Wondering how the anglophones like teaching at public French universities? Here's an email I got recently from an ESL jobs in France listserve which gives quite the insight by sending a welcome note to newly recruited anglophones complete with a suicide hotline number. While I generally acknowledge that teaching at a public French University was for me hands down the least satisfying job of my entire life, I also think that the universities themselves should try to improve the experience of their anglophone colleagues-- rather than refering us to a call center! A well-placed orientation session at the beginning of the year to help us set our expectations properly would do wonders, as would having even mildly welcoming French co-workers and some semblance of team work... I've heard tell of such things at other universities in France, but they did not happen to exist in mine.
An ex-coworker of mine wanted to implement a mentor system for foreign professors in their first year of teaching at a French uni and I always thought this would be an excellent idea. But of course, the French did not. Being a university prof in this country often does not include collaborating with colleagues who teach different sections of the same class. It's largely everyone for themselves. They seem to see their jobs more as improvising brillant lectures, insulting their students and then going home or to the bourgeois country home for a 4-day weekend.
In all fairness, it's not only the attitudes of my coworkers that contributed to my previous French university misery. The French academic system is in some ways the inverse of the American one. The pros are that it's very democratic; everyone has a chance to study at the uni since it's virtually free and everyone who passes the Bac gets a place. Yay for socialism!
The cons are that there's no selection process in advance, so essentially the whole first year replaces the application process and wastes everyone's time enormously. Professors told me that our job was to weed out the bad students and that 65% of the students would and should fail out after their first year. A system that relies on a majority failing would be deemed broken in the US, in France it's the norm and generally what professors of first year students must uphold. The students themselves lack motivation-- sadly, paying a $25,000 tuition does way more for your motivation levels than paying 200 euros. I only skipped 1 undergrad class in my life because I calculated exactly how much I paid (despite grants and scholarships) per credit hour.
I could go on about how teaching 1st year students at a public university en banlieue was the biggest culture shock since I arrived in France, but you're starting to get the picture. All you need to know is that it's more like an extension of high school in terms of maturity levels and quality of teaching-- each professor does whatever they want, is often incredibly condescending to their students and colleagues alike and creates their own highly inconsistant syllabus-- all this under more or less direct orders to fail the majority of our students.
So bearing all this in mind, here is one professor's attempt to support foreign colleagues and introduce them to this alien system. I guess you have to give him points for trying and for recognizing that sometimes foreigners are unhappy in this system. But how best to prepare his foreign colleagues for the French academic system? Not by explaining it, working with them more closely or making any useful changes at home, at the uni itself, but by telling them en masse who to call if they're feeling like ending it all. The suicide hotline speaks English, after all, how comforting! Good work, French universities! And I thought you just didn't care. At least you outsource.
If you read French, you will see that this seems like an anti-marketing campaign for working in a public French university. The new recruits must be either highly entertained or horrified... Anyway, here's a warm welcome for anglophone professors to the world of French academia:
Chers collègues, Je me permets de diffuser à nouveau des informations que j'avais déjà communiquées il y a 4 ans, à l'intention notamment des collègues recrutés récemment. L'association SOS Help, branche anglophone de SOS Amitié, existe depuis 1974. Elle est gérée par des bénévoles sous le haut patronage de Lady Westmacott, épouse de l'ambassadeur de Grande-Bretagne à Paris. Comme SOS Amitié, il s'agit d'un service téléphonique à l'intention de gens qui se sentent seuls, déprimés, ou même suicidaires. Les écoutants, qui ont tous suivi une formation, sont originaires de différents pays anglophones. Je pense qu'il pourrait être utile de signaler l'existence de ce service aux lecteurs, maîtres de langue et étudiants anglophones qui exercent ou étudient dans nos établissements.
J'ai moi-même été responsable du recrutement et de l'encadrement des lecteurs et maîtres de langue anglophones à Paris 3 pendant de nombreuses années et je sais qu'il arrive que certains de ces jeunes collègues passent par des moments de découragement, voire de dépression - parfois pour des motifs en apparence insignifiants. Certains peuvent même être amenés à abandonner leur poste ou leurs études en cours d'année. Le fait de pouvoir appeler un service d'écoute anonyme, en langue anglaise, situé en France, peut les aider à surmonter un moment difficile. Le numéro d'appel est le : 01 46 21 46 46 et la ligne est ouverte tous les jours de 15h à 23h. Vous trouverez des informations concernant l'association sur le site: <http://www.soshelpline.org/>www.soshelpline.org>
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Falling Towers
Sitting out in the sunshine today in a near suburb of Paris before my afternoon class reminded me with a start of September 11th 8 years ago on a different continent. What struck so many people that day, including me, was that after seeing horrific unreal action film-like footage over and over on TV and learning of sudden tragedy upon arriving sleepily at work, the weather was beautiful. It just didn't match and seemed not just inappropriate, but like a deep yet surreal form of betrayal. When my office was evacuated and I walked home since the metro wasn't running, I remember that the sun was out and the sky, the same sky that the twin towers once scraped and that the planes exploded in, was blue and cloudless. A recent trip to Germany where I visited the Dachau concentration camp under sunshine and blue skies inspired a similar feeling of meteorologic betrayal.
I lived in Washington, DC September 11, 2001, and I remember the following:
Before evacuating the building where I worked, we all watched the news mutely, breathlessly, watching the crash, the people jumping-- the same scenes over and over that seemed like they'd come out of Hollywood's best action thrillers. An NPR story that I heard later and have since never been able to find mentioned a crowd watching the collapse of the 2nd tower and described people instinctively outstretching their hands as if to try to hold up the tower and prevent it from falling. It was literally a beautiful gesture.
We were in a communication vacuum-- all the TV news simply showed the same images, they didn't even know how to interpret or analyze them. I tried to phone my family after the Pentagon was hit to reassure them I was fine, but all circuits were busy and no one could get through. I tried to organize office carpools so that my suburban coworkers could get home despite the closure of the metro and then we were told that for our own safety, the building would be evacuated and that we should call in the next day to see if it would be open.
The papers the next day had full page photos of what looked like the apocalypse.
If the defining question for my parents' generation was 'where were you when Kennedy was assasinated,' it become 'where were you on September 11th'? For the rest of the year, at parties everyone took turns relating the events of their September 11th.
The cultural memory of this event was obscured and tainted, I think, after the way the Bush Administration invoked and exploited it as justification for undemocratic measures like the Patriot Act and a ludicrous premise for another war in Iraq. For this reason, it's hard to find any sort of memorial events for the victims on this day outside of NYC. 2 years ago, I looked in vain for candlelight vigils in Paris on September 11th. Not only to remember those who died in the towers and their bereft friends and families, but also rescue workers, firemen, and policemen who risked their lives, and might today still suffer from stress, trauma or debilitating health problems from exposure to the dust and toxins on the day when TriBeCa also became known by the name Ground Zero.
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
-T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland
I lived in Washington, DC September 11, 2001, and I remember the following:
Before evacuating the building where I worked, we all watched the news mutely, breathlessly, watching the crash, the people jumping-- the same scenes over and over that seemed like they'd come out of Hollywood's best action thrillers. An NPR story that I heard later and have since never been able to find mentioned a crowd watching the collapse of the 2nd tower and described people instinctively outstretching their hands as if to try to hold up the tower and prevent it from falling. It was literally a beautiful gesture.
We were in a communication vacuum-- all the TV news simply showed the same images, they didn't even know how to interpret or analyze them. I tried to phone my family after the Pentagon was hit to reassure them I was fine, but all circuits were busy and no one could get through. I tried to organize office carpools so that my suburban coworkers could get home despite the closure of the metro and then we were told that for our own safety, the building would be evacuated and that we should call in the next day to see if it would be open.
The papers the next day had full page photos of what looked like the apocalypse.
If the defining question for my parents' generation was 'where were you when Kennedy was assasinated,' it become 'where were you on September 11th'? For the rest of the year, at parties everyone took turns relating the events of their September 11th.
The cultural memory of this event was obscured and tainted, I think, after the way the Bush Administration invoked and exploited it as justification for undemocratic measures like the Patriot Act and a ludicrous premise for another war in Iraq. For this reason, it's hard to find any sort of memorial events for the victims on this day outside of NYC. 2 years ago, I looked in vain for candlelight vigils in Paris on September 11th. Not only to remember those who died in the towers and their bereft friends and families, but also rescue workers, firemen, and policemen who risked their lives, and might today still suffer from stress, trauma or debilitating health problems from exposure to the dust and toxins on the day when TriBeCa also became known by the name Ground Zero.
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
-T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Anniversaires
In French 'birthday' and 'anniversary' are the same word. My birthday was yesterday and the anniversary of my arrival in France is Sept. 1, so I'm suspended between anniversaires at the moment. Which is so far a pleasant sensation-- although that could just be the effect of being on a sunny terrace by the canal.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Small Things That Make Me Marvel
-The couple next to me at a restuarant tonight gave my friend and me their full pitcher of water when we'd finished ours. "We wouldn't let you die of thirst, after all," they told us. In a city where strangers are rarely allowed to speak to each other, this was a miraculous gesture. I think the rules are suspended in August-- so few Parisians stay in town this month, those of us who do try to bond a little rather than hate each other and look grumpy, like we do the rest of the year.
-The waiter of the same restaurant ran down the street after me to give me their business card. I'd asked for one but they said they didn't have any more, but could print out the address for me. I said I hadn't wanted to bother them since they didn't have any more, the waiter assured me it was no problem and hoped it was ok that he'd only brought one for me.
-The UCG cinema at Les Halles (a crowded underground mall that is perhaps my very definiton of Hell) when it's TOTALLY EMPTY in August. It was actually pleasant. They always post how many seats are left for each film; there were something like 198 left for the Kristin Scott Thomas film I saw today. (KST fabulous as usual, film fairly disappointing, though).
-Unexpected professional opportunities, like translating a video game. They guy who hired me and I tutoie each other, even though we met for the first time yesterday. Although I'm sure it'll be a lot of hard work, this makes it seem friendly and laidback. Most anything involving digital media reminds me of the Bay Area, and makes me therefore feel irrationally comfortable with a field that I, in fact, know practically nothing about.
-Learning about my language teacher coworkers' hidden talents. Heard that one used to be a professional croupier in a Las Vegas casino and another one's a martial arts expert.
-New friends (who are practically housemates and who I've meant to spend time with for ages and am only getting around to it now. But better late than never.)
-Free outdoor films under the stars-- followed by nutella crepes and ice cream by the Eiffel Tower.
-Sunshine until 10 pm.
-The waiter of the same restaurant ran down the street after me to give me their business card. I'd asked for one but they said they didn't have any more, but could print out the address for me. I said I hadn't wanted to bother them since they didn't have any more, the waiter assured me it was no problem and hoped it was ok that he'd only brought one for me.
-The UCG cinema at Les Halles (a crowded underground mall that is perhaps my very definiton of Hell) when it's TOTALLY EMPTY in August. It was actually pleasant. They always post how many seats are left for each film; there were something like 198 left for the Kristin Scott Thomas film I saw today. (KST fabulous as usual, film fairly disappointing, though).
-Unexpected professional opportunities, like translating a video game. They guy who hired me and I tutoie each other, even though we met for the first time yesterday. Although I'm sure it'll be a lot of hard work, this makes it seem friendly and laidback. Most anything involving digital media reminds me of the Bay Area, and makes me therefore feel irrationally comfortable with a field that I, in fact, know practically nothing about.
-Learning about my language teacher coworkers' hidden talents. Heard that one used to be a professional croupier in a Las Vegas casino and another one's a martial arts expert.
-New friends (who are practically housemates and who I've meant to spend time with for ages and am only getting around to it now. But better late than never.)
-Free outdoor films under the stars-- followed by nutella crepes and ice cream by the Eiffel Tower.
-Sunshine until 10 pm.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Burning Bridges-- But in a Good Way
Burning your bridges is usually a bad thing, but it's important to end relationships (personal or professional) when you need to. I've been burning some bridges lately and it's been very positive. Burning might be a bit too dramatic a term for it-- maybe more like warming on low heat under careful supervision and after a considered decision.
The first bridge I undid was professional. I'd tentatively accepted a part-time job on the side for next year that, upon closer reflection, I realised I had no desire at all to do. Rather than spending time and energy on commuting (the weekly commute would have been as long as my single class there), preparation, grading, stress, etc., I realize that my energy resources are limited and I'd really prefer to put them towards my current job and ultimately towards trying to find a non-teaching job in Paris. There MUST be other things bilingual folks can do here. This year, I'm determined to identify some, such as translation or editing, and ultimately change fields.
The second bridge I demolished (yes, this one gets a more dramatic verb) was personal. I ended a possible relationship that was more or less over but threatened to start up again. In French, ending all contact is called "couper les ponts" (cutting, not burning bridges). My bridge-cutting was met with understanding, if also some defensive complaining, but ultimately, the once troubled water under the pont coupé ran smoothly, quietly and undisturbed again. On both sides of the river, I think.
I live along a canal surrounded by bridges. I myself am often a bridge between cultures. The last French guy I met, for example, asked me about all kinds of American stereotypes. There's obviously a lot to be said for building relationships-- we more or less devote our lives to trying to create meaningful connections with others, but along with this noble endeavor is also the necessity of cutting and burning your bridges when you realise that you don't want to go that direction anymore.
The first bridge I undid was professional. I'd tentatively accepted a part-time job on the side for next year that, upon closer reflection, I realised I had no desire at all to do. Rather than spending time and energy on commuting (the weekly commute would have been as long as my single class there), preparation, grading, stress, etc., I realize that my energy resources are limited and I'd really prefer to put them towards my current job and ultimately towards trying to find a non-teaching job in Paris. There MUST be other things bilingual folks can do here. This year, I'm determined to identify some, such as translation or editing, and ultimately change fields.
The second bridge I demolished (yes, this one gets a more dramatic verb) was personal. I ended a possible relationship that was more or less over but threatened to start up again. In French, ending all contact is called "couper les ponts" (cutting, not burning bridges). My bridge-cutting was met with understanding, if also some defensive complaining, but ultimately, the once troubled water under the pont coupé ran smoothly, quietly and undisturbed again. On both sides of the river, I think.
I live along a canal surrounded by bridges. I myself am often a bridge between cultures. The last French guy I met, for example, asked me about all kinds of American stereotypes. There's obviously a lot to be said for building relationships-- we more or less devote our lives to trying to create meaningful connections with others, but along with this noble endeavor is also the necessity of cutting and burning your bridges when you realise that you don't want to go that direction anymore.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Ce que j'ai fait pendant les vacances d'ete aux States
What I did on my summer vacation in the US:
-Went to a cat show. As an ex-animal welfare employee, I know cat people are crazy, but cat show breeders are a whole different brand of cult-like insanity. This one enormous sassy grandmother-type judge wore golden tennis shoes and kept taking about a show cat named Bonnie, the Happy Household Pet champion, who wasn't even there competing that day. Think Christopher Guest film Best in Show but with cats and perhaps bolder fashion decisions.
-Big family wedding. This is kind of the haiku description: radiant couple, weather held (ceremony outdoors). Everyone relieved afterwards.
-35th and 65th wedding anniversary lunch, 100 years of marriage celebrated simultaneously (in a cringingly American all-you-can-eat buffet in a Baltimore suburb). Will never really be a fan of all you can eat anything, but let me tell you, the bill was so cheap that I thought the restaurant had made a mistake and forgotten to charge us for 2 people. At least.
-Road-tripped (oh, so American) to North Carolina. Which is a vast wilderness state where man is losing the battle with nature, as evidenced by 7,000 new mosquito bites each time you go outdoors and neighbors complaining about roving deer who come and eat their gardens. One of my cousins once called her sister's backyard (and by extension, the entire the Raleigh-Durham surrounding area) the Ewok Forest. Saw Frannie's new house in said Forest, which will be beautiful when she fixes it up. It's definitely a long-term project (it needs floors, for example), but I know she'll do a great job.
-Saw fireworks on the 4th. The live band played Oh, What a Night-- in English. Thought there was a mistake at first, as although I generally find that song insipid in any language, am now more accustomed to hearing it as Ces Soirees-La. The French incarnation of the BeeGees will make its American debut at a friend's Kentucky wedding this Friday in tribute to all the absent Frenchies or Anglophones those who reside there (Merci, Tiffi!)
-Ran a 5K. For the first time in about 4 years. Got back into running because there's a great paved trail near my parents' house. Determined to maintain the habit in Paris, which is a challenge because the only socially acceptable jogging areas are parks where you have a narrow jogging window, so have to plan ahead to run at that perfect moment in the day when they are neither too crowded nor too secluded.
-Went to Boston. Met up with my best friend from CA there, which was lovely. And saw my cousin, Sara, who is like a sister to me. Both are very happy and this was inspirational, considering that long periods of existential misery is more the norm in Paris... Parisians perhaps just don't show happiness in the same way, though, and I am being unfair. Maybe they express it through excessive complaining, smoking or heavy sighing.
-Went to Sara's graduation from massage school. If you're not sure what kind of ceremony to expect for this, neither were we. Lots of inspirational quotes, ranging from Gandhi to Dr. Seuss, both in speeches and in power point presentations, but got a good sense of the program-- and how close the students became to one another. They really are embarking on new careers, and that was exciting to see.
-Made many resolutions and identified some new goals. This is a little Oprah, so I'll spare you my various projects. After all, one can only devote so many hours a day to attempting self-improvement.
-Plans for next summer: meet the family in Montreal (truly fascinated by the bilingual city on the North American continent; naively imagine it'll be like France, but with customer service) and then drive down to Delaware ensemble. Definitely feeling in need of more travel (by rail, though; avoiding airports until Montreal next year), so indulging in an upcoming trip to Munich.
-Went to a cat show. As an ex-animal welfare employee, I know cat people are crazy, but cat show breeders are a whole different brand of cult-like insanity. This one enormous sassy grandmother-type judge wore golden tennis shoes and kept taking about a show cat named Bonnie, the Happy Household Pet champion, who wasn't even there competing that day. Think Christopher Guest film Best in Show but with cats and perhaps bolder fashion decisions.
-Big family wedding. This is kind of the haiku description: radiant couple, weather held (ceremony outdoors). Everyone relieved afterwards.
-35th and 65th wedding anniversary lunch, 100 years of marriage celebrated simultaneously (in a cringingly American all-you-can-eat buffet in a Baltimore suburb). Will never really be a fan of all you can eat anything, but let me tell you, the bill was so cheap that I thought the restaurant had made a mistake and forgotten to charge us for 2 people. At least.
-Road-tripped (oh, so American) to North Carolina. Which is a vast wilderness state where man is losing the battle with nature, as evidenced by 7,000 new mosquito bites each time you go outdoors and neighbors complaining about roving deer who come and eat their gardens. One of my cousins once called her sister's backyard (and by extension, the entire the Raleigh-Durham surrounding area) the Ewok Forest. Saw Frannie's new house in said Forest, which will be beautiful when she fixes it up. It's definitely a long-term project (it needs floors, for example), but I know she'll do a great job.
-Saw fireworks on the 4th. The live band played Oh, What a Night-- in English. Thought there was a mistake at first, as although I generally find that song insipid in any language, am now more accustomed to hearing it as Ces Soirees-La. The French incarnation of the BeeGees will make its American debut at a friend's Kentucky wedding this Friday in tribute to all the absent Frenchies or Anglophones those who reside there (Merci, Tiffi!)
-Ran a 5K. For the first time in about 4 years. Got back into running because there's a great paved trail near my parents' house. Determined to maintain the habit in Paris, which is a challenge because the only socially acceptable jogging areas are parks where you have a narrow jogging window, so have to plan ahead to run at that perfect moment in the day when they are neither too crowded nor too secluded.
-Went to Boston. Met up with my best friend from CA there, which was lovely. And saw my cousin, Sara, who is like a sister to me. Both are very happy and this was inspirational, considering that long periods of existential misery is more the norm in Paris... Parisians perhaps just don't show happiness in the same way, though, and I am being unfair. Maybe they express it through excessive complaining, smoking or heavy sighing.
-Went to Sara's graduation from massage school. If you're not sure what kind of ceremony to expect for this, neither were we. Lots of inspirational quotes, ranging from Gandhi to Dr. Seuss, both in speeches and in power point presentations, but got a good sense of the program-- and how close the students became to one another. They really are embarking on new careers, and that was exciting to see.
-Made many resolutions and identified some new goals. This is a little Oprah, so I'll spare you my various projects. After all, one can only devote so many hours a day to attempting self-improvement.
-Plans for next summer: meet the family in Montreal (truly fascinated by the bilingual city on the North American continent; naively imagine it'll be like France, but with customer service) and then drive down to Delaware ensemble. Definitely feeling in need of more travel (by rail, though; avoiding airports until Montreal next year), so indulging in an upcoming trip to Munich.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Fun with French Systems, or the All-Powerful Telecommande
While American remote controls just perform banal tasks like turning the tv on and off and changing the channel, apparently their French counterparts can pilot the space shuttle.
After borrowing a tv and carrying it home on the bus, I discovered that it gets one channel which seems to show nothing but military or prison dramas interspersed with Euroshopping (QVC with an EU flag), occasional blocks of Friends and a film starring Michael J. Fox in which he has the power to talk to ghosts.
Enlightening as this quality programming sounds, I long for news, the channel arte, un diner presque parfait and les guignols. When I complain to French people about my one crap channel, they all ask if I have a remote. By now, few instances of French surrealist logic suprise me, but this was a new entree on the menu, or should I say, carte.
When I say no, I don't have a remote, they sagely nod and say, ah, that's the problem. Apparently, French remote controls identify all the channels your tv gets and then automatically memorize them and allow you to access them easily.
You don't think it would help if I got an antenna, I ask, and then I'd get more channels? Mais non, they say bemusedly, that wouldn't help at all. Since the nuances of setting up the French television clearly escape me, they explain that if you have a cable plugged into the tv and the wall (which I do, but only after a French person came to my house and identified the right outlet for me), that's the antenna and possibly means you get cable.
I guess rabbit ears are a thing of the past and telecommandes are the way of the future. France is no technological slouch, you know. They did, after all, invent credit cards with microchips in them.
After borrowing a tv and carrying it home on the bus, I discovered that it gets one channel which seems to show nothing but military or prison dramas interspersed with Euroshopping (QVC with an EU flag), occasional blocks of Friends and a film starring Michael J. Fox in which he has the power to talk to ghosts.
Enlightening as this quality programming sounds, I long for news, the channel arte, un diner presque parfait and les guignols. When I complain to French people about my one crap channel, they all ask if I have a remote. By now, few instances of French surrealist logic suprise me, but this was a new entree on the menu, or should I say, carte.
When I say no, I don't have a remote, they sagely nod and say, ah, that's the problem. Apparently, French remote controls identify all the channels your tv gets and then automatically memorize them and allow you to access them easily.
You don't think it would help if I got an antenna, I ask, and then I'd get more channels? Mais non, they say bemusedly, that wouldn't help at all. Since the nuances of setting up the French television clearly escape me, they explain that if you have a cable plugged into the tv and the wall (which I do, but only after a French person came to my house and identified the right outlet for me), that's the antenna and possibly means you get cable.
I guess rabbit ears are a thing of the past and telecommandes are the way of the future. France is no technological slouch, you know. They did, after all, invent credit cards with microchips in them.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
One of my favorite songs
This song captures the constant love-hate relationship that all parisians have with their city:
It's called J'aime Plus Paris by Thomas Dutroc.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X3BWdOt8F0&feature=fvw
It's called J'aime Plus Paris by Thomas Dutroc.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X3BWdOt8F0&feature=fvw
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Of Squirrels and Men
I recently did an English lesson on giving your opinion and we started by reading a text from a Parisian blog about how Parisians not only have opinions about everything on earth but they elevate them to pretentious new heights. How do you take an opinion to the next level? It evolves into a Theory.
So I Have a Theory about squirrels and men with long beautiful curly hair.
The squirrel has a big beautiful tail, it seems fair to say that all this animal's evolutionary focus thus far has been on making its tail big and attractive and effective for keeping its balance when it leaps from tree to tree. The squirrel brain remains largely undeveloped, a sacrifice left on the altar of maximum tail volume . Perhaps they would gladly trade bushy tailed-ness for the ability to read or do the crossword, but as things stand now, squirrels have little going on upstairs. They regularly throw themselves in front of cars, hoard nuts and then forget where they put them (in their mouths) and sometimes even fall out of trees.
The squirrel principle also applies to men with long beautiful curly hair. It's like all their sex appeal is so firmly located in their hair, they haven't even remotely considered the possiblity of developing anything else or learning some rudimentary basics about other ways to please women besides deep conditioning their flowing tresses on a regular basis.
Such wasted potential in both species.
So I Have a Theory about squirrels and men with long beautiful curly hair.
The squirrel has a big beautiful tail, it seems fair to say that all this animal's evolutionary focus thus far has been on making its tail big and attractive and effective for keeping its balance when it leaps from tree to tree. The squirrel brain remains largely undeveloped, a sacrifice left on the altar of maximum tail volume . Perhaps they would gladly trade bushy tailed-ness for the ability to read or do the crossword, but as things stand now, squirrels have little going on upstairs. They regularly throw themselves in front of cars, hoard nuts and then forget where they put them (in their mouths) and sometimes even fall out of trees.
The squirrel principle also applies to men with long beautiful curly hair. It's like all their sex appeal is so firmly located in their hair, they haven't even remotely considered the possiblity of developing anything else or learning some rudimentary basics about other ways to please women besides deep conditioning their flowing tresses on a regular basis.
Such wasted potential in both species.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What parisians do best: complain about Paris
Being robbed in broad daylight at the ATM near my house has me in hyper critical mode at the moment about the city where I live and how parisians treat each other. I hate how how foreigners, especially single women, are vulnerable here. If I'd had a man with me this am, those 2 guys wouldn't have tried to take my money-- and considering the recent losers I've met, dated (once) and rejected, that pisses me off a lot. Believe me, these recent dates have absolutely NO positive qualities other than that fact that no one tried to rob me while I was in their company. And that wasn't much of a reflection on their personalities, mainly just their general existence.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Fete-ing the Cremaillere
My first of possibly multiple housewarming parties either in the current apartment (actually the way nicer bigger main apartment) or in a future studio was a blast. Maybe I'll warm the house once a month.
We successfully managed to avoid damaging anything in the landlord's apartment and the friends were all lovely, as was the cat and the weather and the wine and the snacks.
We successfully managed to avoid damaging anything in the landlord's apartment and the friends were all lovely, as was the cat and the weather and the wine and the snacks.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Later, Suckers
The last exam that I'll ever write for a certain university near Disney Land was just finished and emailed to the other TD professor for his comments (this being the French university system, I doubt he'll have any) and to be submitted Monday.
How I dreamed of being finished with that place all last year. How strangely indifferent I feel now that I am.
How I dreamed of being finished with that place all last year. How strangely indifferent I feel now that I am.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Email quote of the day
My mother on animal welfare, gender roles and French history, trying to encourage me to light a candle for Joan of Arc at Notre Dame as a feminist gesture and symbol of hope for the future:
"A culture that puts female cats on birth control really needs St. Joan of Arc as counterbalance!"
"A culture that puts female cats on birth control really needs St. Joan of Arc as counterbalance!"
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I've recently been feeling lacking in many different ways-- disappointment that my 2 years teaching at Marne weren't more satisfying and that I couldn't make it a more positive experience, frustration in not feeling like I ever meet anyone or that the planet's male species ever even notices that I'm alive. I've been comparing myself a lot to other people I know in Paris, who are all, of course, doing way better than I am, with better love lives and professional lives, but they're not me and ultimately, despite some current frustrations, there's still a lot even just when I walk down the street that makes me happy in Paris.
Here is the same idea, just in a more articulate, literary and rhyming form.
Sonnet 29
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.
Here is the same idea, just in a more articulate, literary and rhyming form.
Sonnet 29
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.
Monday, May 18, 2009
What Just Happened?
Will this never end? The eternal professional question in France after a job interview: what just happened? Do they want to offer me a job? Did they, in fact, just offer me one?
I had an interview today at a private university where I really wanted to teach and it sounded very non-commital. I answered questions, they asked what my interests were and what I'd like to teach. Interviewer and I seemed to bond about studying at Cambridge, etc. I told them 3 classes or so from their program that I was interested in and suggested a hollywood cinema class about the films of Stephen Speilberg and the reply was that "well, we already have a lot of cinema classes." Not much enthusiasm, eh? They also said that "it's all a bit of a chinese puzzle at the moment, we're still organizing the program" and the interview ended on the note "we'll let you know about openings," final handshake, goodbye. Definitely not a job offer, in my book. But then, I saw an email from the interviewer urging other people and me to sign up for training in September to use the new language lab at that school.
Does that mean I was I hired?
If so, I wonder what I'll teach and when.
I had an interview today at a private university where I really wanted to teach and it sounded very non-commital. I answered questions, they asked what my interests were and what I'd like to teach. Interviewer and I seemed to bond about studying at Cambridge, etc. I told them 3 classes or so from their program that I was interested in and suggested a hollywood cinema class about the films of Stephen Speilberg and the reply was that "well, we already have a lot of cinema classes." Not much enthusiasm, eh? They also said that "it's all a bit of a chinese puzzle at the moment, we're still organizing the program" and the interview ended on the note "we'll let you know about openings," final handshake, goodbye. Definitely not a job offer, in my book. But then, I saw an email from the interviewer urging other people and me to sign up for training in September to use the new language lab at that school.
Does that mean I was I hired?
If so, I wonder what I'll teach and when.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Doctor's Note
I had to get a doctor's note today saying that there was nothing wrong with me that would prevent me from participating in a short charity race. My 400 year old doctor kindly agreed to see me today (since I need her authorization for the race tomorrow) and greeted me by shrieking about how she just shampooed the carpet and could I wipe me feet really well? Because she sees her patients in her house, as do most French doctors.
In France to be declared not even necessarily healthy, but without any "counter indications" that would prevent you from running a 1.5 mile loop, you have to have your heart listened to, and blood pressure taken. And then you have to do 30 squats and doctor repeats steps one and 2. I'm generally used to things I find slightly startling and ridiculous being the norm in France-- I have been here a while, after all, but when my doctor told me to start squatting, I thought she was kidding.
Since she was curious, I explained that to do a race in the US, the participant signs a liablilty form saying that they're aware that they could possibly injure themselves on the course, but that it's just up to the runner if they think they're in good enough shape to do the race and we don't need a doctor's note (or certificat medical-- so much more formal-- in French) to give us permission. She looked horrified, "but the participants could lie," she pointed out, "what if they're not healthy?"
My squat evaulation cost me 22 euros for which the French government will eventually reimburse me.
In France to be declared not even necessarily healthy, but without any "counter indications" that would prevent you from running a 1.5 mile loop, you have to have your heart listened to, and blood pressure taken. And then you have to do 30 squats and doctor repeats steps one and 2. I'm generally used to things I find slightly startling and ridiculous being the norm in France-- I have been here a while, after all, but when my doctor told me to start squatting, I thought she was kidding.
Since she was curious, I explained that to do a race in the US, the participant signs a liablilty form saying that they're aware that they could possibly injure themselves on the course, but that it's just up to the runner if they think they're in good enough shape to do the race and we don't need a doctor's note (or certificat medical-- so much more formal-- in French) to give us permission. She looked horrified, "but the participants could lie," she pointed out, "what if they're not healthy?"
My squat evaulation cost me 22 euros for which the French government will eventually reimburse me.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Run, Forest, Run
So, rather than cheering Forest Gump on, I'll be running around an actual forest on Sunday. It's to raise money for cancer research. Someone I was once very close to died of this illness and this event is more than partially responsible for my decision to follow a dream to Paris. Life is too short not to do these things, despite enormous student loan debt. That was 3 years ago, and I'm still in Paris, trying not to forget to seize the jour. This seems like a good reminder.
Cervical cancer (cancer du col de l'uterus) seems to have an enormous public awareness campaign in France at the moment and I'm always pleased to see any kind of focus whatsoever on women's health. (Even if some of it is clearly pharmaceutical marketing for the vaccination against this type of cancer, which is also enjoying a lot of publicity lately...)
The idea of this charity run is that there will be a short 1.5 mile course in the bois de vincennes (where I've never been but where I commute through) and you go around as many times as you can in 2 hours. For each loop, corporate sponsors make a donation to the charity 1,000 femmes, 1,000 vies which raises money for cervical cancer research/prevention/awareness.
At the university where I teach with an ongoing strike, one of the protests is called the "rond des obstines" where professors spend the weekends walking around in a circle to demonstrate how they're getting nowhere with the French government regarding the proposed education reforms. I feel like looping around the woods for my charity race is perhaps a better use of going round in circles.
Cervical cancer (cancer du col de l'uterus) seems to have an enormous public awareness campaign in France at the moment and I'm always pleased to see any kind of focus whatsoever on women's health. (Even if some of it is clearly pharmaceutical marketing for the vaccination against this type of cancer, which is also enjoying a lot of publicity lately...)
The idea of this charity run is that there will be a short 1.5 mile course in the bois de vincennes (where I've never been but where I commute through) and you go around as many times as you can in 2 hours. For each loop, corporate sponsors make a donation to the charity 1,000 femmes, 1,000 vies which raises money for cervical cancer research/prevention/awareness.
At the university where I teach with an ongoing strike, one of the protests is called the "rond des obstines" where professors spend the weekends walking around in a circle to demonstrate how they're getting nowhere with the French government regarding the proposed education reforms. I feel like looping around the woods for my charity race is perhaps a better use of going round in circles.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Recent Work Emails (or MEN and Primordial Meetings)
Some recent highlights from my inbox:
-A 7-page venomous email about Valerie Pecresse (ministre de l'ensignement superieur) visiting UC Berkeley in what is probably a nefarious plan either to dominate the world or to destroy the French University (perhaps both simultaneously) from a French professor who teaches there and somehow has my email address.
-A similarly venomous email about some aspect of the strike or proposed education reforms (all my work related email these days is petitions and 7-page tretises about how the Public French University is Dead) titled "take a look at the website MEN." This was NOT anything related to porn or dating (then I probably would have looked at it). MEN apparently stands for Ministre de l'Education where something scandalous to my colleagues was posted about the role of an enseignant-chercheur as now imagined by the French Government.
-An email about a Big Important Faculty Meeting where we were supposed to decide whether or not to cancel the current (although nearly finished) semester saying that attendance was "primordial." I guess this is more intense than souhaité or obligatoire?
-An email flurry about what time the Primordial Meeting starts-- noon or 12:30? We perhaps had to verify with the mastadons and other primordial invités.
-An email from the director of the language department of our university apologizing for not attending last week's Primordial Meeting, and thus preventing any decision-making whatsoever from occuring (not that any often actually takes place in French meetings, though). She would like us to attend another meeting primordially next Thursday at either noon or 12:30.
-A 7-page venomous email about Valerie Pecresse (ministre de l'ensignement superieur) visiting UC Berkeley in what is probably a nefarious plan either to dominate the world or to destroy the French University (perhaps both simultaneously) from a French professor who teaches there and somehow has my email address.
-A similarly venomous email about some aspect of the strike or proposed education reforms (all my work related email these days is petitions and 7-page tretises about how the Public French University is Dead) titled "take a look at the website MEN." This was NOT anything related to porn or dating (then I probably would have looked at it). MEN apparently stands for Ministre de l'Education where something scandalous to my colleagues was posted about the role of an enseignant-chercheur as now imagined by the French Government.
-An email about a Big Important Faculty Meeting where we were supposed to decide whether or not to cancel the current (although nearly finished) semester saying that attendance was "primordial." I guess this is more intense than souhaité or obligatoire?
-An email flurry about what time the Primordial Meeting starts-- noon or 12:30? We perhaps had to verify with the mastadons and other primordial invités.
-An email from the director of the language department of our university apologizing for not attending last week's Primordial Meeting, and thus preventing any decision-making whatsoever from occuring (not that any often actually takes place in French meetings, though). She would like us to attend another meeting primordially next Thursday at either noon or 12:30.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Royaume Uni du Canal St. Martin
I now live in a strange enchanted castle-- not in Disneyland/ Marne-La-Vallee on the RER A (thank God), but in the 10th. Consider this: our house is a hidden canal-front fortress with a giant double deadbolt door and then, once you step into our narnia, there are no more locks. We are free to come and go into the Big House when The Owner is away and the first day I dared cross the threshold, there was a box of pastries waiting for us. This was effective positive reinforcement without the Pavlovian bell-- go into house, get treats. Now I always check the kitchen for stray religieuses.
The premises include: 2 studios, a small courtyard covered in an otherworldly jungle of houseplants, a rooftop garden above my apartment, and then the Big Apartment that belongs to The Owner. The Owner is a retired academic and being a retired academic is pretty much my dream and the closest thing I have to a life ambition... The Big House has about 47 strangely shaped octagonal rooms all with at least 3 doors, making each one exageratedly accessible and they're all lined floor to ceiling with books. The house also features an excessive number of well-trodden wooden staircases. It's kind of a French version of Vermont log cabin architecture combined with the Winchester Mystery House-- not that I ever went there because I wasn't a bay area tourist and couldn't be bothered to go to San Jose EVER, not even to see the famous haunted house with staircases to nowhere built by the guilt-ridden heiress to the Winchester gun fortune. Not that the Canalfront Empire feels tainted by spectral guilt. If anything, it is a small slice of Eden in this uncertain and indifferent world.
The Owner travels a lot-- being retired, this is his main occupation which he deserves after years of suffering the French public educational system (after 2 years and the current interminable strike, I'm also ready to retire), and when the cat's away, the mice will play. We, the tenants, of course, have no actual mice in our enchanted castle but take care of the actual cat and play with her. She is very sweet and chubby. In the Big House, we not only have access to our feline friend, but also those elusive luxuries like a washer/dryer, an oven, and a landline that only Real People have in their enchanted kingdoms in France.
I'm not the only tenant. There is a whole universe of inhabitants. There is, of course, the cat, my flatmate (who is, luckily, a friend and coworker), and a non English-speaking friend of The Owner's son who lives rent-free in the basement in exchange for remodeling the son's apartment. I joked to the flatmate that we're like individual nation states who all form the United Kingdom of 39 Canal-Front Lane. We decided I would be England, she could be Scotland, the Owner would be Northern Ireland, because he was frequently travelling off the main island and the basement carpenter could be Wales, since like Welsh street signs, we don't always understand him.
Geography is on my mind lately, since you have to reorient yourself completely when you change quartiers here. Each neighborhood, of course, has its own character. Everyone has their own image of Paris-- my Paris is different from even that of my best friend, and this Paris pretty much becomes the immediate 4-block radius around your house and your daily commute.
So far, here are my 4 blocks: there's the enchanted castle, the enchanted although sometimes pungent canal, and some lovely bars and restaurants, my current favorite of which is called the Goldfish. I've taken to running along the canal to la vilette in one direction and Oberkampf in the other, which is a great route.
For practical concerns, I also have the required constellation map of different grocery stores with varying prices and quality and some cheap takeout Indian restaurants identified. And a little shop where you can buy 3 euro belts.
On the gritty realist side, there's also the very unenchanted post office homeless tent city, but this is a reality in any big city-- not everyone can afford housing here. The flatmate and I are lucky to have the enchanted castle deal that we have.
The neighborhood reminds me a little of very different geography: the Mission in SF in a way, just with fewer Spanish speakers. We have different political demonstrations everyday at Place de la Republique, which is very San Francisco, and a young, artsy, and creative crowd. Hipsters and homeless people, however, live along the same street, which is also sadly very reminiscent of San Francisco. There's a cafe down the street that seems lifted straight off Valencia Street from San Francisco and plunked down in front of the Canal St. Martin which we now call the California Cafe. I sometimes feel like all my favorite places in Paris are ones that remind me of SF, but the French-speaking European version 2.0. You probably always superimpose your past cities on your current ones to some extent-- like when I moved from DC to SF there were lots of neighborhood equivlents to work out, like Dupont Circle was the DC equivalent of the Castro in SF, for example. Our French canal-front castle is maybe my version of 28 Barbury Lane, the equally eccentric and enchanted apartment building from cult San Francisco book Tales of the City.
The premises include: 2 studios, a small courtyard covered in an otherworldly jungle of houseplants, a rooftop garden above my apartment, and then the Big Apartment that belongs to The Owner. The Owner is a retired academic and being a retired academic is pretty much my dream and the closest thing I have to a life ambition... The Big House has about 47 strangely shaped octagonal rooms all with at least 3 doors, making each one exageratedly accessible and they're all lined floor to ceiling with books. The house also features an excessive number of well-trodden wooden staircases. It's kind of a French version of Vermont log cabin architecture combined with the Winchester Mystery House-- not that I ever went there because I wasn't a bay area tourist and couldn't be bothered to go to San Jose EVER, not even to see the famous haunted house with staircases to nowhere built by the guilt-ridden heiress to the Winchester gun fortune. Not that the Canalfront Empire feels tainted by spectral guilt. If anything, it is a small slice of Eden in this uncertain and indifferent world.
The Owner travels a lot-- being retired, this is his main occupation which he deserves after years of suffering the French public educational system (after 2 years and the current interminable strike, I'm also ready to retire), and when the cat's away, the mice will play. We, the tenants, of course, have no actual mice in our enchanted castle but take care of the actual cat and play with her. She is very sweet and chubby. In the Big House, we not only have access to our feline friend, but also those elusive luxuries like a washer/dryer, an oven, and a landline that only Real People have in their enchanted kingdoms in France.
I'm not the only tenant. There is a whole universe of inhabitants. There is, of course, the cat, my flatmate (who is, luckily, a friend and coworker), and a non English-speaking friend of The Owner's son who lives rent-free in the basement in exchange for remodeling the son's apartment. I joked to the flatmate that we're like individual nation states who all form the United Kingdom of 39 Canal-Front Lane. We decided I would be England, she could be Scotland, the Owner would be Northern Ireland, because he was frequently travelling off the main island and the basement carpenter could be Wales, since like Welsh street signs, we don't always understand him.
Geography is on my mind lately, since you have to reorient yourself completely when you change quartiers here. Each neighborhood, of course, has its own character. Everyone has their own image of Paris-- my Paris is different from even that of my best friend, and this Paris pretty much becomes the immediate 4-block radius around your house and your daily commute.
So far, here are my 4 blocks: there's the enchanted castle, the enchanted although sometimes pungent canal, and some lovely bars and restaurants, my current favorite of which is called the Goldfish. I've taken to running along the canal to la vilette in one direction and Oberkampf in the other, which is a great route.
For practical concerns, I also have the required constellation map of different grocery stores with varying prices and quality and some cheap takeout Indian restaurants identified. And a little shop where you can buy 3 euro belts.
On the gritty realist side, there's also the very unenchanted post office homeless tent city, but this is a reality in any big city-- not everyone can afford housing here. The flatmate and I are lucky to have the enchanted castle deal that we have.
The neighborhood reminds me a little of very different geography: the Mission in SF in a way, just with fewer Spanish speakers. We have different political demonstrations everyday at Place de la Republique, which is very San Francisco, and a young, artsy, and creative crowd. Hipsters and homeless people, however, live along the same street, which is also sadly very reminiscent of San Francisco. There's a cafe down the street that seems lifted straight off Valencia Street from San Francisco and plunked down in front of the Canal St. Martin which we now call the California Cafe. I sometimes feel like all my favorite places in Paris are ones that remind me of SF, but the French-speaking European version 2.0. You probably always superimpose your past cities on your current ones to some extent-- like when I moved from DC to SF there were lots of neighborhood equivlents to work out, like Dupont Circle was the DC equivalent of the Castro in SF, for example. Our French canal-front castle is maybe my version of 28 Barbury Lane, the equally eccentric and enchanted apartment building from cult San Francisco book Tales of the City.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Holidays and modern art collages
If Madonna were French, she wouldn't have had to spend the 1980s longing for a holiday and singing about it. Nearly every Friday in May is a national holiday. Today is Labour Day (fete du travail) in France and it is celebrated by a day of vacation and a big parade/protest (?) by various labour unions declaring their commitment to workers' rights. People also sell snow drops, those little white flowers, and sometimes lilacs and there are somehow symbols of May 1st. If someone gives you snowdrops on this day, it means you'll have good luck and loads of people carry around their little white flowers. I was no exception-- I was kindly presented with a small bouquet this afternoon which are now on the table in front of me, no doubt changing my luck as I write.
My snowdrops, a friend and I all went to the Marche d'art contemporain at Bastille. This is a bi-annual art fair with hundreds of different stands, each belonging to a different contemporary French artist hoping to gain publicity and sell some work. For us, the public, we get to see a ton of great art and talk to the artists who are all there hosting small aperatif parties and ready to answer our questions in the hopes of selling us an 800 euro canvas. The friend of mine who came with my snowdrops and me knew a scultptor exhibiting there, so we chatted with him for awhile about the event and his work (animal sculptures in bronze)-- and thanked him profusely for our invitations to the event which saved us each 8 euros. The marche d'art was actually a lot like the Salon du Vin that I attended last year, just with paintings, sculptures and artists' statements at each booth, instead of wine and marketing materials about the superior grapes from that particular region of France.
There were artists' booths both inside and outside, on either side of the Seine and one of the bridges reserved as the path to more art that day. The weather was beautiful and the artists outside were all having picnics next to their booths. While we looked at art along the river, we could hear shouting and chanting from the workers' rights rally outside at Place de la Bastille and an accordian softly played La Vie en Rose from the other side of the river.
I thought to myself that the protest, the art and the accordian, all combined at that very moment, defined to an extent my image of Paris, its creativity, political engagement against a conservative future and nostalgia for the romanticism of the past all rolled into one on a particularly lazy holiday afternoon. A lot of the modern art on display showed Paris cityscapes-- it seemed like everyone was shaping their image of this city, through art or political protest, all at the same time. I tried to fix it in my mind like some kind of modern art collage, like some I'd seen that day, with snapshots of artists, musicians and protestors, newspaper clippings about all the many recent workers' strikes and protests, springtime sunshine, snowdrops to bring good luck and some fragments of sheet music to La vie en Rose.
My snowdrops, a friend and I all went to the Marche d'art contemporain at Bastille. This is a bi-annual art fair with hundreds of different stands, each belonging to a different contemporary French artist hoping to gain publicity and sell some work. For us, the public, we get to see a ton of great art and talk to the artists who are all there hosting small aperatif parties and ready to answer our questions in the hopes of selling us an 800 euro canvas. The friend of mine who came with my snowdrops and me knew a scultptor exhibiting there, so we chatted with him for awhile about the event and his work (animal sculptures in bronze)-- and thanked him profusely for our invitations to the event which saved us each 8 euros. The marche d'art was actually a lot like the Salon du Vin that I attended last year, just with paintings, sculptures and artists' statements at each booth, instead of wine and marketing materials about the superior grapes from that particular region of France.
There were artists' booths both inside and outside, on either side of the Seine and one of the bridges reserved as the path to more art that day. The weather was beautiful and the artists outside were all having picnics next to their booths. While we looked at art along the river, we could hear shouting and chanting from the workers' rights rally outside at Place de la Bastille and an accordian softly played La Vie en Rose from the other side of the river.
I thought to myself that the protest, the art and the accordian, all combined at that very moment, defined to an extent my image of Paris, its creativity, political engagement against a conservative future and nostalgia for the romanticism of the past all rolled into one on a particularly lazy holiday afternoon. A lot of the modern art on display showed Paris cityscapes-- it seemed like everyone was shaping their image of this city, through art or political protest, all at the same time. I tried to fix it in my mind like some kind of modern art collage, like some I'd seen that day, with snapshots of artists, musicians and protestors, newspaper clippings about all the many recent workers' strikes and protests, springtime sunshine, snowdrops to bring good luck and some fragments of sheet music to La vie en Rose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)