, the ladies concentrated on decoration. We spent quite a while finding the perfect spots for our masks, puppets, artwork, and other bric-a-brac. Nic’s stylish eye and my laser-sharp focus were whipped up into a frenzy that eventually consumed Mark (we had lost Nate to a nearly catastrophic reassembly of his computer scene, as one of his machines wouldn’t power up again for hours). After lots of tweaks, we had produced a chic and definitively bobo ambience throughout the apartment. 
Home improvement was more or less complete! Exhausted, we four sat down for dinner at 11pm and while extremely satisfied with all our hard work, we vowed to relax and enjoy Paris on Sunday.
And so, on a brisk yet gorgeous afternoon, we braved the Metro (almost fully back to normal) and headed to St-Germain, the heart of the Left Bank and an area that I’ve barely explored since our arrival in August. Mark’s lovely sister, Pat, and brother-in-law, Howard, were visiting Paris, so we met for brunch at one of Paris’s most elegant and legendary tearooms, Ladurée. It’s a Paris institution, and while the restaurant is nothing to shake a stick at, Ladurée is more widely known for its pastries and chocolates.
These confections are so preciously packaged and branded that we felt we’d wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory by way of Tiffany’s. We were seated in an airy room with murals of 18th-century garden scenes and feasted on some heavenly delights. My salad was comprised of ingredients so fresh they were virtually straight out of the veggie patch…soooooooo good, but merely foreplay for the food-gasmic desserts that followed. As Ladurée prides itself on its macarons, I had to try the mini-macaron sampler plate. These are NOT your bubbe’s kosher-for-Passover variety of macaroons. On the contrary, they are little sandwiches of sweet, airy coconut-infused pastry with a cream center. They come in an array of dazzling flavors and colors; I had chocolate with fruits rouge, rose petal, cassis-and-violet, and crème de caramel. I don’t even remember what everyone else ordered for dessert, so good were these dainty little treats.
We recovered from our decadent brunch wandering through the streets and hidden courtyards of St-Germain, soaking up the autumn sun and live jazz wafting through the streets.
N+M had generously offered to have curtains and pillowcases made for us in Indonesia, as fabric and labor costs are “la rupee de sonsonnet” (a lovely idiom which roughly translates to a drop in the bucket) compared to retail prices in France. The silk pillowcases slid onto our couch pillows perfectly and are now awaiting their new home on our recently purchased sofa, which won’t arrive until January. The curtains, as beautiful as they are to behold, were not as much of a cinch to set up. The velvet fabric was too heavy for the curtain rod holders we’d already taken great pains to screw into the walls. After a failed attempt at hanging them – which nearly resulted in ripping all the hanging apparatuses out of the walls – Nate, Nic, and Mark spent the better part of Friday marching back and forth between our place and the nearest hardware store in order to implement the sturdiest solution. I arrived home (after my traumatic Metro experience) to discover that they’d just finally succeeded. Phase one of home improvement was complete.
Creaky floorboards and an irritable downstairs neighbor spurred the next phase on. The first night of N+M’s visit was spent quietly schmoozing, dining, and otherwise chillin’. As we got up to begin bedtime prep, we were surprised to hear a knock on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, with semi-crazed desperation in her eyes. “Have you been moving furniture?” I was flabbergasted. We’d already realized that the floorboards were old and noisy, but we’d barely moved an inch for the past couple hours. After calming her down, we resolved to get some wall-to-wall carpet for our living room, the most used room in the apartment. We planned to go to a nearby store, where we could find carpeting in bulk, on Saturday morning. Cut to me, Nate, and Mark hoisting a 15’ roll of carpeting on our shoulders for the 10-minute walk home through narrow streets and raucous crosswalks. 
If only that were the hardest part of Operation Carpet. Nate and I braced ourselves for the subsequent task – taking apart all of our carefully constructed work in the living room. Bookshelves were emptied, electronics were unplugged (and obviously there were more than a few cables what with N’s monstrous computer center), and nearly all the furniture was removed from the room so the carpet could be unrolled, cut, and installed. Nate and Mark expertly took care of business, and now we can proudly say that it really ties the room together.
While the gentlemen worked on Operation Carpet, the ladies concentrated on decoration. We spent quite a while finding the perfect spots for our masks, puppets, artwork, and other bric-a-brac. Nic’s stylish eye and my laser-sharp focus were whipped up into a frenzy that eventually consumed Mark (we had lost Nate to a nearly catastrophic reassembly of his computer scene, as one of his machines wouldn’t power up again for hours). After lots of tweaks, we had produced a chic and definitively bobo ambience throughout the apartment. 
Home improvement was more or less complete! Exhausted, we four sat down for dinner at 11pm and while extremely satisfied with all our hard work, we vowed to relax and enjoy Paris on Sunday. And so, on a brisk yet gorgeous afternoon, we braved the Metro (almost fully back to normal) and headed to St-Germain, the heart of the Left Bank and an area that I’ve barely explored since our arrival in August. Mark’s lovely sister, Pat, and brother-in-law, Howard, were visiting Paris, so we met for brunch at one of Paris’s most elegant and legendary tearooms, Ladurée. It’s a Paris institution, and while the restaurant is nothing to shake a stick at, Ladurée is more widely known for its pastries and chocolates.
These confections are so preciously packaged and branded that we felt we’d wandered into Willy Wonka’s factory by way of Tiffany’s. We were seated in an airy room with murals of 18th-century garden scenes and feasted on some heavenly delights. My salad was comprised of ingredients so fresh they were virtually straight out of the veggie patch…soooooooo good, but merely foreplay for the food-gasmic desserts that followed. As Ladurée prides itself on its macarons, I had to try the mini-macaron sampler plate. These are NOT your bubbe’s kosher-for-Passover variety of macaroons. On the contrary, they are little sandwiches of sweet, airy coconut-infused pastry with a cream center. They come in an array of dazzling flavors and colors; I had chocolate with fruits rouge, rose petal, cassis-and-violet, and crème de caramel. I don’t even remember what everyone else ordered for dessert, so good were these dainty little treats.
We recovered from our decadent brunch wandering through the streets and hidden courtyards of St-Germain, soaking up the autumn sun and live jazz wafting through the streets.
23 October 2007
La Grève Strikes Back
The official day of the transportation strike was sunny and carefree, and not much of an obstacle. The population expected the disruption of transportation services and could thus plan accordingly. However, the following day was overcast and dismal – in more ways than one. Services were expected to resume and so things would be back to normal…or so I, in true expat naïveté, thought.
I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.
14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?
Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.
Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.
An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.
It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.
Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.
I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.
It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?
The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.
I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.
14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?
Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.
Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.
An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.
It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.
Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.
I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.
It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?
The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.
18 October 2007
Baby's First Strike
I’ve long known about the French inclination to protest, and was duly warned about the likelihood of a transportation strike. Alors, it wasn’t a shock when the news came ‘round that today would be the day. Practically no Metro, commuter train, railway, and bus lines would operate from Wednesday to Thursday evenings. Who could get to work, you may wonder. Those who have cars could brave L.A.-style traffic, those who live close enough could walk or ride bikes/ motorcycles/ scooters (all ubiquitous modes of transport on a normal day), and those who are shrewd – or motivated – enough could wake up at the crack of dawn and stake a claim on a Velibe (bikes available for public rental). You'd think cabs would also be an option, but as my in-laws (currently visiting) discovered, if you didn’t book one by last Wednesday, you were S.O.L. Although most of my Thursday students weren’t bothering to come to work at all, two were planning to, and I’m paid by the hour, so this girl put on her walking shoes and hoofed it to her 9:30am class.
It was a beautiful day for a transportation strike – deep blue sky, barely any clouds, an autumnal crispness to the air. The streets were a bit calmer than usual, although not much. My walk took me through the Marais into the commercial district of the 2nd arrondisement. I didn’t take the most aesthetically stunning route…lots of chintzy clothing stores, fast food places…I now know where the Paris Hard Rock Café is (thank goodness, I didn’t think I could lose any more sleep over that mystery) and if I’m ever nostalgic for my past brushes with Long Island, I can go to Japorama (it’s really a sushi restaurant, but of course my frame of reference is New York Jewish American Princesses). But just when you think you’re in a less than desirable nook of Paris, you look down a side street and see a magnificent medieval or Renaissance church peeking out past its neighboring buildings. Amen.
After my over-in-a-blink workday, I was thrilled to have a free afternoon to run errands. First, the post office. Clearly no deliveries can be made by train today, so I knew the package I wanted to mail wouldn’t leave the post office until tomorrow. However, the postal worker wouldn’t even accept my package and let it remain in the p.o. until it could be delivered tomorrow. WTF? Since you can buy stamps and send letters elsewhere, why was the post office even open, then? Ah, France…
Then I was off to pick up some odds and ends we still need for the apartment (such as light coverings – apts don’t come with ‘em here and the bare bulb in our kitchen poking out of the wall (whoever thought that was a good place for a light fixture is one smart cookie) is killing me). I decided to finally go check out what the hype was all about at BHV, one of the city’s most legendary (and there are many, natch) department stores. Well, the legends are true. This isn’t just any run-of-the-mill department store. Sure, there are fashion items and cosmetics, but those takes a back seat to all things home. Almost every floor is organized thematically: hardware, bed and bath, kitchen, home décor, electronics, HOBBIES (I couldn’t get over this – an entire floor dedicated to crafts, arts, games, toys, sports, all kinds of goodness). I needed a hodgepodge of items, so I wound up on nearly every floor. I was in there for over an hour, so I probably walked about half a mile just inside the premises. Then it was more walking back through the Marais to home, sweet home. Although I spent about a half a day on my feet, it felt like a breeze. J’adore vadrouiller dans Paris…
It was a beautiful day for a transportation strike – deep blue sky, barely any clouds, an autumnal crispness to the air. The streets were a bit calmer than usual, although not much. My walk took me through the Marais into the commercial district of the 2nd arrondisement. I didn’t take the most aesthetically stunning route…lots of chintzy clothing stores, fast food places…I now know where the Paris Hard Rock Café is (thank goodness, I didn’t think I could lose any more sleep over that mystery) and if I’m ever nostalgic for my past brushes with Long Island, I can go to Japorama (it’s really a sushi restaurant, but of course my frame of reference is New York Jewish American Princesses). But just when you think you’re in a less than desirable nook of Paris, you look down a side street and see a magnificent medieval or Renaissance church peeking out past its neighboring buildings. Amen.
After my over-in-a-blink workday, I was thrilled to have a free afternoon to run errands. First, the post office. Clearly no deliveries can be made by train today, so I knew the package I wanted to mail wouldn’t leave the post office until tomorrow. However, the postal worker wouldn’t even accept my package and let it remain in the p.o. until it could be delivered tomorrow. WTF? Since you can buy stamps and send letters elsewhere, why was the post office even open, then? Ah, France…
Then I was off to pick up some odds and ends we still need for the apartment (such as light coverings – apts don’t come with ‘em here and the bare bulb in our kitchen poking out of the wall (whoever thought that was a good place for a light fixture is one smart cookie) is killing me). I decided to finally go check out what the hype was all about at BHV, one of the city’s most legendary (and there are many, natch) department stores. Well, the legends are true. This isn’t just any run-of-the-mill department store. Sure, there are fashion items and cosmetics, but those takes a back seat to all things home. Almost every floor is organized thematically: hardware, bed and bath, kitchen, home décor, electronics, HOBBIES (I couldn’t get over this – an entire floor dedicated to crafts, arts, games, toys, sports, all kinds of goodness). I needed a hodgepodge of items, so I wound up on nearly every floor. I was in there for over an hour, so I probably walked about half a mile just inside the premises. Then it was more walking back through the Marais to home, sweet home. Although I spent about a half a day on my feet, it felt like a breeze. J’adore vadrouiller dans Paris…
14 October 2007
All Settled
It’s been an eventful week in these parts. Our shipment arrived Monday without incident. The movers were super efficient and had our entire shipping container unloaded into our apartment within two hours. Nate was allowed a day off for moving purposes (another fabulous benefit vis-a-vis French employment laws) and Candice had arrived back in Paris from her Morocco trip, so the two of them oversaw it all. They spent the better part of the day unpacking a great deal of boxes and at least opening the rest. By the time I got home from work, the entire kitchen was unpacked, our furniture was set up, and the rest of our apartment was in box-world chaos…it felt great to come home to this scene, even if it was a minor train wreck.
Throughout the week, we unpacked the rest, organized where everything goes, and enjoyed having our belongings back. We’ve eaten dinner at our dining table (my first ever, such a treat to not eat dinner sitting on the floor!) and have done a couple loads of laundry in our washer and dryer (the ultimate luxury). At this point, we only have to hang artwork and take care of a couple more minor touches and we’re there!I’ve provided a little tour of our building for your viewing pleasure. We have a classic Parisian apartment building – you enter onto a plant-filled courtyard, which feeds into a long corridor granting access to four separate buildings as well as three office spaces (art dealer, architect, gallery). Our building is all the way at the back of the corridor. After you pass through the second door, you can walk upstairs or take the tiny elevator – a rarity for us not only because we live on the third floor (really the fourth, as the French don’t count the ground floor), but also because it really, truly is tiny. In the photo, I’ve put my messenger bag inside for a little spatial perspective. We’ve had an interesting time getting all the cardboard refuse out of our apartment and into the garbage room, cramming as much as we can into the elevator and then racing it down the stairs, only to do it over and over and over again…yes, we’ve done it lots and lots of times.
Aside from all the household activity, we also had a nice, solid week of family time. Candice stayed in town for a few days and provided an invaluable amount of help with the unpacking process. Her presence also ratcheted up the hominess factor, as we cooked our first meals in the apartment and enjoyed cozy evenings just hangin’ out. Yesterday Nate and I visited his aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandmother, who live on a gorgeous farm about an hour outside the city. I hadn’t yet met his aunt and uncle, who are just lovely, warm people. It was heavenly to breathe in the sweet country air, eat a relaxed lunch, and visit the local golf course, really to see N’s aunt’s paintings (they’re on display in the club house) – but we wound up with vouchers for a free round due to the hospitality of the staff. Score! I also made it through the afternoon barely speaking any English – which is not to say that I was able to communicate perfectly, but I was pleased with my ability to follow conversations and contribute.N’s parents will be in town in a couple days. More hosting! More family goodness! More reconnecting! And more blogging soon, now that things have calmed down a bit.
07 October 2007
How to Stay Dry in Paris
I caught a cold at the end of the week. I knew it was inevitable when some students started complaining about their own, plus the weather has been wildly unpredictable: gorgeous and sunny one day, rainy and chilly the next, gray and windy for the rest of the week. I have a limited wardrobe until our grand shipment arrives, and I didn’t account for unseasonably cold weather in Sept/Oct. Years in San Francisco prepared me for dealing with dramatic changes in the weather, but I hadn’t at all expected it in Paris. So I unfortunately didn’t feel well enough to go out last night and therefore missed out on Nuit Blanche, which I’d been looking forward to all week. It’s an annual event organized by the city in which free art and multimedia installations are open in several neighborhoods until late-night and one Metro line runs free all night. Well, there’s always next year.
I felt well enough to brave some errands yesterday. Once again, navigating certain parts of the Marais was crrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaazy. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it continues to astonish me how widespread this is—people really just stop right in front of you in a very crowded street or on the stairs exiting the Metro, as if they’re the only ones on the planet. Yes, I’m walking behind you, but no, I really didn’t want to actually GO anywhere (heh). Anyhow, during our travels we discovered an odd yet valuable piece of information: key copying shops are not also hardware stores, but double as shoe repair places. Do metal cutting machines also work well on leather? Huh. Kind of like the logic of the ubiquitous donut shops in SF that also serve Chinese take-out (if the deep fryer is already on, just keep putting stuff in it!). Aside from tending to mending some shoes, we bought a washer and dryer – we’re very excited to have laundry in our apartment. This is especially a dream come true for me, who has never had laundry on the premises since I lived at my mom’s. And for those of you who are wondering why we’d bother to buy appliances at all…That’s just how it works here. Any empty (unfurnished) apartment in France comes unequipped. You must supply all of your own appliances (fridge, oven, all of it), your own curtains and curtain rods, and even your own light coverings. [It’s true that there are a lot more overhead costs to moving into an apartment here than in the US, but consequently utility bills are cheaper.]
Whereas Saturdays in Paris are busy and boisterous, Sundays are quiet and contemplative. Most businesses are closed, traffic is calmer, the streets aren’t as crowded—it’s a day usually reserved for family visits and simply lounging around. This morning, we rushed out to the one market we knew was open until the afternoon to buy some groceries, thanking our lucky stars for the one épicerie out of 20 that was open for at least part of the day. It’s a rare gorgeous day in Paris, so afterwards, we had wanted to picnic in the gorgeous Jardin du Luxembourg in the 6th, but I wasn’t feeling up to the trek. Instead we took a stroll around another part of our neighborhood only to discover a tucked-away, thriving Sunday scene. Who knew?! On Rue de Bretagne, just around the corner from us, several businesses and shops are indeed open on Sunday, not to mention the Marché des Enfants Rouge – a covered outdoor market with overflowing produce stalls, milky chevres, tasty salamis, fresh fish, tons of other fine foods and wines, flowers, and take-out crepes, Moroccan, or sushi that you can eat on the many picnic tables on the perimeter of the market. 
After admiring the bounty, we walked up the street to Square du Temple, an adorable little park with benches galore, a sizable playground, gazebo, ping-pong tables, and a nice swath of grass. Lots of families were out to play and so we enjoyed some people-watching in the sun. We took some smaller streets back home and discovered lots of cute restaurants and shops that we plan to indulge in at some point. We’re glad we abandoned our too-ambitious (for the sick girl, anyway) Sunday plans to uncover a bit more of our neighborhood. Each time we do, we get even more excited that we live here. 
Come visit and you’ll see…For the time being,check out the remaining pics in this post for some other interesting local discoveries we made today.
Back on the home front, this weekend brought another victory: we finally won our battle with the shower. For those who have been to this country, you may have already experienced the oddities of French showering. Unlike in the States, where showerheads are permanently attached to the plumbing and always positioned well above your head, showerheads in France are at the ends of metal hoses and if they can be held in position at all, you’re lucky to find ones that sit higher than the top of your head (we’re among those lucky few). Getting wet in the shower isn’t even so much the issue as is keeping the rest of the bathroom dry. Our hotel didn’t have a shower door or curtain – only a small glass pane that barely jutted out past the location of the showerhead. There was always a huge puddle outside the shower, even when we turned the head as far away from that part of the bathroom as possible. Our apartment has a shower curtain rod, but because of dimensions of the bathroom it has to be L-shaped and really closes you in if a shower curtain is pulled all the way around. OK, there’s not much we can do about that, but what was even more puzzling was that the previous tenants had a shower curtain that wasn’t longer than the top of the tub, and thus only succeeded in funneling water right outside the tub. Isn’t the point of a shower curtain to keep the water inside the shower? The solution was clear: buy a longer shower curtain.
And so I shopped. And shopped. And shopped. And every single store I went to did not carry a shower curtain longer than 200cm, the same length as the original curtain. What we had chalked up to poor thinking on the tenants’ part was soon replaced with utter disbelief: if this is the standard longest length, what about those of us who have shorter bath tubs? Is the entire country so precise at showering, or just not bothered by stepping out of the shower into a giant puddle?! Anyhow, upon coming to the conclusion that the perfect shower curtain just wasn’t out there, I had a eureka moment in a store: lower the shower curtain rod. Of course! I rushed home eager to investigate, only to be deflated. One end of the shower curtain rod is connected to the wall right above the tiny bathroom window. We couldn’t lower it. After another day of despairing over our watery dilemma, I finally figured it out: buy more shower curtain rings. We now have three rows of rings holding up our curtain, the bathroom floor is dry, and showering is now the stress-free experience it’s meant to be.
In other household news, our shipment arrives tomorrow – it’s about time! A real bed, dishes, warmer clothes, electronics…just a few of the things we’re very excited to finally have.
I felt well enough to brave some errands yesterday. Once again, navigating certain parts of the Marais was crrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaazy. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it continues to astonish me how widespread this is—people really just stop right in front of you in a very crowded street or on the stairs exiting the Metro, as if they’re the only ones on the planet. Yes, I’m walking behind you, but no, I really didn’t want to actually GO anywhere (heh). Anyhow, during our travels we discovered an odd yet valuable piece of information: key copying shops are not also hardware stores, but double as shoe repair places. Do metal cutting machines also work well on leather? Huh. Kind of like the logic of the ubiquitous donut shops in SF that also serve Chinese take-out (if the deep fryer is already on, just keep putting stuff in it!). Aside from tending to mending some shoes, we bought a washer and dryer – we’re very excited to have laundry in our apartment. This is especially a dream come true for me, who has never had laundry on the premises since I lived at my mom’s. And for those of you who are wondering why we’d bother to buy appliances at all…That’s just how it works here. Any empty (unfurnished) apartment in France comes unequipped. You must supply all of your own appliances (fridge, oven, all of it), your own curtains and curtain rods, and even your own light coverings. [It’s true that there are a lot more overhead costs to moving into an apartment here than in the US, but consequently utility bills are cheaper.]
Whereas Saturdays in Paris are busy and boisterous, Sundays are quiet and contemplative. Most businesses are closed, traffic is calmer, the streets aren’t as crowded—it’s a day usually reserved for family visits and simply lounging around. This morning, we rushed out to the one market we knew was open until the afternoon to buy some groceries, thanking our lucky stars for the one épicerie out of 20 that was open for at least part of the day. It’s a rare gorgeous day in Paris, so afterwards, we had wanted to picnic in the gorgeous Jardin du Luxembourg in the 6th, but I wasn’t feeling up to the trek. Instead we took a stroll around another part of our neighborhood only to discover a tucked-away, thriving Sunday scene. Who knew?! On Rue de Bretagne, just around the corner from us, several businesses and shops are indeed open on Sunday, not to mention the Marché des Enfants Rouge – a covered outdoor market with overflowing produce stalls, milky chevres, tasty salamis, fresh fish, tons of other fine foods and wines, flowers, and take-out crepes, Moroccan, or sushi that you can eat on the many picnic tables on the perimeter of the market. 
After admiring the bounty, we walked up the street to Square du Temple, an adorable little park with benches galore, a sizable playground, gazebo, ping-pong tables, and a nice swath of grass. Lots of families were out to play and so we enjoyed some people-watching in the sun. We took some smaller streets back home and discovered lots of cute restaurants and shops that we plan to indulge in at some point. We’re glad we abandoned our too-ambitious (for the sick girl, anyway) Sunday plans to uncover a bit more of our neighborhood. Each time we do, we get even more excited that we live here. 
Come visit and you’ll see…For the time being,check out the remaining pics in this post for some other interesting local discoveries we made today. Back on the home front, this weekend brought another victory: we finally won our battle with the shower. For those who have been to this country, you may have already experienced the oddities of French showering. Unlike in the States, where showerheads are permanently attached to the plumbing and always positioned well above your head, showerheads in France are at the ends of metal hoses and if they can be held in position at all, you’re lucky to find ones that sit higher than the top of your head (we’re among those lucky few). Getting wet in the shower isn’t even so much the issue as is keeping the rest of the bathroom dry. Our hotel didn’t have a shower door or curtain – only a small glass pane that barely jutted out past the location of the showerhead. There was always a huge puddle outside the shower, even when we turned the head as far away from that part of the bathroom as possible. Our apartment has a shower curtain rod, but because of dimensions of the bathroom it has to be L-shaped and really closes you in if a shower curtain is pulled all the way around. OK, there’s not much we can do about that, but what was even more puzzling was that the previous tenants had a shower curtain that wasn’t longer than the top of the tub, and thus only succeeded in funneling water right outside the tub. Isn’t the point of a shower curtain to keep the water inside the shower? The solution was clear: buy a longer shower curtain.
And so I shopped. And shopped. And shopped. And every single store I went to did not carry a shower curtain longer than 200cm, the same length as the original curtain. What we had chalked up to poor thinking on the tenants’ part was soon replaced with utter disbelief: if this is the standard longest length, what about those of us who have shorter bath tubs? Is the entire country so precise at showering, or just not bothered by stepping out of the shower into a giant puddle?! Anyhow, upon coming to the conclusion that the perfect shower curtain just wasn’t out there, I had a eureka moment in a store: lower the shower curtain rod. Of course! I rushed home eager to investigate, only to be deflated. One end of the shower curtain rod is connected to the wall right above the tiny bathroom window. We couldn’t lower it. After another day of despairing over our watery dilemma, I finally figured it out: buy more shower curtain rings. We now have three rows of rings holding up our curtain, the bathroom floor is dry, and showering is now the stress-free experience it’s meant to be.
In other household news, our shipment arrives tomorrow – it’s about time! A real bed, dishes, warmer clothes, electronics…just a few of the things we’re very excited to finally have.
02 October 2007
Sounding Off
Teaching English as a language has been eye- (and ear-) opening in many ways. It makes you realize how much you take for granted as a native speaker. One thing I’ve realized is that Americans (especially in certain regions) tend to blur words together and soften consonant sounds more often than other native English speakers. Many of my students are petrified of the notorious Texas drawl. One even feels that it’s harder to understand Texans than Indians. They probably haven’t dealt with the likes of authentic New Yorkers, or New Jerseyites (?) for that matter. If they had to, “The Sopranos” would be an unlikely yet fairly helpful teaching tool. I may have never developed a true New Yawk accent, but I’ve become more conscious than ever that I pronounce many of my t’s as d’s and I shorten some vowel sounds, so I’ve had to work hard on EEnunciaTing. Would Tony S. or Dubya, for that matter, fare as well?
Speaking of sounding things out, I taught the alphabet to a beginner today and boy, was it an exercise in confusion. Consonants aren’t a huge stretch, but many vowel sounds are wildly different. The English “A” sound doesn’t exist in French. The French “I” is pronounced the same way as the English “E;” the French “E” is pronounced similarly to the English “uh” sound. The poor guy was in a panic when I had him spell words I was dictating. Thank goodness “O” and “U” are close enough between the two languages, or he might have passed out. This was just the tip of the iceberg, as we haven’t even moved past the most basic long vowel sounds in English. Butter, milk, eggs, apples, sauce, etc. – oh, it’s gonna be a bloodbath. (I must be hungry, because those were the first words that popped into my head.)
Idioms have been another particular challenge. Native speakers forget that although these turns of phrase seem simple enough to one another, they can send even an advanced language learner into a spiral of confusion. “Step it up,” “in the loop,” “work it out”…these, among others, have slipped out during instruction. Explaining the meaning of an idiom is harder than you think, what with the need to break it down into the simplest words possible. It’s kind of like playing Taboo (my fave game, by the way) – there are some words you just can’t ever use and you still have to get someone to comprehend exactly what you mean to say.
On the flipside, I’ve noticed some idiosyncrasies of French utterances. They tend to make certain sounds that I’ve never noticed before among the Frenchies I’ve been long acquainted with. I’m wishing I had audio-recording capabilities right about now, but I’ll attempt to articulate these sounds anyway. One is akin to a sharp intake of breath, like the sound you’d make if you were suddenly startled – but not as strong and not with a connotation of shock. It seems to be used more as a nervous almost-laugh. And I’ve heard it most frequently from older people; not sure how to explain that. The other sound is the ever-popular noise the people here make to express “Who knows?” or “I don’t have a damn clue.” The more uncouth of the population produce a ripping-fart sound, while the more elegant make a kind of air-popping fart sound. Either you’re laughing right now or you can’t at all imagine what I’m talking about, but believe me when I say that by the end of my first week here, I was ready to MURDER the next person I heard do it. It was driving me crazy. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to its ubiquity. One of my classes recently served as a therapy session for dealing with this French-fart-sound hang-up. My students were taking a practice test for a Business English exam they’re taking this spring, and they were so stumped by one section of the test that the classroom was a veritable chorus of this sound. I realized then there was no escaping it…but though I can’t beat it, I am by no means joining it. Oh, hell no. Sorry, people, fart noises are for the bathroom or the armpit hijinks of 12-year-old boys.
And now for the interactive portion of this blog: What sounds do Americans make that can be perceived as bizarre or ridiculous? Post a comment with your ideas.
Speaking of sounding things out, I taught the alphabet to a beginner today and boy, was it an exercise in confusion. Consonants aren’t a huge stretch, but many vowel sounds are wildly different. The English “A” sound doesn’t exist in French. The French “I” is pronounced the same way as the English “E;” the French “E” is pronounced similarly to the English “uh” sound. The poor guy was in a panic when I had him spell words I was dictating. Thank goodness “O” and “U” are close enough between the two languages, or he might have passed out. This was just the tip of the iceberg, as we haven’t even moved past the most basic long vowel sounds in English. Butter, milk, eggs, apples, sauce, etc. – oh, it’s gonna be a bloodbath. (I must be hungry, because those were the first words that popped into my head.)
Idioms have been another particular challenge. Native speakers forget that although these turns of phrase seem simple enough to one another, they can send even an advanced language learner into a spiral of confusion. “Step it up,” “in the loop,” “work it out”…these, among others, have slipped out during instruction. Explaining the meaning of an idiom is harder than you think, what with the need to break it down into the simplest words possible. It’s kind of like playing Taboo (my fave game, by the way) – there are some words you just can’t ever use and you still have to get someone to comprehend exactly what you mean to say.
On the flipside, I’ve noticed some idiosyncrasies of French utterances. They tend to make certain sounds that I’ve never noticed before among the Frenchies I’ve been long acquainted with. I’m wishing I had audio-recording capabilities right about now, but I’ll attempt to articulate these sounds anyway. One is akin to a sharp intake of breath, like the sound you’d make if you were suddenly startled – but not as strong and not with a connotation of shock. It seems to be used more as a nervous almost-laugh. And I’ve heard it most frequently from older people; not sure how to explain that. The other sound is the ever-popular noise the people here make to express “Who knows?” or “I don’t have a damn clue.” The more uncouth of the population produce a ripping-fart sound, while the more elegant make a kind of air-popping fart sound. Either you’re laughing right now or you can’t at all imagine what I’m talking about, but believe me when I say that by the end of my first week here, I was ready to MURDER the next person I heard do it. It was driving me crazy. At this point, I’ve resigned myself to its ubiquity. One of my classes recently served as a therapy session for dealing with this French-fart-sound hang-up. My students were taking a practice test for a Business English exam they’re taking this spring, and they were so stumped by one section of the test that the classroom was a veritable chorus of this sound. I realized then there was no escaping it…but though I can’t beat it, I am by no means joining it. Oh, hell no. Sorry, people, fart noises are for the bathroom or the armpit hijinks of 12-year-old boys.
And now for the interactive portion of this blog: What sounds do Americans make that can be perceived as bizarre or ridiculous? Post a comment with your ideas.
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