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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Paname

I reconnected with an old friend in SF last night, and one of the first things she said to me was, “I read your blog for a couple months when you first started it, and I thought, ‘Jess is miserable there. All she does is complain about it.’ So I stopped reading it altogether.”

Huh. I wasn’t so much offended by her remark as I was taken aback. Really? Did I “French out” and shout my complaints from the blogosphere rooftops? Yeah, maybe a little, but not constantly and always with humor. However, as a stereotypical “positive American,” this post is my proof to the world that I do not use the blog as a vehicle to kvetch. Because, truly, doesn’t everyone want to hear you gush when you’re inevitably asked, “How’s Paris?” And so here it is, my light and fluffy treatise on the things I’ll miss the most about "Paname."

When my sister visited during our last week in Paris, I realized that every time I uttered the phrase, “This is one of my favorite spots in the city,” I was standing in a garden or park. I’ve always been attracted to green spaces; part of the reason I love SF so much is that it marries the urban and the natural so well. But Paris takes the art of landscaping to a whole new level. Whether the simple symmetry of the 18th century buildings, arcades, and rows of shady trees forming the perimeter of the Place des Vosges; the cheerful flowers at Parc Monceau and the Tuileries; the multi-faceted wonderland of the Jardins du Luxembourg; or the red ivy spilling down the old walls of the Carnavalet gardens, I ache for the rare and hence overwhelmingly delicious bursts of color on the Paris landscape, manicured to breathtaking effect.

I will also miss the art of la table. I appreciate how much energy the French put into food preparation and presentation—it all matters and therefore if it takes time, it’s worth it. I loved strolling down the streets of Paris and gazing into the vitrines to find the latest work of patisserie perfection. How does Pierre Hermé manage to get that syrupy dew drop to stay flawlessly posed in the edible rose petal topping his raspberry crème pastry? What’s in Michel Cluizel’s secret sauce that makes gold-dusted chocolate even possible?! You know, people would say when I first moved to Paris, “You must be indulging in pastry 24-7.” In fact, I didn’t indulge in eating the pastry regularly, but rather I indulged in eye candy on a daily basis. That’s one thing that is absent from daily life in America. We do have excellent food, but that level of French elegance is hardly part of la vie quotidienne.

Speaking of food, there’s nothing like walking past a boulangerie, just for the smell of the best bread in the world baking to golden completion. Even the best French-style bakery in the States doesn’t come close. I am also sad to have said goodbye to the good folks at Chez Omar, our local cous cous joint celebré. Not only did we love the food and worship at the feet of their harissa (the only surefire spicy food to be found in Paris), but the restaurant was also kind of our Cheers—they all knew us there and loved to joke around with us and call N ‘l’arab’ because of his part-Syrian heritage. It’s the kind of convivial relationship with local merchants that’s not guaranteed in Paris.

However, that’s not to say we only experienced it over cous cous. Our butchers were jolly and kind, our greengrocer sweet and thoughtful, but no one made me smile as much as my local pharmacist. “Heeeeeeeeh-lllllloooooooooooooo, Miz Jessica Mordo!” he exclaimed every time I walked in to refill my allergy med prescription, followed by him belting out a random show tune (occasionally with jazz hands). We established early on that I was an American who lived in SF and grew up in NYC, and that he was an extra-fabulous, rabid Broadway musical/New York/Castro District fan. We instantly got along. Plus he was the only other person in my neighborhood aside from me who felt no compunction about wearing gym-style clothes in public. Without fail, every time I went into his shop, he was wearing basketball shorts and a tight, white tank top. I think he just wanted to show off his buff physique.

And another thing I’ll ache for? In America, we are in the shallow end of the pool in terms of living history. Europe is the deep end of the ocean by comparison. I’ll miss turning a corner and discovering yet another Gothic church or 18th –century hôtel. My personal favorite is the Église de St-Germain, which was built in 586 A.D. (I mean, COME ON!) and now stands beside a Christian Dior boutique. (How’s that for incongruity?) I’ll truly miss walking (always walking! I’ll also miss living car-free) around the narrow, cobbled streets of the Marais and imagining the centuries’ worth of characters, plot arcs, and changes in setting over the course of l’histoire.

The hardest part of leaving any place, though, is not the sights and smells and random acquaintances, but the deeper relationships you created that make it home. I already miss my lovely French and expat friends and hope to lure them over for a SF visit sometime before we make it back to France—which hopefully won’t be for too, too long.

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.

Rentrée Sickness

Yesterday, the first of September, is known as la rentrée, or the return. It is a grand return indeed: everyone’s back from their lengthy August vacations, school is again in session, the city is coming back to life, office activity is picking up. And therefore, everyone is feeling down. Including me, except not for the same reasons most Parisians are.

It’s just that I’m sick of all the complaining. I’ve grinned and bared it and I’ve tried to be sympathetic in the face of it, but frankly, I’m over it.

Parisians complain all the time. It’s practically an academic exercise. The running philosophy goes that if a Frenchman finds something worth complaining about, he has analyzed the situation craftily enough to identify an obvious or, better yet, a hidden fault. If you don’t find any fault, you are mentally lazy. He is therefore smarter than you. To boil it down into simpler terms…Complacent = stupid. Happy = downright moronic. Maybe I’m looking at this from a limited point of view (or maybe I’m just dumb, since I’m often in a good mood), but what does it say about a culture that devotes all this mental energy to actively not being happy? It isn’t a shock, then, to discover that 20% of French adults are on antidepressants. French adults are also the world’s biggest consumers of tranquilizers. Holy smokes.

Combine an already pessimistic national character with a return to work after the summer and Paris starts to feel funereal. You can feel it on the Metro and watching the hordes of workers surge past in the business district. Every student I’ve seen since yesterday morning has complained about something or other. I asked one, whom I hadn’t seen in two months due to her sprawling summer holiday, how her trip went, smiling expectantly. She said it was fine and then immediately launched into a long and bitter diatribe about how shitty the public transportation system is. All this because she got to work 15 minutes late today. I think we’ve crossed over from glass half empty to can’t see anything in the glass at all.

I read a piece in the IHT yesterday that went beyond my small sample size. Apparently, this is a “particularly morose” return because people are hesitant about the slowing economy and decreased purchasing power. Well, these are legitimate causes for concern, but there are reasons the French economy is stagnant (beyond the ripple effect of the American market crisis) and part of it has to do with the lack of dynamism and resistance to change. It’s the French paradox of complaining about how bad things are but then complaining (translation: striking) when something is poised to change. In fact, there have been rumblings about a major strike coming to theaters near us this fall—which may succeed in slowing down the economy further if it causes a prolonged period of preventing people from getting to work.

Clearly, I’m a product of my own culture. Surely, no one likes coming back from vacation and financial woes are not trivial matters, but where I come from we pick ourselves up and get things done and don’t waste too much negative energy bitching about it. Because that’s just what we do. And if we don’t like the situation we’re in, we try our best to change it or something about ourselves in order to better deal with it. We don’t wait around for the other shoe to drop or for the state to come pick it up and put it back on the rack where we think it belongs. We’re certainly not perfect, and we’ve made plenty of mistakes, but we at least make an effort to control our own destinies. (Ooooooooooh, she took it there.) It’s strange how after a year of living outside America, I realize how much of an American I truly am.

Oh, but of course not all of the French are dark, dreary, and dour. And I adore France. Just not for the reasons outlined above.

Yes, this is my day to rant, people! And don’t think the irony is lost on me. I fully acknowledge that in my attempt to vent about the complaining that surrounds me, I am, in fact, complaining. Maybe this re-entry sickness is more powerful than I thought.

Music Fête-ish

It’s wonderful living in a country where the government truly puts the arts on a pedestal. There are numerous annual country- and city-wide festivals that offer up cultural events and attractions FOR FREE. Numerous. Free. Amazing! Did I say free? (Quite a worthwhile offshoot of paying such high taxes.)

Yesterday was the solstice, the first day of summer, and the weather arrived accordingly. It was thus the perfect day for the annual Fête de la Musique. Musicians of all kinds play all over France throughout the day. In Paris, there were hundreds of performances alone to choose from. But rather than strategize, I just wanted to roam and see what I’d find. I headed out at 6:00 to meet friends and do a lazy crawl around the Marais and Bastille area. Here’s the musical collage I experienced:

Down Boulevard Beaumarchais – There are tons of people out! It’s well over 80 degrees F and Parisians have abandoned the scarves and layers of clothes they usually wear, even when it’s in the 70’s. People of all ages are Velib’ing, strolling, smiling. It’s infectious. Some French-Indian guy stops me and asks me to be a sari model for his photography project (it took three times before I fully understood). No, sorry, got people to meet and music to see! I pass a Nirvana cover band (no audible French accent, but not gritty enough to sound like Kurt Cobain). I find my friends and we happen upon a funk-soul cover band. They’re fun and we stop for a while to bob our heads to Stevie Wonder and Finley Quaye, but bolt when we hear the opening bars of a Doobie Bros. tune.

At Place de la Bastille – We pause at the large stage and catch the tail end of Pascale Picard, a popular French-Canadian chanteuse. She’s a tad Lilith Fair but with slightly more edge. The crowd is big, and keeps getting bigger. I’m pleased to notice that Parisians of all ages are out and taking part in the festivities. A couple people are illegally selling beers and keeping an eye out for the cops. Then Mademoiselle K comes on and proceeds to rawk! They have a Le Tigre-esque sound with more dissonant guitar thrown in. I like it. Eventually it’s time to meet up with some other friends. The couple I’m with want to Velib to our destination, but I choose to walk as it’s not far and I want to take in the unexpected musical surprises along the way.

Around Place des Vosges – I pass six extremely different musical arts within ONE BLOCK. Yet, oddly enough, they are spaced out enough so as to not interfere with the others’ sound. I see:
1. I don’t know how else to describe it other than, clowns-meet-marching band. They have the horns. They have the marching drum. They have the right sound. But they are dressed really eccentrically; the band leader is sporting a row of broom bristles on his head. The crowd is loving them, at any rate—Parisians are not so disaffected that they won’t to clap to the beat!
2. African drumming circle. Always great.
3. Bagpipes and traditional Breton dancing.
4. Organist playing a requiem.
5. Chorus belting out a traditional French song. Lyrics had been handed out to the crowd, so anyone could join in.
6. Young rock band. Harmonic guitars, perfect on a warm summer evening.

Past Parc Royal – A French solo-artist tries his best with “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” but he’s no match for Nancy Sinatra. Young girls slowly amble with guitars, just strumming and softly singing folk songs.

On the wide expanse of rue des Quatre Fils – A barbeque! And a DJ spinning some rather fabulous Brazilian-sounding stuff. Kids are dancing. Adults are dancing. Note to self: come back here in a little while.

Up rue des Haudriettes – A not-so-good 90’s cover band. I don’t think I’ve heard “Losing My Religion” and the Four Non-Blondes since the 90’s, and this is the last place I expected to do so. I reach my destination of the teeny Place Vivien, find my friends, settle in with a pint, and enjoy some traditional Irish music. The musicians teach some volunteers a dance (no jig, bummer) and it’s a soothing spot for une petite pause from the crowds.

But we get restless eventually so we wander back to the dance party/barbeque, which is raging with lots of young people, but also a considerable amount of families. It’s almost dark at 10:45, but not quite. (It is solstice, after all, and Paris is on higher longitude than you might think.) We grab beers and grilled merguez sandwiches, and enjoy the DJ’s offerings, which evolve past Latin beats into stranger, very eclectic territory—some hip-hop, some funk, a large helping of 80’s, and my personal highlight, a kind of 60’s dancefloor cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.” Must find this track. We while away a couple hours here and eventually bed calls.

Thankfully I’m a five-minute walk from home. People are still going full force! I wish I had their stamina. I laugh a little as I come across a band playing “Under the Bridge” in front of (of all places) my bank. (More 90’s covers? More American music?) Some twentysomethings zoom by on Velibs and sing along: “It’s the city I live in…” Oh happy night.

I wish they had this festival more than once a year.

(Not) Working, Part Deux: Two Years in the Merde

If you thought my recent skewering of the French work ethic wasn’t enough, I just made an interesting discovery during a discussion with a student. Apparently her company (a very large, leading French financial firm) provides a career development track of urging employees to change their jobs—that correspond to their qualifications, of course—every three to four years. That’s nice, considering finding employment isn’t an easy gambit in this country and the rigid university selection process forces people to stay within one given field—at least this way employees are encouraged to diversify their experiences. Of course, in America, an employee’s career development relies largely on his own motivation and isn’t gently nudged in that direction by his company. But I digress.

The real cherry on top is that when an employee at my student’s company wants to change positions, she can’t just one day make the switch. She must wait for a replacement to come along before she moves on to greener pastures. This can take a while, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which, French employment law dictates that individuals must give three months’ notice when resigning! Three months! (It’s hard to imagine how those employees stay motivated, but apparently a considerable stipend is withheld until the end of this lame-duck period.) Anyhow, my student’s manager was in a real pickle when he was all set to change positions, but nary a replacement could be found. He waited so long that he tried to negotiate several times with his managers, and finally they told him that they’d need him to stay in his current position for another two years (!!!) until they could properly replace him. Wow. Now that’s career mobility.

My student informed me that her manager is not alone—many employees have had to wait months…and months…and more months for replacements. All it does is decrease motivation. My student has benefited from her manager’s lack of it, as he lets her leave early and take vacation during super busy work periods. That’s great for her, but when viewed on a larger scale, that’s terrible for employee satisfaction and worker productivity at her firm. And I don’t have any proof, but something tells me the problem exists at more than just one French company.

Everybody's (Not) Working for the Weekend

When discussing cultural stereotypes with a student, I was shocked to learn that she wasn’t aware of one of the (in my eyes) most common perceptions of the French: their allergy to work. This stereotype is, of course, propagated by Anglo Saxons, and from that perspective, it seems rather irrefutable, what with the standard five weeks of vacation and 35-hour workweek.

When I moved to France last year, I decided it was time to put the jokes about French slackers aside and get to the bottom of what the work culture was all about. Stereotypes are only partially based in truth; surely, there must be more to the story. Well, nearly a year later, I’m here to tell you that there isn’t. It seems that certain forces have conspired to create a perfect storm of anti-productivity. This phenomenon is complex to be sure (I’ve boiled down book-length material to a handful of paragraphs, mind you) and not without exceptions, but from an American point of view, rather mind-boggling.

On the surface, working in France seems like one, long paid vacation. In addition to the aforementioned five weeks of annual holiday time, employees who work over 35 hours per week (which means practically everyone in the private sector) are entitled to reduction du temps de travail (literally: reduction of work time), more commonly known as RTT: one or two extra paid days off per month. This added PTO amounts to a grand total of seven to nine weeks of vacation per year. The French also grant employees with children three extra days off per year for each child if the child is sick and needs parental care (proof in the form of a doctor’s note is required for these and for employees’ own sick days, because employers apparently don’t trust their employees). Lest you think French companies are going overboard, not to worry—employees must use their vacation within a year, as PTO doesn’t roll over into the following year as in many American companies. Therefore, it’s totally natural to take off weeks at a time—it’s all in the spirit of making the most out of what the unions make sure is an employee’s right.

While Anglos may envy the French’s ability to take such advantage of work-life balance, there’s a dark underbelly to the French employment system. There is an exceptionally high cost of operating a business in France, as companies are obliged to pay a business tax in addition to exorbitant taxes on employees. Moreover, when a company wishes to dismiss someone, they not only have to provide a valid justification for doing so, but also pay a substantial sum to the government. These restrictions have created a climate in which it’s extremely difficult to get hired (see the nearly 10% unemployment rate) and even more difficult to get fired. Therefore, repeated tardiness, persistent loafing, and gross incompetence are not high on the list of reasons for getting fired—the companies just don’t want to go through the trouble of documenting the infractions and paying the fee. People can therefore coast and exploit a system just made for abuse.

To an Anglo, there are several things French employees seemingly “get away with,” yet these “abuses” are relatively benign and practically rote. A two-hour lunch is totally acceptable. It doesn’t mean that everyone regularly takes one, but anything under an hour is deemed unthinkable; don’t even think about telling someone that you’re so busy you need to eat lunch at your desk, unless you want to risk giving them a heart attack. Coffee breaks are also a stalwart feature of the French workday. It’s worth noting that the length of coffee breaks is totally disproportionate to the size of coffees people drink. The French have a knack for making a tiny espresso last 25 minutes—and do so several times per day. On sunny days, I’ve walked past office buildings where nearly everyone seemed to be outside “drinking coffee.” These frequent breaks aren’t clocked and while I’m sure managers notice, they may very well be engaging in similar behavior. Between all of these pauses (and including many employees’ weekly training in languages or tech), it’s hard to imagine that a lot of work actually gets done in a given day.

When the French are actually working, they often attend meetings—an aspect of work culture that is run in a manner far from Swiss-watch efficiency. From what I’ve gleaned from many students who work at a variety of companies, meetings can be quite the sore spot, annoying even those who may not have the most diligent work ethic. People show up late, which often delays the start time. There may or may not be a meeting organizer who runs the show, and if there is one, he/she may or may not have an agenda. Attendees often come unprepared and sometimes unclear on why they’re needed there. Meetings also usually go overtime because a decision can’t be reached, as the French have a tendency to scrutinize a situation from all possible angles—a level of analysis that can be admirable, if not done to a fault. Progress consequently gets halted, generating more and more meetings. Coming from America, where (for the most part) meetings are held to agendas, decisions are made, and action items are assigned, this molasses-like rate of “forward” movement seems CRAZY.

And as if all the above everyday behaviors didn’t seem bad enough, we then have the serious cases of work-sploitation—the ones that even your average glandeur (slacker) cannot tolerate. In fact, the French have invented a term for the type of worker who stretches the system to the limit. These ne’er-do-wells are called bras cassés (broken arms), and they exist at many a company. The bras cassé is either incompetent or just doesn’t care at all about doing a good job, and everyone in his department knows it. However, he can’t get fired (for the reasons delineated above), so he gets shunted into a series of bullshit jobs that have no real purpose or make no real contribution to the company and still receives a paycheck for showing up every day and doing, for all intents and purposes, nothing. Think Milton from the film “Office Space.” Here’s a prime example: my student had a former teammate who used to come in, no joke, at 5pm every day and work for about four hours. This tardy queen extraordinaire would also raise a huge fuss if her chair was being used in a meeting or if even one pencil was out of place on her desk. Then she started to come down with chronic “illnesses,” which caused her to intermittently miss “whole” (well, in reality, half) days of work. Her manager wanted to fire her, of course, but couldn’t. The young blood who joined the team in the midst of all this observed her behavior and felt, if she’s doing it and isn’t getting fired, then why shouldn’t we? And so a vicious cycle begins. We can wag our fingers at the bras cassé for being a bad role model, and I agree, but I also say, bad system! This story may seem extreme, and it is, but I’ve heard similar tales (albeit to lesser degrees) from many students.

While hurdles to getting fired provide employees with a sizable amount of job security, they sometimes take their sense of security too far. The feeling of “I can’t be bothered” has permeated the system. People have rigid definitions of what their jobs entail, and they stick to this script in way that throws the notions of efficiency and customer service out the window altogether. At my bank, only my account executive can assist me with certain tasks. You’d think there is someone else at the bank who’s trained to do those exact same tasks, and I’ve asked that very question more than once, but I’ve gotten the same response: “It’s not my job.” Excuse me? Isn’t keeping your customers happy every employee’s job? At at the local appliances depot, I was having a difficult time finding what I was looking for, so I sought out an employee’s help. I asked a worker in the dishwasher section if he could help me find the fans. I apparently mistakenly assumed that any employee would be able to assist me, because he told me I’d have to find someone else to help me, as fans weren’t in his jurisdiction. Read: it’s not my job. This tunnel vision is seeping into the minds of the future workforce as well. My husband and I were visiting his French relatives recently, and his cousin’s adorable four-year-old daughter was prattling on about cute four-year-old matters when she suddenly stated with utmost seriousness that the poor pigeons poop on the buildings and someone should build them bathrooms (aw, cute). My husband asked her, “Who’s going to build these bathrooms?” “Well,” she replied, “I don’t know—but definitely not me!” And thus, her generation’s aversion to work is given a voice.

You’d think this collective lack of urgency would result in almost nothing getting done, but ironically France was ranked number three on the world productivity index. Huh? Well, of course not all French workers are grand glandeurs. There are many people who are committed to their jobs and truly do work hard. But there are also many who game the system under the guise of diligence. A recent trend in French work culture has been to work long hours in order to be noticed as the last one still in the office. As I laid out above, people aren’t always assiduously working throughout the day. They could be surfing Internet porn after having taken the fourteenth coffee break of the day, but it’s 8:30pm and so therefore they must be dedicatedly chipping away at their gargantuan pile of work. These masters of illusion get recognition for their apparent diligence, while others who may work just as—if not harder—than the midnight-oil burners prefer to leave work at a reasonable hour (due to having young children at home) get passed up for promotions. This screams of a lamentable lack of critical thinking and a system of reward based on performance quantity rather than quality—the opposite of which is rightly valued in Anglo work culture.

Despite the logic-defying productivity index ranking, France has remained relatively uncompetitive on the world business stage for many of the reasons described above. Furthermore, anytime a reform to employment law is proposed, public outcry rages against the threat of France becoming “too Anglo-Saxon.” Oh, the horror! Mind you, a lot of the material for this piece came from long discussions with French people who detest the way the system works and lament the manifold abuses. However, it’s clear that the system is so ingrained that despite some of its denizens’ best intentions and efforts, not much will change and therefore, the French will live to (not) work another day.

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.

The Olfactory Death March

The French are famous for their exceptional wines and cheeses, shrunken workweek, and (as far as stereotyping casts them) massive B.O. When I moved to France, I took this stereotype with a grain of salt because, well, isn’t France also the land of perfume and cologne? (Hmm, maybe I’m onto something there…) I was relieved to find that while the stereotype (like most) has some measure of truth – as in any large city, riding the underground can treat you to quite the heady, malodorous bouquet – the French body odor problem isn’t as widespread as the insulting jokes at the frogs’ expense would have you believe.

When I told a student, several months back, about the B.O. stereotype (trust me, it was in context – I would never spring that on an unsuspecting Frenchie), he wasn’t insulted but was a bit perplexed. He’d never heard of it before and couldn’t make heads or tails of its possible source. Well. Clearly he nor I had never been to the fifth floor of a different student’s office building.

Let’s go back to last week, when I first met with the latter student on his building’s fifth floor. I walked out of the elevator and was immediately bowled over by a stench so insidious, so powerful, I almost fainted. I tensed my nostrils and tried to breathe only out of my mouth (and at moments, to not breathe at all) as I marched quickly down the hall to the appointed meeting room. I must have walked 100 feet and in that space the reek didn’t fade, but rather hovered, like a cloud of toxic gas. Yes, it was high-octane B.O. worse than any gym locker room I’ve ever encountered, worse than the worst days in my former high school classroom when 15-year-old boys would saunter in fresh from lunchtime, ripe with basketball court stench and a layer of awful cologne to disguise it. For this was a B.O. so strong that although no people were present, the odor managed to permeate the entire hallway – haunting it, if you will. I finally reached the meeting room, closing the door firmly shut behind me, wondering how on earth my student could bear it. (I didn’t dare ask. I was just thrilled and relieved to discover that he wasn’t a perpetrator of the ungodly hallway stench.)

But the subject managed to work its way into conversation anyhow. I met the same student again today on the fifth floor of olfactory doom. I braced myself and made the same quick, breathless dash down the corridor, again noting the absence of any people (hello, ghost stank!) before finding safe haven in the meeting room. So. Fast forward to about an hour later. While discussing a news article we’d read about smoking bans, my student mentioned that it recently came out that after all the cigarette-induced haze lifted from the French nightclubs, people realized the smoke had all along been masking another, deadlier scent. (Uh-huh, you guessed it.) This discovery prompted the first-ever deodorant-brand sponsored event, “Axe Night,” at a popular “discotheque” (by the way, don’t you love how Europeans still call it that?). Apparently the event was so successful that more are coming.

I may have thought the B.O. stereotype was rubbish, but it appears I’m not the only one who’s discovered proof of a higher authority on the subject. And while I hit an apparent mother lode of French B.O., I must be grateful that I’ve eluded both a potentially rank-smelling student and noxious dance floors alike.

Ladies Who Lunch...Loudly

The workweek of an itinerant language teacher in Paris can be a lonely one. Due to having different schedules in different locations every day, I never have a regular work site to return to each day. I carry all my teaching materials with me (which can be heavy), I have no computer/Internet access during the day (not such a big deal, truth be told), and I can never, ever bring my lunch and store it in the office fridge or reheat it in the microwave. I eat out for lunch every day, and at that, I usually eat alone. Sometimes this is because I only have a short time to grab a sandwich and eat it on the go, which is hardly ideal, and sometimes this is because I’m at a client’s worksite where none of my colleagues are also working.

But there are other times when my workday intersects with that of my colleagues and we can meet up for lunch. These lunches are not only fun, but also a big relief after several days of eating lunch alone in a sea of French people, continually violating the rules of French culture and standing out as an expat on my own. The "safety in numbers" format is a far better way to break the rules and have a good time doing it. The other day I met up with a bigger group of friends than normal and as a table of foreigners (two Americans, one French-American, one Canadian, and one Italian), we almost unwittingly went down a list of sacred Commandments That Must Not Be Broken.

1) Thou Shalt Not Drink Water Out of a “Humongous” Half-Liter Bottle. One of my colleagues commented on my Nalgene – positively. Imagine getting praise for the smartness of carrying around a substantial supply of water with you (the point is to stay hydrated!) and not being met with incredulity or mistrust. And everyone at the table chimed in to agree, not once forcing me to pour the liquid into a small glass even though there was an ample amount of glasses available in the café.

2) Thou Shalt Not Eat With Your Hands, Not Even a Sandwich. My Italian friend had ordered a burger, and before she started eating, said, “Sorry, I’m about to eat this with my hands.” Ha! As she’s lived in France for quite a while, she’s used to the cultural habits and is conditioned to behave accordingly, or at least apologize before breaking the rules. We all laughed at the French propensity for a knife and fork no matter what’s on the plate, as well as their scorn for eating with one’s hands. The French consider it rude…or rather, simply crude. On the contrary, you never have to apologize to North Americans for eating with your hands.

3) Thou Shalt Not Speak In Tones Louder Than a Hushed Elevator Voice. The French tend to be quiet folk. Not that they’re not chatty – but they don’t ever get loud. When in a heated debate, a laughing fit, or an excited conversation, they still manage to keep their volume knob turned down to about 4. I believe this is rooted in their education system, which conditions them to be poised, disciplined, and afraid to make mistakes (which is a matter for another blog post), and then propagated through adulthood through parental and peer pressure. I mean, even dogs are relatively tame here. Therefore, when you’re out and about and hear someone speaking or laughing loudly, you know it’s an expat. Anyhow, at lunch we were complimenting my American friend on her blouse and then she removed the sweater she was wearing on top just enough to show off the blouse’s funky sleeves. “Whooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaa!!!” we all admiringly exclaimed, in unison, quite loudly for French standards, only to draw stares from people all over the café. The perplexed and annoyed looks only succeeded in making us laugh hard, adding to our “considerable” outburst.

I can’t wait to get a big group of expat English teachers together for a cathartic, laugh-filled lunch again.

When Eating Becomes a Kafka-esque Experience

Food reigns supreme in French culture. The quality of ingredients is stunning, the variety of specialty food shops is mind-blowing, and there are tons of fabulous restaurants at one’s disposal. Along with this celebration of all things culinary comes an unspoken litany of rituals, with corresponding rules, governing eating. Some of these rules are easy to detect, while others have taken a few months to discover. And while I love the amazing food France has to offer, these rules often clash with my own tastes.

For one, the French have strictly designated what’s appropriate for each meal. Petit déjeuner (breakfast) generally consists of fresh bread or pastry, along with a variety of confitures (jams) and sweet spreads. I can’t eat a buttery croissant drenched in strawberry jam for the first meal of the day all that often (once in a blue moon at most)...it’s just too much sugar. Sure, some French eat a bit lighter, opting for yogurt and cereal (like I do), but it’s far more normal to make an early morning stop by the boulangerie for a pain chocolat (chocolate croissant) than it is to cut up a cantaloupe. For déjeuner (lunch), it’s entirely appropriate to have a large, three-course meal. I can’t eat that much in the middle of the day and am usually content with a sandwich or salad, plain and simple. This has drawn the curiosity of food establishment proprietors and French co-workers alike: “C’est tout? Pas de dessert? Pourquoi?” (That’s all? No dessert? WHY?!?!)

Dinner is closer to what we can expect in the States—you can go as big or as small as you’d like. Pfew, at least I fit in for one meal out of three. However, if you do opt for a full, sit-down, multi-course dinner, beware: you cannot proceed entirely as you prefer. In France, it is customary to have entrée, dish, dessert, and then—ONLY then—coffee. I’m an American, dammit, and in America we like to have coffee with dessert. This is a habit I’m reluctant to break and I’ve therefore gotten into minor arguments with servers, who refuse to bring me coffee with my dessert. In my view, I’m a paying customer—I should therefore get my coffee whenever I want it. But no, in France these rituals are so entrenched and so strong, that even a paying customer can be told she’s wrong and will receive the coffee when it’s appropriate. (Remember from my previous posts—it’s customer non-service, people. The customer is never king.) As an amusing counterpoint, a student once mentioned that on her one visit to the States, she found it so strange that everyone was drinking coffee WITH their lunches. Of course, from her perspective, one must only drink coffee at the very end of a meal…or during a 20-minute work break.

Similarly, the French observe rules governing acceptable snack foods. A co-worker once chastised Nate for his choice of accoutrement for a lunchtime sandwich. In France, there is the highly-practiced ritual of apero (short for aperitif), a pre-dinner cocktail hour similar to happy hour but not with reduced drink prices. During this period, people flock to cafes, bars, and restaurants to grab drinks and snack on the customary nibbles of peanuts, pretzels, chips, olives, and other little bites. People also serve such items during the apero period of a dinner party. So imagine N’s co-worker’s consternation when he noticed N munching on a bag of chips with his sandwich: “C’est pas possible! Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” (That’s ridiculous. What are you doing?!) After delivering an unwarrantedly heated “argument” about when it’s appropriate to eat chips, the co-worker stormed off, leaving a bemused N thinking, OK, midday is not when you want to eat chips, but why can’t I? Like me, N does not want to eat a big, honkin’ slice of chocolate cake with his lunch.

The French are also particular in their approach to eating. It is NOT acceptable to eat dinner food with one’s hands. It’s all knife and fork action, no matter what the dish. Just the other night, I observed a woman at a neighboring table spend the entire time we were in the restaurant (which was a while, mind you) meticulously eating her burger and fries with knife and fork. I didn’t know it was possible to be so regimented about eating a burger. First, she dissected the top half of the bun. Then the pickle. Then the fries. Finally she was left with the actual burger, which she picked at bird-like until it was finally done. (Lady, if the burger was meant to be deconstructed, it would be presented that way.) And this is not considered abnormal or weird. People meticulously eat pizza and some sandwiches with knife and fork, too. Does that make Americans slobs? Perhaps. But sometimes finger food is just finger food.

As you can see, meals are not meant to be eaten in a hurry here. The French love to sit over a three-hour meal, savoring each bite. This is not something I have a problem with at all. But it’s funny to see how this practice has seeped into their patronage of American eateries. From what I hear, the French will spend up to an hour eating at a McDonald’s. And man, they love McD’s, supposedly for the exoticism of it all. They also love Starbucks! Initially, this surprised me, as France obviously nurtures a strong coffee culture in which coffee is NEVER taken to go; rather, one can sit with one café crème for hours in any given café or can get a quick shot of espresso at the café bar. So why were all the Starbucks packed every time I walked by one? Because people still do not take their coffee to go, but instead, they sit with their frappuccinos as long as they would at a traditional French café. The difference is, they don’t have to wait for ages until they can flag down a server for the bill (so apparently the French can be as impatient with this as us Americans!).

Another item that is not usually taken to go is a bottle of water. Sometimes you see people toting small bottles of Evian or the like, but certainly not the larger Nalgene bottle that I brought here from the States—it’s a reusable, sturdy, colored-plastic bottle that I can refill endlessly to keep myself hydrated at all times and not waste plastic. Well. Many of my students have been curious about this strange bottle I carry around with me. One student was so mystified by this foreign object that it became a much-longer-than-necessary topic of conversation. But…what was it? What was inside? Was the water turquoise (she couldn’t get past the color of the bottle)? Why did I carry it around with me? But didn’t I want a glass to pour the water into? She actually insisted on this point. She couldn’t fathom how I could drink out of such a large container. See, the French also favor small things, with small water glasses being a principle “small thing.” I don’t need a 64-ouncer, of course, but drinking in quantities equivalent to a shot isn’t sufficient either.

See, just when I think I can slightly blend in, I order a small lunch, request coffee with my dessert, or take a big swig of water from my trusty Nalgene and BAM, I have pretty much just painted an American flag on my forehead. Sorry, there are some of my own rules I am not willing to let go of.

Up in Smoke

On January 1st, I awoke in our SF hotel to see the headline splattered across the front page of USA Today (oh please, it was a standard hotel-room paper delivery – like we’d ever pay money for that rag): French Smoking Ban in Effect (or something like that). Oh, that’s right! Nearly a week in California and we’d completely readjusted to cigarette-free restaurants, cafés, and bars without looking back. What a relief to know that upon our return to France, we could enjoy more of the same.

Who would have thought it could ever happen? Banning smoking in public places in France?!?! That’s like abolishing pasta in Italy or the siesta in Spain. Smoking is so ingrained in the lifestyle here that even people who don’t “truly” smoke have the more-than-just-occasional post-meal cigarette, hikers have been known to light up and puff away while trudging up steep inclines, and more traffic accidents have been caused by cyclists trying to light up mid-ride than by drunk drivers (OK, I made that last one up, but it’s probably not far from the truth). True, sitting in a Parisian bar for over an hour could cause even regular smokers to feel headachy and get teary-eyed because of the perpetual haze permeating the space. But per the French mentality, smoking in public wasn’t a privilege – it was a right! A right that has now been stripped away. Sure, it’s the wave of the future (or of a decade ago), but change is sometimes slow in France and protecting one’s rights is paramount.

And so, we have the inevitable fallout. In the aforementioned USA Today article, a 19-year-old French student was quoted as being staunchly against the law because it was “ridiculous! How can you drink a coffee without having a cigarette? That is unthinkable.” (That quote works even better if you say it aloud in an atrocious French accent.)

One of my more mature students is less extreme in her resistance to the law, but she is less than pleased. For her, smoking is a social activity and she doesn’t like to do it alone. She feels inconvenienced to have to invite friends up to her apartment to join her for a cigarette on her spacious balcony overlooking a 270-degree view of the city.

Some citizens are siding with the government - the traitors! We came home one day last week to find a sign posted in our tiny (approx. 3’x3’) elevator (see the "before" photo). The translation: please do not smoke in the elevator, thank you. Wow. We may not use the elevator every day, but in our four months living here we’ve never noticed it reeking of stale smoke. Anyway, someone wasn’t happy with this fascist propaganda, because the sign didn’t last a week. One night we went out for dinner and had to take a photo of what we thought was a preciously hilarious sign. We returned from dinner to discover the most heinous, politically-motivated act of vandalism I’ve seen on this side of the pond since I landed in London on the night the Germans beat the Brits in the World Cup semis (’96) and saw drunken buffoons carousing around the streets smashing BMW windows (yes, I was very afraid). Anyhow, see the "after" photo. Note to selves: anti-smoking ideology is obviously not popular in our building.

However, not everyone is clawing away at no-smoking signs. (Which, by the way, are tiny stickers posted in the corners of restaurants that blithely offer a phone number – which one must of course pay for per minute – to help smokers learn how to quit. Aw, how cute, all tucked away back there where prying eyes can’t find ‘em.) Even if they’re not slapping on the Patch just yet, there are Frenchmen and women who are more open to the benefits of the law. A pregnant acquaintance who is still puffing away daily told me she’s glad there’s no more smoking in public because it’s healthier for the baby. This, without a shred of irony.

Cultural Perspectives (This Might Take a While…)

Being an expat is like carefully examining a Russian nested doll. Each experience in the new culture enables you to remove yet another smaller layer before reaching the essential nugget nested deep within its core. After only being in Paris for a month, I clearly have not yet permeated its entire core. However, I have been immersed in it long enough to have picked up on one small nugget and some of the layers that comprise the national character.

One small nugget I have plumbed from the depths of this intricate, complicated nesting doll of a country is that it is quite illogical. Nate discovered an almost perfect manifestation of this irony in the neighborhood where he works. There’s a street called rue de Progrès (yup, it means what you think it means), which boasts a string of run-down, two-story buildings, laundry lines strung haphazardly between them, paint peeling, cracks running down their faces down to the street. And poking up in the background from another street where times haven’t been as tough is a proud, sleek, silver skyscraper. This image is but a taste of the rules of French life that I have thus far discerned.

And before you read any further, I must caution you that what follows contains a fair dose of facetiousness, but is not meant as a complaint against or denunciation of the French. It’s just that I’ve learned that patience, expecting the unexpected, and, most importantly, a steadfast sense of humor are crucial to one’s survival of what may seem at times to be utterly absurd.

Rule #1: Red Tape Gone Wild
You need documents to get anything done. Not one, not two, but loads of ‘em. And in order to get those documents, you need to get all of the myriad prerequisite documents. I’ve been in several situations in which I had all 99 documents I thought I needed, except there was always just that one that I didn’t have or didn’t know I needed to have, and there wound up being a crucial piece of paper standing between me and a job, a cell phone, a monthly transportation pass, etc.

Rule #2: Adventures in the Land of the Ill-Conceived
Paris has some of the most amazing architecture in the world. One building is more intricate and lovely than the next. Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard it before, but what you don’t know is that sometimes they ain’t so pretty on the inside, and I don’t mean aesthetically – they seem to miss the mark on the structural design. For example, our hotel room is equipped with an Ethernet port and a desk, which you would think would be placed right by the Ethernet port so you could happily plug in your computer and be on the Internet in a snap. You would think that. On the contrary, the port is located on the opposite side of the room from the desk, so we’ve had Ethernet cables strung precariously across the living room for weeks, risking our necks for a chance to communicate with the world outside France. (Yes, we do it all for you.) Another instance of this was at a hotel in Provence where you had to literally climb over a high ledge into the shower. And don’t even get me started on the double-door “security” system at our bank…

Rule #3: Is Consistency Part of Your Job?
We’ve dealt with quite a few services already – bank, ISP, hotel, government agencies, cell phone provider. And in dealing with every single one of these services, we’ve gotten different information from different people. Case 1: An employee for a cell phone company told us certain documents were needed to set up an account, while another employee of the same company gave us a different list of required documents. Case the second: The government agency I visited to get my carte de sejour asked why my passport wasn’t stamped. If you’re a government agency tasked with looking for passport stamps on a daily basis, wouldn’t you be aware of the government’s regular passport stamping practices? Case 3: Even though my name hasn’t officially been on our Paris bank account (more on that later), I was able to deposit cash last week but then couldn’t the other day. Indeed, you must never take anyone’s word for anything here. Just keep asking until you get the answer you want.

Rule #4: Modern Banking in France: Where Leisure Time Goes to Die. AKA, NATE’S GUEST BLOG NESTED WITHIN A BLOG.
For those of you who watch the show “Lost,” you should be familiar with the frustrating principle of “It is not what information each new episode divulges, but rather what new mysteries and questions it poses.” Similarly, French banking is not about getting any particular thing done, but rather having new obstacles arise on subsequent visits, because naturally, on any particular visit it’s either the wrong time, the wrong day, or the wrong person is there to assist you. Although the full details of our banking escapades are beyond the scope of this post, suffice to say, we’ve probably spent more time at our bank than any other location outside our home and work – and we’re just now almost done with our major tasks. Some frustrations have included: no deposits accepted on Saturdays; three different branches had to be contacted in order to authorize a wire transfer from our US bank to find the proper level of clearance; Jess couldn’t be added to our account for weeks because the documents had to be prepared and signed by the lady who created our account, and she was on vacation until today (and what if she had quit her job, what happens then?).
JESS BACK AGAIN…PLEASE ENCOURAGE NATE TO TEAR HIMSELF AWAY FROM WOW AND GUEST BLOG SOME MORE IN THE FUTURE.

There’s much more to the slow-as-molasses progress that drives this society (anyone who’s ever visited the country can attest to what feels like pervasive customer non-service). But the truth is, there are also several innovations here that put American systems to shame. French bandwidth plans are a dream. For 30 euros total per month, you get Internet (at 20 times the speed of what you get in America), French TV, and a VOIP phone that allows you to call the US and other international locations for free. In addition, the magnetic transportation passes can be scanned – not swiped - at turnstiles, so you don’t even have to take them out of your bag; plus the pass refilling machines are far easier to use than the NYC Metrocard machines, which have the faultiest touch-screen interface I’ve ever encountered.

Paris has also implemented two environmentally-friendly measures that I really respect. Many large markets do not simply give customers plastic bags, but instead charge a nominal price for them, incentivizing consumers to bring their own totes or mini-shopping carts. Moreover, in July the city installed a public bicycle rental service. The bikes, called Velibes, are located at racks throughout the city where you can pick one up or drop one off. The first 30 minutes are free, with the cost getting quite high by the hour. The bikes seem to be ready available and are wildly popular. I haven’t partaken yet, but I plan to make use of it for commuting and leisure purposes.

The process of maneuvering the hassles and complications of life here is more than outweighed by the pleasures and charms. As mind-boggling as these issues can be, I've also been able to maintain enough objectivity to find them rather amusing (even after going out of my way to deposit cash at two different bank branches and being turned down). It’s nice to have some likeminded people (N of course and expat friends) that can appreciate the differences but also poke some fun at them.