Reve General? Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of the French Dream

Lots of people are familiar with the American Dream. My French students have even asked me if I believe in it, if I feel like my family illustrates it. Originally, it was of course for immigrants to come from their home countries to the new land of opportunity where the streets were paved with gold and pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make a better life for themselves and their children, since at that time there was no food in other countries like Ireland. Ellis Island, Lady liberty, give me your poor huddling masses, or whatever. In the more crass commercial terms of today, the American dream is to make loads of money with no academic education and few, if any, real qualifications. However, in reality, considering the global crisis-induced recession post-bailout economy, to find the kind of opportunity that America was once known for, you’ll probably have to go to China instead.

Which makes many expats abroad think about the national dreams of their respective chosen countries. Since Parisian life is very different than life outside of this great city, I thought more about what a Parisian dream would be, rather than the French dream. I don’t feel like I know enough about the entire country to generalize here, only having lived in Paris.

In Paris, I think there are a few contenders that rest below the collective consciousness as secret cherished hopes. The first one that comes to mind is to have your children attend a grande ecole(the equivalent of an ivy-league university) and thus be assured future success in the French ruling classes. Almost all politicians or people in impressive managerial positions in France attended not just a grande ecole, but probably the same one.

Another possibility is becoming a fonctionnaire (a French civil servant or state employee), possibly just because this is MY Parisian dream, and thus being garunteed lifetime job certainty regardless of actual job performance. This system, while great for the fonctionnaire, is highly illogical and makes it impossible for everyone else who has to try to work with fonctionnaires, like the general public. It explains a lot about why the bureaucracy is the way it is...

So what is the Parisian dream, ultimately? I often joke to the French that to me, it seems that the Parisian dream is to have a country house in Normandy. This is like having a big stamp of approval (stamps are important in the fonctionnaire-run bureaucracy here) of being bourgeois and successful. Country houses are shared within families and passed down among the generations like rare jewels. The best ones are in remote scenic areas within a 1-2 hour drive from Paris that get lots of sun and have strategically placed cows that dot the landscape. This is both aesthetic and functional. Pretty to look at and ensures locally available dairy products, which all French people are obsessed with.

The most successful Parisians then are those who can leave Paris every weekend if they want. On any given Fri evening, traffic getting out of Paris is so bad that it often takes about 3 hours just to get on the beltway and get the access ramp to the highway you need for your remote country house destination.

Sometimes Parisians look offended when I reveal my irreverent observation. Sometimes the laugh and agree by admitting that oui, bretagne est moins bien que normandie (see the bit about sunny weather). The thing about Paris is that although it’s a huge tourist destination, all actual residents love to leave Paris and spend the weekend in remote countryside villages instead. Paris is crowded, people are rude and everyone hates taking the metro. It’s polluted and “speed” (meaning fast-paced) and stressful. The countryside, however is the opposite of all these things. Petting the neighbor’s scenic goats or hiking through attractive forest trails or picking non-poisonous mushrooms or eating cheese on your terrace and sipping cocktails outdoors are apaysant and reposant, these are all the ways in which nature helps us forget the trials and tribulations of the city of light. The weekend in the country house in Normandy is not only relaxing, but allows urban escape, brings a family closer to the region where some or possibly most of its members grew up and reaffirms that generations of that family worked hard to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make a better life for future Parisian generations.

Stikes, Spares and Globalisation

Bowling alleys are the same the world over. Same lanes, balls, terrible shoes, video games, American pop music, smells and noises of pins going down and balls spitting out of the machine ready for you to pick up to knock down more pins.

I went to "Bowling Sympa" in Paris tonight and this is how I'm now able to make important cultural generalisations of this kind. The words strike and spare are even the same. Except that it's a boule, not a ball and the pins are called quilles (pronounced "key"). I drank a pastis instead of a beer while waiting my turn but we threatened to kick each other's butts (although in French) and double high fived each other for good coups, or shots, as I would have done at home.

I am unashamed to admit that I had a great time bowling as I kind of love any mixed up cultural mishmash experience because that's more or less my life-- I'm an American with British dual citizenship living in Paris...

Although bowling itself is naf and tacky, the last time I did in in California, it was fantastic, since it was with my coworkers who all embraced it ironically but had fun sincerely. Lots of San Francisco hipsters did things ironically. There was even an article about it once in one of the free weekly papers (themselves hotbeds of hipster coolness) that described this attitude with the image: "look, Kyle, I'm bowling. Just like dumb midwesterners. How ironic of me."

The only time I bowled since the coworker party was on a Wii at my cousin's house in the US and believe me, real anything is better than the virtual video game version...

My French friends had a great time, too and it was even their idea. We intended to go to an agressively hip bowling alley/night club on the Champs Elysees (the idea of chic bowling is highly surreal-- it's like Sex and the City meets The Big Lebowski and the Dude developed a thing for Prada) but it was rented out for a chic private bowling party in prada that night. Shocked that anyone else in Paris could possibly be seized with the urge to bowl at 6 pm on a Saturday, we located another bowling alley thanks to another American export, the iPhone. Who knew there was more than one bowling alley in Paris? I was, however, already well aware that there are probably easily about 10 million iPhones in Paris.

Politically incorrect as it may be, I enjoyed this instance of globalisation (I even recognised the brand Brunswick which seems to design the lane and pin placing machines since I remember seeing it in American bowling alleys). I like the side of France that finds tacky American stuff fun, just becuase I do, too. This makes up for other more infuriating apects of life in France, like negativity, French men always thinking they know everything, the administration and no one ever doing any work. So spare me your strikes, France. The next greve will just make me think of bowling...

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

"Can you drive?" a friend asked me yesterday. "Of course I can, I'm American," I replied. Although I couldn't resist adding smugly that unlike most Americans, I can handle a standard shift transmission with my eyes closed. Although not literally, as this is a dubious driving technique. Which many Parisians, in fact, recommend. "The key to successful driving in Paris," they explain to me in tones reserved for revealing the greatest secrets of the universe, "is NOT to pay attention to what other people are doing and just continue on your way. If you have to turn, turn. If you have to merge, merge. You can't look at the other cars, otherwise you'll be paralyzed and unable to go anywhere."

Right. This gives you some insight into the safe, sane and legal traffic maneuvers regularly practiced in the City of Light.

Another highly strange traffic law in this country is that merging traffic has the right of way. This is called Priorité de droite. If you're already on the highway, up to YOU to make room for traffic coming off the on ramp onto the road; they have the right of way, not you.

Despite the obligation of allowing merging traffic to cut ahead of me for no real logical reason, I love nothing more than headin' out on the highway, lookin' for adventure.

Or not.

Although this isn't an area that I've researched much yet (que les recherches commencent!), I'm sure getting a French driver's license is annoying, lengthy, expensive and Kafka-esque in its bureaucratic complexities-- or caprices. I've already heard wildly different testimonies about the ease/difficulty of getting a French DL if you're a foreigner with a valid license from your country. I've gotten advice ranging from "go to the prefecture to request a "validation" and then wait a year" to "I drive on an expired American license and have never had a problem" to "go to Ireland and that the test there; it's much cheaper." And cost estimates for lessons and the exam fees in France for folks who already have a foreign license have ranged from 100-200 euros to 850 euros... Still less than the expected 1 or 2 grand that French kids are expected to pay, however.

This seems about right, the lack of helpful standard information. This is France, after all, where the policy du jour depends on which civil servant happens to be in the office that day. I once had my ATM card stolen and had to make cash withdraws at the bank in person for about a month. For the 3 withdraws I made, EACH one involved a different process. Because each time, someone different helped me.

If this is what the bank does, imagine what happens when the national legal system is involved. Especially considering a driver's license in France is valid for LIFE. While you may think that police involvement would suggest an actual easy transparent process that would be the same for everyone, think again. It probably makes it all the more complicated and secretive and will require even MORE of the usual French scavenger hunt (go where for clue #4?) to find all the relevant pieces of information needed to complete an administrative task... It's sure to be a long and winding road without clearly marked exits. And YOU, as a driver on this road, don't even have the right of way.

Disco and pedagogy...

"I never liked English in high school until I discovered this one anglophone singer." [I assume she'll say Freddie Mercury or David Bowie, both singers capable of changing someone's life and inspiring a newfound appreciation of the English language and wait for it. But no, hang on, what's this...?] "His name was Rod Stewart. The song was Do You Think I'm Sexy?"-- Adult student in my Toeic prep class.

Bad Romance and Post-Feminist Thought 101

My cousin, upon seeing Lady Gaga's weirdo Bad Romance video with all its futuristic sci-fi latex: "There are probably students at Bryn Mawr writing papers about this right now."

Ice Breaker

Me to a new student: Hi, there, I'm Blythe.
Student: Me, too.
Me: No, you're not! That's my name. It's not an adjective that means pleased to meet you!

The Next Level in 21st Century Dating

"I feel like I'm in so much more of a legitimate relationship, now that we've made friends on a social networking site."

Planet of the Absurd

"...So at the RATP (Parisian Transportation Authority), each department gets an end of the year bonus. Like people who work on weekends get one, people who work evenings, people who did extra hours, people who were injured on the job, etc. There's even a bonus for people who don't get bonuses."

Life, Love and Linguistics

L'amour est comme le 'e instable' en phonétique française-- parfois il est là mais non-prononcé, parfois il n'est pas là et c'est juste une erreur de pronunciation...

Iguana Alerts, Non-Violent Neighbors and Unpronounced 'H's

Some recent quotes:

A friend in Fort Lauderdale on the cold in Florida: "hibernating iguanas have been falling from the trees; the news said to watch out for falling iguanas."

My neighbors when the lights were out on EVERY floor in my building and I ran into them in the dark coming home at 2 am Sunday morning : "Don't worry, Madame, we're not going to attack you."

At a dinner party:
Me, reacting to hearing an anecdote: "What, another story about you in your underwear!?"

On discovering the joys of agriculture: "Woofing-- you know, that program 'Working On Organic Farms...'"

On English sentence structure (or um, the French advantage):

Me: So, in English we use compound nouns which often make English sentences shorter than French ones. Remember when I checked your translation? Everything is longer in French.
Male student (flirtatiously) : Why, thank you.
Me: I meant sentence length.

After a recent theater date:
Me, to my French cavalier: "I swear, I had no idea there would be so many naked men in this play..." I think he was traumatised, haven't heard from him since...

At the Irish dance lesson:
French announcer explaining a new step: "This is called 'i-gate.' For those of you who've studied English, it's spelled with an 'h'."
Me, to my adorable French partner: "yes, and you have to specify that because it's not like anyone in France would actually pronounce the 'h'..."

Smile, C'est La Revolution!

The Disillusioned Suburban Youth who usually drink, smoke and sexually harass women in one of my neighborhood metro stations (obviously, the sleazier one) had a new one for me today with was oddly sincere, charming and made me smile even bigger:

"You look happy, Madame, what happened in your life today?"

Normally, no one smiles in Parisian public transport. It's kind of against the Parisian code of life as we know it. I think I've never smiled in the metro ever before for this very reason.

Instead, you have to put on your "metro face" which is stony and expressionless yet also hints at deep overwheming depression and untold suffering induced by being forced to share space with your idiot fellow commuters and the bumbling RATP bureaucracy (the French transportation authority) that morning. Your general attitude should say something like, no one has ever experienced such soul crushing existential merde as I have this morning. It also helps if you sigh dramatically (the ever eloquent French "pfft" sound) and roll your eyes a lot.

I was glad that the local neighborhood thugs, in their devotion to rejecting the dominant paradigm, appreciated the deviant social behaviour which is a rebelliously irrepressible smile in the Paris metro.

Becoming Parisian, It's Easy...?

I had a drink with an American friend who loves to make these great vlogs (video blogs) and recently did one about the top 10 reasons that she'll never be Parisian and the top 10 ways in which she HAS become Parisian.

It's very Anglophone to have lists like these. My Dutch and Italian friends, for example, are UNABLE to name their top 5 breakup songs of all-time, if you can imagine. It is no coincidence that the author of High Fidelity (featuring about 5 million lists of this kind) is British.

Among the reasons in favor of Parisianess was that she now uses non-verbal communication. I must confess that I do, too. To express disdain, frustration or annoyance, the French (and some expats, too) just sigh dramatically. They huff and puff in annoyance. This sigh is even transcribed verbally in books, text messages and IM chats as "Pfft."

I've also noticed that when I visit my family in the American university town where they live, I am horrified on a daily basis by American college students who wear baggy sweatshirts, sweatpants and running shoes on a daily basis. To me, it looks like they're wearing their pajamas. In Europe, people only wear sweatpants when they're exercising. Which they don't do in public, but only in small, overpriced gyms or city parks.

For me, I think one of my most French habits, besides sighing and a physical aversion to baggy sweatsuits, is the use of terrible sentence structure in English. In French, you often introduce a noun or idea and then subsequently make a comment on it using the pronoun "it" with an understood antecedent. For example, "the snow, it's pretty." This is pure French ("la neige, c'est beau."). Obviously, in English, we would say, "the snow is pretty," as normal sentence structure is subject, verb, object.

Or as the French would phrase it: normal sentence structure, it's subject, verb, object.

But normal, what is it?

The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Czech Proverb

"Learn a new language and get a new soul."

Flirting Through Firewalls

Once women waited for men to call. Now we look for each other on Facebook or wait for them to email (or respond to an email) and worry that their spam filter-- or ours-- might prevent the beginning of a beautiful friendship...

As the Bangles asked in the 1980s, "is this burning an eternal... firewall?"

Our Father Who Art in English Class

I have a new student whose last name is God. No kidding, I'm teaching God English.

As you might expect, his level is quite good. God is from another country (God's country) and in his native language, his last name refers to a little black snake that brings good luck. If you see one, something good will happen.

This is why I enjoy teaching-- for the cultural exchange, what I learn from the students and exposure to different perspectives. Depending on the country, one small word can mean either 'basis of world religion' or 'good luck snake!' And both are culturally important, just in different contexts.

Running Down a Dream

Feeling like it's time to go back to an old source for some new goals. I loved running when I lived in California and did a few half marathons, one of which was a highlight of my short (hey, everything's relative) life. It's unfortunately not so easy to run in Paris, so I've lost the habit-- you either have to do it at the crack of dawn so that you don't end up trapped in the pedestrian throng or take the metro to various jogger-friendly parks. If you run on the streets in the evening, you get incredulous and bemused stares. Exercising in public is generally alien behavior in the French metrop.

However, too bad, because I'm looking for some new inspiration for an old habit that I once adored and I'm willing to take the metro to Parc Monceau 3+ times a week which is conveniently a 1 km loop.

Thinking a springtime half marathon is in order and this one caught my fancy, mainly because it is in one of the most beautiful towns I have ever visited: http://www.marathon-annecy.com/

Running 13.1 miles (or 20.1 km) is in many ways an easier goal to meet that my other big one for 2010 which is to find a better job. This one depends a lot on the whims of others, while half marathon training depends more on my own whims...