The only things that are certain in life: death, taxes and the line 14.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Questions du jour
Is there life on Mars? Is there life outside of Paris? Are there French cities with a lively cultural scene and friendly residents who don't make a hobby of criticizing, complaining and huffing and puffing in annoyance every 4 seconds and bumping into you in the metro? Does Paris think I'm a martian? Should I phone home or attempt to colonize the world? Are globalization and Americanization the same thing? Aside from dying your hair a different colour, is there any change you can believe in in Paris?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Small Daily Humiliations
Everytime someone asks if I live in Paris and if I have a job here.
That people I don't know well think it's ok to ask me how much money I make, or inform me of everything that they think is wrong with American politics-- after we'd just met. Um, are Parisians just somehow culturally immune to ever thinking that they sound arrogant?
Everytime someone informs me that I have an accent.
Everytime (which is more or less all the time) someone assumes that if you're a foreigner, you're a complete idiot and will believe whatever they tell you. Like that my last apartment rental wasn't illegal, I just couldn't ever put my name on the door or tell anyone I paid rent to live there.
Everytime someone patronisingly repeats the exact phrase I just said. What's up with that? I assume it's a passive aggressive way to correct my pronounciation or do they actually just want to verify that they heard it correctly?
Everytime someone stares the Parisian stare at me on the metro. Men undress you with their beady little eyes, while women mentally calculate the total value of your wardrobe and haircut. This is why I now find it normal to wear makeup to the gym.
At Planning Familial today when upon asking my age, they asked me if I weren't considering stopping the Pill to get pregnant.
When I asked the doctor there to recommend a lab (because it's not like you can get blood drawn by the actual doctor who wants you to have it done or like any single medical facility in France actually has all the medical equipment they need) and he replied, you don't know how to use the internet? Um, yes, the French health care system is ludicrously decentralised (I once left a doctor's office with my papsmear in a jar and I had to mail it to a lab myself) but I am not about to google a medical lab to draw my blood-- should I just diagnose myself and write my own prescriptions, too, while I'm researching medical info online? What if French crack dens or other disreputable entities whose livelihood involves needles have their own web sites and pose as legitimate medical labs?
When I requested coppery-red highlights and the hairdresser ignored this and gave me pale white-blond ones instead which obviously look like middleaged woman masking the gray with a side of Cruella DeVille thrown in (in other words, utter crap) and then informed me that she found them "jolies." I mean, after all, that's what counts, isn't it?
Thank you, Parisians, for annoying the hell out of me on a daily basis. I'm sure that to some small extent, I'd miss all your surreal conneries if I ever lived somewhere normal and judging from the Americans I know who no longer live here, apparently, if you ever leave Paris, you seem to become a brainwashed nostalgia zombie, and Paris becomes nothing but the expensive taxpayer-subsidized glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, and la vie en rose and you even long for the rudeness of French waiters and the arrogance of French hair dressers.
That people I don't know well think it's ok to ask me how much money I make, or inform me of everything that they think is wrong with American politics-- after we'd just met. Um, are Parisians just somehow culturally immune to ever thinking that they sound arrogant?
Everytime someone informs me that I have an accent.
Everytime (which is more or less all the time) someone assumes that if you're a foreigner, you're a complete idiot and will believe whatever they tell you. Like that my last apartment rental wasn't illegal, I just couldn't ever put my name on the door or tell anyone I paid rent to live there.
Everytime someone patronisingly repeats the exact phrase I just said. What's up with that? I assume it's a passive aggressive way to correct my pronounciation or do they actually just want to verify that they heard it correctly?
Everytime someone stares the Parisian stare at me on the metro. Men undress you with their beady little eyes, while women mentally calculate the total value of your wardrobe and haircut. This is why I now find it normal to wear makeup to the gym.
At Planning Familial today when upon asking my age, they asked me if I weren't considering stopping the Pill to get pregnant.
When I asked the doctor there to recommend a lab (because it's not like you can get blood drawn by the actual doctor who wants you to have it done or like any single medical facility in France actually has all the medical equipment they need) and he replied, you don't know how to use the internet? Um, yes, the French health care system is ludicrously decentralised (I once left a doctor's office with my papsmear in a jar and I had to mail it to a lab myself) but I am not about to google a medical lab to draw my blood-- should I just diagnose myself and write my own prescriptions, too, while I'm researching medical info online? What if French crack dens or other disreputable entities whose livelihood involves needles have their own web sites and pose as legitimate medical labs?
When I requested coppery-red highlights and the hairdresser ignored this and gave me pale white-blond ones instead which obviously look like middleaged woman masking the gray with a side of Cruella DeVille thrown in (in other words, utter crap) and then informed me that she found them "jolies." I mean, after all, that's what counts, isn't it?
Thank you, Parisians, for annoying the hell out of me on a daily basis. I'm sure that to some small extent, I'd miss all your surreal conneries if I ever lived somewhere normal and judging from the Americans I know who no longer live here, apparently, if you ever leave Paris, you seem to become a brainwashed nostalgia zombie, and Paris becomes nothing but the expensive taxpayer-subsidized glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, and la vie en rose and you even long for the rudeness of French waiters and the arrogance of French hair dressers.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"Welcome...
To the new America," was a quote I read in today's Washington Post online edition from someone who attended the inauguration today and braved the cold to see the new president and snatch a piece of history.
At the beginning of this decade, I lived in Washington, DC and throughout all the international press coverage of "l'investiture d'Obama" that I've followed recently from 3,000 miles and multiple time zones away, I've been thinking: that could have been me in the crowd, during the inauguration today and the U2/ Springsteen concert at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday.
You are the choices you make, and I don't regret no longer living in DC, Oakland or in the US, but, well, optimism, resilience and capacity for social change are all aspects of American culture that I miss immensely.
Sometimes you have to remind yourself that creating change you can believe in is not exculsively reserved for your favorite polticians or those still living in America watching Obama in person today, but something you can also accomplish on a small and modest scale in your own life.
At the beginning of this decade, I lived in Washington, DC and throughout all the international press coverage of "l'investiture d'Obama" that I've followed recently from 3,000 miles and multiple time zones away, I've been thinking: that could have been me in the crowd, during the inauguration today and the U2/ Springsteen concert at the Lincoln Memorial yesterday.
You are the choices you make, and I don't regret no longer living in DC, Oakland or in the US, but, well, optimism, resilience and capacity for social change are all aspects of American culture that I miss immensely.
Sometimes you have to remind yourself that creating change you can believe in is not exculsively reserved for your favorite polticians or those still living in America watching Obama in person today, but something you can also accomplish on a small and modest scale in your own life.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Surreal Moments of Late at the Workplace
-When my kids asked me what they had to do to pass their semester.
-You mean what skills and work habits do you need to succeed in my class next semester, I asked.
-No, how do we know if we passed this term? Do we have to pass all our classes each semester to have credit for the year? No one ever told us.
-When one group revealed that they thought that phonetics and multimedia were the same class because they had the same teacher for these 2 (obviously different) courses.
-The umpteenth time that a student came looking for me because they forgot when their exam was (yesterday) and wanted to make it up at a time that was more convenient for them. Here's a good time: the examens de rattrapage in the first 2 weeks of September.
-Each time a student walked into a classroom while I was giving an exam (a little busy there!)because they needed to ask an Urgent Question that they would already have the answer to if they ever attended class, like what will be on the final exam.
-When I discovered that the HR Rep and department head who explained my incomprehensible job contract to me in 2007 were misinformed about minor details like how many hours I actually need to work each year.
-When you realise that the entire administrative organisation (a term I use loosely) of your workplace relies exclusively on the use of post-it notes. In some ways, this is almost reassuring-- at least they try to follow some kind of principle of organisation, but post-its do, unfortunately, fall off.
-When you, as an American teacher, finish reading 35 compositions that argue that higher education should be free and accessible to everyone (ok, fine) and universities shouldn't "discriminate unfairly" by taking only the best students. Wow, no correlation to make at all between being a good student and going to uni, eh?
And sometimes, the kiddies just feel like chatting after class about Irish music or the decline of family values in modern society, or flattering you so that you'll write a recommendation for them (there can't be ANY connection between that and their sudden appreciation of your greats teachings skills, can there?), or sometimes they just impress you with an excellent composition about Egypt and then despite all the ridiculousness you suffer daily, for a brief second before reality sets in again, it's actually not so bad to be a teacher.
-You mean what skills and work habits do you need to succeed in my class next semester, I asked.
-No, how do we know if we passed this term? Do we have to pass all our classes each semester to have credit for the year? No one ever told us.
-When one group revealed that they thought that phonetics and multimedia were the same class because they had the same teacher for these 2 (obviously different) courses.
-The umpteenth time that a student came looking for me because they forgot when their exam was (yesterday) and wanted to make it up at a time that was more convenient for them. Here's a good time: the examens de rattrapage in the first 2 weeks of September.
-Each time a student walked into a classroom while I was giving an exam (a little busy there!)because they needed to ask an Urgent Question that they would already have the answer to if they ever attended class, like what will be on the final exam.
-When I discovered that the HR Rep and department head who explained my incomprehensible job contract to me in 2007 were misinformed about minor details like how many hours I actually need to work each year.
-When you realise that the entire administrative organisation (a term I use loosely) of your workplace relies exclusively on the use of post-it notes. In some ways, this is almost reassuring-- at least they try to follow some kind of principle of organisation, but post-its do, unfortunately, fall off.
-When you, as an American teacher, finish reading 35 compositions that argue that higher education should be free and accessible to everyone (ok, fine) and universities shouldn't "discriminate unfairly" by taking only the best students. Wow, no correlation to make at all between being a good student and going to uni, eh?
And sometimes, the kiddies just feel like chatting after class about Irish music or the decline of family values in modern society, or flattering you so that you'll write a recommendation for them (there can't be ANY connection between that and their sudden appreciation of your greats teachings skills, can there?), or sometimes they just impress you with an excellent composition about Egypt and then despite all the ridiculousness you suffer daily, for a brief second before reality sets in again, it's actually not so bad to be a teacher.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
The Art of Losing
Maybe it's my age, or living far away from my family, but so far 2009 is making me think of all the people who I used to be close to who I now no longer speak to-- either because we fought, broke up or just drifted apart or now find that we live on different continents with a 9-hour time difference and never skype at the same time. If you're anything like me (for your sake, I hope not, though!), ex-best friends from college, people you've dated, former housemates in multiple cities, etc. have been floating through your head yesterday and today.
But before you worry too much about all the people you once knew who you've since lost, keep in mind that you'll (hopefully, most likely) acquire new friends this year and it's an endless cycle, some kind of social flux that we can't really entirely control.
Here's a funny poem that I've always liked to try to help exorcise all these missing, forgotten souls who we've lost over the years. Here is Elisabeth Bishop's attempt to master the art of losing and even if it's actually a fairly tragic poem, it's certainly an example of mastering the art of writing a villanelle, one of the hardest poetic forms out there.
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
But before you worry too much about all the people you once knew who you've since lost, keep in mind that you'll (hopefully, most likely) acquire new friends this year and it's an endless cycle, some kind of social flux that we can't really entirely control.
Here's a funny poem that I've always liked to try to help exorcise all these missing, forgotten souls who we've lost over the years. Here is Elisabeth Bishop's attempt to master the art of losing and even if it's actually a fairly tragic poem, it's certainly an example of mastering the art of writing a villanelle, one of the hardest poetic forms out there.
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
T.S. Eliot et le reveillon du nouvel an
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.--T.S. Eliot (Little Gidding, 4 Quartets)
As you're all no doubt aware, today is the last day of 2008. Make it count and may you accomplish all you hope to and then some in 2009.
Que vous trouviez votre voix et votre voie en 2009.
And next year’s words await another voice.--T.S. Eliot (Little Gidding, 4 Quartets)
As you're all no doubt aware, today is the last day of 2008. Make it count and may you accomplish all you hope to and then some in 2009.
Que vous trouviez votre voix et votre voie en 2009.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
New Year's Resolutions
I know it's kind of early-- I have a few more days to make the list definitive-- but it's never a bad thing to want to improve your life. Here are some fairly predictable new year's resolutions, in no particular order.
1. Exercise more-- start running again, do some races, like the Paris-Versailles one in September and hit the abdos-tailles (abs and waist) classes to lose belly roll which I can camoflauge, but I know that it's there. Mainly, after my hyper sporty California life, I know that only rigorous exercise (or an adoring boyfriend, but soyons realistes, ils ne tombent pas du ciel) can make me feel attractive and good about my body.
2. Eat well-- cooking fresh vegetables is worth the time it takes to stir fry-- and learn to make curry. Yum.
3. Be more positive and less cynical than I have been in the past-- create your own happiness, become the change you want to see, etc. Yes, we can!
4. Limit alcohol and caffine intake. Eat clementines instead.
5. Find new hobbies, like the ex-pat meet up group and the Attrape-Choeur singing group, as current hobbies can be summarized as wine-tasting (see resolution 4) and getting my legs waxed (these 2 activities are not practiced simultaneously).
6. Refuse to date anyone who informs me early on that he is unable to commit to a serious relationship. Not looking for a "cinq-a-sept," as they say, not taking any crap about it and men don't get to make the relationship rules. Be demanding and devastating.
7. Learn a foreign language-- either German or Spanish because I'd like to visit either or both of these countries this year. Tunisia and the Czech Republic are on the list, as well, but at the risk of sounding like a selfish traveller, not about to learn Czech and Arabic-- French should be fine in Tunisia, anyway.
8. Find the ideal teaching situation-- I've decided to make this my career, after all (France finds me qualified for it and I've got about 3 years of experience in it now). To that end, I will explore different classroom situations, like teaching business English to adults, continuing education students, private lessons, possibility of being a vacataire at a private university, etc.
9. Find a legal apartment rental when I have to move in May. This will be more expensive the the illegal sublets that everyone does, but it will be worth it not to have to move each year and to be in full control of my own space, like making my own decorating decisions and finally once again paying bills in my own name. At age 30, it's becoming important to put down my own roots here instead of temporarily taking over someone else's situation.
10. I'm not really sure what this one should be, I just wanted to have 10 instead of 9. Do some kind of volunteer work? As a former volunteer coordinator, this is an important value that I haven't been putting into practice lately-- lately referring to the past 3 years... In France, you sometimes need specific training to volunteer, so it should probably be something related to my various past and present careers, like education, translation (?) or-- I think I'm finally ready to let it back into my life-- animal welfare.
1. Exercise more-- start running again, do some races, like the Paris-Versailles one in September and hit the abdos-tailles (abs and waist) classes to lose belly roll which I can camoflauge, but I know that it's there. Mainly, after my hyper sporty California life, I know that only rigorous exercise (or an adoring boyfriend, but soyons realistes, ils ne tombent pas du ciel) can make me feel attractive and good about my body.
2. Eat well-- cooking fresh vegetables is worth the time it takes to stir fry-- and learn to make curry. Yum.
3. Be more positive and less cynical than I have been in the past-- create your own happiness, become the change you want to see, etc. Yes, we can!
4. Limit alcohol and caffine intake. Eat clementines instead.
5. Find new hobbies, like the ex-pat meet up group and the Attrape-Choeur singing group, as current hobbies can be summarized as wine-tasting (see resolution 4) and getting my legs waxed (these 2 activities are not practiced simultaneously).
6. Refuse to date anyone who informs me early on that he is unable to commit to a serious relationship. Not looking for a "cinq-a-sept," as they say, not taking any crap about it and men don't get to make the relationship rules. Be demanding and devastating.
7. Learn a foreign language-- either German or Spanish because I'd like to visit either or both of these countries this year. Tunisia and the Czech Republic are on the list, as well, but at the risk of sounding like a selfish traveller, not about to learn Czech and Arabic-- French should be fine in Tunisia, anyway.
8. Find the ideal teaching situation-- I've decided to make this my career, after all (France finds me qualified for it and I've got about 3 years of experience in it now). To that end, I will explore different classroom situations, like teaching business English to adults, continuing education students, private lessons, possibility of being a vacataire at a private university, etc.
9. Find a legal apartment rental when I have to move in May. This will be more expensive the the illegal sublets that everyone does, but it will be worth it not to have to move each year and to be in full control of my own space, like making my own decorating decisions and finally once again paying bills in my own name. At age 30, it's becoming important to put down my own roots here instead of temporarily taking over someone else's situation.
10. I'm not really sure what this one should be, I just wanted to have 10 instead of 9. Do some kind of volunteer work? As a former volunteer coordinator, this is an important value that I haven't been putting into practice lately-- lately referring to the past 3 years... In France, you sometimes need specific training to volunteer, so it should probably be something related to my various past and present careers, like education, translation (?) or-- I think I'm finally ready to let it back into my life-- animal welfare.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
"I said what about Breakfast at Tiffany's"--Deep Blue Something
Remind me the next time I start to whine about my life, thankless job, hateful rudeness of the average person in this city, inability of any Frenchman to commit to anything even resembling a relationship, etc., that I have amazing friends in Paris.
As Bridget Jones once wrote (although probably not when she was sober), love the lovely friends with whom I had a fabulous holiday dinner on Friday at my favorite Indian restaurant.
And love the lovely impromptu and free winetastings. My last degustation was perhaps of the less elegant variety, since it was a plastic cup of the new beaujolais in the RER station. However, yesterday I wandered into 2 winetastings and a champagne tasting at the magical place that is Bon Marche. My beloved Jessica and I are of the opinion that Breakfast at Tiffany's should be remade in French and titled "Petit dej au Bon Marche" and Audrey Hepburn could taste champagne, go to the exhibit about Toyko and admire the light fixtures.
As Bridget Jones once wrote (although probably not when she was sober), love the lovely friends with whom I had a fabulous holiday dinner on Friday at my favorite Indian restaurant.
And love the lovely impromptu and free winetastings. My last degustation was perhaps of the less elegant variety, since it was a plastic cup of the new beaujolais in the RER station. However, yesterday I wandered into 2 winetastings and a champagne tasting at the magical place that is Bon Marche. My beloved Jessica and I are of the opinion that Breakfast at Tiffany's should be remade in French and titled "Petit dej au Bon Marche" and Audrey Hepburn could taste champagne, go to the exhibit about Toyko and admire the light fixtures.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Inspiring Words From My Past Life Transmitted Via Facebook (What else, George Clooney?)
"Ha! That's awesome, I had no idea! Listen, whenever those dark, awful nights of endless grading are upon you just remember your old friend Clancy and these inspiring words: it's better to be an English professor slave in France than a Philosophy professor slave in Pittsburgh. Because? Really? Paris? Yes. Paris is good. Best of luck this end of semester!"
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
What Do Job Descriptions Look Like?
I was watching an older woman walk her small sweater-wearing dog this morning and as she, like every other dog owner in this city, ignored the little pile of goodness her well-dressed fashion poodle left on the trottoir, I joked to my friend Amanda that only in France was dog clothing mandatory while picking up dog shit was considered the optional and frivolous part of dog ownership. Yes, she agreed, it's not in their job description as French people. Don't get me wrong, if I lost my mind and ever owned a small dog, I'm sure dressing it up would be the highlight of my entire life and it would have tons of inexpensive yet stylish raincoats, and maybe even matching boots.
I liked her observation a lot about the French job description and hard work they must do to maintain cultural stereotypes, because as far as I can tell, no one in France really has a concrete job description-- my contract doesn't explain vital pieces of infomation like my salary or how many hours I really have to teach each semester (hence the reason I accepted all the hours I was scheduled for and did a ton of overtime without realizing it last year). Being in the throes of negotiating the right not to have to work any extra hours next semester and exceed my contract requirements, I'm definitely experiencing some fun surprise revelations regarding my job description, all of which were mysteriously not the case last year but are all, of course, highly convenient and all to my employer's advantage.
As I am fond of saying to other anglophones, it's no coincidence that Beckett wrote in French because everything is arbitrarily cloaked in mystery and the French administration only reveals little tidbits about your job, life, tax declaration, etc. one by one, much like a treasure hunt or a slow tantalizing striptease over the years and you, of course, never have all the information you need when you need it. The French bureaucratic universe really doesn't make any sense and seems mainly to be comprised of Rules That I Just Made Up. I once went to my bank 3 times within a 2 week period to make cash withdraws in person while I was waiting for a new ATM card and every single time, there was a different process to follow to make my withdraw. Psychotic, non?
On my way home today, I tried to imagine our linguistics professor's job. Who knows if she understands her contract or not, but when she takes the metro, she must always be on professional red alert. A large part of her class-- and I enjoy it a lot-- seems to be spotting metro ads with complicated linguistic puns that she can then make her students analyze and classify phonetically and phonemically. I like this because it is also about decoding a foreign system and often also includes new spelling rules that someone just made up. The ads are often way easier to understand than job contracts and French bureaucracy and at least the professor is there to explain them. Universities everywhere would probably have to stop teaching linguistics classes if advertising were suddenly banned from the metro. And there would probably be some convenient new line added to someone's job description to justify it.
I liked her observation a lot about the French job description and hard work they must do to maintain cultural stereotypes, because as far as I can tell, no one in France really has a concrete job description-- my contract doesn't explain vital pieces of infomation like my salary or how many hours I really have to teach each semester (hence the reason I accepted all the hours I was scheduled for and did a ton of overtime without realizing it last year). Being in the throes of negotiating the right not to have to work any extra hours next semester and exceed my contract requirements, I'm definitely experiencing some fun surprise revelations regarding my job description, all of which were mysteriously not the case last year but are all, of course, highly convenient and all to my employer's advantage.
As I am fond of saying to other anglophones, it's no coincidence that Beckett wrote in French because everything is arbitrarily cloaked in mystery and the French administration only reveals little tidbits about your job, life, tax declaration, etc. one by one, much like a treasure hunt or a slow tantalizing striptease over the years and you, of course, never have all the information you need when you need it. The French bureaucratic universe really doesn't make any sense and seems mainly to be comprised of Rules That I Just Made Up. I once went to my bank 3 times within a 2 week period to make cash withdraws in person while I was waiting for a new ATM card and every single time, there was a different process to follow to make my withdraw. Psychotic, non?
On my way home today, I tried to imagine our linguistics professor's job. Who knows if she understands her contract or not, but when she takes the metro, she must always be on professional red alert. A large part of her class-- and I enjoy it a lot-- seems to be spotting metro ads with complicated linguistic puns that she can then make her students analyze and classify phonetically and phonemically. I like this because it is also about decoding a foreign system and often also includes new spelling rules that someone just made up. The ads are often way easier to understand than job contracts and French bureaucracy and at least the professor is there to explain them. Universities everywhere would probably have to stop teaching linguistics classes if advertising were suddenly banned from the metro. And there would probably be some convenient new line added to someone's job description to justify it.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Coffee Flavored Contradictions
I flipflop back in forth and lose myself in contradictions of the bittersweet espresso variety. Life in Paris is a coffee-flavored dream come true and I really have nothing to complain about-- only 12 hours of teaching at the university, which I must admit, is not the most demanding of jobs; I now no longer comprehend how people can stand to be away from home 8 hours a day, 5 days a week; I have the leisure time to take a linguistics class that I like, I have friends of all different nationalities and extracurricular activities like going to Picasso or Impressionist pastel exhibits and seeing any of 600 movies playing in town.
However, this semi-charmed kind of life takes its toll-- I miss an office and seeing coworkers regularly instead of students and having more of a raison d'etre than deciding who gets to pass my class and who doesn't. Despite only 12 hours of teaching per week, I'm constantly preparing my classes, constantly behind on grading and consistently unproductive 2 days out of the week and then trying to finish everything wednesdays before my Thursday-Friday "workweek" starts. I feel idle and embarassed that I don't have a job to go to every day yet, also stressed and rushed because my supposedly minimal workload is always more that I thought it would be, and always draining at the end of the day but also highly unrewarding for me. Despite being lucky enough to have a part-time job that I can support myself with, I don't appreciate it. I look forward to the end of my contract because it's one of the least satisfying jobs I've ever had and teaching will never be my vocation, like I once hoped it would be, although, unfortunately, it seems to be the only job that France has decided I am qualified to do.
I often feel like my life has evolved a lot over the years, and yet I also feel like nothing's changed. Just like when I was a 22-year old college grad 8 years ago, I'm still looking for the perfect job, the perfect apartment and the perfect boyfriend. Instead of these things, what I've found, with all its coffee and contradictions, is Paris.
However, this semi-charmed kind of life takes its toll-- I miss an office and seeing coworkers regularly instead of students and having more of a raison d'etre than deciding who gets to pass my class and who doesn't. Despite only 12 hours of teaching per week, I'm constantly preparing my classes, constantly behind on grading and consistently unproductive 2 days out of the week and then trying to finish everything wednesdays before my Thursday-Friday "workweek" starts. I feel idle and embarassed that I don't have a job to go to every day yet, also stressed and rushed because my supposedly minimal workload is always more that I thought it would be, and always draining at the end of the day but also highly unrewarding for me. Despite being lucky enough to have a part-time job that I can support myself with, I don't appreciate it. I look forward to the end of my contract because it's one of the least satisfying jobs I've ever had and teaching will never be my vocation, like I once hoped it would be, although, unfortunately, it seems to be the only job that France has decided I am qualified to do.
I often feel like my life has evolved a lot over the years, and yet I also feel like nothing's changed. Just like when I was a 22-year old college grad 8 years ago, I'm still looking for the perfect job, the perfect apartment and the perfect boyfriend. Instead of these things, what I've found, with all its coffee and contradictions, is Paris.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Random Acts of Kindness
I've become somewhat cynical-- ok, extremely cynical-- about human nature after living in Paris for 2 years. I often joke that if I were to design a video game about living here, the object of the game would be to be as rude as possible to others in public places. For example, you'd get points for each time you bumped into someone on the sidewalk-- especially if there was plenty of room on either side of them and you could have easily avoided a gratuitous elbow jab. You'd get points each time you pushed someone on the metro, each time you sighed in frustration (there's a lot of melodramatic huffing and puffing to express general annoyance in Paris) and each time you said "pardon" in the rudest tone of voice possible and stalked past a group of confused elderly tourists stopped in the middle of the metro platform just to make sure they understood that you find them the most obnoxious creatures known to man, regardless of how much foreign money they pump into your local economy.
If you were a waiter, you'd get bonus points for each time you refused to bring clients the (free) carafe d'eau they ordered or refused to let them come in and just have a coffee between 12 and 1 pm at your restaurant because all the empty tables at that time are reserved only for imaginary hypothetical people who have not yet arrived, but there's a possibility that they might and they would order the whole overpriced brunch, which is often around 20 euros and you would therefore make more than 3 euros on these clients. It's kind of an all-or-nothing gamble of a business strategy and honestly, only Parisians would pay so much money for so little food. 20 euro brunch in Paris is essentially a glass of orange juice, coffee and yogurt and maybe a croissant, if you're lucky.
However, you'd get even more bonus points for random acts of kindness which are rare and miraculous in any capital city, but especially this one. I recently witnessed 2 and I now treasure these small considerate gestures in a city where the public sphere is often exasperating. On the RER last week-- and bare in mind that everyone is especially hateful towards others on public transit-- a foreign woman asked a French guy which stop Chatelet was. He said he thought it was in 2 stops, but then he got up and went downstairs to check the map and confirm. He then told her the names of all the stops before Chatelet and that he'd tell her when they were at Chatelet so that she knew when to get off.
I, of course, assumed that he would then ask for her phone number, or get off with her at Chatelet to follow and harass her and demand sexual favors in return. French men have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement when it comes to women and sex. For example, making eye contact or-- heaven help you-- smiling at a French guy will often result in extreme harassment and the assumption that after such provocative behavior, you clearly owe them some kind of sexual experience. However, RER Guy did not follow the tourist or ask which hotel she was staying at or even ask her phone number. Instead, he politely indicated which stop was Chatelet and wished her a good day when she got off. Wow, I thought, there's at least one decent guy on this train. Maybe there are even others, if he has brothers.
I was the direct recipient of the second recent random act of kindness, making it all the more extraordinary. I went to the Picasso exhibit at the Grand Palais Monday night with a friend and her coworker. Marion had a free pass that was good for 2 people, but since there were 3 of us, Marion and her friend were going to go in and buy her friend's ticket and then we would try to enter all together. However, the guy behind me in line has the same pass and no guest with him, so he offered to let me go in with him for free. He was really nice and he'd already seen the exhibit and told me which paintings were his favorites. He didn't hit on me, or imply that I owed him anything in return and after we entered together, we amicably went our seperate ways. After such rare and noble behaviour in a French man, I was actually somewhat disappointed that he hadn't asked for my phone number. I decided later that I should have offered to take him out for coffee to thank him.
I'd like to say to the stranger at the museum, thank you again and sorry I wasn't bold enough to offer you a coffee. I've resolved that if a stranger is ever nice to me again in Paris, I will not hesitate to propose a cafe de remerciement because positive reinforcement is the only way to encourage and reward desirable behavior, as any of the dog trainers from my last job would tell you. I also promptly decided that I wanted to get that same pass (a carte sesame, I think it's called) and that I like to think that I too would enable strangers to see world renowned exhibits for free when I didn't already have a guest with me. The ruder and more hostile your urban environment is, the more important it is to pay it forward. And that would be the only way to win my video game.
If you were a waiter, you'd get bonus points for each time you refused to bring clients the (free) carafe d'eau they ordered or refused to let them come in and just have a coffee between 12 and 1 pm at your restaurant because all the empty tables at that time are reserved only for imaginary hypothetical people who have not yet arrived, but there's a possibility that they might and they would order the whole overpriced brunch, which is often around 20 euros and you would therefore make more than 3 euros on these clients. It's kind of an all-or-nothing gamble of a business strategy and honestly, only Parisians would pay so much money for so little food. 20 euro brunch in Paris is essentially a glass of orange juice, coffee and yogurt and maybe a croissant, if you're lucky.
However, you'd get even more bonus points for random acts of kindness which are rare and miraculous in any capital city, but especially this one. I recently witnessed 2 and I now treasure these small considerate gestures in a city where the public sphere is often exasperating. On the RER last week-- and bare in mind that everyone is especially hateful towards others on public transit-- a foreign woman asked a French guy which stop Chatelet was. He said he thought it was in 2 stops, but then he got up and went downstairs to check the map and confirm. He then told her the names of all the stops before Chatelet and that he'd tell her when they were at Chatelet so that she knew when to get off.
I, of course, assumed that he would then ask for her phone number, or get off with her at Chatelet to follow and harass her and demand sexual favors in return. French men have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement when it comes to women and sex. For example, making eye contact or-- heaven help you-- smiling at a French guy will often result in extreme harassment and the assumption that after such provocative behavior, you clearly owe them some kind of sexual experience. However, RER Guy did not follow the tourist or ask which hotel she was staying at or even ask her phone number. Instead, he politely indicated which stop was Chatelet and wished her a good day when she got off. Wow, I thought, there's at least one decent guy on this train. Maybe there are even others, if he has brothers.
I was the direct recipient of the second recent random act of kindness, making it all the more extraordinary. I went to the Picasso exhibit at the Grand Palais Monday night with a friend and her coworker. Marion had a free pass that was good for 2 people, but since there were 3 of us, Marion and her friend were going to go in and buy her friend's ticket and then we would try to enter all together. However, the guy behind me in line has the same pass and no guest with him, so he offered to let me go in with him for free. He was really nice and he'd already seen the exhibit and told me which paintings were his favorites. He didn't hit on me, or imply that I owed him anything in return and after we entered together, we amicably went our seperate ways. After such rare and noble behaviour in a French man, I was actually somewhat disappointed that he hadn't asked for my phone number. I decided later that I should have offered to take him out for coffee to thank him.
I'd like to say to the stranger at the museum, thank you again and sorry I wasn't bold enough to offer you a coffee. I've resolved that if a stranger is ever nice to me again in Paris, I will not hesitate to propose a cafe de remerciement because positive reinforcement is the only way to encourage and reward desirable behavior, as any of the dog trainers from my last job would tell you. I also promptly decided that I wanted to get that same pass (a carte sesame, I think it's called) and that I like to think that I too would enable strangers to see world renowned exhibits for free when I didn't already have a guest with me. The ruder and more hostile your urban environment is, the more important it is to pay it forward. And that would be the only way to win my video game.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Goodbyes and bad love songs
I've been listening to this crooner James Blunt song called "Goodbye, my lover"-- I'm really not a fan, he's just somehow wildly popular in France-- but I suddenly find it achingly and heartbreakingly beautiful because of its use of the present perfect tense. It changes everything to say "you have been the one for me" instead of "you were". It implies that the singer is still in love with his ex because as any one of my students will tell you, we use the present perfect to describe experience and things that began in the past but continue into the present.
Unfortunately, the present is rarely perfect and sometimes you just have to change tenses.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVyggTKDcOE
Unfortunately, the present is rarely perfect and sometimes you just have to change tenses.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVyggTKDcOE
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Parisian Experience
There are many quintessentially Parisian experiences-- like warm baguettes, strolling along the Seine, velibing along the canal, seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, attending wine tastings, having people in cafes tell you they just love your terrible anglophone accent, drinking 3 espressos a day and reading Great French Novels that are all set in Paris and mention streets in your neighborhood.
However, the Quintessentially Parisian Experience that I have reserved for myself today is one of the less glamorous variety. I will be cleaning spots of black mould off the bathroom wall with bleach in a futile attempt to avoid being infected by abspetos and dying alone in my cold, humid apartment built in 1850.
However, the Quintessentially Parisian Experience that I have reserved for myself today is one of the less glamorous variety. I will be cleaning spots of black mould off the bathroom wall with bleach in a futile attempt to avoid being infected by abspetos and dying alone in my cold, humid apartment built in 1850.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Welcome to the Real World
The Matrix has me. And I love it. It's about time.
After a record 5 month wait, I finally have internet in my house, so this has its useless time wasting advantages like facebook quizzes about which popsicle flavor/dog breed/celebrity midget are you (and then, of course, emailing your results to every single person you know) and more vital life-affirming ones, like actually being able to talk to the family without worrying about my expensive French cell phone minutes, and finding a job and an apartment for next year.
My internet/TV connection has transformed my miniture frumpy ancient rabbit-eared TV with bad reception and 3 channels on a good day into a towering and sleek digital panther who confidently roams the communications jungle and remorselessly hunts and kills the less technologically-advanced fuzzy jungle creatures struggling to make their way only with their wireless networkless antennae. In my now vast galaxy of home entertainment, I have access to every radio station known to man, Arte, the BBC and for a limited time only, Canal +, and about 15,000 other channels.
My TV now does everything short of my taxes and I feel like we're beginning a very intimate relationship, as it can serve as an alarm clock, voice mailbox, TiVo-like recorder, pay-per-view provider, fax machine, travel agent, domestic slave, and ATM machine. No, I exagerate. The TiVo probably doesn't even work.
I'm suddenly slightly afraid of all my formerly innocuous appliances and what they might now be capable of-- like what if the oven plugs in and starts operating by satelite or hooks itself up to iTunes or, even worse, to that souped-up monster truck extreme makeover television of mine and I'll have to operate it from a safe distance with an instruction manual, 2 remote controls and its own power strip.
After a record 5 month wait, I finally have internet in my house, so this has its useless time wasting advantages like facebook quizzes about which popsicle flavor/dog breed/celebrity midget are you (and then, of course, emailing your results to every single person you know) and more vital life-affirming ones, like actually being able to talk to the family without worrying about my expensive French cell phone minutes, and finding a job and an apartment for next year.
My internet/TV connection has transformed my miniture frumpy ancient rabbit-eared TV with bad reception and 3 channels on a good day into a towering and sleek digital panther who confidently roams the communications jungle and remorselessly hunts and kills the less technologically-advanced fuzzy jungle creatures struggling to make their way only with their wireless networkless antennae. In my now vast galaxy of home entertainment, I have access to every radio station known to man, Arte, the BBC and for a limited time only, Canal +, and about 15,000 other channels.
My TV now does everything short of my taxes and I feel like we're beginning a very intimate relationship, as it can serve as an alarm clock, voice mailbox, TiVo-like recorder, pay-per-view provider, fax machine, travel agent, domestic slave, and ATM machine. No, I exagerate. The TiVo probably doesn't even work.
I'm suddenly slightly afraid of all my formerly innocuous appliances and what they might now be capable of-- like what if the oven plugs in and starts operating by satelite or hooks itself up to iTunes or, even worse, to that souped-up monster truck extreme makeover television of mine and I'll have to operate it from a safe distance with an instruction manual, 2 remote controls and its own power strip.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Autumn Sonata
In an extremely monumental city what I find most breathtaking at the moment in Paris is not the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur or the Pont d'Alexandre III, but the leaves that are changing color at Parc Monceau. Mainly because all those other monuments are always there, and generally look the same rather than suddenly being orange, yellow and red for a limited time only.
Despite all the natural beauty of Northern California, where I used to live, I always missed the blazing color of autumn and the changing of the seasons.
As the Parisian catacombs will remind you, the changing of seasons and passage of time leads inevitably to your death when eventually someone will bury you under Paris, stack your bones into attractive patterns and charge tourists to visit them. However, going to the park to see the temporary abstract expressionist arboreal art exhibit is free-- and has no macabre quotes to force you to confront your own mortality and to refrain from flash photography.
Despite all the natural beauty of Northern California, where I used to live, I always missed the blazing color of autumn and the changing of the seasons.
As the Parisian catacombs will remind you, the changing of seasons and passage of time leads inevitably to your death when eventually someone will bury you under Paris, stack your bones into attractive patterns and charge tourists to visit them. However, going to the park to see the temporary abstract expressionist arboreal art exhibit is free-- and has no macabre quotes to force you to confront your own mortality and to refrain from flash photography.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
French Phonetics
Love is like the "e instable" in the French phonetic alphabet. Even when it seems like it's there, it's still unstable and you're not sure if you should pronounce it or not.
And if you do, it somehow doesn't have the effect you hoped it would.
Je suis a la recherche d'un alphabet plus stable.
And if you do, it somehow doesn't have the effect you hoped it would.
Je suis a la recherche d'un alphabet plus stable.
Pumpkin Sculpting
To translate "carving pumpkins" into French, it's more like "sculpting pumpkins" ("tailler les citrouilles"). And the translation of Jack O' Lantern is something excessively long and artistic-sounding like "a pumpkin sculpted into the form of a visage."
This makes carving Jack O' Lanterns seem on par with other artistic milestones such as Michael Angelo's David, when in fact, as my French friends will soon disover, it mainly involves shovelling out pumpkin glop and requires only a very rudimentary mastery of basic geometric shapes-- notably, the triangle.
This makes carving Jack O' Lanterns seem on par with other artistic milestones such as Michael Angelo's David, when in fact, as my French friends will soon disover, it mainly involves shovelling out pumpkin glop and requires only a very rudimentary mastery of basic geometric shapes-- notably, the triangle.
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