America, Ewe Could Do Better

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

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

Soixante-et-un, Le Maximum!

I knew there would be a transportation strike yesterday, but what I didn’t realize was that there would also be a huge demonstration protesting the proposed retirement age increase practically right outside my door. I’ve seen a few manifestations over the past few months, but none as big as this one. Tons and tons of civil servant unions from the greater Paris region gathered at Place de la Bastille and marched up the boulevard to Place de la Republique, right past my block, to decry working until the (hardly) “ripe, old” age of 61 – quite a laugh to an American who’s not only accustomed to the standard retirement age of 65, but also knows that even 65 is becoming more and more of a pipe dream what with the Social Security crisis and longer life expectancy. (Plus, isn't 60 the new 40?) Preconceptions aside, I went to check out the action. If attending Burning Man several times taught me anything, it was that being a spectator and not a participant is kind of lame. However, being an expat often makes you a spectator by nature, and sociological observation is a learning experience, after all.

Here are a few things I observed at the manif. Some were hardly surprising, but were a riot to see up close.

- Protests are a raucous affair (duh). San Francisco and New York can put on a mean protest, but this one, in terms of scale and effort, was formidable. Hoards of people of all ages were out for the event, from grade-school age to those who shuffled along with canes. Attendees of course had the standard flags, banners, pins, stickers, and leaflets that shouted out their respective causes, but whipped themselves up into a frenzy chanting at the top of their lungs to the point of becoming red in the face. (I think I can recite at least two of the popular chants now, being that I heard them ad nauseum: one slammed the increase of the retirement age from 60 to 61, while the other vocalized just how much Sarkozy’s disapproval rating has grown.) The unions not only had all the propaganda mentioned above, but also drove vans sporting soundtracks. Pinko parade footage blared from the Parti Communiste Française, the Rolling Stones’ “Emotional Rescue” (WTF?) blasted from the metallurgist union, and in a surprisingly pro twist, a dub-reggae remix of the maximum working years chant sounded from another van.

- Protests are a social affair. People crowded the rears of said vans in order to get down to the day’s real order of business: serious drinking. Yes, the vans sported bars in the back. If you’re going to spend your whole afternoon trudging up the boulevard and shouting your lungs out, you might as well do it with a beer or glass of wine in hand. Some protesters seemed to be taking this a bit too far. Plus, there were even some food vendors serving the crowd! It also seemed that the manif was a reunion of sorts. I saw lots of people spot each other across the crowd, prance over to each other, and perform the ritual double-kiss, proclaiming how long it had been and how good it was to see each other, etc. It all made me wonder, is this demonstration thing a social circuit? I mean, everyone and their mother and their mother’s mailman is out, they’re partying, and they’re running into each other in a manner rivaling a Phish show parking lot.
o “Man, manif tour is such a blur – did I see you last at that crazy waste management union thing, or was it the pharmacists'? Or maybe the teachers' strike – that was off the hook! All I know is, I passed out on the grass at Republique and woke up hours later plastered with Socialist Party flyers.”

- Protests are an ironic affair. People spent hours and hours revolting against reforms that would supposedly make them work harder, and created so much waste in the process – the street looked like an aftermath of a post-war victory parade. The best was when the city street cleaners’ union moved through the crowd. One of their entourage threw his beer can on the ground, crushed it underfoot, and kept on walking. In the end, someone would have to work hard at this anti-work affair - busting ass cleaning it all up.

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).

Surviving the Strike

Whenever I learn a new French expression, I try to incorporate it into my speech as much as possible to reinforce my knowledge. It was uncanny that I should learn the phrase “c’est la galere” (it’s a disaster) recently, because the past week gave me ample opportunities to use it in conversation.

The transportation strike has certainly put the city into a collective tizzy. Unlike the last strike, when services stopped entirely for one day, this strike has produced extremely limited transportation services and is set to last a week. Some Metro lines aren’t running at all, some are “quasi nulle,” some are “non assurée,” and some are running in intervals of 30-45 minutes. Only one line is running fairly regularly, at 10-minute intervals. The operational lines therefore not only require long waits, but also force passengers to pack themselves into hazardously crowded trains. Because of these conditions, the trains also stop for a longer time at each station in order to allow enough time for passengers to disembark and get on safely…Well, at least that’s the intention. The words muttered under my breath every time I had to take the Metro? “C’est la galere.”

Why are the transportation agencies striking (again), you might ask? The seed was planted when civil servants announced they would go on strike Tues the 20th. Their beef? Sarkozy’s initiative to increase the time a public employee must work in order to receive full pension benefits – from 37.5 to 40 years. [Granted, that’s a long time, but the same standard was implemented in the private sector not too long ago as well.] The transportation agencies span both public and private management, but in a gesture of solidarity (or in a ruse to simply work less – hey, it’s a national sport here) they decided to go on strike for a FULL WEEK leading up to the 20th. This decision inconveniences millions of people and impacts the economy. But the workers don’t really care, because the unions have enough money to pay all the strikers for at least a full week of missed pay. My contribution when discussing the politics with peers? “C’est la galere.”


So maybe I’m being insensitive, but I just can’t muster all that much sympathy. I’m admittedly particularly miffed because while the strikers are off enjoying a free week with pay, my livelihood has suffered the consequences. You see, I have to travel to various parts of Paris and its outlying ‘burbs throughout the work week and get paid by the hour to boot. Many of my students have cancelled, leaving gaping holes in my schedule (and my paycheck). Plus taking into consideration the two days I missed last week due to my unfortunate malady, I was a bit stressed about recouping teaching hours. While at the office, moaning and groaning over the impact to our business, my colleagues and I all heaved a heavy sigh and intoned, “C’est la galere.”

The work I did do this week was some of the best I’ve done – I had great groups of students, felt so on my game as a teacher, and taught some stimulating content. (In addition to my usual language instruction and business English curriculum, I got to teach a four-hour course on regional foods of America and another four hours of creative writing – SO FABULOUS and that’s a whole other blog post in the making.) But however fun-filled my working hours were, commuting was a journey to hell and back. C’est la galere.

I had two full days booked in the ‘burbs, one on the day before the strike and the consecutive day, when the strike was to commence. I’d have no trouble on Tuesday, but how would I handle Wednesday? My manager (of sorts) happens to live a 10-minute walk from the client, so she offered for me to crash at her place Tuesday night. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being displaced from home, but the pressures of needing work convinced me. My company was classy enough to allow me to expense a cab ride home to Paris Wednesday evening. While it was really the only way I could get home, the traffic was insane, especially once we got into the city and needed to cross the Seine. Amid small talk with the cabbie (entirely in French – I was proud), while sitting in a dense thicket of gridlock, I griped “C’est la galere.” “C’est la France,” he replied with a chortle and a shake of his head.

Thursday wasn’t so bad (relatively speaking). I walked 20 minutes from home to the 1 line (which has been running fairly regularly – the 10-min interval success story), rode it as close as I could to my client, and then walked 20 minutes to that office. What is usually a 15-minute door-to-door trip took an hour, but at least it was doable and the weather was cooperating.

Friday was a total nightmare. I had to get to Boulogne Billancourt, an area just outside the Péripherique of the city, to the southwest. On a normal day the trip would take about 40 minutes by Metro. The line I needed was running, albeit in 20-minute intervals. I gave myself 90 minutes, thinking it would be enough. Two hours later I disembarked from a claustrophobic ride, crammed into an awkward pretzel-like standing position. I was late, which I never feel good about, especially when meeting a new client for the first time. However, I won the students over when I finally sat down at the head of the conference room table, exhaled deeply, and said, “My name is Jessica, and this is only my second strike.” Well, just a little bit of dry humor had the room erupting in sympathetic laughter. Disaster somewhat mitigated.

The ride home that evening was even worse. The line was running in even longer intervals. I wound up waiting an hour just to get on a train because I couldn’t fit on the first one that passed. The train I rode was even more packed than the one I took in the morning and people were getting cranky, aggressive, crazed, and downright nasty. People were shoving and elbowing their way onto the train car before people could even disembark, which resulted in a lot of yelling from the people ensconced on the car. The doors often couldn’t close because so many people were in their path, which made the conductor occasionally join in the collective rage. Some of us were able to handle the situation more civilly than others…one section of my train car was on the verge of mass rioting for my entire ride and all I could think about was the headline: “American Expat Squished to Death by Apeshit Commuters.” C’est la galere, indeed.

Needless to say, the weekend has been more relaxing, but we’ve walked quite a bit! I have a forced holiday on Monday and possibly Tuesday, as classes have been canceled and I’m not even sure I can withstand a repeat of Friday’s commute. The strike is supposed to come to a close Tuesday night. I’m just praying that when the strike ends, it really ends…unlike last month, when transportation services were disrupted for days afterward. It is a huge disaster, but at least it’s no 1995. That was the year the transportation agencies went on strike for a whole month. A whole month! C’est la France.

La Grève Strikes Back

The official day of the transportation strike was sunny and carefree, and not much of an obstacle. The population expected the disruption of transportation services and could thus plan accordingly. However, the following day was overcast and dismal – in more ways than one. Services were expected to resume and so things would be back to normal…or so I, in true expat naïveté, thought.

I have a very full schedule that day: an 8-9:30 class in the 9th, followed by a 10-12 in the 15th, and finally a 1:30-4:30 back in the 9th. Metro services are therefore key, as I have to traverse almost the entire length of the city throughout the day. I first descend to the Metro at 7:40, expecting the normal 15-minute door-to-door commute to my early class. The LED arrival sign for the next two trains reads 17 minutes and 30 minutes. Uh oh. I text my student that I’d arrive a bit late; he kindly responds that I shouldn’t worry. It’s unusually cold in the Metro and I’m not dressed for 17 minutes of standing still, so I burrow deeper into my coat and pray the train will come faster. I’m already growing wary of the probable crowdedness of the train when the platform becomes increasingly populated. Lo and behold, the train pulls in, completely packed. I try to get inside, but there’s so little space the oxygen levels are probably running dangerously low. I decide to pass.

14 minutes later, the next train arrives, just as – if not more – crammed than the last. Again, I contemplate squeezing in, but the prospect of sardine-ifying myself to the point of breaking leaves a lot to be desired. I resign myself to not making my 8am class at all (after relating my fate to my student, he blithely texts back, “Welcome to France!”) and after another long wait (35 minutes this time), I figure I can comfortably (overstatement of the year!) get to my 10am class with time to spare. Train #3 arrives and I’m ready to crowd-surf my way in if I have to. I make it, my coat barely escaping getting stuck in the closing door. It’s so friggin’ packed, you can’t distinguish one body from another – the train car is a tangle of heads, limbs, scraps of clothing. A mood of grim resolve hangs over us. We’d just have to bear it for the length of our commutes. It sucks, but what can you do?

Luckily the windows in the train car are open to slightly relieve the stifling atmosphere. It also enables us to hear the reactions of the crowds waiting on each station’s platform. A chorus of groans, gasps, merde’s, and oh-la-la’s evoke some chuckles and knowing looks among those of us fortunate enough to be inside. Everyone is more than ready for a quick laugh – everyone except the one schmuck who has to get agro and start yelling at no one in particular to stop pushing him. Um, right buddy, they’re pushing. You.

Eventually I reach my stop. I’m shocked to notice that it’s 10:00 sharp. So much for an early arrival – it had taken me double the time to get to my destination than it should have. I figure my students have probably been experiencing the same transportation pains as me. Yes, indeed. Their office mates inform me that one has abandoned his commute altogether after being stuck in traffic for over an hour; the other is supposedly on his way. So I wait. And wait. And wait. Just after 11:00, I’m getting ready to leave, when he walks in, flustered, but willing to have his lesson.

An hour later, on my way to my school’s office site, I walk to the Metro hoping the train delays have eased up a bit. Surely, all it would take was a morning to get the massive urban underground rail network back up and running. Ha. I enter the Ecole Militaire station only to hear the station agent say, “Pas des trains.” (No trains.) “Pas des trains?” I reply weakly, unable to fathom that the situation had gone from terrible to incomprehensibly worse since the morning. A nearby youngish guy must think I don’t understand, because he says, “Madame, no trains – no trains!” I told him I understand…it’s just that I’m not too happy about the news. “Alors, c’est la grève,” he responds wryly. [His cynicism aside, most Parisians seem to accept the inconvenient, the inefficient, and the undeniably frustrating ramifications of the strike simply as an inevitability not worth whining about. In the States, people demand a supervisor at the drop of a hat. Here, the system is so large and cumbersome that people don’t even know how to ask for the supervisor.] With no other Metro lines close enough to take me to my destination (are they even working anyway?) I have no other choice but to share in the collective resignation and walk to my next teaching engagement.

It’s not such a bad walk. Sure, it takes me an hour, amid brisk winds and gray skies. Plus I have to literally eat on the go and wind up with crumbs all over me – as more couth Parisians no doubt note in passing, I ain’t a pretty sight. But I manage to catch some pretty city sites en route: the massive lawn and classic dome-topped façade of Hotel des Invalides, the romantically picturesque Pont Alexandre III replete with golden winged statues flanking the bridge spanning the Seine, two grand palaces on the Right Bank gracing the horizon. I take a less scenic bridge across the river, but it dumps me off at the hardly dumpy Place de la Concorde. I glance at he obelisque encrusted with hieroglyphs and cheery carousel overloaded with tourists and families. But I have no time to stop and really take it in – I’m danger of being late (again), and I’m paid by the hour, so on I trudge until I finally reach the office, with eight minutes to make copies and get a glass of water before jumping into my three-hour workshop on structuring discourse. Amazingly, half of the attendees actually show up, all on time.

Finally quittin’ time comes and I leave the office, spent and dreading the fiasco no doubt awaiting me in the Opéra Metro. And sure enough, the 8 line – the one that stops right around the corner from my home – is no longer running. Fabulous! I weigh my options: try the other metro stations nearby whose lines go even remotely close to home, or hit the streets for 50 minutes in less-than-desirable walking shoes. Cabs will be impossible to come by, and traffic is basically a parking lot all over the city anyway. It’s clear: I have to go on a trial-and-error Metro line recon mission.

I immediately strike gold with line 9. When I walk onto the platform, the LED arrival board reads 11 minutes. Not bad. I don’t even contemplate taking one of the available seats. I’m waiting on the edge of the platform and preparing myself to get on that train, whatever it takes. I am no longer above pushing and smushing. The day has steeled me against any physical discomfort. I can brave 15 oxygen-low minutes if it means I’d just get home already. It’s now a game of survival, and I’m going to be on the side of the fittest. Turns out I hardly need to try. When the train pulls in, the crowd behind me surges through the doors, nearly lifting me off the ground on its mad dash to get inside. Voila, I’m on board. Now all I have to do is ignore the fact that my head is jammed into someone’s armpit, my bum is pressed up against a man’s front (still shuddering in disgust over that one), and that although I have nothing to hold onto, the mass of bodies around me is literally fusing me into place.

It’s a tense 12 minutes until the stop before mine, when suddenly a third of my train car empties and I realize I can breathe again. Halle-friggin-lujah! The doors close and I’m buoyed by the knowledge that within moments I’ll be back above ground, where no striking public employees can any longer interfere with my day. Woo hoooo…huh? The train grinds to a halt and the lights go black. The announcement blares: it’s only a temporary problem, we’ll be on our way any moment now. Hopes dashed, the crowd groans and reverts to its former state of white-knuckled impatience. The train is all but silent, save for the synth-pop sounds of a young hipster’s iPod. What’s that song…I know that song…OMG. No way. “That’s all they really waaaaaaant, some fuuuuuuuuun…when the workin’ day is done oh girls they wanna have fu-uuun…” This is too much for me to take and I burst into delirious laughter. Now everyone on the train car is staring at me like I’m a raving lunatic. Come on, people, how can you not appreciate the absurdity of the situation, with the Cyndi Lauper cherry on top?

The train comes back to life and whisks me to Oberkampf, only a quick walk away from my place. I’m flooded with relief to get off the train so close to home, soaking up every gulp of fresh air. Exhausted, slightly traumatized, I slump into the apartment only to find N and his parents finishing up a day’s worth of home improvement projects and plans to cook dinner at home. Thank goodness for happy endings.

Baby's First Strike

I’ve long known about the French inclination to protest, and was duly warned about the likelihood of a transportation strike. Alors, it wasn’t a shock when the news came ‘round that today would be the day. Practically no Metro, commuter train, railway, and bus lines would operate from Wednesday to Thursday evenings. Who could get to work, you may wonder. Those who have cars could brave L.A.-style traffic, those who live close enough could walk or ride bikes/ motorcycles/ scooters (all ubiquitous modes of transport on a normal day), and those who are shrewd – or motivated – enough could wake up at the crack of dawn and stake a claim on a Velibe (bikes available for public rental). You'd think cabs would also be an option, but as my in-laws (currently visiting) discovered, if you didn’t book one by last Wednesday, you were S.O.L. Although most of my Thursday students weren’t bothering to come to work at all, two were planning to, and I’m paid by the hour, so this girl put on her walking shoes and hoofed it to her 9:30am class.

It was a beautiful day for a transportation strike – deep blue sky, barely any clouds, an autumnal crispness to the air. The streets were a bit calmer than usual, although not much. My walk took me through the Marais into the commercial district of the 2nd arrondisement. I didn’t take the most aesthetically stunning route…lots of chintzy clothing stores, fast food places…I now know where the Paris Hard Rock Café is (thank goodness, I didn’t think I could lose any more sleep over that mystery) and if I’m ever nostalgic for my past brushes with Long Island, I can go to Japorama (it’s really a sushi restaurant, but of course my frame of reference is New York Jewish American Princesses). But just when you think you’re in a less than desirable nook of Paris, you look down a side street and see a magnificent medieval or Renaissance church peeking out past its neighboring buildings. Amen.

After my over-in-a-blink workday, I was thrilled to have a free afternoon to run errands. First, the post office. Clearly no deliveries can be made by train today, so I knew the package I wanted to mail wouldn’t leave the post office until tomorrow. However, the postal worker wouldn’t even accept my package and let it remain in the p.o. until it could be delivered tomorrow. WTF? Since you can buy stamps and send letters elsewhere, why was the post office even open, then? Ah, France…

Then I was off to pick up some odds and ends we still need for the apartment (such as light coverings – apts don’t come with ‘em here and the bare bulb in our kitchen poking out of the wall (whoever thought that was a good place for a light fixture is one smart cookie) is killing me). I decided to finally go check out what the hype was all about at BHV, one of the city’s most legendary (and there are many, natch) department stores. Well, the legends are true. This isn’t just any run-of-the-mill department store. Sure, there are fashion items and cosmetics, but those takes a back seat to all things home. Almost every floor is organized thematically: hardware, bed and bath, kitchen, home décor, electronics, HOBBIES (I couldn’t get over this – an entire floor dedicated to crafts, arts, games, toys, sports, all kinds of goodness). I needed a hodgepodge of items, so I wound up on nearly every floor. I was in there for over an hour, so I probably walked about half a mile just inside the premises. Then it was more walking back through the Marais to home, sweet home. Although I spent about a half a day on my feet, it felt like a breeze. J’adore vadrouiller dans Paris…