“What is a…a…‘jheek’?”
This is the inevitable question from a student whenever reading one of my favorite English-lesson news articles, an Economist special report about how wireless technology has impacted society. The piece drops the words ‘geek’ and 'nerd' a couple times, and so reading it is always a game of waiting for the quizzical look and the mispronunciation of two of America’s most endearing insults and/or status labels, depending on how you look at it (or where you live).
It’s not as if hearing the correct pronunciation renders the words any more comprehensible to the French. The first problem is that there isn’t any translation in the French language. The closest French gets is intello, which really means ‘intellectual’—a term that’s far more Nietzsche, ethics seminar, and tweed than Star Trek, LAN party, and pocket protector.
The second problem runs deeper than language. The fact is the concepts of ‘geek’ or ‘nerd’ just don’t exist in this culture. And herein we can analyze the wide cultural gap between Euros and Americans. Europe has played host to centuries of ground-breaking thinkers. Intellectualism is as much a part of their history as is architecture or food. Educational achievement is of utmost importance in French society, yet the education system only awards the highest honors to a select few. French students are therefore pushed to the point of breaking, and only a few of them make it to the top. There has never been a celebration of the jock over the nerd, because football may reign supreme, but studies are way more important. You’d think some would rebel against the intellectual status quo, yet it seldom happens. As depressing as it could be, people still aspire to greatness even if they know they may never achieve it. In adult life, most people strive to know what’s happening in the world, present a solid analysis of it, and be right about it, to boot. Being smart (or at least appearing to be smart) isn’t just cool—it’s a survival skill.
Now, I’m not saying America is a polar opposite. We of course have had great minds, countless innovations, and many high-performing students. We have our bubble world of the educated elite. But we also tend to prize athletic achievement and strength over brains. (If you look back to our country’s origins, it was all about brawn—conquering the wilderness, the Manifest Destiny. Could this have something to do with it?) The jock vs. nerd rivalry codified in 1980’s teen comedies has faded, but not quite into obscurity. I worked in public schools for two years—the athletes still get all the glory, while it’s uncool to be so unabashedly, nerdily, in love with one’s studies. (“Don’t worry,” I’d tell my over-achieving students, “It won’t matter anymore in college.” Well, maybe except at a Big 10 university.) And in 2004, we experienced the triumph of someone who inexplicably bluffed his way through Yale (family money helps a lot!) over someone whom the American people felt was too much of a “European intellectual.” I wasn’t a fan of Kerry’s longwindedness either, but at the time I, like many others, was infuriated that a term celebrating smarts had been transformed into an insult.
However, we’ve turned a corner in American culture. Nerdiness may still be cause for mockery, but geekiness is another beast altogether. Living in the SF Bay Area for nearly a decade, I witnessed the ascension of the Geek firsthand. And now the word is less rooted in the realm of technology or educational achievement, and more casually tossed around to refer to anyone who’s an avid fan of just about anything. I could call myself a tea geek, my sister a Pilates geek, my angler student a fishing geek…etc.
But back to the French, the idea of nerdiness and geekiness just don’t translate. I have slaved away at trying to explain the words to many French friends and students, sometimes even aided by other Anglos, and it always fails to come across and really gel in a French person’s mind. To define geek, the best I can come up with is un fan (a fan). To define nerd, it gets a bit trickier. I usually have to resort to acting out the role of a stereotypical nerd, which involves talking in a high-pitched whiny voice, adopting a hunched posture, and pushing my invisible glasses up the ridge of my nose. Basically, it’s my rendition of the super-nerdy kid on “The Simpsons” who recruits Lisa into his league of nerds. It’s a pathetic impersonation and I think it leaves the French pitying my apparent mental disorder rather than experiencing the dawning light of realization.
17 September 2008
06 September 2008
Des Voleurs, Degagez-Vous
To start with a painfully clichéd phrase, “Today is the first day of the rest of my life”—because yesterday my entire post-adolescent life was robbed. Literally. Some asshole broke into my apartment and stole my laptop, which contains all my writing (and I’m not just talking blog posts, but articles, freelance copywriting, college and post-grad papers, original poetry), all the curriculum I’ve developed as a teacher (lesson plans, projects, notes, research), tons of emails, and a host of other important documents and information. Namely, I’ve lost my entire body of work to date, the groundwork for future work, and things I can’t even begin to recall. All gone. Game over.
It all begins with the living room window, with which N and I have fought an oftentimes losing battle for the past year. It’s extremely difficult to shut firmly, and doing so requires a team of at least two to three people. Sometimes it pops open after it’s been firmly (or semi-firmly) shut. To my knowledge, it was shut when I left the apartment yesterday morning, but one never truly knows.
Then there’s the scaffolding that’s lining both sides of my apartment building, as the property manager is finally renovating the facades after a 20 year lapse. For the past two months, there has been a team workers entering and exiting my building complex, working directly beside my apartment, waking me up with horrible banging and drilling, dusting up the stairwell—a constant nuisance, not to mention something that’s made me slightly uneasy. Who likes having lots of strangers hanging around near their home for a prolonged period?
You can probably put two and two together at this point. I came home yesterday from a full workday followed by gym workout (still in my sweaty workout clothes) to find that the window that I’d thought had been shut and the curtains that had most certainly been fully closed were open above a pile of dust on the cushions and carpet. I immediately knew my laptop was gone before I even looked toward its usual spot on my desk. Sure enough, gone it was, and it was the only thing taken. There were several other small, valuable items the culprit could have pinched, but a shiny white iBook seemed to do the trick. Plus, the thief needed a getaway bag so he dumped all the contents of my deskside trash and took the plastic garbage bag. Gee, thanks.
After feverishly checking and rechecking that nothing else had been taken, I called N, who as luck wouldn’t have it is away on business in the States, and he tried to talk me down. Everything that occurred afterwards was surreal and almost comical. I went downstairs to tell my super, and to enlist his help in calling the police, as my robbery-addled brain wasn’t operating at normal capacity and my French was coming out painfully wrong . He, his wife, and their daughter were very sympathetic and sweet and helped me without hesitation. The teenage daughter dialed the cops and what ensued was a family sitcom scenario of her speaking on the phone, the mom continuously yelling at her to ask for their exact address and Metro stop, and the dad continuously yelling at the mom to stop yelling at their kid. This went on for several minutes and at one point I did let out a little giggle that I had to stifle with a cough. Ahem. We determined that I would walk to the police station and in the meantime the super and his wife would alert my downstairs neighbor, who was a victim of the same crime exactly a week before (unbelievable, right?). They told me Mme G could give me useful information on how to proceed. Cool.
My mind was then racing with the multitude of things I had to immediately do: get the damn window shut, go to the police station, of course shower because in France walking around in one’s sweaty gym clothes automatically lowers one’s credibility, and uh oh, my friends visiting from SF (who thank goodness were spending the night) were due chez moi in two hours so I’d have to leave a note on my door instructing them to wait at the café downstairs while I tended to the emergency. I decided to tackle the window first, unaided (big mistake) and was getting so worked up emotionally that I absentmindedly placed one hand on a pane of glass in the window while putting pressure on the frame in order to get it closed. The next thing I knew, my hand had gone straight through the glass, without even so much as a crashing sound effect. Pffff, pop! was all I got. (This is so like me. I am the most closeted clumsy person in the world. I appear to have it all together, but every now and again I have a really bizarre or just plain foolish mishap—usually none involve injuring myself, though.) Don’t worry, I was super, super lucky to only sustain some shallow cuts on my hand, but at the time I was bleeding and in shock and so I just lost it. Explosions. Nuclear meltdowns. Call in the haz-mat crew, a.k.a. my beloved N, who could barely make out what I was saying, I was in such hysterics. He was attempting to talk me down yet again, when suddenly the doorbell rang. And this is when Mme G, the downstairs neighbor whose laptops were stolen last week, entered the picture and the fires started to get put out.
I first put her on the phone with N, because my French was becoming more and more second-grader by the moment. They exchanged stories. Hers was even worse! The workers had broken one of her windows in the course of their work and offered to help patch it up with cardboard. Two of them actually went into her apartment to apply the temporary fix. About a few days later, she left her apartment for two hours, only to return to the cardboard slashed, the window open, two computers gone, and a trail of dusty footprints leading to her front door (which is so cartoonish it’s almost funny…well, really, it’s just horrible).
Anyhow, I eventually said goodbye to N. Mme G took one look at my haggard expression and knew she had to take charge of the situation. And she did so in the kindest, most gracious way. We agreed I should wait until the next morning to go to the police given the additional fracas with the glass and my hand, plus the simple logic that it could wait until tomorrow. She called my household insurance company; she called the police. Finally, she insisted that she accompany me to the police station the following morning and gave me her numbers in case I needed anything.
Then more neighbors started showing up to express their sympathies and concerns. (Wow, news spreads fast in this building.) One neighbor and the super helped me finally get the window very firmly shut. I patched up the hole in the glass with cardboard and packing tape. Once the excitement died down, I was able to take a long shower and reflect. Yes, this is a terrible loss of something priceless. Yes, whoever did this is a real MF and has left me feeling violated and unsafe in my own home. Yes, I am such an idiot for not backing up my data despite knowing better, yet being too lazy to deal (believe me, I will probably beat myself up over this one for a long time to come). But really, despite all the negativity generated from this incident, I have to look on the bright side, because I’m a stereotypical positive American, dammit, and that’s how we do. So: I’ve learned an important lesson (always back up! wasn’t this a Sex and the City episode?), and now I have a fresh start. Tabula rasa. I will have to keep telling myself that when the sadness and anger seesaw back into play.
To help put things into perspective, I decided to read the news. Hurricane Hanna, Iraq, and Sarah Palin…yeah, my problems are pretty small. I eventually received my wonderful friends, whose presence calmed me down immensely—to the point that they were marveling at how calm I seemed (you should’ve seen me a couple hours ago, friends)—and in no time I was laughing and having a fun evening. As an extra precaution, they also helped me move the sofa in front of the windows, in effect blocking the windows from being opened. I don't like having a hole in the glass with scaffolding adjacent to my apartment, but moving the sofa made me feel better and I don’t think the jerk who broke in would be so bold as to attempt it again. (I’ll get a real glass replacement on Monday, anyhow.)
I had a semi-sleepless night, in part because I kept hearing fishy noises on the scaffolding outside my bedroom window. Paranoia started to get the better of me. (It’s him/them, he’s/they’re back with a crew of thieves and they’re going to clean the place out. Must…protect…Rock Band gear and Goonies DVD! Haha, just kidding.) Finally I worked up the nerve to take a peek. Pfew! Just a tarp attached to the scaffolding twisting and rasping in the wind. Girl, you’ve seen way too many scary movies.
My neighbor accompanied me to the police station this morning and I filed the report. It was a fairly painless procedure—I didn't need 14 documents, the police were nice, I managed fairly well with my French, and my neighbor picked up the slack when I couldn't. Then the police sent over a "police technique" (forensics) person, who arrived with his smart-looking forensics briefcase. I was expecting a little CSI action—dusting for fingerprints or at least some inspection of the premises—but he only asked me the same questions they did at the station, wrote down the same information I’d reported at the station, and explained there was nothing more he could do. DUUUUUUUUUUUH. Um, why did you come in the first place? (Ah, France. Such a high unemployment rate and therefore some pretty pointless jobs.) He did share one bit of interesting info: He said the police gets tons of these reports any time there's travaux (renovations) done on a building. In a way that makes me feel better, but in a way it’s even more infuriating.
Mme G and I returned to our building only to learn from the super that there had been a third incident, this time in the building across from mine. The workers have been painting and so an elderly resident left the windows open to air out the apartment, only to return home to find one of the workers standing in the apartment. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!! The resident is scared to report it to the cops in case the worker threatens or hurts him. Three incidents in one week? That’s it, these guys have to be fired. My downstairs neighbor, my landlord, and my super are all pressuring the building manager to crack some heads at the contractor’s. As the French would say, c’est insupportable.
Later, I went to the gym to channel my aggression and focus on something else. Pumping iron really works! I felt good and strong and sweaty and alive. Some comforting phone calls with family members, delicious white tea, and a hot shower later, I’ve managed to put a lot of the negativity behind me and I’m awaiting yet another set of visiting friends. (I’m quite grateful to not be spending the weekend alone in my apartment given the circumstances.) Moreover, I’ve returned to one of the most relaxing exercises I know: writing. I am rebuilding the temple, so to speak. So thank you for sticking it through this super long account; it’s been an important cathartic step.
It all begins with the living room window, with which N and I have fought an oftentimes losing battle for the past year. It’s extremely difficult to shut firmly, and doing so requires a team of at least two to three people. Sometimes it pops open after it’s been firmly (or semi-firmly) shut. To my knowledge, it was shut when I left the apartment yesterday morning, but one never truly knows.
Then there’s the scaffolding that’s lining both sides of my apartment building, as the property manager is finally renovating the facades after a 20 year lapse. For the past two months, there has been a team workers entering and exiting my building complex, working directly beside my apartment, waking me up with horrible banging and drilling, dusting up the stairwell—a constant nuisance, not to mention something that’s made me slightly uneasy. Who likes having lots of strangers hanging around near their home for a prolonged period?
You can probably put two and two together at this point. I came home yesterday from a full workday followed by gym workout (still in my sweaty workout clothes) to find that the window that I’d thought had been shut and the curtains that had most certainly been fully closed were open above a pile of dust on the cushions and carpet. I immediately knew my laptop was gone before I even looked toward its usual spot on my desk. Sure enough, gone it was, and it was the only thing taken. There were several other small, valuable items the culprit could have pinched, but a shiny white iBook seemed to do the trick. Plus, the thief needed a getaway bag so he dumped all the contents of my deskside trash and took the plastic garbage bag. Gee, thanks.
After feverishly checking and rechecking that nothing else had been taken, I called N, who as luck wouldn’t have it is away on business in the States, and he tried to talk me down. Everything that occurred afterwards was surreal and almost comical. I went downstairs to tell my super, and to enlist his help in calling the police, as my robbery-addled brain wasn’t operating at normal capacity and my French was coming out painfully wrong . He, his wife, and their daughter were very sympathetic and sweet and helped me without hesitation. The teenage daughter dialed the cops and what ensued was a family sitcom scenario of her speaking on the phone, the mom continuously yelling at her to ask for their exact address and Metro stop, and the dad continuously yelling at the mom to stop yelling at their kid. This went on for several minutes and at one point I did let out a little giggle that I had to stifle with a cough. Ahem. We determined that I would walk to the police station and in the meantime the super and his wife would alert my downstairs neighbor, who was a victim of the same crime exactly a week before (unbelievable, right?). They told me Mme G could give me useful information on how to proceed. Cool.
My mind was then racing with the multitude of things I had to immediately do: get the damn window shut, go to the police station, of course shower because in France walking around in one’s sweaty gym clothes automatically lowers one’s credibility, and uh oh, my friends visiting from SF (who thank goodness were spending the night) were due chez moi in two hours so I’d have to leave a note on my door instructing them to wait at the café downstairs while I tended to the emergency. I decided to tackle the window first, unaided (big mistake) and was getting so worked up emotionally that I absentmindedly placed one hand on a pane of glass in the window while putting pressure on the frame in order to get it closed. The next thing I knew, my hand had gone straight through the glass, without even so much as a crashing sound effect. Pffff, pop! was all I got. (This is so like me. I am the most closeted clumsy person in the world. I appear to have it all together, but every now and again I have a really bizarre or just plain foolish mishap—usually none involve injuring myself, though.) Don’t worry, I was super, super lucky to only sustain some shallow cuts on my hand, but at the time I was bleeding and in shock and so I just lost it. Explosions. Nuclear meltdowns. Call in the haz-mat crew, a.k.a. my beloved N, who could barely make out what I was saying, I was in such hysterics. He was attempting to talk me down yet again, when suddenly the doorbell rang. And this is when Mme G, the downstairs neighbor whose laptops were stolen last week, entered the picture and the fires started to get put out.
I first put her on the phone with N, because my French was becoming more and more second-grader by the moment. They exchanged stories. Hers was even worse! The workers had broken one of her windows in the course of their work and offered to help patch it up with cardboard. Two of them actually went into her apartment to apply the temporary fix. About a few days later, she left her apartment for two hours, only to return to the cardboard slashed, the window open, two computers gone, and a trail of dusty footprints leading to her front door (which is so cartoonish it’s almost funny…well, really, it’s just horrible).
Anyhow, I eventually said goodbye to N. Mme G took one look at my haggard expression and knew she had to take charge of the situation. And she did so in the kindest, most gracious way. We agreed I should wait until the next morning to go to the police given the additional fracas with the glass and my hand, plus the simple logic that it could wait until tomorrow. She called my household insurance company; she called the police. Finally, she insisted that she accompany me to the police station the following morning and gave me her numbers in case I needed anything.
Then more neighbors started showing up to express their sympathies and concerns. (Wow, news spreads fast in this building.) One neighbor and the super helped me finally get the window very firmly shut. I patched up the hole in the glass with cardboard and packing tape. Once the excitement died down, I was able to take a long shower and reflect. Yes, this is a terrible loss of something priceless. Yes, whoever did this is a real MF and has left me feeling violated and unsafe in my own home. Yes, I am such an idiot for not backing up my data despite knowing better, yet being too lazy to deal (believe me, I will probably beat myself up over this one for a long time to come). But really, despite all the negativity generated from this incident, I have to look on the bright side, because I’m a stereotypical positive American, dammit, and that’s how we do. So: I’ve learned an important lesson (always back up! wasn’t this a Sex and the City episode?), and now I have a fresh start. Tabula rasa. I will have to keep telling myself that when the sadness and anger seesaw back into play.
To help put things into perspective, I decided to read the news. Hurricane Hanna, Iraq, and Sarah Palin…yeah, my problems are pretty small. I eventually received my wonderful friends, whose presence calmed me down immensely—to the point that they were marveling at how calm I seemed (you should’ve seen me a couple hours ago, friends)—and in no time I was laughing and having a fun evening. As an extra precaution, they also helped me move the sofa in front of the windows, in effect blocking the windows from being opened. I don't like having a hole in the glass with scaffolding adjacent to my apartment, but moving the sofa made me feel better and I don’t think the jerk who broke in would be so bold as to attempt it again. (I’ll get a real glass replacement on Monday, anyhow.)
I had a semi-sleepless night, in part because I kept hearing fishy noises on the scaffolding outside my bedroom window. Paranoia started to get the better of me. (It’s him/them, he’s/they’re back with a crew of thieves and they’re going to clean the place out. Must…protect…Rock Band gear and Goonies DVD! Haha, just kidding.) Finally I worked up the nerve to take a peek. Pfew! Just a tarp attached to the scaffolding twisting and rasping in the wind. Girl, you’ve seen way too many scary movies.
My neighbor accompanied me to the police station this morning and I filed the report. It was a fairly painless procedure—I didn't need 14 documents, the police were nice, I managed fairly well with my French, and my neighbor picked up the slack when I couldn't. Then the police sent over a "police technique" (forensics) person, who arrived with his smart-looking forensics briefcase. I was expecting a little CSI action—dusting for fingerprints or at least some inspection of the premises—but he only asked me the same questions they did at the station, wrote down the same information I’d reported at the station, and explained there was nothing more he could do. DUUUUUUUUUUUH. Um, why did you come in the first place? (Ah, France. Such a high unemployment rate and therefore some pretty pointless jobs.) He did share one bit of interesting info: He said the police gets tons of these reports any time there's travaux (renovations) done on a building. In a way that makes me feel better, but in a way it’s even more infuriating.
Mme G and I returned to our building only to learn from the super that there had been a third incident, this time in the building across from mine. The workers have been painting and so an elderly resident left the windows open to air out the apartment, only to return home to find one of the workers standing in the apartment. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!! The resident is scared to report it to the cops in case the worker threatens or hurts him. Three incidents in one week? That’s it, these guys have to be fired. My downstairs neighbor, my landlord, and my super are all pressuring the building manager to crack some heads at the contractor’s. As the French would say, c’est insupportable.
Later, I went to the gym to channel my aggression and focus on something else. Pumping iron really works! I felt good and strong and sweaty and alive. Some comforting phone calls with family members, delicious white tea, and a hot shower later, I’ve managed to put a lot of the negativity behind me and I’m awaiting yet another set of visiting friends. (I’m quite grateful to not be spending the weekend alone in my apartment given the circumstances.) Moreover, I’ve returned to one of the most relaxing exercises I know: writing. I am rebuilding the temple, so to speak. So thank you for sticking it through this super long account; it’s been an important cathartic step.
02 September 2008
Rentrée Sickness
Yesterday, the first of September, is known as la rentrée, or the return. It is a grand return indeed: everyone’s back from their lengthy August vacations, school is again in session, the city is coming back to life, office activity is picking up. And therefore, everyone is feeling down. Including me, except not for the same reasons most Parisians are.
It’s just that I’m sick of all the complaining. I’ve grinned and bared it and I’ve tried to be sympathetic in the face of it, but frankly, I’m over it.
Parisians complain all the time. It’s practically an academic exercise. The running philosophy goes that if a Frenchman finds something worth complaining about, he has analyzed the situation craftily enough to identify an obvious or, better yet, a hidden fault. If you don’t find any fault, you are mentally lazy. He is therefore smarter than you. To boil it down into simpler terms…Complacent = stupid. Happy = downright moronic. Maybe I’m looking at this from a limited point of view (or maybe I’m just dumb, since I’m often in a good mood), but what does it say about a culture that devotes all this mental energy to actively not being happy? It isn’t a shock, then, to discover that 20% of French adults are on antidepressants. French adults are also the world’s biggest consumers of tranquilizers. Holy smokes.
Combine an already pessimistic national character with a return to work after the summer and Paris starts to feel funereal. You can feel it on the Metro and watching the hordes of workers surge past in the business district. Every student I’ve seen since yesterday morning has complained about something or other. I asked one, whom I hadn’t seen in two months due to her sprawling summer holiday, how her trip went, smiling expectantly. She said it was fine and then immediately launched into a long and bitter diatribe about how shitty the public transportation system is. All this because she got to work 15 minutes late today. I think we’ve crossed over from glass half empty to can’t see anything in the glass at all.
I read a piece in the IHT yesterday that went beyond my small sample size. Apparently, this is a “particularly morose” return because people are hesitant about the slowing economy and decreased purchasing power. Well, these are legitimate causes for concern, but there are reasons the French economy is stagnant (beyond the ripple effect of the American market crisis) and part of it has to do with the lack of dynamism and resistance to change. It’s the French paradox of complaining about how bad things are but then complaining (translation: striking) when something is poised to change. In fact, there have been rumblings about a major strike coming to theaters near us this fall—which may succeed in slowing down the economy further if it causes a prolonged period of preventing people from getting to work.
Clearly, I’m a product of my own culture. Surely, no one likes coming back from vacation and financial woes are not trivial matters, but where I come from we pick ourselves up and get things done and don’t waste too much negative energy bitching about it. Because that’s just what we do. And if we don’t like the situation we’re in, we try our best to change it or something about ourselves in order to better deal with it. We don’t wait around for the other shoe to drop or for the state to come pick it up and put it back on the rack where we think it belongs. We’re certainly not perfect, and we’ve made plenty of mistakes, but we at least make an effort to control our own destinies. (Ooooooooooh, she took it there.) It’s strange how after a year of living outside America, I realize how much of an American I truly am.
Oh, but of course not all of the French are dark, dreary, and dour. And I adore France. Just not for the reasons outlined above.
Yes, this is my day to rant, people! And don’t think the irony is lost on me. I fully acknowledge that in my attempt to vent about the complaining that surrounds me, I am, in fact, complaining. Maybe this re-entry sickness is more powerful than I thought.
It’s just that I’m sick of all the complaining. I’ve grinned and bared it and I’ve tried to be sympathetic in the face of it, but frankly, I’m over it.
Parisians complain all the time. It’s practically an academic exercise. The running philosophy goes that if a Frenchman finds something worth complaining about, he has analyzed the situation craftily enough to identify an obvious or, better yet, a hidden fault. If you don’t find any fault, you are mentally lazy. He is therefore smarter than you. To boil it down into simpler terms…Complacent = stupid. Happy = downright moronic. Maybe I’m looking at this from a limited point of view (or maybe I’m just dumb, since I’m often in a good mood), but what does it say about a culture that devotes all this mental energy to actively not being happy? It isn’t a shock, then, to discover that 20% of French adults are on antidepressants. French adults are also the world’s biggest consumers of tranquilizers. Holy smokes.
Combine an already pessimistic national character with a return to work after the summer and Paris starts to feel funereal. You can feel it on the Metro and watching the hordes of workers surge past in the business district. Every student I’ve seen since yesterday morning has complained about something or other. I asked one, whom I hadn’t seen in two months due to her sprawling summer holiday, how her trip went, smiling expectantly. She said it was fine and then immediately launched into a long and bitter diatribe about how shitty the public transportation system is. All this because she got to work 15 minutes late today. I think we’ve crossed over from glass half empty to can’t see anything in the glass at all.
I read a piece in the IHT yesterday that went beyond my small sample size. Apparently, this is a “particularly morose” return because people are hesitant about the slowing economy and decreased purchasing power. Well, these are legitimate causes for concern, but there are reasons the French economy is stagnant (beyond the ripple effect of the American market crisis) and part of it has to do with the lack of dynamism and resistance to change. It’s the French paradox of complaining about how bad things are but then complaining (translation: striking) when something is poised to change. In fact, there have been rumblings about a major strike coming to theaters near us this fall—which may succeed in slowing down the economy further if it causes a prolonged period of preventing people from getting to work.
Clearly, I’m a product of my own culture. Surely, no one likes coming back from vacation and financial woes are not trivial matters, but where I come from we pick ourselves up and get things done and don’t waste too much negative energy bitching about it. Because that’s just what we do. And if we don’t like the situation we’re in, we try our best to change it or something about ourselves in order to better deal with it. We don’t wait around for the other shoe to drop or for the state to come pick it up and put it back on the rack where we think it belongs. We’re certainly not perfect, and we’ve made plenty of mistakes, but we at least make an effort to control our own destinies. (Ooooooooooh, she took it there.) It’s strange how after a year of living outside America, I realize how much of an American I truly am.
Oh, but of course not all of the French are dark, dreary, and dour. And I adore France. Just not for the reasons outlined above.
Yes, this is my day to rant, people! And don’t think the irony is lost on me. I fully acknowledge that in my attempt to vent about the complaining that surrounds me, I am, in fact, complaining. Maybe this re-entry sickness is more powerful than I thought.
31 August 2008
Rock en Seine
Although I missed out on a lot of the summer festival season due to various vacations and such (yes, life in France is tough), I did manage to catch one of the final big outdoor musical events of the season the other night, Rock en Seine. It was fantastic.
First, let me get my semi-sarcastic commentary out of the way. The #1 fashion item on display was not super-super-almost-painted-on-skinny jeans or a bold-colored keffiyeh, as one might have expected, but rather a “I♥NY” logo. It was plastered on T-shirts, hoodies, and tote bags. Apparently, it is what Parisians like. Because the French may be conflicted about Americans, but New York? New York, they love. Aw. On the contrary, something baffling was discovered at one of the food vendors, which sold “Specialités Libanaises” yet boasted an image on its stallfront of a large cactus sporting a sombrero and shaking maracas. Huh? Who did their marketing? Something else of note was the festival campgrounds, which were divided into two sections: Camping and Rock Camping. How cool do you, like, have to be to get into Rock Camping? Is there a guest list I can get on? Heh. OK, time for me to stop with the sarcasm and compliment the festival for its remarkably low drink prices, compared to at U.S. events (if you don’t factor in the exchange rate, natch). Glasses of wine for 3 euros and pints of beer for 5? Not bad.
And now, the music. We unfortunately couldn’t get to the all-day festival early enough to catch The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and The Roots, but we did see some greats. The Raconteurs played a ripping show. It was the perfect summertime rock-n-roll soundtrack. Plus, Jack White! Justice came on 45 minutes late, but then pumped out a tight set. I danced, danced, danced. I didn’t notice too many people around me dancing, which I thought was odd given Justice are FRENCH DJ’S, but maybe things were different closer up to the stage—you know, where all the hardcore fans are.
The big disappointment of the night was that Amy Winehouse canceled at the very last minute. The non-irony was that this was not unexpected. In fact, everyone I was with was joking about the probability throughout the evening. Apparently she pulled the same thing at Rock en Seine last year. Guess who’s not going to be invited back in ’09? Jeez, pull it together, woman. She is one very talented train wreck and I would’ve liked to see her perform, but alas. I wasn’t anywhere nearly as upset as the many people who had driven from all over the country to see her play at her only scheduled gig in France this year.
The Streets made up for it, though. They were purely fun and put on a surprisingly great live show. I used to find their frontman Mike Skinner annoying, but the band has grown on me and now I’m re-sold. Skinner was a bit humorous, making little Amy Winehouse cracks that got the entire audience laughing (he is British and spoke only English, so this is how I know people understood what he was saying). However, I kind of felt bad for him when he tried to get some audience participation going mid-show and failed miserably. First, he said (I’m paraphrasing), “I’m gonna count to 5 and when I say 5, I want you to turn toward someone you don’t know, look them in the eye, and say, ‘I love you!’” The crowd started tittering nervously. When he reached 5, I turned to a gaggle of French girls and threw an Iloveyou in their direction and they just continued to titter nervously. I tried. A few minutes later, Skinner tried for #2 (paraphrasing again): “Now when I say ‘go low,’ I want you to put your arm around the person you said ‘I love you’ to’s shoulders and go low [translation: crouch down to the ground].” Judging from the lack of reciprocity earlier, N and I opted to do this one together. Well, when the big moment to go low finally came, I think N and I were among only a handful of people who actually went for it. Let’s analyze the situation. Yes, it was cheesey as hell, and yes, I’m sure some people in the crowd had no idea what he was talking about due to language issues. But come on, what’s wrong with a little cheesey audience interaction? To me, it spoke to the French’s aversion to engaging with strangers and acting a little silly just for the hell of it. Where I come from, these are not barriers to entry. Skinner saw the audience’s reaction and said in a mock-defeated tone, “OK, OK, I get it. I won’t ask you do anything else.” It was an odd-yet-amusing little blip in the midst of a really upbeat performance.
Overall it was a great time. I need more outdoor music!
First, let me get my semi-sarcastic commentary out of the way. The #1 fashion item on display was not super-super-almost-painted-on-skinny jeans or a bold-colored keffiyeh, as one might have expected, but rather a “I♥NY” logo. It was plastered on T-shirts, hoodies, and tote bags. Apparently, it is what Parisians like. Because the French may be conflicted about Americans, but New York? New York, they love. Aw. On the contrary, something baffling was discovered at one of the food vendors, which sold “Specialités Libanaises” yet boasted an image on its stallfront of a large cactus sporting a sombrero and shaking maracas. Huh? Who did their marketing? Something else of note was the festival campgrounds, which were divided into two sections: Camping and Rock Camping. How cool do you, like, have to be to get into Rock Camping? Is there a guest list I can get on? Heh. OK, time for me to stop with the sarcasm and compliment the festival for its remarkably low drink prices, compared to at U.S. events (if you don’t factor in the exchange rate, natch). Glasses of wine for 3 euros and pints of beer for 5? Not bad.
And now, the music. We unfortunately couldn’t get to the all-day festival early enough to catch The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and The Roots, but we did see some greats. The Raconteurs played a ripping show. It was the perfect summertime rock-n-roll soundtrack. Plus, Jack White! Justice came on 45 minutes late, but then pumped out a tight set. I danced, danced, danced. I didn’t notice too many people around me dancing, which I thought was odd given Justice are FRENCH DJ’S, but maybe things were different closer up to the stage—you know, where all the hardcore fans are.
The big disappointment of the night was that Amy Winehouse canceled at the very last minute. The non-irony was that this was not unexpected. In fact, everyone I was with was joking about the probability throughout the evening. Apparently she pulled the same thing at Rock en Seine last year. Guess who’s not going to be invited back in ’09? Jeez, pull it together, woman. She is one very talented train wreck and I would’ve liked to see her perform, but alas. I wasn’t anywhere nearly as upset as the many people who had driven from all over the country to see her play at her only scheduled gig in France this year.
The Streets made up for it, though. They were purely fun and put on a surprisingly great live show. I used to find their frontman Mike Skinner annoying, but the band has grown on me and now I’m re-sold. Skinner was a bit humorous, making little Amy Winehouse cracks that got the entire audience laughing (he is British and spoke only English, so this is how I know people understood what he was saying). However, I kind of felt bad for him when he tried to get some audience participation going mid-show and failed miserably. First, he said (I’m paraphrasing), “I’m gonna count to 5 and when I say 5, I want you to turn toward someone you don’t know, look them in the eye, and say, ‘I love you!’” The crowd started tittering nervously. When he reached 5, I turned to a gaggle of French girls and threw an Iloveyou in their direction and they just continued to titter nervously. I tried. A few minutes later, Skinner tried for #2 (paraphrasing again): “Now when I say ‘go low,’ I want you to put your arm around the person you said ‘I love you’ to’s shoulders and go low [translation: crouch down to the ground].” Judging from the lack of reciprocity earlier, N and I opted to do this one together. Well, when the big moment to go low finally came, I think N and I were among only a handful of people who actually went for it. Let’s analyze the situation. Yes, it was cheesey as hell, and yes, I’m sure some people in the crowd had no idea what he was talking about due to language issues. But come on, what’s wrong with a little cheesey audience interaction? To me, it spoke to the French’s aversion to engaging with strangers and acting a little silly just for the hell of it. Where I come from, these are not barriers to entry. Skinner saw the audience’s reaction and said in a mock-defeated tone, “OK, OK, I get it. I won’t ask you do anything else.” It was an odd-yet-amusing little blip in the midst of a really upbeat performance.
Overall it was a great time. I need more outdoor music!
30 August 2008
I Heart NY
For the past five months, I feel like almost half of my lesson time has been devoted to telling my students all about New York. Why? Because, like almost every other European, most of them recently went or will soon go on holiday to the Big Apple. Verb tenses and idioms have been often pushed aside to make way for expressions related to asking for directions and ordering from a menu—not to mention endless discussions on the true must-sees, restaurant recommendations, the lowdown on where to shop, and a crash course on how to survive as a tourist in America. My students have been happy to learn how to order a steak at the desired cuisson (level of cooking) and to know that in America wines are classified by the French name of the grape, but have been duly shocked that it’s customary to pay up to a 20% tip on dining (the French don’t tip, as servers’ wages are higher and the menu prices account for that).
What’s been even funnier is hearing their impressions after they’ve returned from their NYC getaways. “Oh la la, ze portions—zhey are so beeeg! And ze beeeldeeengs aussi!” (Typical, and, well, 100% true.) “I don’t ahnderstand zhis Abaire-crahm-BEE and Feeetch. Why do zhey have the yahng guy weeeth no shehrt?” (I think I laughed for a whole day after hearing this.) “Ze pee-pahl are so friendleee! So nice! Eet eez a soorprise.” (New Yorkers have always gotten a bad rep. We are a friendly bunch, if not a little rowdy. Parisians are relatively cold and distant.) I’ve also been tickled by some students’ tourism choices. Several went to see Yankees games (no Mets love from this side of the pond, apparently) and absolutely loved it! Who knew the French could get behind baseball? Also, several went to see a Gospel Mass at churches in Harlem (must be in the guidebooks?) and were nuts about this experience. Plus, I’ve been happily encouraging them to help boost the American economy. Oh yes, they Shopped. With a capital S. Suitcases were filled. Debit cards were maxed (too bad the French don’t have credit cards in the true sense). Many “eee-Puhds” (iPods) were purchased. To those who are toying with the idea of visiting Manhattan this fall, I tell them to hurry. The dollar is rising in value. Gotta cram in crazy shopping sprees while you can! Tick tock!
You’d think all this New York talk would have turned me off to the idea of actually joining the masses and visiting the city myself, but nah. It is my homeland, after all. I had almost no work to speak of in August (since most of my students were away themselves) and a free ticket to the States burning a hole in my pocket, so off I went for 10 glorious days.
I had SUCH a great time. I spent a lot of quality time with family, which is always a nourishing experience, and had a blast hanging with good friends and meeting some of my sister’s. The weather was stellar. I cycled in Central Park, said hello to the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, saw lots of films (including a free screening of Velvet Goldmine in the old, emptied pool at McCarren Park in Brooklyn), ate some great kosher deli, and, with my American Monopoly-style money in hand, shopped. Not with a capital S, per se, but my suitcase certainly put on some weight for its return trip.
My impressions? Oh la la, the portions are huge! The buildings, too. And the people are SOOOOOOO nice and I can recognize every freakin’ last word they say. I’m walking in public in my sweaty gym clothes after a Pilates or yoga class and no one is staring at me or looking at me funny (and I understood 100% of what the instructors said—first time in a year!). In Williamsburg, my sister’s friend parked in front of a 24-hour natural food store. Oh Jesus, this is what is great about America, I thought. Total excess, but delivered in such a convenient, shiny way. Such a thing does not exist in France.
It dawned on me that all these superficial comforts aside, I was really, really happy to be back in the States. Home. And so I returned to my new home a bit more homesick than before.
What’s been even funnier is hearing their impressions after they’ve returned from their NYC getaways. “Oh la la, ze portions—zhey are so beeeg! And ze beeeldeeengs aussi!” (Typical, and, well, 100% true.) “I don’t ahnderstand zhis Abaire-crahm-BEE and Feeetch. Why do zhey have the yahng guy weeeth no shehrt?” (I think I laughed for a whole day after hearing this.) “Ze pee-pahl are so friendleee! So nice! Eet eez a soorprise.” (New Yorkers have always gotten a bad rep. We are a friendly bunch, if not a little rowdy. Parisians are relatively cold and distant.) I’ve also been tickled by some students’ tourism choices. Several went to see Yankees games (no Mets love from this side of the pond, apparently) and absolutely loved it! Who knew the French could get behind baseball? Also, several went to see a Gospel Mass at churches in Harlem (must be in the guidebooks?) and were nuts about this experience. Plus, I’ve been happily encouraging them to help boost the American economy. Oh yes, they Shopped. With a capital S. Suitcases were filled. Debit cards were maxed (too bad the French don’t have credit cards in the true sense). Many “eee-Puhds” (iPods) were purchased. To those who are toying with the idea of visiting Manhattan this fall, I tell them to hurry. The dollar is rising in value. Gotta cram in crazy shopping sprees while you can! Tick tock!
You’d think all this New York talk would have turned me off to the idea of actually joining the masses and visiting the city myself, but nah. It is my homeland, after all. I had almost no work to speak of in August (since most of my students were away themselves) and a free ticket to the States burning a hole in my pocket, so off I went for 10 glorious days.
I had SUCH a great time. I spent a lot of quality time with family, which is always a nourishing experience, and had a blast hanging with good friends and meeting some of my sister’s. The weather was stellar. I cycled in Central Park, said hello to the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, saw lots of films (including a free screening of Velvet Goldmine in the old, emptied pool at McCarren Park in Brooklyn), ate some great kosher deli, and, with my American Monopoly-style money in hand, shopped. Not with a capital S, per se, but my suitcase certainly put on some weight for its return trip.
My impressions? Oh la la, the portions are huge! The buildings, too. And the people are SOOOOOOO nice and I can recognize every freakin’ last word they say. I’m walking in public in my sweaty gym clothes after a Pilates or yoga class and no one is staring at me or looking at me funny (and I understood 100% of what the instructors said—first time in a year!). In Williamsburg, my sister’s friend parked in front of a 24-hour natural food store. Oh Jesus, this is what is great about America, I thought. Total excess, but delivered in such a convenient, shiny way. Such a thing does not exist in France.
It dawned on me that all these superficial comforts aside, I was really, really happy to be back in the States. Home. And so I returned to my new home a bit more homesick than before.
12 August 2008
Working Out, or Working It?
You’ve heard it before: Parisian women are the height of style. After a year of living among les Parisiennes, I’m not convinced that it’s a universal truth, but I give them major bonus points for experimenting with fashion. Even if they miss the mark, they’re worlds more daring, fashion-wise, than the Anglos. I can also now attest that this adventurousness extends into the realm of gym wardrobes, as well, but I’m not as generous with doling out the bonus points in this case.
After reading the fabulous Stuff Parisians Like’s claim that Parisians consider exercise anathema (“for people who are either stupid or gay”), I have to respectfully disagree. My gym is always packed and yeah, there are lots of lollygaggers, but also a lot of hardcore exercisers who treat some of the gym classes like cult gatherings. However, I think the one thing Parisians are intrinsically adverse to is the unmentionable sin of appearing unkempt or...gasp...dull. Even after schvitzing it up on the Stairmaster for 40 minutes. I’ve mentioned before that it’s unheard of to walk around in gym clothes in public. But things get a bit out of hand within the protective walls of the gym, too. Some of the getups are not to be believed.
There’s a woman about twice my age who seems to have time traveled into Jane Fonda’s workout closet from 1983 (or just never bought a new workout outfit since then). She consistently wears a neon pink leotard with black leggings, a hot pink sweatband around her head with wristbands to match, and always, without fail, sports her gold necklace and diamond earrings.
Then there are the younger chicks. One girl wears 1970’s roller-skating rink red shorts with white piping and a barely-there red halter top to match. On her feet are gleamingly white sneakers. Left foot: no sock. Right foot: black sock pulled up to mid-shin length. I’ve puzzled over what the reasons could be for covering her lower right leg. Embarrassing lovelorn tattoo of Sarkozy? Fungal infection of the ankle? Flashing colors to the Right Bank Crips? All are possible if not extremely farfetched explanations, but then why no left sock? I’m stumped, people.
Another girl dresses like she’s ready for a set of tennis in a bygone decade when women first discovered the wonders of exposing their legs for sporting activities. She wears a short-sleeved sweater, very short madras shorts, and thigh-high sheer stockings, the lacy tops of which aren’t even covered by the shorts hems. It’s just…bizarre. Is she afraid of getting her legs dirty? Is she too lazy to change out of the pantyhose she’s been wearing under a skirt during the workday? Pantyhose are really never a good idea. As a Parisienne, she should know better.
The worst offender is a woman in her 40’s who is like Pat Benatar on a fashion bender. She seems to alternate between two ensembles. One is a black thong leotard with the torso cut out, leaving a gaping hole that reveals a neon green bandeau top. The other is a red thong leotard that covers her entire torso, thank goodness. Both outfits are worn with fishnets and color-coordinated legwarmers and high-top sneakers—not to mention the fringed arm-band. She has super-straight jet-black hair with severe bangs and looks like she’s been tanning or smoking or both for too many years. Frankly, she terrifies me.
I’ve so far neglected the men’s fashions because they’re generally beyond reproach, except for one troubling guy who always wears a long, very baggy, low-cut tank top with tiny little shorts. Aside from the fact that it sometimes looks like he's not wearing anything on the bottom, do we need to always see his man-cleavage?
Maybe I’m just a simple-minded American, but the gym is where I go to work out, sweat a lot, and therefore not preoccupy myself with clothes. Standard stretchy exercise pants topped off with a plain tee or tank always suffices. Dressed like that, am I going to win any fashion awards? Of course not. But is my outfit 100% functional? Yessir. And will I ever be accused of shopping for gym outfits at a vintage costume shop or at Burning Man? Hells no.
After reading the fabulous Stuff Parisians Like’s claim that Parisians consider exercise anathema (“for people who are either stupid or gay”), I have to respectfully disagree. My gym is always packed and yeah, there are lots of lollygaggers, but also a lot of hardcore exercisers who treat some of the gym classes like cult gatherings. However, I think the one thing Parisians are intrinsically adverse to is the unmentionable sin of appearing unkempt or...gasp...dull. Even after schvitzing it up on the Stairmaster for 40 minutes. I’ve mentioned before that it’s unheard of to walk around in gym clothes in public. But things get a bit out of hand within the protective walls of the gym, too. Some of the getups are not to be believed.
There’s a woman about twice my age who seems to have time traveled into Jane Fonda’s workout closet from 1983 (or just never bought a new workout outfit since then). She consistently wears a neon pink leotard with black leggings, a hot pink sweatband around her head with wristbands to match, and always, without fail, sports her gold necklace and diamond earrings.
Then there are the younger chicks. One girl wears 1970’s roller-skating rink red shorts with white piping and a barely-there red halter top to match. On her feet are gleamingly white sneakers. Left foot: no sock. Right foot: black sock pulled up to mid-shin length. I’ve puzzled over what the reasons could be for covering her lower right leg. Embarrassing lovelorn tattoo of Sarkozy? Fungal infection of the ankle? Flashing colors to the Right Bank Crips? All are possible if not extremely farfetched explanations, but then why no left sock? I’m stumped, people.
Another girl dresses like she’s ready for a set of tennis in a bygone decade when women first discovered the wonders of exposing their legs for sporting activities. She wears a short-sleeved sweater, very short madras shorts, and thigh-high sheer stockings, the lacy tops of which aren’t even covered by the shorts hems. It’s just…bizarre. Is she afraid of getting her legs dirty? Is she too lazy to change out of the pantyhose she’s been wearing under a skirt during the workday? Pantyhose are really never a good idea. As a Parisienne, she should know better.
The worst offender is a woman in her 40’s who is like Pat Benatar on a fashion bender. She seems to alternate between two ensembles. One is a black thong leotard with the torso cut out, leaving a gaping hole that reveals a neon green bandeau top. The other is a red thong leotard that covers her entire torso, thank goodness. Both outfits are worn with fishnets and color-coordinated legwarmers and high-top sneakers—not to mention the fringed arm-band. She has super-straight jet-black hair with severe bangs and looks like she’s been tanning or smoking or both for too many years. Frankly, she terrifies me.
I’ve so far neglected the men’s fashions because they’re generally beyond reproach, except for one troubling guy who always wears a long, very baggy, low-cut tank top with tiny little shorts. Aside from the fact that it sometimes looks like he's not wearing anything on the bottom, do we need to always see his man-cleavage?
Maybe I’m just a simple-minded American, but the gym is where I go to work out, sweat a lot, and therefore not preoccupy myself with clothes. Standard stretchy exercise pants topped off with a plain tee or tank always suffices. Dressed like that, am I going to win any fashion awards? Of course not. But is my outfit 100% functional? Yessir. And will I ever be accused of shopping for gym outfits at a vintage costume shop or at Burning Man? Hells no.
Breizh Practices
I’ve neglected my blog for quite a while, it’s true. I had a multi-week run of family visitors followed by a week of vacation in the French countryside, because, well, it’s August, naturally.
We spent the week in Bretagne (aka Brittany or Breizh), a region in the northwest of France. It was my first French road trip, and I was completely floored to learn that you can actually spy castles from the highway. Seriously??? Ah, France, you’re too good to me. Maybe that’s why the road toll was an exorbitant 26 euros—aside from all the road maintenance, motorists are provided with knock-their-socks-off views that they probably shouldn’t be straining their necks to look at given the aggressiveness of French drivers.
Anyhow, it was such a joy to get out of the city and into the country. Oh, greenery, how I missed you! Oh, ocean, how nice to see you - I’ve always known I need to live near a big body of water and the Seine just doesn’t cut it. We rented a house in south-central Bretagne with N’s mom, sister, her boyfriend, and his three-year-old son. It was a nice mix of generations, personalities, French and English, and everyone got along swimmingly.So what did we do? A lot of our activities were limited by weather. Bretagne may be gorgeous, but le temps is not. We had two clear, sunny days but the rest were overcast and always on the verge of sprinkles. On the nicer days, we enjoyed brisk beach walks, breathing in the invigorating seaside scent that my mother-in-law and I dubbed eau de wakame.
On the grayer days, we jumped in the car to explore the region: tiny villages boasting charming stone houses, gardens bursting with hydrangeas, lively marketplaces, and many ancient archaeological sites featuring menhirs (stone pillars believed to be placed in patterns by Druids and peoples before them, used for a variety of things from human sacrifice to acting as a primitive calendar).
One of the biggest kicks out of being in Bretagne was reveling in the old Breton language, which isn't really spoken that much anymore but lives on through town names and on many street signs. Just when I thought I was getting a handle on French, I was thrown into a strange world with places named Inzinzac-Lochrist, Kerveneac, and Plouhinec. In fact, due to its proximity to the UK, Breizh can trace some of its cultural roots to the Celts. It's most evident in traditional Breton music, which features kilt-wearing bagpipers. 
We also sampled plenty of the local cuisine, including lots of fresh seafood and the ultimate treat, buckwheat crepes washed down with a crisp cider followed by the fabulously named, buttery, sticky-sweet dessert, kuign aman (pronounced kun-yah-mahn). Delish.Then it was time to return to concrete jungle of Paris, where we had a very Parisian welcome indeed on our first evening back. Forebodingly gray sky, check. Ghost town atmosphere due to everyone being on holiday, check. Random urban violence, check: a middle-aged drunk couple in a bit of a melee—she had him in a headlock and he was gripping her ponytail, both of them were lying on the ground and too weak to fight the other off. Ah, how nice it is to be home.
To soften the blow, I have a tiny bit of work this week and then I head off on my second August vacation (I’m Frenching it up big time), this time to…drumroll...NYC! Aka, the homeland. It’ll be relatively quiet on the blogfront for most of the rest of the month. Yes, even la blogue must take its vacances d’août.
22 July 2008
The Wonderful World of French Food Shopping
Purchasing power. A recent study reported that it’s the number one concern among French consumers. My students frequently alternate between grumbling and fretting over it. Even advertisers have taken note, as a recent LastMinute.com billboard in the Métro boasted you could provide your family with a vacance “bling-bling” while still protecting your pouvoir d’achat.
The issue is most deeply felt in the area of food prices, a global crisis that shows no sign of letting up. Yet while the French population worries about the soaring cost of a kilo of apples, it also wants desperately to hold onto one of the oldest and dearest of French values—product quality. France has a long, long tradition of farming and people take the terroir very seriously. Each region is known for its agricultural specialties, and only the best producers boast the appellation d’origine contrôlée (or AOC) seal of approval, a government certification that the products (such as wine, dairy goods, produce) are indeed grown or made in said region. It’s a stamp of authority that the California avocado farmers could only dream of, and that New York apple-growers should seriously pursue for Macintoshes. (The fact that I think these are the best apples in the world is probably proof that I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart).
This meticulous attention to quality is reflected in the way one can shop for food. The French government has (of course) generated some laws that protect smaller businesses, limit competition, and therefore prevent prices from dropping. But is this completely a bad thing? Let’s take a deeper look in the shopping cart.
In France, you can shop at a large, chain supermarket. There you can find a wide variety of products, but not necessarily at reduced prices. Due to some bizarre law, chain markets are able to charge different prices for the same products depending where the store is located. Therefore, the same box of cereal can cost two euros more at a Monoprix in the tony 16th arrondisement than in the grittier, bohemian Belleville district. The supermarket offers the convenience of one-stop shopping, but depending on where you live, doesn’t necessarily offer savings.
You can turn to the hypermarkets if you want to shave off pennies, but those are few and far between. France has tried to restrict expansion as much as possible in order to protect small, independent businesses and avoid going the way of fiercely competitive capitalist markets. There are indeed zoning laws that prohibit more than one hypermarket within a wide geographic area, and even more laws that prevent more than one large supermarket from opening within a certain range.
This may seem strange to American consumers, yet there’s something to it. First of all, you may be able to pick up much-needed non-perishable items and household products at a supermarket or hypermarket, but the perishables aren’t necessarily of the highest quality. Second of all, there’s something sterile and uninviting about strolling the fluorescent-lit aisles of a grocery store, where employees are impassive and don’t know a whole lot about the products they’re peddling.
A much richer experience awaits shoppers in the small commercial areas of their quartiers,, a tradition that has been rendered extinct in the strip-mall-thatched expanses of America. Picking up groceries can sometimes be a chore, but I often look forward to it in my neighborhood. First, I stop at the small open-air marché where I select from a gorgeous display of produce—and most of it isn’t imported. Plus, it’s better than anything I’ve ever found in the States, even at Whole Foods (maybe just with the exception of my all-time favorite, California heirloom tomatoes). I regularly eat fruit from the market that really epitomizes the way fruits should taste. When’s the last time I savored berries or peaches of that quality back in the States? Too often in the U.S. you get produce that looks fantastic, only to have a mealy or diluted, watery taste. What also makes my shopping experience at my local petit marché so pleasant is the friendly greengrocer and his son who greet me with smiles and small talk every time.
On special occasions, I can also hit up the large outdoor markets, which tend to have lots more selection at slightly lower prices and aren’t nearly as bobo as U.S. farmer’s markets. However, I have to be lucky enough to have time in my schedule to visit these markets, as they’re often on weekday mornings and severely crowded on weekends.
Next, I’m off to the butcher. This is a relatively new experience for me, as I never shopped at a butcher in San Francisco. The miracle that is Trader Joe’s offered high-quality free range, organic poultry and meat at reasonable prices and so I usually bought my proteins there. At first, I bought meat at the supermarkets, but a recent scare (it came to light that at cheaper groceries they were repackaging nearly-expired meats to look fresher and giving them new expiration dates) made me a bit paranoid. So, I conceded to pay a bit extra to ensure that I was getting safe, quality meat. I couldn’t be more satisfied. The meat not only tastes fantastic, but there’s always such a huge variety of cuts to choose from. I still don’t dare venture into offal territory, but I could if I wanted to—it’s all proudly laid out in the display case. My butchers happily offer to butterfly chicken filets and pound them into thin breasts, cut up beef into cubes for a stew, or explain the best method for cooking certain cuts of lamb. The purveyors are also extremely smiley and gregarious, a quality which many French shopkeepers seem to lack.
Finally, I stop at the bakery. It goes without saying that French bakeries are proof of the divine. How else could something smell and taste so good? American bread—even when baked fresh on the premises with lots of love and care—doesn’t even come close. Not only is it a simple pleasure to pick up a fresh tradition or pain cereals, but it’s also (by French standards) cheap! Amen to that. There are tons of tiny boulangeries scattered throughout the city, with no zoning laws to restrict the reach of their delicious output.
While those are my top three food-shopping spots, I have many more artisinal, specialty shops to choose from: the fishmonger, the wine shop, the charcuterie (French equivalent of deli), the dedicated poultry vendor (complete with the always-spinning rotisserie), the chocolatier, and the cheese shop. At the latter, you can spend as much time as you want asking the shopkeepers about their endless varieties of fromage and they will never bat an eyelash. (This is in ironic contrast to the surly service we—and everyone else, for that matter—always received at Say Cheese on San Francisco’s Cole Street. It seems the shopkeepers there have swapped typical cultural roles with the upbeat cheesemongers on our current shopping street.)
Although I pay a bit extra for the privilege of filling my fridge with the bounty of the small, independently-run shops, it’s only marginally more than what I’d pay at the supermarket—and the quality is far better, from the perspective of what goes on my plate and my overall shopping experience. I’m with the French government on this one.
The issue is most deeply felt in the area of food prices, a global crisis that shows no sign of letting up. Yet while the French population worries about the soaring cost of a kilo of apples, it also wants desperately to hold onto one of the oldest and dearest of French values—product quality. France has a long, long tradition of farming and people take the terroir very seriously. Each region is known for its agricultural specialties, and only the best producers boast the appellation d’origine contrôlée (or AOC) seal of approval, a government certification that the products (such as wine, dairy goods, produce) are indeed grown or made in said region. It’s a stamp of authority that the California avocado farmers could only dream of, and that New York apple-growers should seriously pursue for Macintoshes. (The fact that I think these are the best apples in the world is probably proof that I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart).
This meticulous attention to quality is reflected in the way one can shop for food. The French government has (of course) generated some laws that protect smaller businesses, limit competition, and therefore prevent prices from dropping. But is this completely a bad thing? Let’s take a deeper look in the shopping cart.
In France, you can shop at a large, chain supermarket. There you can find a wide variety of products, but not necessarily at reduced prices. Due to some bizarre law, chain markets are able to charge different prices for the same products depending where the store is located. Therefore, the same box of cereal can cost two euros more at a Monoprix in the tony 16th arrondisement than in the grittier, bohemian Belleville district. The supermarket offers the convenience of one-stop shopping, but depending on where you live, doesn’t necessarily offer savings.
You can turn to the hypermarkets if you want to shave off pennies, but those are few and far between. France has tried to restrict expansion as much as possible in order to protect small, independent businesses and avoid going the way of fiercely competitive capitalist markets. There are indeed zoning laws that prohibit more than one hypermarket within a wide geographic area, and even more laws that prevent more than one large supermarket from opening within a certain range.
This may seem strange to American consumers, yet there’s something to it. First of all, you may be able to pick up much-needed non-perishable items and household products at a supermarket or hypermarket, but the perishables aren’t necessarily of the highest quality. Second of all, there’s something sterile and uninviting about strolling the fluorescent-lit aisles of a grocery store, where employees are impassive and don’t know a whole lot about the products they’re peddling.
A much richer experience awaits shoppers in the small commercial areas of their quartiers,, a tradition that has been rendered extinct in the strip-mall-thatched expanses of America. Picking up groceries can sometimes be a chore, but I often look forward to it in my neighborhood. First, I stop at the small open-air marché where I select from a gorgeous display of produce—and most of it isn’t imported. Plus, it’s better than anything I’ve ever found in the States, even at Whole Foods (maybe just with the exception of my all-time favorite, California heirloom tomatoes). I regularly eat fruit from the market that really epitomizes the way fruits should taste. When’s the last time I savored berries or peaches of that quality back in the States? Too often in the U.S. you get produce that looks fantastic, only to have a mealy or diluted, watery taste. What also makes my shopping experience at my local petit marché so pleasant is the friendly greengrocer and his son who greet me with smiles and small talk every time.
On special occasions, I can also hit up the large outdoor markets, which tend to have lots more selection at slightly lower prices and aren’t nearly as bobo as U.S. farmer’s markets. However, I have to be lucky enough to have time in my schedule to visit these markets, as they’re often on weekday mornings and severely crowded on weekends.
Next, I’m off to the butcher. This is a relatively new experience for me, as I never shopped at a butcher in San Francisco. The miracle that is Trader Joe’s offered high-quality free range, organic poultry and meat at reasonable prices and so I usually bought my proteins there. At first, I bought meat at the supermarkets, but a recent scare (it came to light that at cheaper groceries they were repackaging nearly-expired meats to look fresher and giving them new expiration dates) made me a bit paranoid. So, I conceded to pay a bit extra to ensure that I was getting safe, quality meat. I couldn’t be more satisfied. The meat not only tastes fantastic, but there’s always such a huge variety of cuts to choose from. I still don’t dare venture into offal territory, but I could if I wanted to—it’s all proudly laid out in the display case. My butchers happily offer to butterfly chicken filets and pound them into thin breasts, cut up beef into cubes for a stew, or explain the best method for cooking certain cuts of lamb. The purveyors are also extremely smiley and gregarious, a quality which many French shopkeepers seem to lack.
Finally, I stop at the bakery. It goes without saying that French bakeries are proof of the divine. How else could something smell and taste so good? American bread—even when baked fresh on the premises with lots of love and care—doesn’t even come close. Not only is it a simple pleasure to pick up a fresh tradition or pain cereals, but it’s also (by French standards) cheap! Amen to that. There are tons of tiny boulangeries scattered throughout the city, with no zoning laws to restrict the reach of their delicious output.
While those are my top three food-shopping spots, I have many more artisinal, specialty shops to choose from: the fishmonger, the wine shop, the charcuterie (French equivalent of deli), the dedicated poultry vendor (complete with the always-spinning rotisserie), the chocolatier, and the cheese shop. At the latter, you can spend as much time as you want asking the shopkeepers about their endless varieties of fromage and they will never bat an eyelash. (This is in ironic contrast to the surly service we—and everyone else, for that matter—always received at Say Cheese on San Francisco’s Cole Street. It seems the shopkeepers there have swapped typical cultural roles with the upbeat cheesemongers on our current shopping street.)
Although I pay a bit extra for the privilege of filling my fridge with the bounty of the small, independently-run shops, it’s only marginally more than what I’d pay at the supermarket—and the quality is far better, from the perspective of what goes on my plate and my overall shopping experience. I’m with the French government on this one.
15 July 2008
Le Quatorze Juillet
July 4th came and went in France without even a whimper, but the 14th (aka Bastille Day) went out with a bang.
There was a grand parade and air show on the Champs-Elysées. N and I missed the fanfare due to a late morning and leisurely lunch, but we caught some of the daytime revelry. We walked two miles from our home to la place de la Concorde, catching a military expo of sorts along the way, in a small square between the Louvre and the Palais Royal. There was an army camper showing military footage (it was so crowded we couldn’t get close enough to see any), but we had fun checking out the mannequins of legionnaires throughout the ages – particularly the prominently featured WWI soldiers. There was also a tent showcasing military-branded wine (where else would you see that but in France?), which was also thronged. We squeezed past an endless torrent of tourists by the Louvre and in the Tuileries to get to Concorde, the endpoint of the parade, where we witnessed hordes and hordes of decorated soldiers and navy sailors in their dandy outfits posing for pictures and savoring ice cream cones in the heat.
In the evening, we went to N’s family friend’s rooftop dinner party in the swanky 16th arrondisement. This sport afforded us a perfect view of La Tour Eiffel and the annual spectacle des feus d’artifice (fireworks show) right beside it. Let’s just say that the French know how to do fireworks, and seeing them streaking through the skyline beside La Tour Eiffel was magical. Overheard on the rooftop was the poignant quip, “Here are our tax dollars at work, people!” Ha. We took an insane amount of pictures, so I’ll let the ones I’ve included do the rest of the talking.
It was nice to be in a secluded spot for the occasion. Tons of locals and tourists pack themselves onto the Champ de Mars in front of La Tour Eiffel. Apparently the crowd was enormous and the gendarmerie were checking people’s bags and confiscating alcohol (only to drink it themselves, I’m sure).
After being nestled in the serene cocoon of the rooftop party, we eventually had to rejoin the masses, which were pouring out of every street—people partying, strolling, eating ice cream on their way to the Metro from the nearby Champ de Mars. Uh oh. The Metro ride started out semi-comfortably, but got more and more crowded as we made our way across town, eventually reaching a crisis point of transport strike-levels of suffocation about halfway home. The crowds waiting on the platforms were mind-bogglingly huge. At one point, we couldn’t take it anymore and instantaneously bolted off the train, although it took quite a while to wade through the dense thicket of people packed onto the platform and staircases until we finally made it outside—at Concorde, the exact point where we ended our daytime walk.
And so we did the same walk twice in one day, as there were no Velibs to be found anywhere. We caught the mini-carnival festivities in the Tuileries, which were even livelier at night than during the day, what with all the flashing neon and people high on booze and/or cotton candy. We topped off the day with a great late-night walk, with the sounds of revelry carrying all the way into the Marais.
There was a grand parade and air show on the Champs-Elysées. N and I missed the fanfare due to a late morning and leisurely lunch, but we caught some of the daytime revelry. We walked two miles from our home to la place de la Concorde, catching a military expo of sorts along the way, in a small square between the Louvre and the Palais Royal. There was an army camper showing military footage (it was so crowded we couldn’t get close enough to see any), but we had fun checking out the mannequins of legionnaires throughout the ages – particularly the prominently featured WWI soldiers. There was also a tent showcasing military-branded wine (where else would you see that but in France?), which was also thronged. We squeezed past an endless torrent of tourists by the Louvre and in the Tuileries to get to Concorde, the endpoint of the parade, where we witnessed hordes and hordes of decorated soldiers and navy sailors in their dandy outfits posing for pictures and savoring ice cream cones in the heat.
In the evening, we went to N’s family friend’s rooftop dinner party in the swanky 16th arrondisement. This sport afforded us a perfect view of La Tour Eiffel and the annual spectacle des feus d’artifice (fireworks show) right beside it. Let’s just say that the French know how to do fireworks, and seeing them streaking through the skyline beside La Tour Eiffel was magical. Overheard on the rooftop was the poignant quip, “Here are our tax dollars at work, people!” Ha. We took an insane amount of pictures, so I’ll let the ones I’ve included do the rest of the talking.
It was nice to be in a secluded spot for the occasion. Tons of locals and tourists pack themselves onto the Champ de Mars in front of La Tour Eiffel. Apparently the crowd was enormous and the gendarmerie were checking people’s bags and confiscating alcohol (only to drink it themselves, I’m sure).
After being nestled in the serene cocoon of the rooftop party, we eventually had to rejoin the masses, which were pouring out of every street—people partying, strolling, eating ice cream on their way to the Metro from the nearby Champ de Mars. Uh oh. The Metro ride started out semi-comfortably, but got more and more crowded as we made our way across town, eventually reaching a crisis point of transport strike-levels of suffocation about halfway home. The crowds waiting on the platforms were mind-bogglingly huge. At one point, we couldn’t take it anymore and instantaneously bolted off the train, although it took quite a while to wade through the dense thicket of people packed onto the platform and staircases until we finally made it outside—at Concorde, the exact point where we ended our daytime walk.
And so we did the same walk twice in one day, as there were no Velibs to be found anywhere. We caught the mini-carnival festivities in the Tuileries, which were even livelier at night than during the day, what with all the flashing neon and people high on booze and/or cotton candy. We topped off the day with a great late-night walk, with the sounds of revelry carrying all the way into the Marais.
10 July 2008
The Art(lessness) of the Gaze
The French love to stare. And they’re not subtle or coy about it at all. They never aim a ginger look out of the corner of their eyes and then quickly turn away when the object of their gaze looks in their direction. Oh, no. Rather, they’ve perfected the habit of full-on, without-a-doubt, shameless staring right at you. This lack of discretion seems odd and more than a little bit nosy, because where I come from, staring is rude and something best remained hidden; on the other hand, there’s something so honest about unabashed staring—“yeah, I’m lookin’ at you”—that gets lost in the tangled web of American social niceties.
It used to bother me, because I’m often the target of stares. As an outsider, I tend to do certain quotidian things just differently enough to merit curiosity. After a while, though, I got used to the staring and decided to turn it around by defiantly staring right back, as if to say, “You lookin’ at me? What? WHAT?” Such a gesture would certain make most American starers back down, but the French usually keep staring. They cannot be deflected. Are they robots? Sigh. It at least makes me feel a bit better to (somewhat) take charge of my objectification.
Anyways, I’ve been able to determine a pattern to the long, uninterrupted gaze of the French:
1) Be a tourist. Well, I don’t fall into this category, but I’ve seen people stare at tourists like their lives depend on it. I suppose foreigners hold a certain universal curiosity, but come on, this is Paris, a large, international city—not some hick country town in the middle of nowhere. Just yesterday, a family of German tourists got on the RER. The dad was filming their entrance to the train, which admittedly was a tad stare-worthy because who needs to capture getting on the RER Ligne A, aka the oven of B.O., sweat, and suffocation? Anyhow, the guy turned off his camera once his troupe was safely on board and the family proceeded to talk quietly amongst themselves. I noticed nearly everyone on the train continue to stare at them for the next few minutes. Sorry, but they were not even remotely fascinating.
2) Speak a foreign language. This may have had something to do with the example above. Any time I’ve spoken English in public, I’ve almost invariably gotten stared at, especially on public transportation. I don’t like to speak on my mobile on public trans, but sometimes it happens, and I feel a lot less self-conscious doing it here because a) everyone else does it, and b) not everyone understands me. However, they stare at me anyway. It’s worse if you’re speaking to someone on the train in English, as you become the focus of attention. Big whoop! If I’m reading anything English, I also get stared at. Maybe the people are trying to test their English skills—that’s the only good reason I can come up with for why people feel the need to actually peek at the text in the book, essentially reading (or just staring?) over my shoulder. Yes, Philip Roth is that compelling.
3) Eat on public transportation. I don’t do this often, because let’s face it, it’s not ideal. However, I’m forced to do so once a week, when I have from noon to half past to get from one client in the center of town to the next client at La Défense on the western outskirts. It’s tight, but doable—just as long as I eat lunch on the RER. Everyone in my vicinity stares at me almost the entire time I’m eating. I’d understand it if I was a boorish, slobby eater with baguette crumbs all over my clothes, but I usually have a fairly neatly packaged salad or non-crumbly sandwich, keeping myself and the train car floor squeaky clean. I still can’t tell if the staring is due to people thinking I’m crude regardless, or to people being jealous. In case of the latter, I throw in a few satisfied, this-is-so-yummy looks.
4) Carry or drink out of a large water bottle. I’ve written about this issue before. The French cannot comprehend drinking out of a container that is bigger than a juice glass or small water bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that my Nalgene was made out of a chemical-leaking plastic (eek), so I discarded it and have since been shelling out the big bucks for disposable plastic bottles for when I’m on the go. However, I tend to go for one- or two-liter bottles so I don’t have to constantly refill. Whether I’m sipping or simply toting such a gargantuan bottle, I get stared at on the street, on the train, in lunch spots—nothing to see here, just staying hydrated.
5) Wear gym clothes on the street. For prolonged staring, wear gym clothes on the street after you have worked out. For X-Ray strength staring, do the latter while really, really sweaty and running various errands. Now, I’m not in danger of running into diplomats or other VIPs while doing so, and I admit it’s not my finest-looking hour, but I refuse to shower and primp at the gym (like 98% of Parisian gym members) when I live only a seven-minute walk away. And if I need to pick up milk and veggies on my way home, I will do so in full gym regalia. Sweat included. So be it.
Conveniently, the one time Parisians don’t stare at you is when they’re trying to board a Métro or RER train. This is the one time when you become completely invisible to them, so much so that they practically walk right through you—or into you, as it were. And there are two occasions when Parisians don’t stare at each other, but can become the object of my gaze:
• Excessive making out in public. Anyone who’s been to Paris has seen a young couple all unabashedly hot and heavy in public. What’s funny is that they seem to choose the most visible spots in which to do so. I’ve seen: people sucking face right after the turnstiles to get into the Métro, on crowded Métro cars within inches of someone else’s head, nearly dry-humping on park benches, and against building walls on busy street corners. I’d rather not be a voyeur of all the hardcore PDA, but the openness of these acts (you’re not in Puritan America anymore!) tends to catch my attention for at least a couple seconds. Then I laugh to myself and look away.
• Vociferous complaining. This is pretty much a national sport in France. People love to sigh, cluck their tongues, “oh la la” miserably, or rant—loudly—over the most trivial mishaps. Is the five-minute delay on the train so horrible that you need to rattle off a thesis about the ills of RATP? Is the rain really such a menace to society that you have to gasp like you just saw the Four Riders of the Apocalypse? When N and I were at Orly airport, on our way to Barcelona, the airline reps announced that we would have to walk down one flight of stairs to a new gate. A middle-aged woman in front of us cried out, “Oh la la la la la la la la la la, on descend” (translation: oh crap, we’re going downstairs) with such bitterness, agony, and injustice that N and I burst out laughing. The woman’s teenage daughter noticed, which only made us giggle louder. The French may stare at me, but every now and again they give me good reason to ogle them, with hilarious results.
It used to bother me, because I’m often the target of stares. As an outsider, I tend to do certain quotidian things just differently enough to merit curiosity. After a while, though, I got used to the staring and decided to turn it around by defiantly staring right back, as if to say, “You lookin’ at me? What? WHAT?” Such a gesture would certain make most American starers back down, but the French usually keep staring. They cannot be deflected. Are they robots? Sigh. It at least makes me feel a bit better to (somewhat) take charge of my objectification.
Anyways, I’ve been able to determine a pattern to the long, uninterrupted gaze of the French:
1) Be a tourist. Well, I don’t fall into this category, but I’ve seen people stare at tourists like their lives depend on it. I suppose foreigners hold a certain universal curiosity, but come on, this is Paris, a large, international city—not some hick country town in the middle of nowhere. Just yesterday, a family of German tourists got on the RER. The dad was filming their entrance to the train, which admittedly was a tad stare-worthy because who needs to capture getting on the RER Ligne A, aka the oven of B.O., sweat, and suffocation? Anyhow, the guy turned off his camera once his troupe was safely on board and the family proceeded to talk quietly amongst themselves. I noticed nearly everyone on the train continue to stare at them for the next few minutes. Sorry, but they were not even remotely fascinating.
2) Speak a foreign language. This may have had something to do with the example above. Any time I’ve spoken English in public, I’ve almost invariably gotten stared at, especially on public transportation. I don’t like to speak on my mobile on public trans, but sometimes it happens, and I feel a lot less self-conscious doing it here because a) everyone else does it, and b) not everyone understands me. However, they stare at me anyway. It’s worse if you’re speaking to someone on the train in English, as you become the focus of attention. Big whoop! If I’m reading anything English, I also get stared at. Maybe the people are trying to test their English skills—that’s the only good reason I can come up with for why people feel the need to actually peek at the text in the book, essentially reading (or just staring?) over my shoulder. Yes, Philip Roth is that compelling.
3) Eat on public transportation. I don’t do this often, because let’s face it, it’s not ideal. However, I’m forced to do so once a week, when I have from noon to half past to get from one client in the center of town to the next client at La Défense on the western outskirts. It’s tight, but doable—just as long as I eat lunch on the RER. Everyone in my vicinity stares at me almost the entire time I’m eating. I’d understand it if I was a boorish, slobby eater with baguette crumbs all over my clothes, but I usually have a fairly neatly packaged salad or non-crumbly sandwich, keeping myself and the train car floor squeaky clean. I still can’t tell if the staring is due to people thinking I’m crude regardless, or to people being jealous. In case of the latter, I throw in a few satisfied, this-is-so-yummy looks.
4) Carry or drink out of a large water bottle. I’ve written about this issue before. The French cannot comprehend drinking out of a container that is bigger than a juice glass or small water bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that my Nalgene was made out of a chemical-leaking plastic (eek), so I discarded it and have since been shelling out the big bucks for disposable plastic bottles for when I’m on the go. However, I tend to go for one- or two-liter bottles so I don’t have to constantly refill. Whether I’m sipping or simply toting such a gargantuan bottle, I get stared at on the street, on the train, in lunch spots—nothing to see here, just staying hydrated.
5) Wear gym clothes on the street. For prolonged staring, wear gym clothes on the street after you have worked out. For X-Ray strength staring, do the latter while really, really sweaty and running various errands. Now, I’m not in danger of running into diplomats or other VIPs while doing so, and I admit it’s not my finest-looking hour, but I refuse to shower and primp at the gym (like 98% of Parisian gym members) when I live only a seven-minute walk away. And if I need to pick up milk and veggies on my way home, I will do so in full gym regalia. Sweat included. So be it.
Conveniently, the one time Parisians don’t stare at you is when they’re trying to board a Métro or RER train. This is the one time when you become completely invisible to them, so much so that they practically walk right through you—or into you, as it were. And there are two occasions when Parisians don’t stare at each other, but can become the object of my gaze:
• Excessive making out in public. Anyone who’s been to Paris has seen a young couple all unabashedly hot and heavy in public. What’s funny is that they seem to choose the most visible spots in which to do so. I’ve seen: people sucking face right after the turnstiles to get into the Métro, on crowded Métro cars within inches of someone else’s head, nearly dry-humping on park benches, and against building walls on busy street corners. I’d rather not be a voyeur of all the hardcore PDA, but the openness of these acts (you’re not in Puritan America anymore!) tends to catch my attention for at least a couple seconds. Then I laugh to myself and look away.
• Vociferous complaining. This is pretty much a national sport in France. People love to sigh, cluck their tongues, “oh la la” miserably, or rant—loudly—over the most trivial mishaps. Is the five-minute delay on the train so horrible that you need to rattle off a thesis about the ills of RATP? Is the rain really such a menace to society that you have to gasp like you just saw the Four Riders of the Apocalypse? When N and I were at Orly airport, on our way to Barcelona, the airline reps announced that we would have to walk down one flight of stairs to a new gate. A middle-aged woman in front of us cried out, “Oh la la la la la la la la la la, on descend” (translation: oh crap, we’re going downstairs) with such bitterness, agony, and injustice that N and I burst out laughing. The woman’s teenage daughter noticed, which only made us giggle louder. The French may stare at me, but every now and again they give me good reason to ogle them, with hilarious results.
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