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.
Showing posts with label america. Show all posts
Showing posts with label america. Show all posts
25 November 2008
19 November 2008
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.
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.
12 November 2008
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.
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.
11 November 2008
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.
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.
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.
05 November 2008
Yes We Did!
On a Saturday afternoon in early September, N and I were watching Obama’s DNC speech on YouTube (yes, we were a bit behind schedule, but cut us some slack—we were living in France at the time). It was the same afternoon N was embarking on a crazy, tri-continental business trip that would also take him to SF, where he would have his final interview for the job that ultimately lured us back to the States. In the middle of Barack’s address, I said, “Imagine if this opportunity works out for you and we make it back to San Francisco in time for the election…and he wins.” We both agreed it would be a beautiful thing to share in the celebrations, as we spent the past two election port-mortems trudging through a very funereal SF.
I’d been such a nervous wreck in all the months, weeks, days leading up to November 4. Yet strangely when I woke up yesterday, I just felt in my gut that Obama was going to win. I somehow avoided checking the news all day (a defense-mechanism at work to keep me calm, no doubt), until my mom called at 5pm to update me on what had already transpired: CT, NJ, ME, VT, DC, many of the usual Northeast suspects had gone blue. Then I got on the Internet and saw that Obama had won PA. Holy East Coast, it was happening! Mom and I screamed excitedly, my heart started racing, and it never stopped for the rest of the evening. Thank goodness my friend was hosting an election watch party, as the group-therapy atmosphere / added stimulation prevented me from pacing in circles around our small temporary apartment.
When the networks and online pubs started to call it, I was suspicious. Huffington Post had “President-Elect Obama” on their home page as early as 7pm PST. MSNBC had been touting 200+ electoral votes for over an hour and it just seemed too early. West Coast polls had barely closed. The NYT had been conservative in its estimates all night; they weren’t calling it yet, and so I couldn’t believe. But then I had a strange thought—what was Fox News saying? I proceeded to their site, saw “President Obama” splashed across the home page, and that’s when I gave into the wave of elation.
WOW, AMERICA!!!!
McCain gave the most inspired speech of his campaign. Barack’s—and the ten-ton reality of what had just transpired—made me cry. Among many others, I loved his comment that the change we seek doesn’t lie in his getting elected; rather, we now have the chance to make that change happen. Indeed. The road ahead will be long and difficult, but we’re more united than ever to make good on the hope and promise that brought us to this historic moment. And Barack is making good on one promise right away—the Obama girls are getting a puppy, and thus all is right in the world.
Do you hear that? It’s the sound of “Yes we can…yes we did!” reverberating from coast to coast, from continent to continent as the world rejoices with us. It would have been fascinating to view this event through the eyes of the French, but I’m thrilled to be in the U.S. to experience this firsthand. And while I miss Paris, I’m glad I don’t have to high-tail it back there to hide out for four more years.
And one last thing—I love Tina Fey and I am happy that she has her “little comedy show” to attend to, because her calendar officially got lighter as of about 8:20pm PST last night.
I’d been such a nervous wreck in all the months, weeks, days leading up to November 4. Yet strangely when I woke up yesterday, I just felt in my gut that Obama was going to win. I somehow avoided checking the news all day (a defense-mechanism at work to keep me calm, no doubt), until my mom called at 5pm to update me on what had already transpired: CT, NJ, ME, VT, DC, many of the usual Northeast suspects had gone blue. Then I got on the Internet and saw that Obama had won PA. Holy East Coast, it was happening! Mom and I screamed excitedly, my heart started racing, and it never stopped for the rest of the evening. Thank goodness my friend was hosting an election watch party, as the group-therapy atmosphere / added stimulation prevented me from pacing in circles around our small temporary apartment.
When the networks and online pubs started to call it, I was suspicious. Huffington Post had “President-Elect Obama” on their home page as early as 7pm PST. MSNBC had been touting 200+ electoral votes for over an hour and it just seemed too early. West Coast polls had barely closed. The NYT had been conservative in its estimates all night; they weren’t calling it yet, and so I couldn’t believe. But then I had a strange thought—what was Fox News saying? I proceeded to their site, saw “President Obama” splashed across the home page, and that’s when I gave into the wave of elation.
WOW, AMERICA!!!!
McCain gave the most inspired speech of his campaign. Barack’s—and the ten-ton reality of what had just transpired—made me cry. Among many others, I loved his comment that the change we seek doesn’t lie in his getting elected; rather, we now have the chance to make that change happen. Indeed. The road ahead will be long and difficult, but we’re more united than ever to make good on the hope and promise that brought us to this historic moment. And Barack is making good on one promise right away—the Obama girls are getting a puppy, and thus all is right in the world.
Do you hear that? It’s the sound of “Yes we can…yes we did!” reverberating from coast to coast, from continent to continent as the world rejoices with us. It would have been fascinating to view this event through the eyes of the French, but I’m thrilled to be in the U.S. to experience this firsthand. And while I miss Paris, I’m glad I don’t have to high-tail it back there to hide out for four more years.
And one last thing—I love Tina Fey and I am happy that she has her “little comedy show” to attend to, because her calendar officially got lighter as of about 8:20pm PST last night.
30 October 2008
Baracking the Vote
Spending an election year abroad is a strange thing. What’s even stranger is coming back two weeks before the election, essentially diving right into the fray.
On the surface, my world isn’t much different. Much like in San Francisco, Obama is the Complete Rock Star in Europe, bigger than Michael Jackson, bigger than the Beatles, bigger than (dare I say it) Jesus. You’ve seen the pictures of the enormous crowd attending Obama’s speech in Berlin. Perhaps you’ve seen the Economist’s global electoral map—if only the world could vote! To the French, Obama truly symbolizes hope. Many people confessed that for France’s foreseeable future, there’s no way a black man could make it so far in politics. Although the French have conflicted feelings about the American Dream, they can at least cut past their suspicion of capitalism to acknowledge that America truly is the Land of Possibility, in ways that reach far beyond the marketplace.
Bolstering the French fervor over Obama was the relative lack of knowledge of his opponent. “McCain who?” was rolling off every Parisian’s lips—including the media’s. I spent countless hours elaborating on the GOP hopeful to my English students, dispelling the overgeneralization that he's GWB #2 and arguing that although he wouldn’t be getting my vote, he wasn’t all that bad (well, that was until he announced his unfortunate choice of a running mate, the economy imploded, and the McCain campaign went haywire).
I talked about the election constantly—on a daily basis, in fact—with my students and with French and expat friends. I obsessed over the news coverage, my anxiety building. It wasn’t as bad as Larry David’s, but at one point my husband asked me to stop talking about the election with him, as his vote was already decided and my constant chatter was stressing him the hell out. What would happen to our collective anxiety once we moved back to the States in late October?
Well, here we now are, in one of the liberal, elite capitals of America—not “real America,” in the eyes of a certain Veep candidate—and the Obamania is palpable. SF is plastered in Obama posters and it all amounts to preaching to the converted, but it also gets one’s spirits up. I realized the other day that I don’t think I’ve seen a McCain sticker, poster, T-shirt, anything—ever. If I lived in a battleground state, the Obama button I’m sporting on my purse would make more of a statement, but I might be subject to vandalism a la Peter Frampton, or worse—fall victim to a faux robbery attempt. (This election keeps getting weirder and weirder.)
I’m one of those Dems who refuses to give into the power of positive thinking, buoyed as it may be by the imperfect science of pollsters. There’s too much at stake to rest on those laurels. While all the Tina Fey-induced catharsis has helped, the anxiety has definitely been increasing. It’s seeping into my dreams. So I decided to do something, given that I have more free time on my hands: I’m volunteering for the campaign, spending hours at the phone bank.
During the shifts I’ve worked, the volunteers were given the softball assignments of calling people in SF who expressed interest in volunteering for the campaign, and of calling absentee-ballot voters in OH who already pledged support for Obama (“Don’t forget to mail your ballot today!”). No arguing with angry Republicans, no strained conversations with those who believe Barack is a terrorist, no waxing poetic to the undecideds. And though it’s been like shooting fish in a barrel, the experience has provided me with moments—just a handful of small moments—that make me so glad to be back in America during these last crucial days:
- The 84-year-old man who adorably responded, “My, yes, dearie” when I asked him if he’d already sent off his ballot, and followed it with, “If those two [McCain and Palin] make it into the White House, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
- The elderly woman who told me that her sister had never voted in her life and was now casting her first ever ballot.
- The man in San Francisco who was worried that because he wasn’t a citizen, he wouldn’t be able to help the campaign’s volunteer efforts. When I told him that anyone could help, he exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anything for Barack! Anything!”
- Looking around the phone bank, smiling at the people around me, and feeling inspired by the community rallying around this important common cause. I’m proud of all the passion this election has inspired and how it’s drawn out record numbers of voter registrations. Even if the election results are not the ones I personally want, and despite all the usual BS and newfound levels of crazy seen this year, I’m still heartened by the energy and interest in the political process this election has evoked.
My husband has long since abandoned his ostrich-like resistance to election chatter—it’s impossible to hide from it. And we’ll both be at the phone bank, quelling our anxiety in small bursts before the Big Day arrives.
On the surface, my world isn’t much different. Much like in San Francisco, Obama is the Complete Rock Star in Europe, bigger than Michael Jackson, bigger than the Beatles, bigger than (dare I say it) Jesus. You’ve seen the pictures of the enormous crowd attending Obama’s speech in Berlin. Perhaps you’ve seen the Economist’s global electoral map—if only the world could vote! To the French, Obama truly symbolizes hope. Many people confessed that for France’s foreseeable future, there’s no way a black man could make it so far in politics. Although the French have conflicted feelings about the American Dream, they can at least cut past their suspicion of capitalism to acknowledge that America truly is the Land of Possibility, in ways that reach far beyond the marketplace.
Bolstering the French fervor over Obama was the relative lack of knowledge of his opponent. “McCain who?” was rolling off every Parisian’s lips—including the media’s. I spent countless hours elaborating on the GOP hopeful to my English students, dispelling the overgeneralization that he's GWB #2 and arguing that although he wouldn’t be getting my vote, he wasn’t all that bad (well, that was until he announced his unfortunate choice of a running mate, the economy imploded, and the McCain campaign went haywire).
I talked about the election constantly—on a daily basis, in fact—with my students and with French and expat friends. I obsessed over the news coverage, my anxiety building. It wasn’t as bad as Larry David’s, but at one point my husband asked me to stop talking about the election with him, as his vote was already decided and my constant chatter was stressing him the hell out. What would happen to our collective anxiety once we moved back to the States in late October?
Well, here we now are, in one of the liberal, elite capitals of America—not “real America,” in the eyes of a certain Veep candidate—and the Obamania is palpable. SF is plastered in Obama posters and it all amounts to preaching to the converted, but it also gets one’s spirits up. I realized the other day that I don’t think I’ve seen a McCain sticker, poster, T-shirt, anything—ever. If I lived in a battleground state, the Obama button I’m sporting on my purse would make more of a statement, but I might be subject to vandalism a la Peter Frampton, or worse—fall victim to a faux robbery attempt. (This election keeps getting weirder and weirder.)
I’m one of those Dems who refuses to give into the power of positive thinking, buoyed as it may be by the imperfect science of pollsters. There’s too much at stake to rest on those laurels. While all the Tina Fey-induced catharsis has helped, the anxiety has definitely been increasing. It’s seeping into my dreams. So I decided to do something, given that I have more free time on my hands: I’m volunteering for the campaign, spending hours at the phone bank.
During the shifts I’ve worked, the volunteers were given the softball assignments of calling people in SF who expressed interest in volunteering for the campaign, and of calling absentee-ballot voters in OH who already pledged support for Obama (“Don’t forget to mail your ballot today!”). No arguing with angry Republicans, no strained conversations with those who believe Barack is a terrorist, no waxing poetic to the undecideds. And though it’s been like shooting fish in a barrel, the experience has provided me with moments—just a handful of small moments—that make me so glad to be back in America during these last crucial days:
- The 84-year-old man who adorably responded, “My, yes, dearie” when I asked him if he’d already sent off his ballot, and followed it with, “If those two [McCain and Palin] make it into the White House, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
- The elderly woman who told me that her sister had never voted in her life and was now casting her first ever ballot.
- The man in San Francisco who was worried that because he wasn’t a citizen, he wouldn’t be able to help the campaign’s volunteer efforts. When I told him that anyone could help, he exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anything for Barack! Anything!”
- Looking around the phone bank, smiling at the people around me, and feeling inspired by the community rallying around this important common cause. I’m proud of all the passion this election has inspired and how it’s drawn out record numbers of voter registrations. Even if the election results are not the ones I personally want, and despite all the usual BS and newfound levels of crazy seen this year, I’m still heartened by the energy and interest in the political process this election has evoked.
My husband has long since abandoned his ostrich-like resistance to election chatter—it’s impossible to hide from it. And we’ll both be at the phone bank, quelling our anxiety in small bursts before the Big Day arrives.
21 October 2008
Super Sized Shopping
Today I learned that I was out of the country long enough to have almost completely forgotten what the American supermarket experience is like. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t stepped foot inside a large supermarket in over a year; it’s just that it didn’t happen all too often in France, and there’s also truly nothing like an oversized, professionally merchandised American supermarket—so much so that I felt like an alien visiting Planet Earth for the first time.
I entered the surprisingly sparklingly renovated Safeway on Church and Market and immediately entered panic mode. The place felt cavernous, on a whole other scale than the cramped aisles of Parisian supermarkets (even the upper crust ones). And it was meticulous! This is Safeway, one of the biggest chain markets in California, hardly a paragon of the dreamy natural food market-type places that I prefer to frequent. I’ve seen Safeways with dirty floors and crap lying around in the aisles. I’ve seen this particular Safeway trashed from hordes of shoppers picking through Halloween candy and thronging the check-out aisles. This was a shinier, more soothing Safeway—and the squeaky-clean grandness kind of freaked me out.
I needed to grab lemons and tomatoes from the produce section, nothing more, but I wound up spending close to ten minutes wandering around because there was just.so.much stuff! Completely overwhelming! There was produce to last for weeks and weeks and weeks. The fruits were enormous (I was kind of scared of the oranges; don’t even get me started on the melons). I agonized over buying a five-pound bag of clementines, as I haven’t eaten them for a while and it seemed like a brilliant idea…but five pounds? Really? Can’t I just pick out a half dozen? (Not) surprisingly, that wasn’t an option at Safeway. I ultimately decided against the excess. Moving onto the veggies, I saw varieties of cauliflower I’ve never, ever seen in my life—green, orange, purple (ooh, pretty!)—which left me to wonder, have these always been around, or has there been some new, radical G-Mod breakthrough since I left America? In fact, there were nearly endless varieties of everything—“omnivore’s dilemma” indeed. At the fanciest Monoprix in Paris, you still get a tiny produce selection. All fruits, whether at the farmer’s market or at the hypermarket, are miniscule relative to here (and they taste soooooooooo much better, to boot).
Another strange phenomenon was occurring in the produce section. All the Safeway employees were saying hello and asking if I needed help finding anything. Imagine this level of service in France! You practically have to chase and then put employees in a headlock to get help. Well, I also suppose that considering the breadth of products in the produce section alone, it’s not an asinine assumption that one might need assistance locating something.
Speaking of finding things, it took me a while to wade through the double-wide aisles to get the rest of the items I needed—not just because the store is so incredibly huge, but also because of (you guessed it) the variety of products to choose from. Over 20 types of mustard? Pfft. This isn’t even France, where moutard is king. Indecision paralysis overcame me in the laundry detergent section. I think there were more types of detergent than there are of yogurt in France, and believe me, that is saying a lot (every market there, whether a hole in the wall or the Monoprix, has a dedicated yogurt AISLE). At that point, I had reached the end of my shopping list, not to mention the end of my rope. I berated myself for no longer being the speedy, efficient shopper I once was and just grabbed the first jumbo-sized (of course) jug I saw. That’s another thing that was a little hard to swallow—there’s not much super/economy-sized products in Paris. Apartments and fridges aren’t big enough to house the likes of Costco goods. I got used to buying enough of what I needed / could feasibly carry on a ten-minute walk home.
The check-out process was lightning fast and the checker was chatty and sunny and I lingered for an extra moment just to continue our conversation, he was so nice. (We can score two bonus points for America, there.) He reminded me that the paper towel six-pack (which filled nearly half my shopping cart) I bought was buy one, get one free. I did something absolutely shocking and turned down the free six-pack. It violated all the rules of my bargain-hunting cultural heritage, but my goodness, I just couldn’t stomach taking home a dozen bulging rolls of paper towels. It just felt too…too, you know? It seems living in France has heightened my awareness of American glut, but I’m back and so I’d better get reacquainted enough so that I don’t get paralyzed every time I go to the supermarket.
I entered the surprisingly sparklingly renovated Safeway on Church and Market and immediately entered panic mode. The place felt cavernous, on a whole other scale than the cramped aisles of Parisian supermarkets (even the upper crust ones). And it was meticulous! This is Safeway, one of the biggest chain markets in California, hardly a paragon of the dreamy natural food market-type places that I prefer to frequent. I’ve seen Safeways with dirty floors and crap lying around in the aisles. I’ve seen this particular Safeway trashed from hordes of shoppers picking through Halloween candy and thronging the check-out aisles. This was a shinier, more soothing Safeway—and the squeaky-clean grandness kind of freaked me out.
I needed to grab lemons and tomatoes from the produce section, nothing more, but I wound up spending close to ten minutes wandering around because there was just.so.much stuff! Completely overwhelming! There was produce to last for weeks and weeks and weeks. The fruits were enormous (I was kind of scared of the oranges; don’t even get me started on the melons). I agonized over buying a five-pound bag of clementines, as I haven’t eaten them for a while and it seemed like a brilliant idea…but five pounds? Really? Can’t I just pick out a half dozen? (Not) surprisingly, that wasn’t an option at Safeway. I ultimately decided against the excess. Moving onto the veggies, I saw varieties of cauliflower I’ve never, ever seen in my life—green, orange, purple (ooh, pretty!)—which left me to wonder, have these always been around, or has there been some new, radical G-Mod breakthrough since I left America? In fact, there were nearly endless varieties of everything—“omnivore’s dilemma” indeed. At the fanciest Monoprix in Paris, you still get a tiny produce selection. All fruits, whether at the farmer’s market or at the hypermarket, are miniscule relative to here (and they taste soooooooooo much better, to boot).
Another strange phenomenon was occurring in the produce section. All the Safeway employees were saying hello and asking if I needed help finding anything. Imagine this level of service in France! You practically have to chase and then put employees in a headlock to get help. Well, I also suppose that considering the breadth of products in the produce section alone, it’s not an asinine assumption that one might need assistance locating something.
Speaking of finding things, it took me a while to wade through the double-wide aisles to get the rest of the items I needed—not just because the store is so incredibly huge, but also because of (you guessed it) the variety of products to choose from. Over 20 types of mustard? Pfft. This isn’t even France, where moutard is king. Indecision paralysis overcame me in the laundry detergent section. I think there were more types of detergent than there are of yogurt in France, and believe me, that is saying a lot (every market there, whether a hole in the wall or the Monoprix, has a dedicated yogurt AISLE). At that point, I had reached the end of my shopping list, not to mention the end of my rope. I berated myself for no longer being the speedy, efficient shopper I once was and just grabbed the first jumbo-sized (of course) jug I saw. That’s another thing that was a little hard to swallow—there’s not much super/economy-sized products in Paris. Apartments and fridges aren’t big enough to house the likes of Costco goods. I got used to buying enough of what I needed / could feasibly carry on a ten-minute walk home.
The check-out process was lightning fast and the checker was chatty and sunny and I lingered for an extra moment just to continue our conversation, he was so nice. (We can score two bonus points for America, there.) He reminded me that the paper towel six-pack (which filled nearly half my shopping cart) I bought was buy one, get one free. I did something absolutely shocking and turned down the free six-pack. It violated all the rules of my bargain-hunting cultural heritage, but my goodness, I just couldn’t stomach taking home a dozen bulging rolls of paper towels. It just felt too…too, you know? It seems living in France has heightened my awareness of American glut, but I’m back and so I’d better get reacquainted enough so that I don’t get paralyzed every time I go to the supermarket.
19 October 2008
Little Differences Ain't So Little
It is wild and wonderful to be back in the States, for at least the following few phenomena we have experienced over the past 24 hours – things that just don’t really occur in France, not ever:
1. Around the clock convenience! We managed to discover a 24-hour grocery store and a café that opens at 5am on a Sunday, the latter of which was perfect for our early-rising, jet-lagged souls (although we rolled in for our lattes at a leisurely 6:30am).
2. Amazingly friendly repartee with random people, exemplified by the woman checking us out at the supermarket who, after making small talk and learning about our current status, warmly exclaimed, “Well, I am so happy for you that you’ve moved back to San Francisco!”
3. Spicy means spicy! We ate at a tacqueria last night. Our mouths burned throughout the meal and we loved every second of it.
Woohoo, America! Aside from the above, being here generally makes us so.freaking.happy. We are home.
I’ll write more when I’m semi-recovered from the jetlag. For now, my brain is rapidly being reduced to a bowl of oatmeal.
1. Around the clock convenience! We managed to discover a 24-hour grocery store and a café that opens at 5am on a Sunday, the latter of which was perfect for our early-rising, jet-lagged souls (although we rolled in for our lattes at a leisurely 6:30am).
2. Amazingly friendly repartee with random people, exemplified by the woman checking us out at the supermarket who, after making small talk and learning about our current status, warmly exclaimed, “Well, I am so happy for you that you’ve moved back to San Francisco!”
3. Spicy means spicy! We ate at a tacqueria last night. Our mouths burned throughout the meal and we loved every second of it.
Woohoo, America! Aside from the above, being here generally makes us so.freaking.happy. We are home.
I’ll write more when I’m semi-recovered from the jetlag. For now, my brain is rapidly being reduced to a bowl of oatmeal.
17 September 2008
Jheeking Out
“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.
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.
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.
27 May 2008
Patriotism, Expat Style
I teach English to Parisian businesspeople, and with my more advanced students the agenda often deviates from verb tenses and possessive pronouns. Sure, we may discuss relatively mundane matters such as what we did over the weekend and which patisseries have the best tarte tatin; however, we often delve into meatier territory such as the environment, the global economy, business matters, and politics. And as I’m a curious person, I frequently try to pick apart issues concerning French society, as well as the European community – but without fail, all roads lead to America, as my students are curious, too. And so, while I technically get paid to teach a language, I often feel that my job takes on a whole other dimension, that of American Cultural Ambassador to the French.
Frequently, my Other Job takes the form of the “Is This American Stereotype True?” game, which my students love to play. Is it true that in America people eat all day long? Is it true that in America people are obsessed with money, and even ask each other how much they earn? Is it true that in America almost everyone has a gun? Is it true that in America people work 24/7? As Cultural Ambassador I strive to educate my students on the nuances involved—but ultimately I’m forced to explain that these stereotypes are all at least somewhat true relative to French culture. Take the one about Americans working too hard: I am especially amused by the incredulous looks and horrified gasps when I reveal that Americans get a standard two weeks of annual vacation – not five, as in France.
I suppose I should be thankful that the French are at least fairly informed on American life, even if some perceptions are blown out of proportion or are erroneous altogether. My Australian friend, who also teaches English, has suffered far worse blows: a student actually asked her if kangaroos pop up in people’s backyards. Stereotypes aside, there’s clearly more to my country’s story and while I always start out by presenting America in a positive light, I have from time to time found myself caught between bashing and apologizing for my home culture on several points.
Litigiousness. Well, it’s something I’m hardly proud of, but the fact is America has its fair share of unnecessary lawsuits. France, on the other hand, is a country in which individuals do not adequately prepare themselves for potential legal trouble. For example, in a Parisian apartment building, all lights are off in stairwells and hallways unless someone pushes a button that results in temporary illumination. Not to mention, when light bulbs eventually burn out, they have a tendency to not get replaced for some time. While this is at best a fantastic energy-saving measure and at worst a major pain in the ass, it would never happen in the States. Why not? Because if someone fell in a darkened stairwell and injured himself, he could blame the building owner for negligence. How was he to know he had to turn on the light himself? And incidentally, if the light is out for over a week, it’s clearly the property manager’s fault. Needless to say, I have spent quite a bit of time decoding the expression “it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen” for my students. If someone in France took a steaming-hot coffee to go (which would never happen here to begin with!), drove with it wedged between his legs, and consequently burned himself, the French would laugh and call him an idiot. No lawsuit would instantly ensue, and thank goodness.
Sex in the workplace. Speaking of lawsuits, sexual harassment is also a concept that hasn’t quite caught on here. It’s perfectly normal to tell dirty jokes in the office or for a male superior to comment on how pretty a female subordinate looks (Michael Scott would have a field day in France). No one but my American husband raised an eyebrow when a co-worker forwarded a PowerPoint presentation of naked Carla Bruni photos around his office. My French colleague’s student repeatedly hit on her for over a month before she asked our manager to assign a different teacher. Every time she confided in me, I told her point blank: “In my country, this would never fly.” And this is what I am forced to constantly explain to my own students: Paris Hilton aside, Americans are prudes! And we draw very firm lines in the sand when it comes to propriety, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Although we did almost impeach a president because of it—something the French (and I) cannot comprehend.
The last 8 years (or, he who shall not be named). The “he” in question isn’t Lord Voldemort, but rather the soon-to-be lame-duck-in-chief. Probably the number two question I, as Cultural Ambassador, must field, is, “How did he get elected twice?” I’ve expounded on the following topics more times than I can remember: the electoral college, hanging chads, red state vs. blue state culture, 9/11’s impact on the national psyche, our atrocious war and how its messy wake swayed many Americans (despite their better sentiments) to vote for him in ‘04, the disappointment that was John Kerry, that 49% of us did not want him around for a second term, and that all public-speaking evidence to the contrary, Dubya is not as mentally feeble as he seems. My students perhaps got more than they bargained for, but at least their already-negative views of W have been more fleshed out.
Election fatigue. As if the prolonged primary and its abundant news coverage weren’t reasons enough, I’ve also fallen prey to election fatigue because Indecision ’08 (as “The Daily Show” has branded it) is The Number One Issue on which my students want my opinion. Is Obama really the “Black Kennedy” (as the French media has dubbed him)? Why won’t Hillary give up? And just who is this John McCain character, anyway? These are the questions I get day in, day out. I’ve analyzed the pros and cons of each candidate, dissected every mini-scandal (from Rev. Wright to “100 years in Iraq” to Hillary’s RFK gaffe), and described the major election issues and how much they matter to various constituencies. However, while it can be fatiguing, tackling this election isn’t as demoralizing as, say, regaling my students with tales of ambulance chasers. It can actually be inspiring. We may not yet know who the Democratic nominee will be, but it fills me with hope and pride each time I tell my students with full conviction that America seems ready to elect its first Black president. A president of color and one who promises a real change of direction—two concepts that are also totally foreign to the French, but for once I’m not wincing as I explain the intricacies of life back home.
Frequently, my Other Job takes the form of the “Is This American Stereotype True?” game, which my students love to play. Is it true that in America people eat all day long? Is it true that in America people are obsessed with money, and even ask each other how much they earn? Is it true that in America almost everyone has a gun? Is it true that in America people work 24/7? As Cultural Ambassador I strive to educate my students on the nuances involved—but ultimately I’m forced to explain that these stereotypes are all at least somewhat true relative to French culture. Take the one about Americans working too hard: I am especially amused by the incredulous looks and horrified gasps when I reveal that Americans get a standard two weeks of annual vacation – not five, as in France.
I suppose I should be thankful that the French are at least fairly informed on American life, even if some perceptions are blown out of proportion or are erroneous altogether. My Australian friend, who also teaches English, has suffered far worse blows: a student actually asked her if kangaroos pop up in people’s backyards. Stereotypes aside, there’s clearly more to my country’s story and while I always start out by presenting America in a positive light, I have from time to time found myself caught between bashing and apologizing for my home culture on several points.
Litigiousness. Well, it’s something I’m hardly proud of, but the fact is America has its fair share of unnecessary lawsuits. France, on the other hand, is a country in which individuals do not adequately prepare themselves for potential legal trouble. For example, in a Parisian apartment building, all lights are off in stairwells and hallways unless someone pushes a button that results in temporary illumination. Not to mention, when light bulbs eventually burn out, they have a tendency to not get replaced for some time. While this is at best a fantastic energy-saving measure and at worst a major pain in the ass, it would never happen in the States. Why not? Because if someone fell in a darkened stairwell and injured himself, he could blame the building owner for negligence. How was he to know he had to turn on the light himself? And incidentally, if the light is out for over a week, it’s clearly the property manager’s fault. Needless to say, I have spent quite a bit of time decoding the expression “it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen” for my students. If someone in France took a steaming-hot coffee to go (which would never happen here to begin with!), drove with it wedged between his legs, and consequently burned himself, the French would laugh and call him an idiot. No lawsuit would instantly ensue, and thank goodness.
Sex in the workplace. Speaking of lawsuits, sexual harassment is also a concept that hasn’t quite caught on here. It’s perfectly normal to tell dirty jokes in the office or for a male superior to comment on how pretty a female subordinate looks (Michael Scott would have a field day in France). No one but my American husband raised an eyebrow when a co-worker forwarded a PowerPoint presentation of naked Carla Bruni photos around his office. My French colleague’s student repeatedly hit on her for over a month before she asked our manager to assign a different teacher. Every time she confided in me, I told her point blank: “In my country, this would never fly.” And this is what I am forced to constantly explain to my own students: Paris Hilton aside, Americans are prudes! And we draw very firm lines in the sand when it comes to propriety, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Although we did almost impeach a president because of it—something the French (and I) cannot comprehend.
The last 8 years (or, he who shall not be named). The “he” in question isn’t Lord Voldemort, but rather the soon-to-be lame-duck-in-chief. Probably the number two question I, as Cultural Ambassador, must field, is, “How did he get elected twice?” I’ve expounded on the following topics more times than I can remember: the electoral college, hanging chads, red state vs. blue state culture, 9/11’s impact on the national psyche, our atrocious war and how its messy wake swayed many Americans (despite their better sentiments) to vote for him in ‘04, the disappointment that was John Kerry, that 49% of us did not want him around for a second term, and that all public-speaking evidence to the contrary, Dubya is not as mentally feeble as he seems. My students perhaps got more than they bargained for, but at least their already-negative views of W have been more fleshed out.
Election fatigue. As if the prolonged primary and its abundant news coverage weren’t reasons enough, I’ve also fallen prey to election fatigue because Indecision ’08 (as “The Daily Show” has branded it) is The Number One Issue on which my students want my opinion. Is Obama really the “Black Kennedy” (as the French media has dubbed him)? Why won’t Hillary give up? And just who is this John McCain character, anyway? These are the questions I get day in, day out. I’ve analyzed the pros and cons of each candidate, dissected every mini-scandal (from Rev. Wright to “100 years in Iraq” to Hillary’s RFK gaffe), and described the major election issues and how much they matter to various constituencies. However, while it can be fatiguing, tackling this election isn’t as demoralizing as, say, regaling my students with tales of ambulance chasers. It can actually be inspiring. We may not yet know who the Democratic nominee will be, but it fills me with hope and pride each time I tell my students with full conviction that America seems ready to elect its first Black president. A president of color and one who promises a real change of direction—two concepts that are also totally foreign to the French, but for once I’m not wincing as I explain the intricacies of life back home.
09 January 2008
California Musings
I’m back in Paris, invigorated for the new year, and now that I’m over the jetlag, I’m able to fully reflect on the experience of going back home (to one of my two homes, anyway – I do consider myself bi-coastal) for the holidays. Our visit to San Francisco was loads of fun as well as revelatory concerning our sense of belonging (or, non-belonging – our perspectives are multi-faceted, of course). Before I get into specifics, I’d like to note that my trip to New York earlier in December was not quite as eye opening as this one, for a couple reasons. First, my NYC visit was super short and I was so occupied with engagements and errands that I almost didn’t have enough time to reflect on and process what it was like to be back in the U.S. Second, while I grew up in NYC, I’ve been a visitor to my hometown since I started college. Therefore, NYC evokes a very different notion of home than does San Francisco, where I lived most recently for 9 years. While New York embodies my childhood and adolescence, SF is rife with immediate memories and strongly symbolizes my adult life – thus an apt point of comparison to the new experience we’ve started cultivating in Paris.
We’d come a long way in our first four months here: learning to navigate the illogical and largely bureaucratic system, benefiting from solid routines, adjusting to the culture and language, enjoying the constant discovery and delights of the city, lamenting our currently small social network (which keeps slowly but steadily growing, to be sure). Adjusting to life in a new country has been full of ups and downs, but mostly ups. Most notable was the conscious sensation of feeling at home in our apartment; after a couple months of having it completely set up, it had shed the sense of ‘that new place where we sleep’ and had truly started to feel like our own. It was therefore an interesting juncture at which to revisit our previous home.
One of the first things I was struck by, upon arriving in California, was the abundance of color. In San Francisco, it is everywhere: brightly painted Victorian houses, ubiquitous trees (some of which even sport vibrant flowers), gardens that pop against white, apricot, and butter-yellow edifices, the intensely deep azure winter sky, multi-colored frocks and fleeces sported by locals. While I’ve been soaking up an obscene amount of beauty in Paris, it is all man-made and in the drabbest of color palettes. Grays, blacks, browns of the architecture coupled with the usually-gray sky and the somber tones of Parisian wardrobes do not elevate the senses in the same way the Left Coast can. Of course, here there is architecture gorgeous enough to make your toes curl—but not a lot of natural beauty. The parks are very manicured and also man-made. There is a large, woodsy park, but it is on the western outskirts of the city and not as accessible as, say, Golden Gate or Central parks. Hopefully come spring the city will experience a renaissance of color, because too much gray with no green can really wear on a person. Returning to California definitely made me hyper-aware of this.
Being in California had other benefits, of the financial variety. The dollar’s value has plummeted atrociously since we moved to Europe. While I’m paid in euros, N is not, and despite his smart contractual currency adjustment clause, we’re still feeling the burn. [NB: A friend mentioned that a recent video for a big-name American rapper featured him flaunting a huge stack of euros. Sign of the times.] The cost of living is nothing to shake a stick at here. We pay about the same in rent as we did in SF, our utilities and other monthly costs seem to balance out with our former US budget, but groceries are more expensive and dining out is just ridiculous. Dropping 50 bucks on a two-course dinner with wine at a mid-range restaurant is as easy as finding a $2 slice of ‘za in Manhattan. Even with all the temptations of Marais boutiques and fancy food shops just down the block, we haven’t spent too much money on unnecessary items. Hence we came to the States ready to shop. The dollar felt like Monopoly money! It’s a good thing we got out when we did, but it was funny to feel like part of the Euro jet set who, to take advantage of the favorable conversion rate, fly to the States just for a shopping vacation.
On a less superficial level, our trip to California resonated beyond aesthetics and shopping bargains. It was marvelous to be surrounded by our friends—who have really become like family—and remember what it’s like to have the most comfortable of social interactions. With new friends, you’re just starting to build rapport and do not yet have the shared history, jokes, and special language, not to mention the ease of being 110% yourself—you’re still feeling each other’s personalities out. Several dear friends who live in other parts of the US had also decided to come to SF for New Year’s, so it was a larger-than-life reunion. While we’ve been having our little Parisian adventure, our people have been raising kids, getting engaged, buying homes, starting new relationships, applying to grad school, advancing their careers…life has been moving on fast and furiously and in so many wonderful ways. In some ways it’s sad to miss out on some of these developments, but then again we have a ‘development’ of our own, so to speak, and know life will keep moving at this exciting and rapid clip beyond our eventual return to the States.
The strangest revelation was feeling simultaneously at-home-and-yet-not in SF. Everything was surreally yet gloriously familiar, from the drive back into the city from the airport to riding the public transport to walking up the steps to a friend’s house. In the first half of the week, it was fantastic to immerse ourselves in this feeling, even if it was a bit heartbreaking at times. When we visited our old neighborhood and walked up our old street, the surges of longing were overwhelming. Standing on our old stoop, it felt ridiculous to not be able to just walk into “our” apartment and make ourselves comfortable on the brown leather sectional. Sigh. We loved that place.
But something strange happened towards the end of the visit: that feeling of being ready to go home at the end of a fulfilling vacation crept in…yet, there we were, in our home city yet our home no more. We were ready to return to Paris, our true home now. While it’s still largely mysterious to us and we do not have a large network of friends to share the mysteries of the city with, while I’m still pecking away at speaking (or sometimes mangling) the language and therefore always approaching French strangers with a combination of fascination and hesitation, while we’re still not FULLY adjusted to the idiosyncrasies and are still conscious of our status as cultural outsiders, it’s where we’re carving out our new reality, our new memories, integrating into a new community, and (yeah of course, it’s where our stuff is, but…) consequently, it’s become more than just that place where we sleep.
We’d come a long way in our first four months here: learning to navigate the illogical and largely bureaucratic system, benefiting from solid routines, adjusting to the culture and language, enjoying the constant discovery and delights of the city, lamenting our currently small social network (which keeps slowly but steadily growing, to be sure). Adjusting to life in a new country has been full of ups and downs, but mostly ups. Most notable was the conscious sensation of feeling at home in our apartment; after a couple months of having it completely set up, it had shed the sense of ‘that new place where we sleep’ and had truly started to feel like our own. It was therefore an interesting juncture at which to revisit our previous home.
One of the first things I was struck by, upon arriving in California, was the abundance of color. In San Francisco, it is everywhere: brightly painted Victorian houses, ubiquitous trees (some of which even sport vibrant flowers), gardens that pop against white, apricot, and butter-yellow edifices, the intensely deep azure winter sky, multi-colored frocks and fleeces sported by locals. While I’ve been soaking up an obscene amount of beauty in Paris, it is all man-made and in the drabbest of color palettes. Grays, blacks, browns of the architecture coupled with the usually-gray sky and the somber tones of Parisian wardrobes do not elevate the senses in the same way the Left Coast can. Of course, here there is architecture gorgeous enough to make your toes curl—but not a lot of natural beauty. The parks are very manicured and also man-made. There is a large, woodsy park, but it is on the western outskirts of the city and not as accessible as, say, Golden Gate or Central parks. Hopefully come spring the city will experience a renaissance of color, because too much gray with no green can really wear on a person. Returning to California definitely made me hyper-aware of this.
Being in California had other benefits, of the financial variety. The dollar’s value has plummeted atrociously since we moved to Europe. While I’m paid in euros, N is not, and despite his smart contractual currency adjustment clause, we’re still feeling the burn. [NB: A friend mentioned that a recent video for a big-name American rapper featured him flaunting a huge stack of euros. Sign of the times.] The cost of living is nothing to shake a stick at here. We pay about the same in rent as we did in SF, our utilities and other monthly costs seem to balance out with our former US budget, but groceries are more expensive and dining out is just ridiculous. Dropping 50 bucks on a two-course dinner with wine at a mid-range restaurant is as easy as finding a $2 slice of ‘za in Manhattan. Even with all the temptations of Marais boutiques and fancy food shops just down the block, we haven’t spent too much money on unnecessary items. Hence we came to the States ready to shop. The dollar felt like Monopoly money! It’s a good thing we got out when we did, but it was funny to feel like part of the Euro jet set who, to take advantage of the favorable conversion rate, fly to the States just for a shopping vacation.
On a less superficial level, our trip to California resonated beyond aesthetics and shopping bargains. It was marvelous to be surrounded by our friends—who have really become like family—and remember what it’s like to have the most comfortable of social interactions. With new friends, you’re just starting to build rapport and do not yet have the shared history, jokes, and special language, not to mention the ease of being 110% yourself—you’re still feeling each other’s personalities out. Several dear friends who live in other parts of the US had also decided to come to SF for New Year’s, so it was a larger-than-life reunion. While we’ve been having our little Parisian adventure, our people have been raising kids, getting engaged, buying homes, starting new relationships, applying to grad school, advancing their careers…life has been moving on fast and furiously and in so many wonderful ways. In some ways it’s sad to miss out on some of these developments, but then again we have a ‘development’ of our own, so to speak, and know life will keep moving at this exciting and rapid clip beyond our eventual return to the States.
The strangest revelation was feeling simultaneously at-home-and-yet-not in SF. Everything was surreally yet gloriously familiar, from the drive back into the city from the airport to riding the public transport to walking up the steps to a friend’s house. In the first half of the week, it was fantastic to immerse ourselves in this feeling, even if it was a bit heartbreaking at times. When we visited our old neighborhood and walked up our old street, the surges of longing were overwhelming. Standing on our old stoop, it felt ridiculous to not be able to just walk into “our” apartment and make ourselves comfortable on the brown leather sectional. Sigh. We loved that place.
But something strange happened towards the end of the visit: that feeling of being ready to go home at the end of a fulfilling vacation crept in…yet, there we were, in our home city yet our home no more. We were ready to return to Paris, our true home now. While it’s still largely mysterious to us and we do not have a large network of friends to share the mysteries of the city with, while I’m still pecking away at speaking (or sometimes mangling) the language and therefore always approaching French strangers with a combination of fascination and hesitation, while we’re still not FULLY adjusted to the idiosyncrasies and are still conscious of our status as cultural outsiders, it’s where we’re carving out our new reality, our new memories, integrating into a new community, and (yeah of course, it’s where our stuff is, but…) consequently, it’s become more than just that place where we sleep.
20 November 2007
Strike Fever: A Post-Script
The other day, my students were very curious about my reaction to the transport strike. They asked about the frequency of such a strike in the US. I told them it happens…well, at least I’ve heard of it happening. I’ve never seen one in my lifetime. While they were tickled by my response, it made me reflect on how lucky I’ve been to not have to endure such a major inconvenience in the States.
And while American union members aren’t usually as trigger-happy as the French, France isn’t the only country cashing in on strike fever. In a striking (heh, couldn’t help it) parallel, Hollywood and Broadway are currently engaged in union battles of their own. (And my sympathy lies with the creatives, if it means no new eppies of Lost or BSG this winter.) While the French are finding it impossibly difficult to get to work, Americans could face an entire winter (and spring) of no new installments of TV shows or performances of musicals. They may have to find better things to do with their time than sit around channel-surfing or spending close to $100 on theater tickets on their holiday trips to the Big Apple. Something tells me this would be more difficult for our entertainment-obsessed culture to bear than one week of lousy transportation services, dense traffic, and pervasive moping (as has been the case here). Maybe Americans will be more active, read more, and spend more time with loved ones…Nah, it’s probably all a conspiracy to get more people into movie theaters to counter increasingly waning box office sales (in favor of DVDs).
And while American union members aren’t usually as trigger-happy as the French, France isn’t the only country cashing in on strike fever. In a striking (heh, couldn’t help it) parallel, Hollywood and Broadway are currently engaged in union battles of their own. (And my sympathy lies with the creatives, if it means no new eppies of Lost or BSG this winter.) While the French are finding it impossibly difficult to get to work, Americans could face an entire winter (and spring) of no new installments of TV shows or performances of musicals. They may have to find better things to do with their time than sit around channel-surfing or spending close to $100 on theater tickets on their holiday trips to the Big Apple. Something tells me this would be more difficult for our entertainment-obsessed culture to bear than one week of lousy transportation services, dense traffic, and pervasive moping (as has been the case here). Maybe Americans will be more active, read more, and spend more time with loved ones…Nah, it’s probably all a conspiracy to get more people into movie theaters to counter increasingly waning box office sales (in favor of DVDs).
01 November 2007
Hallow-won't
Halloween has always loomed large in my life. It’s my birthday and I love dressing up and wearing costumes, so each year I’ve looked forward to the double whammy. As a little girl, I relished amassing a pirate’s haul of candy. As a teenager, my high school posse would coordinate group costumes; my junior year, we dressed up as the characters from Alice in Wonderland and I made a fabulous Queen of Hearts costume that I wore not only to school, but also to the legendary Greenwich Village Masquerade Parade. The latter prepared me for the grand-scale revelry in San Francisco, where Halloween is practically a city holiday. Interestingly, in all the years I lived in SF, I never ventured to the raging Halloween festivities in the Castro. That’s largely because for most of my years there, I lived in Cole Valley, a neighborhood that closes streets to traffic and has a kiddie wonderland of trick-or-treating. Children from all over the city come and we would host a candy give-away / costume party / birthday celebration at our home. I’ve always put effort into home-made costumes, including a black widow spider (brandishing furry spider legs), Medusa (replete with a snake headdress), the Swiss Miss (gotta love dirndls), and my all-time fave, Carmela Soprano (which allowed me to get into character and show off the NY/NJ accent that I can slip into on cue). Yes, it’s always been a cherished tradition.
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
This year, things are a bit different. My months in Paris so far have been full of discovery, beauty, and fun, but the one big trade-off has been the almost-total lack of Halloween. I had heard that Halloween has only very recently and just barely caught on among French children and a tiny sliver of twentysomethings – the key word being “barely.” While in the States you know the holiday is approaching as soon as September (witness the store window displays and supermarket shelves stocked with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars), the only visible sign that there was anything remotely interesting about October 31 was the Metro ad for the Disney Sur Glace (on ice) show featuring a parade of Disney villains, jusqu’a (until) Halloween. I resigned myself to experiencing my birthday like most of the rest of the world does – like it’s just a regular day. But, the thought nagged at me, does it really have to be that way?
When a couple students asked me about the ultra-American holiday, I was pleased at their curiosity. Maybe the French were warming to the idea after all. However, they unanimously commented with a sneer that it was “tres commercial.” While I couldn’t deny this obvious fact, I also felt compelled to defend the holiday, proselytizing about how it connotes self-expression and creativity on a massive scale, a chance to feel like a kid again (never mind the outrageous candy sales and hedonism that may ensue). My students did not seem impressed. It’s not an integral part of French culture to dress up in costume for pure enjoyment and play. And imagine the rudeness of knocking on someone’s door to demand candy! Nate had also caught wind of this attitude at his place of work. A colleague had suggested we go to the super-hip resto-bar Kong, which was hosting its annual “Who Cares About Halloween?” bash. OK, so I wouldn’t win over any adults…at least, not this year.
As mentioned above, there were no apparent signs of the holiday in the weeks and days leading up to the 31st. So imagine my surprise when, walking home from a lovely birthday dinner in the 1st arrondisement to our home in the Marais, Nate and I observed the following token glimpses of Halloween, French-style:
- A massive gathering of teens dressed in flamboyant head-to-toe 80’s garb outside a McDonald’s on rue de Rivoli. Not so much in costume, this was serious wardrobe, as the 80’s trend is far stronger in Parisian fashions than it’s been in the States (which is saying a lot). OK, not so much Halloween, but the closest we’d come yet.
- 2 or 3 gay bars in the Marais with orange and black balloon displays…getting warmer.
- 3 young adults causing mischief in the streets of the Marais – 2 dressed as ghosts and one as a skeleton wearing a neon-yellow wig. They cavorted around, running up to people to scare them. Oh, how quaint. Getting even warmer.
- Upon entering our building at 11pm, we noticed several small signs were posted in the corridor informing tenants that it was Halloween and children would be going from door to door for candy. It then gave a full-page explanation of the holiday, starting from its ancient pagan roots to the present American tradition. (Apparently the French who do honor the holiday need to justify it with a historical scroll.) We were taken aback to discover that Halloween was taking place right under our noses, and that we’d had no clue. Why, oh why, would you advertise such a thing only on the night of? If you want building tenants to be prepared, wouldn’t you post the notices a few days – or even a day – in advance? Not that we’d have changed our evening plans to distribute candy to the 3 kids we know exist in our building, but still…it smacks of a lack of foresight.
So is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of our years in France? At best a half-hearted attempt at trick-or-treating and at worst a raging party dedicated to dissing the holiday altogether? I just received an email from a local friend who spent last weekend in Germany, where she attended a Halloween party. Her quote: “They don't do cutesy here apparently so I had to add a little red makeup to be a little more morbid.” See, that I can respect. Maybe I’ll have to head to Deutschland next year…
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