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.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
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.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Presidentielle 2008
I just sent off my voting ballot-- Fed Ex "special election rate" cost me 17 euros, but this is a small price to pay to participate in democracy. Especially democracy in the form of voting AGAINST McCain-Palin to try to prevent 4 more years of the same catastrophic Bush policies from ruining the country. I was talking to my dad recently and he said the image of America in the world made him so sad now. Once (like in 1850 during the potato famine), it was a way of life that people in other countries might have envied and admired and even immigrated to attain.
Now we have the 700 billion dollar bank bailout and the Republican party claiming that Sarah Palin seeing Russia from her house counts as foreign policy experience.
Lately with the election only a week away, I've spent a lot of my time defending the American public to the French and assuring them Sarah Palin is a wildly underqualified psychotic fascist and that we ARE ready to have a "president noir"-- and have become very passionate and defensive... Just because it would probably never happen in France, doesn't mean it's impossible in the US, as even Spike Lee once pointed out. I'm especially fond of quoting Spike Lee on this topic. And then the common response in France (from someone French or otherwise) is to inform me that if Obama's elected, he'll just be assassinated by one of his own bodyguards. This consipracy theory seems to come from a sketch on a news parody show called Les Gignols de l'info, which features muppets, one of whom is a Sylvester Stallone-like Obama bodyguard who suggests that his job is actually to assassinate his boss, not protect him. A little cynical, insulting and reductive about ethnic relations in America, non?
Many a francais seems to think this assassination theory is God's literal truth and that the political muppet show is actually a documentary about real life in the US, despite the puppets. Or maybe they think we all really look like Jim Henson's workshop, but fatter.
If I might make a small suggestion, maybe basing political opinions on puppet shows is not the most intellectual approach to international politics.
Obviously, I'm especially sensitive to the image of the US abroad lately because of the international scrutiny that the election receives, but also it seems like the more people here consider America, the more hostility is expressed. For example, it really seemed like my hairdresser recently was trying her best to recite every single negative annecdote she'd ever heard about the US. Like that 2 of her clients had disasterous hair cuts/dye jobs in New York and "you'd think that in the US they know how to do hair, but they don't." Since there are clearly only these 2 hair salons in all 3,000 square miles of America.
She also told me about an American client who only got her hair cut in France because all salons anywhere in the hexagon were better than those in the US. Really, I asked her, passive-agressively a la parisienne, among my American friends, it's the opposite. They wait to go back to the US for their haircuts because they don't trust French hair salons since they never listen to the client and think their opinion is always the right and only one.
Having exausted the errors of American hairdressers, Claire the coiffeuse then turned to politics and in typical French bulldog fashion when ahead and gave me her opinion of all political candidates, which I couldn't help thinking, if the roles were reversed and I were coiffing a French woman in the US, I would never say anything like as insensitive to a foreign person like, "oh hello, there. Sarkozy is a shallow racist bloodthirsy capitalist wannabe celebrity destroying French social systems, culture and democracy." Even if I wanted to express that same idea, it would be phrased more like: "in the US, the image we have of Sarkozy is that he likes fame and power and isn't a fan of immigrants, how do more people see him in France?"
Claire then mentioned a radio broadcast where conservatives were quoted as calling Obama "une singe" (a monkey), which is obviously some freakish fringe opinion since he's the preferred candidate at the moment and ahead in the polls. I can say with confidence that the vast majority of the American population is aware that he is a homo sapien. The singe story sounds typical of the French media to seek the biggest weirdos imaginable (unfortunately, folks like this are always around somewhere to oblige foreign journalists) and make it seem like they are representative of the entire American population. She talked at length about how outrageous this attitude was-- "can you imagine? They don't even recognize him as a human being!" Finally, to shut her up, I said, yes, it's deplorable, sounds like the Front National in France. "Oh, but it's worse," she assured me. "Ah, bon?" I replied witheringly, "didn't they almost win the 2002 presidential election?" The phrase "ah, bon" can express many varying degrees of disbelief, disapproval and outright contempt. French has so many polite ways of saying bugger off.
The other latest Annoying Election Question that even NPR-like radio station France Inter has started debating is why Obama doesn't call himself a "metis," because that's what he is as someone half white and half Kenyan (this translates as "mixed" or "half-blood"). And then they say that this all has to do with the history of slavery and American racism. Obviously, this history does color a lot of ethnic relations in the US and no country is a perfect racism-free one. I'm still trying to find a good way to explain to them that everyone in the US has roots in different countries, some European and some not, so we're all mixed, this term doesn't mean anything and we don't talk endlessly about it because unlike France, we don't actually assume that everyone should be white. Rather than having a uniform term for mixed ethnicity, I think we tend to be more specific about ethnic heritage through strategic use of hyphens, like Asian-American, Dutch-Indonesian, etc.
Anyway, despite the dire political asssasination predictions of the muppets in their oracle-like wisdom and the inability of American hairdressers to do a dye job correctly, I have confidence that Obama will remain ahead in the polls and that the rest of the world will see a new side of America come November 4. To which most French people would probably respond with an
"ah, bon?"
Now we have the 700 billion dollar bank bailout and the Republican party claiming that Sarah Palin seeing Russia from her house counts as foreign policy experience.
Lately with the election only a week away, I've spent a lot of my time defending the American public to the French and assuring them Sarah Palin is a wildly underqualified psychotic fascist and that we ARE ready to have a "president noir"-- and have become very passionate and defensive... Just because it would probably never happen in France, doesn't mean it's impossible in the US, as even Spike Lee once pointed out. I'm especially fond of quoting Spike Lee on this topic. And then the common response in France (from someone French or otherwise) is to inform me that if Obama's elected, he'll just be assassinated by one of his own bodyguards. This consipracy theory seems to come from a sketch on a news parody show called Les Gignols de l'info, which features muppets, one of whom is a Sylvester Stallone-like Obama bodyguard who suggests that his job is actually to assassinate his boss, not protect him. A little cynical, insulting and reductive about ethnic relations in America, non?
Many a francais seems to think this assassination theory is God's literal truth and that the political muppet show is actually a documentary about real life in the US, despite the puppets. Or maybe they think we all really look like Jim Henson's workshop, but fatter.
If I might make a small suggestion, maybe basing political opinions on puppet shows is not the most intellectual approach to international politics.
Obviously, I'm especially sensitive to the image of the US abroad lately because of the international scrutiny that the election receives, but also it seems like the more people here consider America, the more hostility is expressed. For example, it really seemed like my hairdresser recently was trying her best to recite every single negative annecdote she'd ever heard about the US. Like that 2 of her clients had disasterous hair cuts/dye jobs in New York and "you'd think that in the US they know how to do hair, but they don't." Since there are clearly only these 2 hair salons in all 3,000 square miles of America.
She also told me about an American client who only got her hair cut in France because all salons anywhere in the hexagon were better than those in the US. Really, I asked her, passive-agressively a la parisienne, among my American friends, it's the opposite. They wait to go back to the US for their haircuts because they don't trust French hair salons since they never listen to the client and think their opinion is always the right and only one.
Having exausted the errors of American hairdressers, Claire the coiffeuse then turned to politics and in typical French bulldog fashion when ahead and gave me her opinion of all political candidates, which I couldn't help thinking, if the roles were reversed and I were coiffing a French woman in the US, I would never say anything like as insensitive to a foreign person like, "oh hello, there. Sarkozy is a shallow racist bloodthirsy capitalist wannabe celebrity destroying French social systems, culture and democracy." Even if I wanted to express that same idea, it would be phrased more like: "in the US, the image we have of Sarkozy is that he likes fame and power and isn't a fan of immigrants, how do more people see him in France?"
Claire then mentioned a radio broadcast where conservatives were quoted as calling Obama "une singe" (a monkey), which is obviously some freakish fringe opinion since he's the preferred candidate at the moment and ahead in the polls. I can say with confidence that the vast majority of the American population is aware that he is a homo sapien. The singe story sounds typical of the French media to seek the biggest weirdos imaginable (unfortunately, folks like this are always around somewhere to oblige foreign journalists) and make it seem like they are representative of the entire American population. She talked at length about how outrageous this attitude was-- "can you imagine? They don't even recognize him as a human being!" Finally, to shut her up, I said, yes, it's deplorable, sounds like the Front National in France. "Oh, but it's worse," she assured me. "Ah, bon?" I replied witheringly, "didn't they almost win the 2002 presidential election?" The phrase "ah, bon" can express many varying degrees of disbelief, disapproval and outright contempt. French has so many polite ways of saying bugger off.
The other latest Annoying Election Question that even NPR-like radio station France Inter has started debating is why Obama doesn't call himself a "metis," because that's what he is as someone half white and half Kenyan (this translates as "mixed" or "half-blood"). And then they say that this all has to do with the history of slavery and American racism. Obviously, this history does color a lot of ethnic relations in the US and no country is a perfect racism-free one. I'm still trying to find a good way to explain to them that everyone in the US has roots in different countries, some European and some not, so we're all mixed, this term doesn't mean anything and we don't talk endlessly about it because unlike France, we don't actually assume that everyone should be white. Rather than having a uniform term for mixed ethnicity, I think we tend to be more specific about ethnic heritage through strategic use of hyphens, like Asian-American, Dutch-Indonesian, etc.
Anyway, despite the dire political asssasination predictions of the muppets in their oracle-like wisdom and the inability of American hairdressers to do a dye job correctly, I have confidence that Obama will remain ahead in the polls and that the rest of the world will see a new side of America come November 4. To which most French people would probably respond with an
"ah, bon?"
A Divorce, a Sensuality Coach and 5 Good Friends
I found myself eating a pastry called a divorce and watching Star Academy, a reality TV/karaoke competition (the French version of American Idol), while the wannabe future French Idols took sensuality lessons from a sensuality coach (as I often assure others when I tell any story set in France, I am not kidding) to prepare for a song called Undress Me. This was probably a new low in defining what it means to be single. It also occurred to me then that maybe I would feel more sensual if I weren’t stuffing my face with what is essentially a double chocolate and coffee-flavored éclair, or wearing 3 sweaters because for the first time in my illustrious career of illegal apartment sublets, heat is no longer included in my rent, or too lazy to unfold the sofa bed anymore at night. I’m used to sleeping alone, as well as watching tv and eating colorfully named pastries alone.
I gave my writing students an extract from Brigit Jones’s Diary this week and it made me think about being 30 and single in a European capital city. Although my friends aren’t yet divided into smug marrieds and singletons, in Brigitspeak, when I visited my friends in California over the summer, they were all paired off in committed relationships, living together in suburbs, tending gardens and it goes without saying, “I” was replaced by “we.” Maybe if I’d stayed in the US, I would have that, too and I’d also use the first person plural pronoun as there would be no other major challenges in my life besides relationships because language and culture would pose no problem.
A characteristic of American ex-pats, I think, is that we tend to think, arrogantly, perhaps, that after living in Paris, moving anywhere else imaginable would be easy, even a space bubble colony run by aliens on Mars. At least the bureaucracy is more reasonable here, all former Paris dwellers would say approvingly, and the sidewalks are cleaner. Living in dangerous, rude, pressed-for-time Manhattan would be like a walk in central park after the challenges of Paris. While there’s definitely the happy fluffy croissant side of life here, like watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle, seeing the dome of Sacré Coeur from in front of my house or sitting in a café for 3 hours with an espresso and no one rushing you to buy something else or leave, there’s also the negative side, maybe call it the boudin noir side, like the metro during rush hour where everyone glares, pushes and generally hates you, or the long lines at the grocery store at 7 pm, or waiting 6 months for internet installation.
What I’ve got in Paris is a circle of international friends, which is already something, and on occasion, I fold out my untrained in sensuality sofa bed. Quick, what would Star Academy sensuality coach do? Judging from the 2 minutes I saw of the show, she would wriggle her shoulders, ask me to imagine I were naked on a desert island, shriek, yes, yes, and then some teenage boy contestant would share with viewers excessive details about how hot the sensuality expert made him. I think making a teenage boy hot is not great evidence of advanced sensuality skills, more just of being a living, breathing woman.
In one of my favorite book series, Tales of the City, beautiful love letters to quirky liberal drug-saturated San Francisco in the 70s that some of my closest friends devoured when we were all together in California this summer, a character says that at this point in her life (she was probably 30), instead of having a lover, she’d settle for 5 good friends. I’d prefer to have both, since these don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but in reality they often are.
If I’d stayed at home, maybe I’d have a relationship, too, instead of my 5 good friends. In some ways, maybe my life hasn’t changed that much—I’m still single, I’m still ambivalent about my job and don’t think I’ll be making a career out of it, the only difference is that instead of eliminating animal welfare from the possible career list, this time it’s French national education. I still have an American best friend who I talk to multiple times a day, just in Franglais text messages instead of free Verizon network phone calls and who makes me dinner a lot, just in the miniature scale Parisian toaster oven that we all have here along with separate burners, instead of an enormous stove that combines both of these features and would be half the size of anyone’s entire French apartment.
But at the same time, everything is different: not just the people, the language and the way of thinking but also the cars, street signs, license plates, advertisements, lampposts— when I look around every day, nothing looks the way it did where I grew up or anywhere I used to live. After 2 years in France, I still marvel at the metro signs, the architecture and the miniscule smart cars; these are the visual markers of a different cultural life that I chose for myself and I relish this challenge (with whatever condiments are available in Paris).
One of the things I most appreciate when I visit the US is just the sheer familiarity of the whole urban landscape, but one of the things I find most stimulating about Paris is the utter lack of familiarity of this same scene. I spend a lot of time wondering if I’ll ever feel integrated into French life. I’m not even sure what this means to me. Understanding all cultural references in any given conversation? Having a French boyfriend always available to adore me and explain new vocabulary? No longer being surprised by any given situation? When do you start to feel welcomed and accepted in a foreign country? Sometimes I think on a very simplistic level, I’ll start to feel more integrated when I no longer notice the metro, the architecture and the cars. And maybe when I have 6 good friends.
I gave my writing students an extract from Brigit Jones’s Diary this week and it made me think about being 30 and single in a European capital city. Although my friends aren’t yet divided into smug marrieds and singletons, in Brigitspeak, when I visited my friends in California over the summer, they were all paired off in committed relationships, living together in suburbs, tending gardens and it goes without saying, “I” was replaced by “we.” Maybe if I’d stayed in the US, I would have that, too and I’d also use the first person plural pronoun as there would be no other major challenges in my life besides relationships because language and culture would pose no problem.
A characteristic of American ex-pats, I think, is that we tend to think, arrogantly, perhaps, that after living in Paris, moving anywhere else imaginable would be easy, even a space bubble colony run by aliens on Mars. At least the bureaucracy is more reasonable here, all former Paris dwellers would say approvingly, and the sidewalks are cleaner. Living in dangerous, rude, pressed-for-time Manhattan would be like a walk in central park after the challenges of Paris. While there’s definitely the happy fluffy croissant side of life here, like watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle, seeing the dome of Sacré Coeur from in front of my house or sitting in a café for 3 hours with an espresso and no one rushing you to buy something else or leave, there’s also the negative side, maybe call it the boudin noir side, like the metro during rush hour where everyone glares, pushes and generally hates you, or the long lines at the grocery store at 7 pm, or waiting 6 months for internet installation.
What I’ve got in Paris is a circle of international friends, which is already something, and on occasion, I fold out my untrained in sensuality sofa bed. Quick, what would Star Academy sensuality coach do? Judging from the 2 minutes I saw of the show, she would wriggle her shoulders, ask me to imagine I were naked on a desert island, shriek, yes, yes, and then some teenage boy contestant would share with viewers excessive details about how hot the sensuality expert made him. I think making a teenage boy hot is not great evidence of advanced sensuality skills, more just of being a living, breathing woman.
In one of my favorite book series, Tales of the City, beautiful love letters to quirky liberal drug-saturated San Francisco in the 70s that some of my closest friends devoured when we were all together in California this summer, a character says that at this point in her life (she was probably 30), instead of having a lover, she’d settle for 5 good friends. I’d prefer to have both, since these don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but in reality they often are.
If I’d stayed at home, maybe I’d have a relationship, too, instead of my 5 good friends. In some ways, maybe my life hasn’t changed that much—I’m still single, I’m still ambivalent about my job and don’t think I’ll be making a career out of it, the only difference is that instead of eliminating animal welfare from the possible career list, this time it’s French national education. I still have an American best friend who I talk to multiple times a day, just in Franglais text messages instead of free Verizon network phone calls and who makes me dinner a lot, just in the miniature scale Parisian toaster oven that we all have here along with separate burners, instead of an enormous stove that combines both of these features and would be half the size of anyone’s entire French apartment.
But at the same time, everything is different: not just the people, the language and the way of thinking but also the cars, street signs, license plates, advertisements, lampposts— when I look around every day, nothing looks the way it did where I grew up or anywhere I used to live. After 2 years in France, I still marvel at the metro signs, the architecture and the miniscule smart cars; these are the visual markers of a different cultural life that I chose for myself and I relish this challenge (with whatever condiments are available in Paris).
One of the things I most appreciate when I visit the US is just the sheer familiarity of the whole urban landscape, but one of the things I find most stimulating about Paris is the utter lack of familiarity of this same scene. I spend a lot of time wondering if I’ll ever feel integrated into French life. I’m not even sure what this means to me. Understanding all cultural references in any given conversation? Having a French boyfriend always available to adore me and explain new vocabulary? No longer being surprised by any given situation? When do you start to feel welcomed and accepted in a foreign country? Sometimes I think on a very simplistic level, I’ll start to feel more integrated when I no longer notice the metro, the architecture and the cars. And maybe when I have 6 good friends.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Things I Learned in Film Analysis Class
-Jack the Ripper in French is Jacques L'éventreur which means "Jack the disemboweler" and sounds more gruesome than ripper, since ripper doesn't overtly specify that he ripped prostitutes' stomaches open...
-A cinematic shot that shows a character's body from their head to mid-thigh is called a "plan américain" because it was used a lot in westerns to show cowboys' guns.
-The average Hollywood film has between 800-1,200 shots. The average French film has about 600 and the average action film can have up to 3,000.
-A cinematic shot that shows a character's body from their head to mid-thigh is called a "plan américain" because it was used a lot in westerns to show cowboys' guns.
-The average Hollywood film has between 800-1,200 shots. The average French film has about 600 and the average action film can have up to 3,000.
Friday, September 12, 2008
What a Long, Strange... Final Exam
It's a pretty rollicking time with the rattrapages (make up exams) at the surreal university where I work. All the other profs have left town and given the most implausible excuses imaginable for not actually proctoring and grading their own exams. 1 was supposedly detained in Canada and had all his money stolen (those viscious Canadians) and another was stuck in Kabul because Afganistan is SUCH the tourist destination.
Consequently, I have a ton of exams to grade and some of them (of course for classes I didn't teach) are really bizarre. One has loads of translation questions and no answer key, of course, so I'll have to look up about a million words and it seems like it's out of 5,000 points, so it looks like there will be annoyingly large calculations involved to convert everything to a 20 point scale.
One of the other exams I gave recently had a listening comprehension section on the weirdest news story ever-- it was about (get ready) magic mushrooms. Not that the students actually understood it, but maybe we shouldn't teach them vocabulary to describe hallucinogenic drugs, just une petite suggestion. Is that really an educational priority?
The tenuous news-worthiness of the piece was a Johns-Hopkins study that concluded maybe they could use the hallucinogenic drug found in certain mushrooms to improve the quality of life of the terminally ill. It started off by saying "maybe the hippies weren't just ON something, maybe they were ONTO something." Psychadelic fun with phrasal verbs, be still my heart! The professor who wrote this test was also under the impression that John (in the singular) Hopkins was a person and not an American research university as evidenced by the exam question Who is John Hopkins?
Obviously, I'm not a fan of the overly simplistic Just Say No To Drugs campaign (I lived in California, afterall), but this still didn't seem like the greatest material for a final exam... What, are we preparing first year foreign languages students for head trips or drug deals now? Should lead to a lucrative career, allright...
At least this should ease my worries that my lessons don't have enough educational value. Whenever I hear that critical little voice in my head which talks to me often, I will remind myself that at least I am not giving a final exam about psychadelic 'shrooms. The second part of the exam was a text about political spouses, as one would logically expect. I think someone was on mushrooms, alright, and it wasn't the 26 volunteers working for Mr. Hopkins.
Consequently, I have a ton of exams to grade and some of them (of course for classes I didn't teach) are really bizarre. One has loads of translation questions and no answer key, of course, so I'll have to look up about a million words and it seems like it's out of 5,000 points, so it looks like there will be annoyingly large calculations involved to convert everything to a 20 point scale.
One of the other exams I gave recently had a listening comprehension section on the weirdest news story ever-- it was about (get ready) magic mushrooms. Not that the students actually understood it, but maybe we shouldn't teach them vocabulary to describe hallucinogenic drugs, just une petite suggestion. Is that really an educational priority?
The tenuous news-worthiness of the piece was a Johns-Hopkins study that concluded maybe they could use the hallucinogenic drug found in certain mushrooms to improve the quality of life of the terminally ill. It started off by saying "maybe the hippies weren't just ON something, maybe they were ONTO something." Psychadelic fun with phrasal verbs, be still my heart! The professor who wrote this test was also under the impression that John (in the singular) Hopkins was a person and not an American research university as evidenced by the exam question Who is John Hopkins?
Obviously, I'm not a fan of the overly simplistic Just Say No To Drugs campaign (I lived in California, afterall), but this still didn't seem like the greatest material for a final exam... What, are we preparing first year foreign languages students for head trips or drug deals now? Should lead to a lucrative career, allright...
At least this should ease my worries that my lessons don't have enough educational value. Whenever I hear that critical little voice in my head which talks to me often, I will remind myself that at least I am not giving a final exam about psychadelic 'shrooms. The second part of the exam was a text about political spouses, as one would logically expect. I think someone was on mushrooms, alright, and it wasn't the 26 volunteers working for Mr. Hopkins.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The World Is Your Oyster
September 1 was my Paris Anniversary, although it somehow escaped my notice until today. All ex-pats celebrate their anniversary of moving to Paris. For one friend we drank champagne on her balcony and watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle. I don't remember what I did last year-- I think when Cory and Kim and I rode the ferris wheel at Tuilleries and had hot chocolate at Angelina's that was around the 1-year mark, and that was such an all-around lovely day, it'll count as the anniversaire.
I haven't really celebrated my 2-year anniversary with anything more than an afterthought and a glass of wine that I was already drinking anyway because of ambivalence about this year of Parisian life-- mainly because it hasn't really started yet. I'll be a full-time student (of something entirely useless career-wise but interesting to me: French cinema and literature) and part-time English professor and when added up, that's a lot of time. This month is the calm before the storm (except in Lousiana), and although I need the time to sort out what I'm doing in my classes, I'm also impatient for the wind and rains to start.
What I did on my anniversary, without realizing it was the anniversary: I saw a Belgian film, hung out with Franco-Peruvian friends and walked home from Hotel de Ville and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Yesterday, however, I cried on a friend's French shoulder and felt like I had no goal in life, and had nothing to show for 2 years in Paris-- except for mastery of the art of social anxiety and disappointment. I realize that I tend to make my circle of friends overimportant, because that's all I have (I certainly don't have job satisfaction or feel like I belong in France). I tend to overanalyze all social situations-- did everyone have fun, was my French good enough, was there some hidden agenda, which has been an issue lately. However, my friends are only human and all have their own quirks, issues and problems.
Parisian mécontent is palpable as everyone just got back to town after their rapturous weeks of vacation in the south of France or wherever they go and they now have to readjust to life in the metropole and all its imperfections. As this feeling of disappointment is French, even more specifically Parisian, it is complex in all its contradictions-- like we hate all people, especially in the metro, yet wish we had friends yet never talk to strangers or do anything to reach out to others. I have to admit that the misanthropic aspect of Parisian culture is seductive and appealing in its own way-- all ex-pats kind of secretly love to hate Paris and its inhabitants.
But it also raises the larger question, how much should you rely on others? The Canadian pianist Glenn Gould once said that for every hour you spend in the company of others, you need X number of hours of solitude and that ratio is different for everyone. I've resolved to adjust my coefficients of X a little and devote more energy to interesting and self-sustaining creative projects and less energy to socializing. It's time to try to make myself happy, instead of hoping that other people will do it.
A friend of mine once said that Parisians were like oysters-- totally closed off in their own little shells surrounded by other isolated oysters, all alone together, even in crowded cafes... Maybe there are pearls inside, maybe not. Maybe I'll discover these pearls, maybe not.
I haven't really celebrated my 2-year anniversary with anything more than an afterthought and a glass of wine that I was already drinking anyway because of ambivalence about this year of Parisian life-- mainly because it hasn't really started yet. I'll be a full-time student (of something entirely useless career-wise but interesting to me: French cinema and literature) and part-time English professor and when added up, that's a lot of time. This month is the calm before the storm (except in Lousiana), and although I need the time to sort out what I'm doing in my classes, I'm also impatient for the wind and rains to start.
What I did on my anniversary, without realizing it was the anniversary: I saw a Belgian film, hung out with Franco-Peruvian friends and walked home from Hotel de Ville and saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Yesterday, however, I cried on a friend's French shoulder and felt like I had no goal in life, and had nothing to show for 2 years in Paris-- except for mastery of the art of social anxiety and disappointment. I realize that I tend to make my circle of friends overimportant, because that's all I have (I certainly don't have job satisfaction or feel like I belong in France). I tend to overanalyze all social situations-- did everyone have fun, was my French good enough, was there some hidden agenda, which has been an issue lately. However, my friends are only human and all have their own quirks, issues and problems.
Parisian mécontent is palpable as everyone just got back to town after their rapturous weeks of vacation in the south of France or wherever they go and they now have to readjust to life in the metropole and all its imperfections. As this feeling of disappointment is French, even more specifically Parisian, it is complex in all its contradictions-- like we hate all people, especially in the metro, yet wish we had friends yet never talk to strangers or do anything to reach out to others. I have to admit that the misanthropic aspect of Parisian culture is seductive and appealing in its own way-- all ex-pats kind of secretly love to hate Paris and its inhabitants.
But it also raises the larger question, how much should you rely on others? The Canadian pianist Glenn Gould once said that for every hour you spend in the company of others, you need X number of hours of solitude and that ratio is different for everyone. I've resolved to adjust my coefficients of X a little and devote more energy to interesting and self-sustaining creative projects and less energy to socializing. It's time to try to make myself happy, instead of hoping that other people will do it.
A friend of mine once said that Parisians were like oysters-- totally closed off in their own little shells surrounded by other isolated oysters, all alone together, even in crowded cafes... Maybe there are pearls inside, maybe not. Maybe I'll discover these pearls, maybe not.
Sarcasm is the Golden Rule
In American English, the Golden Rule that parents tell their children is “do unto others as you would have done unto you.” This biblical refrain is often mentioned in a shortened version (“do unto others…”) and everyone knows this little short cut and how the adage actually ends. Despite the lack of widespread usage of the archaic word unto, we all know that it means treat other people how you yourself would like to be treated. At the movie theater Silence is Golden. Other than that, I can’t really think of any other sayings that involve the word golden, and are mantras to live by that are oft repeated to children. Obviously, the US as a nation doesn’t really practice Do Unto Others, especially not where foreign policy is concerned. I doubt we’d want the Iraqi military to invade us, steal our oil and kill civilians, but these are still sayings that children learn about how to behave and there’s always an element of idealism and social hypocrisy involved in educating the young and naïve, as we don’t really want to reveal too much about the way things actually work.
I’m not sure what the Golden Rule is in France, as I have never been a French child lied to by French adults, but here’s a theory: sarcasm.
Consider this. I had a screenplay-writing former French professor and I foolishly lent him the film Supersize Me because it’s a fun documentary and French people are fascinated with how fat Americans are and think we’re just an entire nation of walrus-sized lard tub people. Obviously, some of us do cook vegetables, can’t remember the last time we were at a McDonald’s and don’t weigh 400 lbs and actually exercise and wear between a size 36 and 38 (this is between a 6 and 8 in the American system) which seems just fine to most people, except that in Paris this IS walrus lard tub huge, since all Parisian women weigh about 4 kilos and never eat but only smoke and use weirdo slim-fast like regimes they buy at pharmacies called cures minceurs. I don’t even know anyone who eats at McDo even once a week in the US, but then again, I also don’t know anyone who voted for Bush and he’s a 2-term president.
Anyway, my ex professor had Supersize Me for quite awhile, and each time I emailed him normal sounding inoffensive emails asking for the film back, he always either ignored me completely or ignored the general request and responded to some minor often vaguely flirtatious point instead. Apparently, writing something like “hey, I need my film back, can you drop it off? Thanks” might sound ambiguous to the French, or maybe it isn’t quite clear what I want, because I am being nice and uninsulting. At any rate, it didn’t seem obvious and important enough to Guillaume to rearrange his entire life enough to walk 3 arduous blocks down the street and slip my film in my letter box.
What we had here was the famous Cool Hand Luke failure to communicate.
Finally, I’d had enough of disrespectful Frenchman attitude—would he treat a French woman like this? Who thinks it’s ok to abuse someone’s good will generosity that much—AND blow them off when they attempt to reclaim their own property? Would he be this rude to a man?
Probably, in fact. Something almost comforting about Paris, in a dark and bitterly ironic way (dark and bitter irony is probably extremely comforting to French people), is that it seems like a city of equal opportunity poverty, rudeness and general hatred. I sent old film-hoarding Guillaume a final email and decided that if this last attempt at written communication didn’t work, I would consider having Xavier the Gendarme scare him a little with some kind of French law enforcement threat—or send him a bill for the cost of the film—plus interest since he was perhaps leasing with the option to buy for the past 5 months. So in my last-ditch attempt, I sent the following email:
Hi, I’m back from vacation, are you as well? I need my film. Are you writing a doctoral dissertation on it or what? You’ve had it for 6 months. Thanks in advance.
Or:
Bonjour, je suis de retour à Paris, vous y êtes aussi? Il me faut mon film. Vous préparez une thèse là-dessus ou quoi ? Ca fait 6 mois. Merci par avance.
And it was like we were communicating for the first time. If you are sarcastic in French, the French embrace you as one of their own. The terms “French” and “sarcastic” are almost redundant, as the 2 languages are one and the same.
My email got this response:
Excellent!!! I don’t know if this is a compliment or not, but that’s a perfectly French attitude! Remind me what your address is and I’ll drop it off right away, I’m so sorry.
Or:
Excellent! Je ne sais pas si je vous fais un compliment, mais voilà un esprit parfaitement français! Rappelez moi votre adresse et je déposerai votre film toute de suite. Mille excuses.
Shocked at the efficacy of sarcasm in French, I forwarded his response to 2 of my American friends. However, ever a realist, I thought that although this was way more progress than I’d ever had previously in trying to recover my long-lost film, I shouldn’t get too excited until I actually had it in my possession. Maybe despite his prompt response, he would still never actually return it. I gave him my address again and lo and behold:
The concierge knocked on my door with the film the very next morning.
Although perhaps it’s not the best idea to start business emails by resorting to it, it seems that when you’re being ignored, sarcasm gets results.
In fact, even agreeing with someone (which inherently seems like a positive and non-sarcastic idea) can involve sarcasm. If someone says something you find obvious and agree with wholeheartedly, then you say, “you surprise me” (“tu m’étonnes”). Obviously, what they say comes as no surprise to you at all, and that’s why you say it does.
Life in France is just full of little sarcasm surprises.
I’m not sure what the Golden Rule is in France, as I have never been a French child lied to by French adults, but here’s a theory: sarcasm.
Consider this. I had a screenplay-writing former French professor and I foolishly lent him the film Supersize Me because it’s a fun documentary and French people are fascinated with how fat Americans are and think we’re just an entire nation of walrus-sized lard tub people. Obviously, some of us do cook vegetables, can’t remember the last time we were at a McDonald’s and don’t weigh 400 lbs and actually exercise and wear between a size 36 and 38 (this is between a 6 and 8 in the American system) which seems just fine to most people, except that in Paris this IS walrus lard tub huge, since all Parisian women weigh about 4 kilos and never eat but only smoke and use weirdo slim-fast like regimes they buy at pharmacies called cures minceurs. I don’t even know anyone who eats at McDo even once a week in the US, but then again, I also don’t know anyone who voted for Bush and he’s a 2-term president.
Anyway, my ex professor had Supersize Me for quite awhile, and each time I emailed him normal sounding inoffensive emails asking for the film back, he always either ignored me completely or ignored the general request and responded to some minor often vaguely flirtatious point instead. Apparently, writing something like “hey, I need my film back, can you drop it off? Thanks” might sound ambiguous to the French, or maybe it isn’t quite clear what I want, because I am being nice and uninsulting. At any rate, it didn’t seem obvious and important enough to Guillaume to rearrange his entire life enough to walk 3 arduous blocks down the street and slip my film in my letter box.
What we had here was the famous Cool Hand Luke failure to communicate.
Finally, I’d had enough of disrespectful Frenchman attitude—would he treat a French woman like this? Who thinks it’s ok to abuse someone’s good will generosity that much—AND blow them off when they attempt to reclaim their own property? Would he be this rude to a man?
Probably, in fact. Something almost comforting about Paris, in a dark and bitterly ironic way (dark and bitter irony is probably extremely comforting to French people), is that it seems like a city of equal opportunity poverty, rudeness and general hatred. I sent old film-hoarding Guillaume a final email and decided that if this last attempt at written communication didn’t work, I would consider having Xavier the Gendarme scare him a little with some kind of French law enforcement threat—or send him a bill for the cost of the film—plus interest since he was perhaps leasing with the option to buy for the past 5 months. So in my last-ditch attempt, I sent the following email:
Hi, I’m back from vacation, are you as well? I need my film. Are you writing a doctoral dissertation on it or what? You’ve had it for 6 months. Thanks in advance.
Or:
Bonjour, je suis de retour à Paris, vous y êtes aussi? Il me faut mon film. Vous préparez une thèse là-dessus ou quoi ? Ca fait 6 mois. Merci par avance.
And it was like we were communicating for the first time. If you are sarcastic in French, the French embrace you as one of their own. The terms “French” and “sarcastic” are almost redundant, as the 2 languages are one and the same.
My email got this response:
Excellent!!! I don’t know if this is a compliment or not, but that’s a perfectly French attitude! Remind me what your address is and I’ll drop it off right away, I’m so sorry.
Or:
Excellent! Je ne sais pas si je vous fais un compliment, mais voilà un esprit parfaitement français! Rappelez moi votre adresse et je déposerai votre film toute de suite. Mille excuses.
Shocked at the efficacy of sarcasm in French, I forwarded his response to 2 of my American friends. However, ever a realist, I thought that although this was way more progress than I’d ever had previously in trying to recover my long-lost film, I shouldn’t get too excited until I actually had it in my possession. Maybe despite his prompt response, he would still never actually return it. I gave him my address again and lo and behold:
The concierge knocked on my door with the film the very next morning.
Although perhaps it’s not the best idea to start business emails by resorting to it, it seems that when you’re being ignored, sarcasm gets results.
In fact, even agreeing with someone (which inherently seems like a positive and non-sarcastic idea) can involve sarcasm. If someone says something you find obvious and agree with wholeheartedly, then you say, “you surprise me” (“tu m’étonnes”). Obviously, what they say comes as no surprise to you at all, and that’s why you say it does.
Life in France is just full of little sarcasm surprises.
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