And the Cesar Goes To...

Paris, France can boast many titles-- city of light, centre of culture, home of great wine, cheese, museums, artists, some musicians.

Here's a new one: the highest concentration of unhappy people, possibly in the world. France has the highest rate of anti-depressant consumption in all of Europe and most of the French population lives in Paris.

It doesn't seem to be helping.

As Tolstoy once said (ha, try to work that into everyday conversation!), all happy families are boring. Unhappy ones are interesting, since there are so many ways to be unhappy. I don't agree that being depressed makes you especially deep or complex, let alone intriguing. It seems like it mainly just makes you rude in the metro.

The End of the Affair

A disillusioned ex-pat friend of mine told me that she sees Paris as a beautiful glamourous ice princess like Catherine Deneuve or Carole Lombard with a blond chignon, big dark sunglasses, expensive jewelery, a trenchcoat and heels, who you're initially fascinated and seduced by and then when you get to know her, you realise there's nothing inside.

A little extreme, maybe. I'm sometimes (ok, often) disappointed in my Paris experience, too, but I also think that there are some very positive points about Paris-- the shallow ice queen probably still goes to amazing museum exhibits and the comedie francaise, takes classes at the louvre and has become more or less bilingual-- even if just seems to serve to show her how she will never feel truly at home in French culture because it's too different from the Anglophone world, this is still an important realisation.

Living in 2 languages-- or more like one and a half, since I spend most of my time teaching English and much less time socialising in French, we all end up collecting lots of little vocab/cultural differences. For example, when my expat friend mentioned that Paris seduced her, it makes me think that in French, you can use the verb seduire in a very casual way to mean something you like or something that impresses you. Like an effective tv commercial can seduce you. Or a cute baby can seduce everyone (I know, it sounds weird and incestuous). Or a student can seduce the jury. One of my students once told me this in English and I told him, no if you say you have to seduce the jury, it sounds like you will compliment the jury, bring them flowers, invite them to dinner and then take them back to your place. We generally are less figurative about seduction in English.

Paris still impresses, I guess in that sense I'm seduced, but not completely convinced or conquored, as they say in French. I don't always like her, but I'm not at the point where I'm about to move away. However, at the same time, there are probably other cities that would suit me better.

Living abroad makes an ordinarily introspective person about 10 times more so. To some extent this is probably good for you. Taken to an extreme, it's probably a waste of energy. I'm still trying to find a balance.

I imagine a more down to earth and friendlier city like Montreal would wear a ratty old ski jacket because what's important is that it keeps her warm not how she looks in it and she'd laugh loudly and smile a lot and maybe have messy hair instead of a perfect platinum knot a la Catherine Deneuve. But then again, I also don't really know what seduire means in Canadian French. Life might not necessarily be easier to negotiate there.

"La prochaine fois, je prendrai le bus."-- Grand Corps Malade

Like everyone who lives here, I sometimes find this city spectacular and I sometimes find it unlivable (sp? I only created that word after saying "invivable" in French...) Lately, I've been oscillating between the 2 extremes, as usual, but ultimately this week, I ended up leaning more towards the unlivable side of the spectrum. I still have a hard time dealing with how inconsiderate most people are in public. There's an agressivity that you see here-- especially in the metro during rush hour-- that I sometimes find truly upsetting.

A recent torturous metro commute:

A man pushed his way onto the crowded metro during rush hour, we're talking human bulldozer. After he shoved me, I said, 'I'm sorry, monsieur, there isn't any room, please don't push us.' He replied, 'yes, there is room. If I push, it's so I can stand at the back of the car to leave room for other people. You should think of other people, madame, you're not the only one on the metro.'

Incredible, eh? I'm selfish because he pushed me. Perhaps he expects the nobel peace prize for pushing people on the metro for the greater good of humanity, for the hypothetical comfort of future passengers, a small sacrifice for the selfishly non-pushy passengers actually on the train.

Honestly, only in a Parisian's twisted and self-absorbed world view would this make *me* the rude one.

Semantics

I realised today that I'd completely misunderstood the lyrics to this one song I like (an electronica bossa nova rap called Dans La Merco Benz by Bemjamin Biolay). Instead of professing his love, the singer actually says he doesn't feel it anymore.

"Mon amour est lasse," not "mon amoureuse."

Funny how these can sound similar.

Blog posting?

Who has time for that?

I've been working a lot lately. Honestly looking forward to forced vacation over the holidays (which I thought I would dread). That would be when all my students take their vacations, thus forcing me to do the same, as I will have no one in Paris to teach English to. The week of Dec. 21 should be relatively quiet. But it's crazy busy until then.

Ultimately, I'm happier working more hours but with interested, motivated adult students in Paris then fewer hours with bratty, unmotivated ones in the suburbs. But it's tiring, allright. I often need a lot of quiet time in the evening since it's draining being dynamic for a living. Especially if you do it for 32 hours a week, like I will next week. Yikes. I recently moved to a new apartment which I love and this has been a great place to come home to and cocoon after a long day of being winsome, patient, interesting, engaged and capable of explaining English verb tenses.

Today I had some cancellations (free time during the week for the first time in ages) and how did I spend it? Doing errands and French administrative tasks, of course. Things like updating my carte vitale, laundry, updating my address at the bank, scheduling future classes with my students. I guess stuff that regular people do on weekends. I, however, work on Saturdays. While Sunday is my day of rest, nothing is open then and I am therefore always one step behind the French administration. Not that they really advance that much, though, so it's usually easy to catch up.

Boxes make me nauseous

I'm moving again. But this time I'm being an adult about it. Meaning that I hired a mover with a van. He calls it the Man Van, or the Camionnette de l'homme. Packing things in boxes to take in the van instead of suitcases to take in the metro. Which I guess shows that my station of life has slightly improved since my last metro/taxi moves. Although I did have an actual boyfriend who helped for one of the past moves. But then again, he had a bicycle, not a man van.

All that stands between my nice apartment with a balcony with a view of Sacre Coeur and me is: 6 flights of stairs, a giant suitcase, 12 boxes, 3 pieces of furniture and a cross town drive.

Ils twitent, donc ils sont

Doesn't Twitter sound like the most boring thing imaginable? I don't think I could ever really care about it. I think it's for the same people who feverishly update their facebook status from their cell phones. Because they just have to tell everyone when they're eating a bagel and are so caught up in the urgent nature of this breaking news that they can't wait for the old computer to crank up. I mean, that takes like 30 whole seconds and by then they might be done with their bagel and doing something else. Like drinking orange juice. Oops, time for a new update.

Even this post about Twitter is boring. And while Twitter is also boring, this post unfortunately is not, therefore a Twitter update. It somehow escapes this syllogismic logic because it's not appopriate Twitter length as it's over 140 characters, making it too long for our short attention span self-obsession. And uses complete sentences.

Twitter might, however, be useful for ESL lessons working on use of the present continuous, though. Perhaps this will change the way we teach English verb tenses abroad.

Although if Parisians twitted, they'd probably stay away from hyperactive Anglo-Saxon "I'm making coffee, and reading the paper, painting the house and investing in the stock market" twits and might find this a very foreign concept. They'd probably tend to write things more like, "I hate all of my fellow metro commuters." Or "bof" or if feeling more eloquent, their unique brand of incomprehensible philosophy like "modality is at once a concept and a theory." Ultimately, though, perhaps they'd try to put into words the most eloquent of French sentiments, "Pfft."

Getting the Message Across-- in Innovative and Delicious Ways!

What's the most effective way to send out a national message about breast cancer awareness? Advertising in the metro? Articles in the paper? TV spots? Organize fundraising events? Print up t-shirts?

Mais, non.

Ask all the bakeries to print it on their baguette wrappers.

This week, the bakeries in about half of the districts in Paris all wrapped their baguettes in paper containing a breast cancer awareness message informing women over the age of 50 that they needed breast exams every 2 years. Even more bakeries will participate in the older woman breast cancer awarness campaign next year.

France is serious not only about its baguette consumption, but also about the health and well-being of older women's breasts.

See the link below if you read French and don't believe me:

http://www.paris.fr/portail/accueil/Portal.lut?page_id=1&document_type_id=2&document_id=74545&portlet_id=21961

Attention, Ikea Shoppers

While there is always a feeling of otherness and being an outsider that clings to us foreigners like the odor of a camembert that you had in the fridge 5 days ago, today France was very literal about this figurative outsider status when parisian crowds prevented me from finding a parking place and thus entering the shrine to home nesting that is Ikea.

Perhaps I shouldn't read too much into it, but I'm sure the Montreal Ikea ALWAYS has available parking. I'm also slowly starting to realise that Paris may not be where I will ultimately nest. This is not a decision I made based on the Ikea parking situation, but it makes a neat parallel, doesn't it?

Not only was Ikea crowded, but people were out in droves today for a ridiculous little suburban yardsale (I occasionally visit suburbs, especially since the only people I know with cars tend to live in them, as this the only way to ensure available parking) and they parked in every apartment complex driveway, available patch of roadside space, along the side of the highway and even in some little used lanes. Since apparently we don't really need to use all of them. Not when there's a YARDSALE going on, for heaven's sake. Why not stationner le citroen on the autoroute? Maybe we'll find an inexpensive coffee table. Or some used power tools.

This shows the desperate lack of social activities in the suburbs, I think, that a yardsale had the whole place more parked up today than the city of Berkeley, CA during a Cal game.

All of Ile-de-France seemed bafflingly devoted to going to extreme lengths in the pursuit of home decoration this afternoon. True to my fighting can-do spirit, I gave up and went home.

Ah, well, another thread in life's rich tapestry. Which is probably for sale at the Troc et Puce Yardsale or Ikea as the perfect home accessory.

Being Indifferent

I guess most people are. [Shrug]. Bof.

Pros and Cons

Things that are hard in France:
Opening a bank account
Starting internet service with Free
Finding a well-paying job
Finding an apartment
Making friends
Meeting men
Getting paid for overtime hours
Feeling like you actually live in France when you speak English all day (inevitable when you're an English teacher!)

Things that are easy in France:
Doing money transfers
Filling out French tax forms
Starting internet service with Darty
Getting apartment insurance
Finding a low-paying job
Finding yourself lost in the crowd
Impressing people by complaining
Communicating through sighing and using humourous facial expressions
Feeling a bit like a cartoon character-- or like you're IN a cartoon. Or a surrealist painting. Or the theater of the absurd.

At the moment, Paris is:

Ancient civilizations at the Louvre, Marivaux plays and Tiffany exhibits. And photocopies. I am more or less a professional photocopier. Or would that be photocopiest?

My whole job hinges upon locating relevant material to photocopy, going over it with my students, and pretending in this way to teach them things. They seem pleased with my photocopy choices for the most part. Besides explaining photocopies, I'm also a professional conversationalist.

Paris is also apartment-hunting stess and shock at exorbitant rents mingled with simultaneous relief to be living under socialism despite the current rental market. The French government will now officially reimburse me 100% of costs related to my rare and expensive metabolic problem. Hoping they will also similarly help me pay my sure-to-be-expensive rent. As about 300% of my salary is deducted to pay for various welfare programs, feel no shame in applying for one.

So Much to Live For-- or Job Satisfaction Among English Teachers at French Universities

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>

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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