You Know You’re in San Francisco—and Not in Paris—When…

…it’s a typically gray, foggy day and no one’s complaining about it.

…you walk past a local branch of your bank at 7pm and not only is it open, but there is a sizable line of customers inside.

…fleece and sneakers are acceptable fashion choices, even if you’re not “doing sport.”

…it’s OK to be gay, even outside of one sheltered neighborhood (I’m looking at you, Marais). What’s more, you can find a shop that sells KY and gay porn beside a quaint purveyor of antiques.

…big, burly, Beary men—and not fur-coat swathed, frail, elderly ladies—are trotting around their teeny-tiny pooches. And the dogs aren’t allowed into restaurants.

…restaurant patrons request a swap of ingredients in a dish because they’re vegan/ vegetarian/ pesco-ovo-lacto-tarian/ (or the mundane alternative) allergic, and servers don’t bat an eyelash.

…dishes with less fat content are considered more respectable, rather than less refined.

…people are taking their fair trade, organic, soy chai lattes TO GO in their reusable coffee mugs.

…Coca Cola isn’t loathed because it’s a symbol of American cultural imperialism, but rather because it’s essentially high-fructose corn syrup in a can.

…people over and under the age of 40 have actually heard of—or even seen—The Grateful Dead.

…the long, thin object under a pedestrian’s arm is a yoga mat and not a baguette.

Those are but some of the city-specific differences I’ve noted in the two months I’ve been back. If you can think of others, feel free to share in the comments.

Quelle Scandaleuse

It seems France’s First Couple is a legal force to be reckoned with these days. Now Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, the First Lady, is involved in a lawsuit uncannily similar to her husband’s recent entanglement. The scoop is that a clothing company has designed a 3€ canvas tote shopping bag with a nude image of Carla silkscreened onto its side. The bag has been a popular item on the island of Réunion, a French overseas département; the company plans to start selling the product on mainland France soon. The First Lady apparently objects to her naked image being used for profit. The image, taken of Carla in ’93, sold for $91,000 at a recent auction. The situation begs the questions: 1) how did you think that photo would eventually be used? 2) how are there nude photos of a First Lady floating around in the first place?

While the first question is rhetorical, the second has a longer answer. If you’ve seen pictures of Carla, you may have wondered how such a beautiful, young woman is married to such an unattractive older man (it’s the power, stupid). Their romance was hardly conventional, either. Sarko and his first wife, Cecelia, were estranged even during his 2007 presidential campaign; she already had a lover in New York. Cecelia stuck by him until three months after he got elected and then ran off to be with her paramour. What’s a lonely Président to do? Start dating the most beautiful woman he meets, naturally. The couple made quite the media splash during their brief courtship, getting married only a couple months after they made it public they were dating.

And the French went wild. Many were disgusted with their new president’s apparent prioritization of his love life above all else, calling him a horny teenager (or worse). Others were caught up in this public soap opera, obsessing as much as the media, which came dangerously close to U.S. or U.K. tabloid-style coverage. Men across France eschewed Sarko’s actions to their friends, but secretly envied him for his prize beauty. Others weren’t so coy about their appreciation of Carla’s looks. Someone in my husband’s office sent a PowerPoint document of nude photos of her to at least a third of employees. (See, in France there is no such thing as sexual harassment, and apparently PowerPoint has some very interesting applications.)

Why the brouhaha over Carla? Yes, she’s a very attractive woman, but so what? Turns out her past is a bit checkered, what with her scandalous sex life. (And therein lies why the French are, in reality, swooning over her.) Here are some facts on Carla Bruni, as reported by the French and international media:

- She is a supermodel / actress / singer. Under supermodel, we can include posing nude. I guess by becoming First Lady, she wanted to add another slash to her business card.
- She cavorted with the likes of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, Kevin Costner, and Donald Trump. She has always been drawn to men with power. Or big lips / hair.
- It gets even juicier: Seven years ago, while living with her then-lover, an older man, she had an affair and fell in love with his married son, who was ten years her junior. He left his wife, she left his dad, and they married (only to eventually get divorced themselves). Yowza. That’s even more twisted than the film Damage, my former benchmark for romantic scandals in-family; in the movie, Jeremy Irons dallies with his son’s fiancée and things do not end well, surprise, surprise.
- Carla released a new pop album after becoming First Lady, in which she croons (allegedly about her new husband): "You are my junk. More deadly than Afghan heroin. More dangerous than Colombian white… My guy, I roll him up and smoke him." Uh-huh. Besides the obvious controversy, let’s just say that Colombian officials weren’t pleased. Her defense? It’s just a song about addiction to love. Carla, that’s nice and all, but it just got a whole lot ickier envisioning you feeling this way about Sarko. And there’s the provocative “'I am a child despite my 30 lovers,” although Carla claims she chose 30 arbitrarily, as it sounded better than 20 or 10 in lyrical form. I kind of admire her spunk and nonchalance—so what if I’m First Lady? I will not compromise my ART (quote marks imagined around that last word).
- But perhaps the biggest stir the Italian-born, French-raised Bruni caused was going on the record as saying she prefers Italy to France. Ouch. And with that, she hit the French right where it hurts the most: their national pride. I’m surprised her home wasn’t bombed with baguettes.

You’d think this would be a recipe for disaster, but the French have warmed to Carla, as have many other international figures. During the Sarkozys’ visit to England, the British press dubbed her “the new Diana.” Sarah Palin, during the infamous prank phone call perpetrated by a pair of Canadian comedians posing as Nicolas Sarkozy, gushed over his “beautiful wife. Oh my goodness, you've added a lot of energy to your country with that beautiful family of yours.” (Palin either didn’t know how to respond or couldn’t comprehend the accent when “Sarko” later mentioned, “You know my wife is a popular singer and a former top model and she's so hot in bed.” Ha.) And last but not least, David Letterman was practically putty in her hands during her demure performance as a guest on his show:



Could you imagine any of these sordid qualities in an American First Lady? She wouldn’t be allowed through the White House gates. Well, maybe during the Clinton years—and that, folks, is why the French adore Bill Clinton.

President Is Prick(ed)

The latest “only in France” item to grace the news reads like a great Onion article. Only, it’s real.

Toy company produces voodoo doll of President. President sues company. Court rules in favor of toy company. Claims “right to humor.” But also, in keeping with French meticulousness, orders toy company to print the following on the doll’s box:

"It was ruled that the encouragement of the reader to poke the doll that comes with the needles in the kit, an activity whose subtext is physical harm, even if it is symbolic, constitutes an attack on the dignity of the person of Mr. Sarkozy."

Ouch. Was that a needle in your eye, Sarko? I’m sure record low presidential approval ratings (nearly as low as Bush’s lowest) would have made the doll a success on its own, but your office botched this one but good. Rather than let the doll appear on Lefties’ holiday shopping lists and run its course by the end of the year, you handed the toy company more publicity and thus the recent court ruling launched the doll straight to cult status. What’s more, you exposed your wounded dignity in the process (I guess the doll works?).

Apparently the toy company has also produced Bush and Hillary dolls. Which got me to thinking…aren’t there tons of Bush dolls (I mean, action figures, ahem) out there?

Yes, of course there are, and too many to list here at that. However, here are some choice gems:

The Dishonest Dubya Lying Action Figure Doll will run through W’s most notable verbal gaffes--or even make him choke on a pretzel! (how’s that for a throwback?)--powered by remote control. Plus it’s got double redundancy in its name! An apt mirror to W’s special brand of articulateness.

Turkey Dinner George W. Bush Doll reveals the ultimate political turkey: W serving a big, golden bird, presumably to the troops in Iraq. And that’s all he does. Yawn.

George W. Bush Toilet Paper: the perfect item when you really want to run a smear campaign. (Oh no, she di-in’t!)

Texas Homegrown Dope Seeds: Put this in your pipe and smoke it—you can grow your very own Shrub from magic dope (it’s a double entendre, get it? get it?) seeds.

It’s notable that the George W. Bush Punching Doll Bop Bag (a child’s punching bag toy in the likeness of one W) has been removed from its e-commerce site due to being sold out.

Well, well, well, France. You finally came up with a satirical doll for the man who has been President for 18 months. You have once again shown you can be clever, but unoriginal and late to the party.

Out of Order

Due to a recent development, I may have to renege on my irritation of late with obsequious American customer service.

To provide some background for this strange turn of events…N and I are currently residing in temporary housing until our shipping container is delivered to our new, permanent apartment. The shipping process takes about six to eight weeks, as the container travels by sea. We had been waiting patiently in a small yet fully equipped place for the past five-plus weeks, but now that we have the keys to our new fabulous home, our patience is starting to wear thin. We want outta here already so we can get settled and truly begin the next chapter of our lives.

Naturally, we have been on top of the moving company to get updates on our shipment status. And naturally, the moving company has been falling over itself to make sure we are satisfied with our move—there is a customer satisfaction survey in our future and they want a high rating. The latest news is that our shipping container has arrived at port and has cleared customs. Now the moving company is trying to overcome the final obstacle: obtaining a parking permit from the police for the moving truck, which will be parked on our street for half a day while the movers empty it of our belongings. I asked if there was anything the moving company could do to expedite the process, or at least ensure that the Thanksgiving holiday doesn’t cause any unforeseeable delays—implying that our satisfaction with the entire move depends on it, but in doing so, in no way anticipating what was to come.

Yes, that’s when the customer service magic happened. Our contact became a bit alarmed and showered us with all those niceties that just the other day had me rolling my eyes. He then stated—no, rather, insisted—that he send us a gift basket to make up for our troubles. Um, WHAT? You’re going to send us a present because we’re being a bit pushy and whining about what is a normal part of an intercontinental move? That left me speechless. Only in America would a heaping basket of wine arrive for something like this. (P.S. The day after we were offered this embarrassment of riches, we learned that our belongings will most likely arrive this coming Monday. We are thrilled we’ll have some bottles to uncork to celebrate.)

If such fawning customer service doesn’t impress you, let me draw a comparison to the utter lack thereof in France.

Again with some background…Our moving budget afforded us a hotel stay for our final two nights in Paris, as the movers had at that point packed our bed. We stayed at the Holiday Inn Paris on the basis of convenience alone (it was a five-minute walk from our Paris apartment). Turns out the Holiday Inn Paris is a four-star hotel—who knew?

Anyhow, we had a very early flight out of Paris, so the night before N called room service to pre-order breakfast. While this would be a perfectly normal maneuver on a hotel guest’s part in the States, it caused quite the stir. The room service employee who answered the phone was baffled by the concept of ordering food twelve hours ahead. “Mais, c’est pas normal, ça.” Well, obviously it’s not normal, but have they never had any other customers with a 6am hotel departure and in need of eating something before an eleven-hour flight?

After the initial shock wore off and the employee agreed to process our order, he proceeded to give N a very hard time about our culinary choices. N wanted an omelet, which was on the room service menu. “On ne cuisine pas des oeufs au matin.” WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T COOK EGGS IN THE MORNING? Now, I understand the French may like their omelets for dinner, but: 1) eggs were on the menu; 2) the menu made no indication of there being a time-of-day requirement for any food item; 3) isn’t this room service?; 4) isn’t this an American hotel, where eggs might readily be consumed in the morning? N tried his best, but was ultimately DENIED. He wound up with a ham sandwich, which is entirely unsurprising given it's France, but a little strange given the French don’t normally eat jambon crudité before noon.

Then N moved onto my order: smoked salmon and fruit salad. The latter posed no problem, but the employee actually mocked the former, guffawing and asking why anyone would want to eat that for breakfast. Again, I understand there’s a cultural difference at play here (smoked salmon is a typical appetizer on lunch and dinner menus in France), but are you really making fun of a customer’s order? Either the hotel doesn’t teach the value of tact to its employees, or this guy was absent that day. (Although I don’t know why I was so surprised—French servers and chefs do not accept any deviations from their menus and will flat out refuse any alterations, however small. Sucks to eat out as a diabetic or someone with food allergies in that country.) In the end, the employee did agree to providing the two items I requested. At least we didn’t fail twice.

What can we conclude here? First, the hotel kitchen clearly did not want to cook any hot food at 5am. Second, they probably put together our order when it was placed at 6pm. (So much for a fresh start to our new lives beyond Paris.) Third, a French branch of an American hotel will adhere to the customer service mores of the country in which it is located—in other words, ones that are totally abysmal or absent altogether.

And so, I’m eating my plate of crow and taking back my own mockery of American customer service. I’d take an unearned gift basket over unwarranted derision any day. Even the French themselves would.

English, English Everywhere

There have been a couple pieces in the media lately (here and here) about European governments eschewing their native languages’ inundation with English. I find this attitude persnickety and therefore funny; the phenomenon is also very real and simply inevitable. Wake up, people. English has been the lingua franca for some time—and its assimilation into world languages isn’t going to slow down in today’s globalized economy.

I knew that well before I started learning French a year and a half ago, but it didn’t prevent me from being amused with just how many English words were part of the everyday vernacular. Hearing the French speak full sentences in their own language with some random English words (in pitch-perfect French pronunciation) peppered in is hilarious. Nearly all the classes at my Parisian gym had English names. One day I took a class without knowing what it was, so at the end I asked the teacher for the class’ name. “Buh-dee baaah-laaahnce,” she informed me. Huh? “Ahhhh, tu veux dire bah-dee ba-lance [in full-on American accent],” I said nearly automatically. Incidentally, she looked at me a little strangely. Overhearing ladies in the locker room exclaiming that “Le Struh-tcheeeeeeeng—c’est top!” always made me smirk, but my all-time favorite was hearing the Body Pump (strength-training) instructor scream “Encore PUEHMP!!!!!!!!” throughout the class. I would nearly drop my dumbbell due to my own little, private laughing fit.

It gets even more humorous in the realm of business. The following are all common Frenglish expressions I’ve heard on the go or from my students:
• C’est dans le planning
• Je vais check-er ça
• Il faut wait-and-see
• Il est le top, top manager
• J’attends les feedbacks [also, note the plural!]

The French government has been slowly awakening to the reality that French has been permeated by its linguistic foe, but not without putting up a fight. The Cultural Ministry launched a huge campaign in the 90’s to create its own words for technological terms--for example, using courriel for email--but those newfangled words never stuck (except in Canada). Today, in the Paris Métro, one can see many ads sporting English phrases (some of which don’t make a whole lot of sense). However, there is a French law that requires a translation of any English text in any ad into French. Granted, the translation usually appears in tiny font at the bottom of the billboard.

The government’s resistant attitude has trickled down to its citizens, too. To understand why, it's important to examine the average French person's educational experience with English. Most French students start learning English in middle school, if not before. They take English for about three hours a week, until they reach high school, where they take it for about five to six hours a week. They might continue studying English at university, for yet again a few hours a week. Then they might proceed on a lifelong path of honing their English, or they might never speak English again…until their company demands that they take English lessons to boost job performance. Along the way, the French educational system places a high emphasis on accuracy, thus training its pupils to be scared of being incorrect—a feeling that persists into adulthood. As an English teacher of adults, I encountered a scale of attitudes towards English: total openness to complete resentment. I could tell where a student resided on this continuum—essentially determining their “type”—from the moment they uttered their first sentence in English in my presence. And so here they are:

The Happy-Go-Lucky: While he may not always have gotten his diction, grammar, or syntax right, that was never the point. HGL approached a lesson fearlessly, unfazed by his errors and ready to learn from them. One HGL student of mine had low proficiency, but put a lot of effort into telling me about the wonders of Bretagne right before my vacation there. He informed me that the coast is very sunny, but “the sun, he pushes the clowns to the interior. Yes, the interior is very clowny.” I stifled a giggle, but also a wince (I am irrationally afraid of clowns…I just find them very creepy), before explaining his mistake. He laughed at himself and repeated the word “cloud” several times before continuing his monologue about Bretagne. Très adorable.

The Steamroller: Ever the motormouth, she will race through her thoughts, often making errors—the same errors, over and over again, in fact. You, the teacher, will make limitless attempts to correct those errors, all to no avail, as it never sinks in. It’s kind of a take-no-prisoners approach to English. I called my Steamrollers out on their steamrollery behavior all the time, and they’d grin sheepishly, apologize, and say, “I know, I know…I’m bad.” However, at the end of the day, the Steamroller’s inclination to speak so quickly in English was a direct result of her enthusiasm for the language, albeit sloppily demonstrated.

The Faux Debutant: This is the student who stopped learning English after school and then finds himself in the unfortunate predicament of having to relearn it from scratch for his job. He is known in France (not just by me) as The Faux Debutant, or false beginner, as he has some foundation that has atrophied. FD therefore has a Complex about speaking English, causing you, the teacher, to evolve into a psychoanalyst of sorts. Does the student always try to get you to talk about your personal life? It’s an evasion strategy. Does she always crack jokes during the lesson? A natural comedienne, perhaps, but it’s a cover for feelings of inadequacy. I taught a group of three FD’s, all middle-aged assistants, who constantly made fun of each others’ developing English skills—and also viciously corrected each others’ errors. Ding, ding, ding! An opportunity to feel momentarily superior. The FD’s might as well be called the Defense Mechanists.

The Perfectionist / The Wallflower: These are separate types, but they are two sides of the same coin. As the French education system places such a high value on correctness, some English students, even as adults, tend to clam up and be too timid to speak (The Wallflowers) or are overly concerned about speaking absolutely correctly and thus browbeating themselves if they make a tiny error (The Perfectionists). As a teacher, it’s hard to win with either type. All the self-confidence boosting methods that I’d strengthened teaching teenagers fell flat with adults, as their low linguistic self-esteeem lay quite deep. In some one-on-one lessons the mood could get so awkward that I’d have to handhold the student all the way through the lesson, essentially doing a grade school-esque fill-in-the-blank oral exercise. I am not an intimidating person—the Wallflowers just can’t handle the humiliation. On the other hand, the Perfectionists were more interactive, but they could create just as awkward a vibe as the Wallflowers. If they made an error that I then corrected, the uptightness would explode in a tirade of cursing and violent smacks to the forehead. (Think Philip Seymour Hoffman’s grossly uncomfortable “Stupid idiot!” bit in “Boogie Nights.”) I tried to pump up their self-esteem with encouraging words, and all I would get in response was, “Oh, but you are such a positive American,” which roughly translates to: You are naïve and therefore your opinion is worthless to me. See? You can’t win.

The Defeatist: Speaking of not being able to win, there’s the Defeatist, a distant cousin (twice-removed) of the Perfectionist. The Defeatist crumbles at the slightest hint of any linguistic challenge. Prepositions were the breaking point for one of my Defeatists. Granted, prepositions are difficult, but my student’s cascade of agonized sighs and holdling her head in her hands was just over the top. Many Defeatists would often complain that there was no use to them learning the language, as they would never make progress. A foreign language is not a crushing weight that will squash the universe down into a tiny little speck of dust, but no dose of “positive American” or even teacherly tough love could convince them otherwise. I think they, like the French government, are still bitter that français never lived up to its promise as lingua franca all the world over.

Caring = Oversharing

In France, dealing with what we in America know as “customer service” is an Ordeal. Everyone knows about the inattentiveness of restaurant servers or the tendency to get frozen out by a shopkeeper. Well, it gets even worse when you really need something important, like getting your suddenly non-functioning Internet connection back up and running or information on how to close a bank account. One can never expect a walk in the park…or even a walk up to the top of the Sacre Coeur. It is, rather, like climbing the Alps: strenuous, dizzying, and deathwish-inducing.

First, when you call customer service, you’re put on hold endlessly, and then, when you finally get through to an agent, you have to pay for the privilege of talking to him—sometimes as much as 40 centimes (roughly 60¢) a minute. (It’s important to note that customers used to get charged for hold time. The law was changed only last year.)

And while you pay for that privilege, you must patiently explain your problem, only to be subjected to the most long-winded sighs imaginable. I swear, if an Olympic event for sighing is ever added to the roster, French customer-facing employees will rack up golds faster than you can say “Oh là là là là là là là là là.” It’s then inevitable that the agent will try to pass you off to another department (possibly from all the physical strain induced by the Olympian sighing), at which time you’ll be forced to start from square one and repeat your entire story. It’s not uncommon to experience this Mobius-strip sequence several times in the span of one phone call.

It’s of utmost importance to be vigilant, because French “customer service” has an acute “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy towards its customers. This roughly translates to, if a customer asks a question the agent will answer, but will not explain everything unless prompted. For example, when I got my infamously expensive pedicure, I asked the proprietress of the nail salon, “The pedicure will cost 15 euros [as advertised on the shop front], right?” And she said yes. Later on, I discovered that the 15-euro price only applies to salon members; I would have to pay 46. Why didn’t she explain in the first place? “You didn’t ask, Madame.” This phenomenon gets really fun when it’s your third trip to the Préfecture and your legal residency status is on the line. “I didn’t know I needed this form—the paper you gave me lists these other forms, X, Y, and Z.” “Well, you didn’t ask.”

You can see how this attitude could result in a customer getting a coronary or putting a fist through a wall. The French, however, are so accustomed to it that they don’t challenge it. They’ve become beaten down by the system. Which…just…doesn’t make sense, given the national propensity to protest the government. Do they just not feel comfortable making demands as consumers, in addition to as citizens? Doesn’t The Man extend to corporations? Oh là là, les français, how did your fiery élan get lost along the way? In America, when we are wronged as paying customers, we let our self-righteous indignation be known—to a fault, yes.

But that’s because we take so much for granted here. Customer service is a breeze in the U.S.! In our first few weeks back, N and I marveled at the absurd ease of opening our new mobile phone accounts and dealing with our new health insurance provider over the phone. Restaurant service was an even bigger pleasure after 14 months of apathetic French servers—so much so that N wanted to tip a whopping 25% on our first meal out in SF because he couldn’t get over how many times the waiter refilled our drinks voluntarily.

We even started to see the ironic downside of such attentiveness—it can get annoying. Like my French students who described their “stressful” dining experiences in American eateries, we found the cloyingness of servers working hard for their tips a bit too much. You know, the overeager “How’s everything? Can I get you anything else?” you struggle to respond to with a full mouth.

It happened with customer service agents on the phone, too. Yesterday I opened several utility company accounts for our new apartment, and found it difficult to disengage from some of the chatty customer care representatives. (Emphasis on “care” in America, because, as I learned, agents are our friends!) There was no sighing—only cheerfulness, rainbows, unicorns, hair-braiding, and gingerbread snap-making. One woman kept telling me how sweet I was and how golden my account status would be. Huh? When I asked another one a simple question, I got a nearly five-minute response, in which account management processes were saccharinely overexplained. Listen, lady, that’s helpful and all, but this isn’t my first time at the rodeo. N called our mobile provider the other day to change his account billing to his employer. When the agent found out who said employer is, he freaked out and kept N on the phone for an extra 10 minutes feverishly talking about his favorite video games made by N’s company. (It’s an occupational hazard N has often experienced.) At the end of the day, as a customer, I am courteous, but I have other things to do with my time. Is that so wrong?

If there’s a happy medium between outright customer abuse (per France) and creepy stalker fans (a.k.a. American customer service reps), I’d like to hear about it.

America, Ewe Could Do Better

Yesterday, I walked past what in America could pass for a “strike,” but was really just four people banging out their grievances in a funky rhythm on the bottoms of plastic buckets. As Nob Hill building attendants, they were protesting their working conditions (longer hours without getting more pay – hey, sounds a lot like the dotcom world). I was hauling three heavy grocery bags and had no free hands, yet the protesters insisted on slipping me a flier (I had to practically grab it with my chin). I felt sad for them and their J.V. display. Have I become a manif snob since living in France, the Promised Land of Protests?

I mean, just recently there was a farmers’ demonstration in Paris over falling incomes due to the global economic crisis (who isn’t hurting these days?), and it culminated in a herd of sheep getting trotted out under the Eiffel Tower. (Credit goes to my friend E-rock for alerting me to the fabulous photo pictured at left.) WOW! Now that’s a protest! Nothing says beleaguered workers filled with self-righteous indignation like a bunch of slack-eyed sheep. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. And here I thought America was the country with all the bells and whistles.

Shopaholics

The economy has been in a slump. Hiring freezes, cutbacks, layoffs, chapter 11 filings, you name it are plaguing our companies, even in so-called recession-proof industries. Foreclosures have been forcing interest rates up and preventing people from getting credit approval at all.

So then why is it that every time I walk down the hill to Union Square, the streets are flooded with shoppers? Not just window shoppers—I mean people laden with bags. And I’m not hearing all manner of European languages spoken, either (although I'm sure that was certainly the case as recently as a couple months ago). I don’t get it. Has the pinch not yet been felt? Are people starting to ramp up their holiday shopping? Sure, the entire world may appear to be on sale, but WTF? It seems the stereotype is true, isn’t it. We Americans do have a consumption addiction. We see XX% off and the spendthrift monster inside us takes control.

Not that I’m on a moral high horse, but I suppose I’m sensitive to it having just spent a year trying to rein in spending. Not only is Paris one of the most expensive cities in the world, but I also lived there for the duration of the worst dollar-to-euro ratio ever; of course the euro’s value started to drop almost immediately after N and I decided to move back to the States. Despite the daily temptations posed by the chic Marais boutiques, I managed to get by only buying necessities and keeping the splurging to a weekly meal out and the occasional vacation. I have to say, I felt pretty damn good about it.

I even kept away from the biannual soldes--the only sales that the government permits. (Stores are able to offer “promotions” such as buy-one-get-one-free throughout the year, but cannot offer deep discounts other than the countrywide, approved sales.) The soldes are national events! People go absolutely nuts, lining up to wait for stores to open on the first morning. Think Black Friday, yet extended for a six-week period (the intensity of shoppers tapers off successively each week). This was one occasion on which I could call bullshit to all French criticism of American’s compulsive consumption. Um, you guys kind of behave the same way…albeit just twice a year. Even with the 40% discounts the French sales provided, I still couldn’t really afford to buy anything—and it wasn’t like I couldn’t find the same types of things in America, anyway.

Anyhow, with Black Friday 2008 just around the corner, I shudder to think what Union Square will be like. If Wall Street is any indication, companies will be offering bigger discounts than ever. It’ll be the ultimate madhouse. I plan to stay far, far away.

The Obama Touch?

I find it interesting that the day after the President-Elect visited our Lame-Duck-in-Chief, the latter resorted to a string of mea culpas for his attitude toward the wars - the first ever sign of any remorse whatsoever throughout his eight-year reign. Coincidence? A strategy to garner sympathy in his final days? Did the Obama campaign's attacks on the W administration's tactics make an impression? Or did Barack put George in a headlock and make him promise to "Take it back, take it all back!"?? We'll never know.

I suppose it's good that W does feel some regret. I heard on Keith Olbermann today that a prominent journalist was informed by contacts at a government agency that once January 20 arrives, he (the journalist) should get in touch because then they could give full disclosure on breaches of justice (read: under the Patriot Act) the Bush administration has yet to be exposed for. Perhaps W and his cronies will be taken to task? In that case, he'll need all the sympathy he can get. Verrrrrrrry interesting times, indeed.

Reduce, Recycle, Re…Eh

I read today that NYC Mayor Bloomberg has proposed a six-cent surcharge for each plastic bag a consumer uses to carry off purchased goods. Critics say it’s a terrible time to start introducing more fees into consumers’ lives, but I say it’s about time. In fact, I think more communities should start up this initiative. It forces consumers to be more green-minded, and as for those who aren’t fazed by the nominal fee, the shame of having to buy a plastic bag under this model is theoretically enough persuasion (a great point made by the article linked above).

France has been doing this for years now. Of course, you pay more per bag, but the bags are rather sturdy and made from recyclable plastic. That is one aspect of reusable materials at which France has a leg up over the U.S. I’ve noticed since coming back to the States that 99% of the plastic food packaging and bags that have come into my possession aren’t recyclable. While I'd prefer paper--or better yet, something wholly resuable--over a recyclable plastic bag any day of the week, to this I say, "Tsk, tsk, America."

You know those reusable shopping bags made of hardy plastic or canvas now selling like hot cakes in most eco-conscious supermarkets? Again, France has us beat. All manner of French people, whether a frail octogenarian lady or a strapping twentysomething male, does their shopping with the aid of a caddy (see pictured). It’s the perfect wheely-bag solution for carting grocery purchases and more around the city. While to the American eye it looks “so grandma,” in France, it just is. There’s no cultural taboo. And it just so happens to be a very green solution. (I have to admit, I never went there as my canvas bag from Cole Hardware managed to do the trick. But, it was yet another reason I got stared at—having a shopping container other than a caddy! Jeez, the French do not like nonconformists.)

You may wonder what came first—the caddy or the green movement—and I can tell you with utmost confidence that it was certainly the caddy. The French like to boast about how “eco” they are, but on a micro scale, it’s not entirely true. Yes, they recycle, but in a rather slipshod manner. My former Parisian office—in which tons of photocopies were made and left for dead—only started recycling paper in September. Of 2008! OK, OK, it’s a tiny office, you might say in its defense, but I observed nary a recycling bin in the headquarters of one of France’s biggest banks, where I taught three days a week. In that same building, I once wanted to throw away a soda can during a lesson. I saw two identical-looking bins in the conference room where I was teaching. I asked my student which bin I should use, he looked at me quizzically, and I had to ask, “Which is regular trash and which is recycling?” He replied, “Come on, this is France—there is no difference.” The ugly truth is that businesses don't want to pay recycling fees. Blurgh. Don't get me started.

When recycling is done in France, it’s not very well thought out. Some Parisian residential buildings get big bins, while others get jack and tenants have to cart their mounds of recycling to public recycling depositories, intermittently located on sidewalks. You never know where you might find one. Our building was thankfully graced with bins; there were a couple large ones for “all recyclable stuff” and a tiny one for glass. I noticed that while our fellow tenants were avid recyclers, they didn’t always put recyclable items into the former bin, shoving in things such as non-recyclable plastic bags (a.k.a. the bane of my existence, aside from junk snail mail...all that wasted paper). Has no one taught them how to read for the proper recycling logo? And they call Americans lazy!

Consequently, the designated glass-only bin at our building was always overflowing, and thus tons of little (often non-recyclable plastic) bags of glass bottles were left scattered on the ground around it. Our poor super had to deal with that problem every week when it was time to take out the bin, and I’d venture to guess that those non-recyclable bags made their way into the recycling, too. You’d think that in a country where so many glass bottles of wine are consumed, there would be a better solution.

I know the U.S. is spotty on this issue, and maybe my experience is so filtered through the lens of the San Francisco bubble (my local waste collector provides compost bins, for crying out loud!), but it seems that urban Americans, at least, have more successfully built recycling into daily habits. Let’s see if New York’s new experiment will help keep more icky-for-the-planet plastic bags at bay.