It's a pretty rollicking time with the rattrapages (make up exams) at the surreal university where I work. All the other profs have left town and given the most implausible excuses imaginable for not actually proctoring and grading their own exams. 1 was supposedly detained in Canada and had all his money stolen (those viscious Canadians) and another was stuck in Kabul because Afganistan is SUCH the tourist destination.
Consequently, I have a ton of exams to grade and some of them (of course for classes I didn't teach) are really bizarre. One has loads of translation questions and no answer key, of course, so I'll have to look up about a million words and it seems like it's out of 5,000 points, so it looks like there will be annoyingly large calculations involved to convert everything to a 20 point scale.
One of the other exams I gave recently had a listening comprehension section on the weirdest news story ever-- it was about (get ready) magic mushrooms. Not that the students actually understood it, but maybe we shouldn't teach them vocabulary to describe hallucinogenic drugs, just une petite suggestion. Is that really an educational priority?
The tenuous news-worthiness of the piece was a Johns-Hopkins study that concluded maybe they could use the hallucinogenic drug found in certain mushrooms to improve the quality of life of the terminally ill. It started off by saying "maybe the hippies weren't just ON something, maybe they were ONTO something." Psychadelic fun with phrasal verbs, be still my heart! The professor who wrote this test was also under the impression that John (in the singular) Hopkins was a person and not an American research university as evidenced by the exam question Who is John Hopkins?
Obviously, I'm not a fan of the overly simplistic Just Say No To Drugs campaign (I lived in California, afterall), but this still didn't seem like the greatest material for a final exam... What, are we preparing first year foreign languages students for head trips or drug deals now? Should lead to a lucrative career, allright...
At least this should ease my worries that my lessons don't have enough educational value. Whenever I hear that critical little voice in my head which talks to me often, I will remind myself that at least I am not giving a final exam about psychadelic 'shrooms. The second part of the exam was a text about political spouses, as one would logically expect. I think someone was on mushrooms, alright, and it wasn't the 26 volunteers working for Mr. Hopkins.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The World Is Your Oyster
September 1 was my Paris Anniversary, although it somehow escaped my notice until today. All ex-pats celebrate their anniversary of moving to Paris. For one friend we drank champagne on her balcony and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle. I don't remember what I did last year-- I think when Cory and Kim and I rode the ferris wheel at Tuilleries and had hot chocolate at Angelina's that was around the 1-year mark, and that was such an all-around lovely day, it'll count as the anniversaire.
I haven't really celebrated my 2-year anniversary with anything more than an afterthought and a glass of wine that I was already drinking anyway because of ambivalence about this year of Parisian life-- mainly because it hasn't really started yet. I'll be a full-time student (of something entirely useless career-wise but interesting to me: French cinema and literature) and part-time English professor and when added up, that's a lot of time. This month is the calm before the storm (except in Lousiana), and although I need the time to sort out what I'm doing in my classes, I'm also impatient for the wind and rains to start.
What I did on my anniversary, without realizing it was the anniversary: I saw a Belgian film, hung out with Franco-Peruvian friends and walked home from Hotel de Ville and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Yesterday, however, I cried on a friend's French shoulder and felt like I had no goal in life, and had nothing to show for 2 years in Paris-- except for mastery of the art of social anxiety and disappointment. I realize that I tend to make my circle of friends overimportant, because that's all I have (I certainly don't have job satisfaction or feel like I belong in France). I tend to overanalyze all social situations-- did everyone have fun, was my French good enough, was there some hidden agenda, which has been an issue lately. However, my friends are only human and all have their own quirks, issues and problems.
Parisian mécontent is palpable as everyone just got back to town after their rapturous weeks of vacation in the south of France or wherever they go and they now have to readjust to life in the metropole and all its imperfections. As this feeling of disappointment is French, even more specifically Parisian, it is complex in all its contradictions-- like we hate all people, especially in the metro, yet wish we had friends yet never talk to strangers or do anything to reach out to others. I have to admit that the misanthropic aspect of Parisian culture is seductive and appealing in its own way-- all ex-pats kind of secretly love to hate Paris and its inhabitants.
But it also raises the larger question, how much should you rely on others? The Canadian pianist Glenn Gould once said that for every hour you spend in the company of others, you need X number of hours of solitude and that ratio is different for everyone. I've resolved to adjust my coefficients of X a little and devote more energy to interesting and self-sustaining creative projects and less energy to socializing. It's time to try to make myself happy, instead of hoping that other people will do it.
A friend of mine once said that Parisians were like oysters-- totally closed off in their own little shells surrounded by other isolated oysters, all alone together, even in crowded cafes... Maybe there are pearls inside, maybe not. Maybe I'll discover these pearls, maybe not.
I haven't really celebrated my 2-year anniversary with anything more than an afterthought and a glass of wine that I was already drinking anyway because of ambivalence about this year of Parisian life-- mainly because it hasn't really started yet. I'll be a full-time student (of something entirely useless career-wise but interesting to me: French cinema and literature) and part-time English professor and when added up, that's a lot of time. This month is the calm before the storm (except in Lousiana), and although I need the time to sort out what I'm doing in my classes, I'm also impatient for the wind and rains to start.
What I did on my anniversary, without realizing it was the anniversary: I saw a Belgian film, hung out with Franco-Peruvian friends and walked home from Hotel de Ville and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Yesterday, however, I cried on a friend's French shoulder and felt like I had no goal in life, and had nothing to show for 2 years in Paris-- except for mastery of the art of social anxiety and disappointment. I realize that I tend to make my circle of friends overimportant, because that's all I have (I certainly don't have job satisfaction or feel like I belong in France). I tend to overanalyze all social situations-- did everyone have fun, was my French good enough, was there some hidden agenda, which has been an issue lately. However, my friends are only human and all have their own quirks, issues and problems.
Parisian mécontent is palpable as everyone just got back to town after their rapturous weeks of vacation in the south of France or wherever they go and they now have to readjust to life in the metropole and all its imperfections. As this feeling of disappointment is French, even more specifically Parisian, it is complex in all its contradictions-- like we hate all people, especially in the metro, yet wish we had friends yet never talk to strangers or do anything to reach out to others. I have to admit that the misanthropic aspect of Parisian culture is seductive and appealing in its own way-- all ex-pats kind of secretly love to hate Paris and its inhabitants.
But it also raises the larger question, how much should you rely on others? The Canadian pianist Glenn Gould once said that for every hour you spend in the company of others, you need X number of hours of solitude and that ratio is different for everyone. I've resolved to adjust my coefficients of X a little and devote more energy to interesting and self-sustaining creative projects and less energy to socializing. It's time to try to make myself happy, instead of hoping that other people will do it.
A friend of mine once said that Parisians were like oysters-- totally closed off in their own little shells surrounded by other isolated oysters, all alone together, even in crowded cafes... Maybe there are pearls inside, maybe not. Maybe I'll discover these pearls, maybe not.
Sarcasm is the Golden Rule
In American English, the Golden Rule that parents tell their children is “do unto others as you would have done unto you.” This biblical refrain is often mentioned in a shortened version (“do unto others…”) and everyone knows this little short cut and how the adage actually ends. Despite the lack of widespread usage of the archaic word unto, we all know that it means treat other people how you yourself would like to be treated. At the movie theater Silence is Golden. Other than that, I can’t really think of any other sayings that involve the word golden, and are mantras to live by that are oft repeated to children. Obviously, the US as a nation doesn’t really practice Do Unto Others, especially not where foreign policy is concerned. I doubt we’d want the Iraqi military to invade us, steal our oil and kill civilians, but these are still sayings that children learn about how to behave and there’s always an element of idealism and social hypocrisy involved in educating the young and naïve, as we don’t really want to reveal too much about the way things actually work.
I’m not sure what the Golden Rule is in France, as I have never been a French child lied to by French adults, but here’s a theory: sarcasm.
Consider this. I had a screenplay-writing former French professor and I foolishly lent him the film Supersize Me because it’s a fun documentary and French people are fascinated with how fat Americans are and think we’re just an entire nation of walrus-sized lard tub people. Obviously, some of us do cook vegetables, can’t remember the last time we were at a McDonald’s and don’t weigh 400 lbs and actually exercise and wear between a size 36 and 38 (this is between a 6 and 8 in the American system) which seems just fine to most people, except that in Paris this IS walrus lard tub huge, since all Parisian women weigh about 4 kilos and never eat but only smoke and use weirdo slim-fast like regimes they buy at pharmacies called cures minceurs. I don’t even know anyone who eats at McDo even once a week in the US, but then again, I also don’t know anyone who voted for Bush and he’s a 2-term president.
Anyway, my ex professor had Supersize Me for quite awhile, and each time I emailed him normal sounding inoffensive emails asking for the film back, he always either ignored me completely or ignored the general request and responded to some minor often vaguely flirtatious point instead. Apparently, writing something like “hey, I need my film back, can you drop it off? Thanks” might sound ambiguous to the French, or maybe it isn’t quite clear what I want, because I am being nice and uninsulting. At any rate, it didn’t seem obvious and important enough to Guillaume to rearrange his entire life enough to walk 3 arduous blocks down the street and slip my film in my letter box.
What we had here was the famous Cool Hand Luke failure to communicate.
Finally, I’d had enough of disrespectful Frenchman attitude—would he treat a French woman like this? Who thinks it’s ok to abuse someone’s good will generosity that much—AND blow them off when they attempt to reclaim their own property? Would he be this rude to a man?
Probably, in fact. Something almost comforting about Paris, in a dark and bitterly ironic way (dark and bitter irony is probably extremely comforting to French people), is that it seems like a city of equal opportunity poverty, rudeness and general hatred. I sent old film-hoarding Guillaume a final email and decided that if this last attempt at written communication didn’t work, I would consider having Xavier the Gendarme scare him a little with some kind of French law enforcement threat—or send him a bill for the cost of the film—plus interest since he was perhaps leasing with the option to buy for the past 5 months. So in my last-ditch attempt, I sent the following email:
Hi, I’m back from vacation, are you as well? I need my film. Are you writing a doctoral dissertation on it or what? You’ve had it for 6 months. Thanks in advance.
Or:
Bonjour, je suis de retour à Paris, vous y êtes aussi? Il me faut mon film. Vous préparez une thèse là-dessus ou quoi ? Ca fait 6 mois. Merci par avance.
And it was like we were communicating for the first time. If you are sarcastic in French, the French embrace you as one of their own. The terms “French” and “sarcastic” are almost redundant, as the 2 languages are one and the same.
My email got this response:
Excellent!!! I don’t know if this is a compliment or not, but that’s a perfectly French attitude! Remind me what your address is and I’ll drop it off right away, I’m so sorry.
Or:
Excellent! Je ne sais pas si je vous fais un compliment, mais voilà un esprit parfaitement français! Rappelez moi votre adresse et je déposerai votre film toute de suite. Mille excuses.
Shocked at the efficacy of sarcasm in French, I forwarded his response to 2 of my American friends. However, ever a realist, I thought that although this was way more progress than I’d ever had previously in trying to recover my long-lost film, I shouldn’t get too excited until I actually had it in my possession. Maybe despite his prompt response, he would still never actually return it. I gave him my address again and lo and behold:
The concierge knocked on my door with the film the very next morning.
Although perhaps it’s not the best idea to start business emails by resorting to it, it seems that when you’re being ignored, sarcasm gets results.
In fact, even agreeing with someone (which inherently seems like a positive and non-sarcastic idea) can involve sarcasm. If someone says something you find obvious and agree with wholeheartedly, then you say, “you surprise me” (“tu m’étonnes”). Obviously, what they say comes as no surprise to you at all, and that’s why you say it does.
Life in France is just full of little sarcasm surprises.
I’m not sure what the Golden Rule is in France, as I have never been a French child lied to by French adults, but here’s a theory: sarcasm.
Consider this. I had a screenplay-writing former French professor and I foolishly lent him the film Supersize Me because it’s a fun documentary and French people are fascinated with how fat Americans are and think we’re just an entire nation of walrus-sized lard tub people. Obviously, some of us do cook vegetables, can’t remember the last time we were at a McDonald’s and don’t weigh 400 lbs and actually exercise and wear between a size 36 and 38 (this is between a 6 and 8 in the American system) which seems just fine to most people, except that in Paris this IS walrus lard tub huge, since all Parisian women weigh about 4 kilos and never eat but only smoke and use weirdo slim-fast like regimes they buy at pharmacies called cures minceurs. I don’t even know anyone who eats at McDo even once a week in the US, but then again, I also don’t know anyone who voted for Bush and he’s a 2-term president.
Anyway, my ex professor had Supersize Me for quite awhile, and each time I emailed him normal sounding inoffensive emails asking for the film back, he always either ignored me completely or ignored the general request and responded to some minor often vaguely flirtatious point instead. Apparently, writing something like “hey, I need my film back, can you drop it off? Thanks” might sound ambiguous to the French, or maybe it isn’t quite clear what I want, because I am being nice and uninsulting. At any rate, it didn’t seem obvious and important enough to Guillaume to rearrange his entire life enough to walk 3 arduous blocks down the street and slip my film in my letter box.
What we had here was the famous Cool Hand Luke failure to communicate.
Finally, I’d had enough of disrespectful Frenchman attitude—would he treat a French woman like this? Who thinks it’s ok to abuse someone’s good will generosity that much—AND blow them off when they attempt to reclaim their own property? Would he be this rude to a man?
Probably, in fact. Something almost comforting about Paris, in a dark and bitterly ironic way (dark and bitter irony is probably extremely comforting to French people), is that it seems like a city of equal opportunity poverty, rudeness and general hatred. I sent old film-hoarding Guillaume a final email and decided that if this last attempt at written communication didn’t work, I would consider having Xavier the Gendarme scare him a little with some kind of French law enforcement threat—or send him a bill for the cost of the film—plus interest since he was perhaps leasing with the option to buy for the past 5 months. So in my last-ditch attempt, I sent the following email:
Hi, I’m back from vacation, are you as well? I need my film. Are you writing a doctoral dissertation on it or what? You’ve had it for 6 months. Thanks in advance.
Or:
Bonjour, je suis de retour à Paris, vous y êtes aussi? Il me faut mon film. Vous préparez une thèse là-dessus ou quoi ? Ca fait 6 mois. Merci par avance.
And it was like we were communicating for the first time. If you are sarcastic in French, the French embrace you as one of their own. The terms “French” and “sarcastic” are almost redundant, as the 2 languages are one and the same.
My email got this response:
Excellent!!! I don’t know if this is a compliment or not, but that’s a perfectly French attitude! Remind me what your address is and I’ll drop it off right away, I’m so sorry.
Or:
Excellent! Je ne sais pas si je vous fais un compliment, mais voilà un esprit parfaitement français! Rappelez moi votre adresse et je déposerai votre film toute de suite. Mille excuses.
Shocked at the efficacy of sarcasm in French, I forwarded his response to 2 of my American friends. However, ever a realist, I thought that although this was way more progress than I’d ever had previously in trying to recover my long-lost film, I shouldn’t get too excited until I actually had it in my possession. Maybe despite his prompt response, he would still never actually return it. I gave him my address again and lo and behold:
The concierge knocked on my door with the film the very next morning.
Although perhaps it’s not the best idea to start business emails by resorting to it, it seems that when you’re being ignored, sarcasm gets results.
In fact, even agreeing with someone (which inherently seems like a positive and non-sarcastic idea) can involve sarcasm. If someone says something you find obvious and agree with wholeheartedly, then you say, “you surprise me” (“tu m’étonnes”). Obviously, what they say comes as no surprise to you at all, and that’s why you say it does.
Life in France is just full of little sarcasm surprises.
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