Chez Hil

La Chanson Du Dimanche

2009-11-16T08:14:00.000-08:00

Sunday's Song. A math teacher named Clément and a screenwriter named Alex started getting together every Sunday to write and perform little ditties about current events and politics. They filmed themselves singing their songs while sitting on a street corner somewhere in Paris with a guitar, synthesizer and sometimes a kazoo. Yes, a kazoo. Wanna see? Here's a sample of them:

This is one of my favorite numbers. It's about an American who goes to Paris as a tourist but discovers that he can't actually go anywhere because everyone's on strike. In case you can't tell, they actually sing it with a strong American accent. The chorus is the American begging the train workers (cheminots) to go back to work so he can get around: (Petit cheminot, where are you? Petit cheminot, what are you doing? Petit cheminot think of me who needs you! Petit cheminot, I love you, Petit cheminot, I need you, Petit cheminot, don't leave me! Sing with me!)

I've seen some good street performers, but these guys really take the cake. Their songs are incredibly catchy and they've begun to build a sizeable fan base through word of mouth. I discovered them through Gaby who found out about them from other friends. That was a couple of years ago. Now the two-man band is touring in small towns around Paris and will be playing in Paris in December.

So, Friday night Gaby and I trekked over to Achères to see them. And these two guys managed to give a really amazing concert!! Giant Congo lines with the entire audience, song requests, a body surfing contest to see who was the best OGMan superhero with cape and mask (OGM = organisme génétiquement modifié or...GMO in English). They were so energetic and their enthusiasm was contagious! I just couldn't believe what a great show they put on.

Fun show! Fun group! I wish they would somehow make it to the U.S. beyond the small French student circles who might know of them.

"Oh Yeah"

2009-10-26T17:04:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I come across a catchy little French song that I can't get out of my head. So I thought I'd share my latest favorite one by Housse de Racket:

In case you're wondering, he's mostly naming all the famous artists he'll become one day. He'll change tomorrow, or maybe never...

Les Etats-Unis Part II: Sightseeing

2009-10-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

My European friends here wanted to know what all we did on our vacation while we were visiting people. Well...it's hard to go sightseeing when you're visiting your hometown and college towns and really want to see people more than places. Maybe I'll just send my friends the link to the Atchison episode of "A Haunting" and say,"Hey, isn't staying in the most haunted town in Kansas enough?"

During our many people visits, we did have some tourist highlights.

First stop: Bonner Springs. Yes, we wanted to visit my grandmother who suggested we go to this quaint new little place called Madame Hatter's Tea Room. It was lovely, and Gaby got to try sweet tea for the first time. This may sound weird, but in France, no one drinks iced tea unless it's Lipton's "Ice Tea" from a can or bottle. We also got to try on fun hats.

Next we headed to Chicago where Gaby had only one sight-seeing request: the Michael Jordan statue in front of the United Center. Yes, my French boyfriend is a huge basketball fan and used to stay up all night for the live broadcast of the Bulls playing at the United Center. Michael Jordan was a sports hero and symbol of Gaby's basketball-playing days. When he told me about the statue, of course I wanted to go see it too. I pictured Michael Jordan standing there holding a basketball. Like this:

Well, except it would be Michael Jordan and not James Naismith. Marissa imagined the same thing. Hahahaha! Man...shows how much we know. Here's the real thing:

So perfect!! I think Naismith would have been amazed to see how much his sport has evolved and how much some players have done with it.

Marissa's boyfriend Joe was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to drive us to the United Center and then to take us on a tour of the city. One of our favorite spots was the zoo, which was really pretty and totally free!! So nice!

Once we were back in Kansas, we did what every European who visits the U.S. ought to do. We went to a major league baseball game. To me, it's the greatest American past-time and one that can't really be experienced from a television broadcast. My parents treated us to a game at the newly renovated Kauffman Stadium. When Gaby walked in, he was genuinely impressed and couldn't keep from breathing out an awe-struck "Oh, wow." And he was right. I've always loved the stadium, but now it just looks even more amazing with its screens that wrap around the entire ballpark, the little Royals history museum, picnic areas and centerfield standing room in front of the fountains.

We had seats on the lower level right down the 3rd base line, and I was instantly transported back to my childhood and the days of Frank White, Bret Saberhagen, Bo Jackson and of course, George Brett. That night, the Royals were playing against the Minnesota Twins, and even though we lost in the end, it was the most exciting game I've been to since game 6 of the 1985 World Series. Here we are right before game time:

And the icing on the cake is that Gaby is now officially a baseball fan, and not only that, but a ROYALS fan. (Mission accomplished.) He wanted to go out and buy a baseball mitt and ball so we could play catch. He ordered a Royals cap. He's also officially a Zack Greinke fan on Facebook.

Our vacation probably seems like pretty standard summer stuff for any Midwesterner, but I think from a European perspective, it's still somewhat exotic. Plus there was all the food I mentioned in the previous post. And honestly, we had a really great time.

Les Etats-Unis Part I: Reverse Culture Shock

2009-10-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

The school year officially starts this week at Nanterre University, so of course I'm thinking about our vacation instead of planning lessons. In true French fashion, Gaby and I took our vacation in August and went to the U.S. to visit family and friends.

After being away for an entire year, I was anxious to see everyone and to enjoy my home country for a month. I just wasn't expecting to notice all the differences so much. Here are my top five (not very surprising?) observations:

1. The U.S. is BIG. The first thing I noticed after getting off the plane was how much space there was, even at the airport. Big restaurants, big chairs, big tables, LOTS of room between chairs and tables, humongous portions. Roomy (and very clean) restrooms. The highways are so wide, as are the parking spots, probably because the cars are so large too. Relatively large houses, enormous backyards, lots of open land. I spent a lot of time out on my parents' back porch just enjoying the open space and feeling like I could really breathe. Ahhh.....The downside of all this? Well, Americans are big too. I'm not trying to be mean, but I feel like I could stand to lose more than a few pounds compared to the girls in France. Feeling relatively svelte in the U.S., I didn't think twice about reaching for that extra helping of Doritoes.

2. AMERICAN FOOD IS SO GOOD. If we Americans are ahem...a little heavier than Europeans, I think it's because our food is so incredibly awesome (and awesomely fatty). Having been deprived of some of our favorite American dishes and snacks, Gaby and I went to town. In Madison we helped ourselves to our favorite Glass Nickel Pizza, wings, burgers, hot cheese curds and Great Dane beer. In Chicago we chowed down on Marissa's amazing pork chops, sushi and the best hot gooey cinnamon rolls from Ann Sathers. And of course when we got back to Kansas, we went to a Royals game where we pigged out on stadium foot-longs, nachos and Philly cheese steak sandwiches. And I haven't even mentioned all the Cheetos, popcorn, Doritoes and Pepperidge farm cookies we made evening trips out to Wal-mart for. (TUMS anyone?)

3. STORES like Wal-mart ARE OPEN SO LATE!! I'm used to getting all my shopping of any kind done before 8:00 pm on weekdays & Saturday. Yes, it is hard to fit in grocery shopping when Gaby and I don't get home until 7:00 sometimes, but we manage. We also know that most stores are closed on Sunday and the ones that are open on Sunday are closed on Monday. By contrast, the Wal-mart in Atchison is open 24/7 except on Christmas day. Wow. I don't know how many times we drove out there after 10:00 to pick up some trivial item. (Usually cookies.)

4. I LOVE HAVING A CAR. Sometimes. I love public transportation in Paris, but I do miss driving....er...I miss driving in small towns and in the country. City driving and I have never ever gotten along very well, although Chicago was relatively kind to Gaby and me. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a car here; then I see all the traffic jams as I'm walking to the store and change my mind.

5. ENGLISH IS EASIER THAN FRENCH. Well, duh. But no, seriously, this was a big thing for me. I tend to be an extremely shy person. I have had to psych myself up to even order takeout over the phone (yes, in the U.S.) Yes, yes, it's almost an illness. Ridiculous, really. France has cured me of it to some degree. Now when I have to talk to a stranger, all I have to remember is that it's not as if I have to speak to them in French, which of course is infinitely worse. I was almost overjoyed to ask for information or directions from my fellow Americans.

There you have it. I'm sure I made other little observations which will probably come to me in the middle of the night sometime when I can't sleep, but for now that's all I can think of. Next post...sight-seeing in the Midwest.

Chez le Coiffeur

2009-08-03T02:39:00.000-07:00

I love how my hair feels after a good haircut. Shiny, silky, light, well-styled. The problem is that I cannot stand going to the stylist. It's not the shampooing/conditioning; THAT is heavenly. It's having to sit in the chair, look at myself in the mirror with wet hair in my face and then CHAT with the stylist about n'importe quoi. I never know what to talk about, so more often than not, I sit there awkwardly and don't say anything.

I imagined that getting my hair cut in France would be an absolute nightmare, not only because of the language barrier but also because of this one dreaded question: "How would you like your hair cut?" Euh....It's a question I can barely answer in English mostly because even though I know when I need a haircut, I'm never quite sure what I want, and the few times I have been sure, the stylist has always said, "No, that's not a good idea." What I really want to be able to say is, "I don't know. What do you think would look good? As long as you don't give me a euro mullet, do whatever you want." Not acceptable here.

To avoid the whole haircutting ordeal, I even got my hair cut pretty short in Madison before coming to France. That way I could avoid getting it cut again for a whole year. Yeah, I'm that bad. But by the end of June my hair was so long, unruly and damaged at the ends that I began wearing it in a ponytail everyday. A sure sign I could no longer put off the visit to the coiffeur.

Gaby and I decided to go together to support each other since he hates going as much as I do. Alas, we went in the evening and the salon only had time to do Gaby's hair. He came out looking all neat and groomed, and there I was, still Captain Cavewoman (or Hippie Hil--take your pick.) I was definitely going as soon as I could. This morning I got up early to go to the one stylist that was open in Poissy on Mondays. Gaby walked with me for encouragement.

The owner and a few stylists greeted us with "Bonjours" and smiles when we walked in. I instantly began to relax. First impressions of salons are a big deal to me. This one seemed very friendly. First the lovely shampoo and conditioner. The lady doing the job wanted to know all about me. She even spoke some English with her charming little accent. Once that was over, the dreaded question from the head stylist: "Do you have an idea of how you want your hair cut?" "A little bit shorter and with some layers." "Très bien. We have some pictures you can look at to help you decide too if you want." In the end, I did look at the pictures and noticed that ALL of them had "some layers." Crap. Which one? They all looked way cool. Happily, the stylist ended up choosing one by saying, "How about something like this?" Perfect. Yes.

And then we chatted a bit while he cut my hair. I had a huge advantage that I hadn't been counting on. Since I was an American in France, he wanted to know all about how I liked France and what I was doing here. It was cool too because the guy apparently goes to New York and Miami three or four times a year and loves going there! So then we talked a little about his impressions of the U.S.

Finally he made the finishing little touches and I was done. My hair looked great, nothing crazy or new, but just what I had wanted. And the coiffeur had been so nice. Yet another case of my having been nervous for no reason. How silly. I walked out with a big smile and my head held high.

On my way back home, some guy yelled out the window of his car, "T'es BELLE!! Oh là là..." I credit my stylist. Oh, the French know how to make a girl feel good.

Update (long): autorisation de travail

2009-07-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

In my last post about immigration, I'd just found out that I had to have my work authorization after all. I haven't written again about it because I thought it would just be too depressing/uninteresting for everybody to read about. But since I now have my papers in order for next year, I've decided to share how everything went at the department of labor when I tried to get my new work authorization. It was really an unpleasant experience that I need to record.

Gaby's mom came with me again, for which I am extremely grateful. I think that the department of labor workers tend to push around foreigners more when they're alone. I knocked on the door of the office of the woman with whom I'd talked the week before, the one who'd been so patient and polite. She didn't even look up, didn't even respond to my polite "Bonjour, madame" and just sat their for at least a full minute stamping applications as if we were not even there. Gaby's mom was shocked. (Not even a little 'bonjour'!)

I finally began explaining my situation to her and that the préfecture was asking for a new work authorization although I'd been told the week before that I wouldn't need one. She finally looked up and said she couldn't remember my case because she'd seen so many people since me. Yes, of course, I wasn't asking her to remember my case. If she'd only looked up beforehand, she would've seen that I had all my documents out for her to review. Of course I didn't say that. She took my current titre de sejour--the one she'd looked at before when she'd told me I wouldn't need a work authorization card.

She then said that she wasn't the person who dealt with cases like mine, and that I would have to talk to her colleague. Not a good sign. She kept my card and left the room to speak to the colleague and came back a few minutes later.

"You don't have the right to stay in this country for more than a year. Your work authorization card is non-renewable."

"What? But my contract is renewable and has been renewed, so shouldn't my work authorization also be renewable?"

At this point she directed Monique and me into the office of her colleague. There were no chairs to sit on, and so we were forced to stand there to make my case. I once again explained my situation.

"You'll have to go back to the United States because your contract ends at the end of August."

"Yes, I know, but it's been renewed, so the university told me I needed to renew my titre de séjour. To renew it, I need to renew my work authorization card."

"It's non-renewable because you just have a one-year contract that ends at the end of August. Renewable work authorizations are only for people currently living in France."

"I am currently living in France. I've been living in France this whole past year."

"Well, your university should have treated your case as if you hadn't been in France the whole past year. They need to treat you as if you were a new introduction into the country."

"But I'm not a new introduction to the country. I was here last year. What does that even mean?"

"It means they'll have to send your file to the Department of Labor in Nanterre so they can approve it and send a letter of approval to the French consulate in the US so they can give you a new visa. You should really go to the Department of Labor in Nanterre to see how this works."

"I did go last week. They told me to come here because it was a renewal."

The ladies both rolled their eyes and then began scolding me.

"Didn't the university explain how your contract works? (No.) Didn't the French consulate in the US tell you you wouldn't be allowed to stay beyond a year? (Um...no.) You do NOT have the right to stay in this country. You have to go back to the US. Weren't you planning to go back to the US this summer?"

"Yes, but to visit my family, not for a new visa. None of my colleagues have ever needed to go back to the US for a new visa; they've all been able to renew their titres de séjours here in France."

The ladies both shook their heads.

"Well... can you tell me what documents the university needs to send for me to get a new visa?"

The lady behind the desk showed them to me.

"Oh! I have those documents--the university gave them to me. Can't I just give them to you now?"

"No."

"Why not? They're all in order; everything's signed and stamped."

"We're not allowed to take documents directly from people here. They must come from the employer or the prefecture."

"Well, the employer gave them to me to give to you. The prefecture didn't want them and told me to give them to you."

"Oh, no no. That's not how we do things. Oh, I can't believe the préfecture and the university are treating this like a normal renewal. "

Because maybe it IS a normal renewal you crazy bitches.

Monique stepped in. "Well, can't you perhaps call the préfecture then and explain that there's a miscommunication?"

"Oh, absolutely not. We do not EVER communicate with the préfecture. They don't know anything, and we just don't get along with them very well."

WHAT???? Isn't that your JOB????

At this point I began to think about the plaque that's hanging in the lobby of their building. It was put up in memory of two department of labor workers who were killed in that office for "trying to uphold the law." I won't tell you what other thoughts went through my head at that moment.

Monique continued to question them about how the whole process worked, but I was already gathering up my stuff. It was a lost cause. Usually new visa applications were turned in at the end of May at the latest. I would have to apply for a new visa at the end of July right before everyone went on vacation for the month of August. This meant my application would sit on someone's desk for a whole month and they wouldn't even look at it until September, meaning I wouldn't get my visa until mid-October and would lose at least a month and a half's salary.

And then a miracle happened. The lady behind the desk asked to see my contract again.

"I'll tell you what. I'll just treat this as a renewal this time. After all, the university's like a big enterprise and not just some little employer. I'll stamp the department of labor's approval on your contract and send you your work authorization through the mail."

I couldn't believe it. Of course I thanked her profusely, but I felt more suspicious and angry than thankful. Would she really renew it or was she just trying to get us the hell out of her office? Was she really going to send my new work authorization or would she just throw my file away once I left the room? I made sure I had copies of everything as she wanted to keep my two original work contracts.

I didn't relax until Monday morning at 11:00 when Monique called to say the postman had dropped off my department of labor letter and could she open it? Yes of course, open it!! The work authorization was there and ready with all the correct information. I couldn't believe it.

We went to the prefecture immediately where I got my new titre de séjour receipt. I'll be able to pick up the real thing in September when I get back. It's amazing, really, that it is done so early. And all this based on the whim of some lady who decided to not follow the crazy bureaucratic rules that define immigration, rules that vary from department to department and even from worker to worker.

I've read countless stories online about other people's horrible experiences with immigration, and I know from experience that they're not lying or exaggerating. I hope that someday we'll do away with such ridiculous laws and that people will look back on them and realize how stupid and barbaric they really are.

La Fête Nationale à Poissy

2009-07-14T04:18:00.001-07:00

This year for Bastille Day, Gaby and I decided to avoid the crowds of Paris and stay in Poissy. After all, the town had its very own fireworks show over the Seine, just down the street from our apartment. (We're rather lazy these days.) The old bridge was blocked off to pedestrians several days in advance for security purposes. I watched all day as workers raked up leaves and bits of trash and mowed the park lawn in preparation for the crowds.

I spent the early evening making fried chicken, cutting watermelon and making fresh-squeezed lemonade, food and drink that I associate with the American "fête nationale." Gaby, his mom and I walked on over to the park not too long before the fireworks were to start and were still able to find a good spot to sit right next to the Seine. To our left, small children were shooting off Black Cats and jumping jacks. To our right, a family was taking turns lighting roman candles. I couldn't keep from grinning. It felt just like the 4th of July, a holiday that I've missed far too often in recent years.

At sunset, they signaled the beginning of the show with lights on the old bridge.

A barge from which the fireworks were to be shot moved slowly down the river to position itself just to the left of the audience. And then the show began with the music of movies dealing with astronomy and space exploration, Poissy's town theme this year. As an American, I think I found it especially comforting to watch really spectacular fireworks set to the familiar scores of 2001: A Space Odyssey, Star Wars and E.T. It was a nice little remedy to any pangs of homesickness.

(Sorry for the lack of pictures--I was too busy watching the show to take any more!! I'll try to add some of Monique's shots later.)

Fun with Immigration

2009-07-11T15:56:00.001-07:00

In mid-June I found out that the Université de Paris X had decided to rehire me for next year. Of course I was (and still am) ecstatic. But underneath the excitement was the dread of knowing that I would have to go to the trouble of renewing my titre de séjour. Ugh.

The Préfecture has somehow traumatized me enough that everytime I go there, my heart starts pounding and my hands start shaking. No matter how simple the process should be, they always find ways to make it difficult.

This time was no different. I went there the earliest I possibly could, the morning after I got official confirmation in writing that I would be rehired. At the reception I asked if I could have some information about renewing my work visa. No. Why not? They were closed for the day. Er...really?? Could I at least have the list of documents I would need to renew my work visa? No. I would have to come back on Monday and arrive early to get an appointment. It was 9:45 a.m.

Monday morning, I arrived at 7:00 am to stand in line. Forty people were ahead of me. At the reception I asked again if I could have some information and told the lady that I was a salaried worker, as this had made a difference in the past. It seemed to make no difference this time. She gave me a ticket to stand in a waiting room with everyone else. There weren't enough seats and the sun was already shining hotly through the glass ceiling. I got squished next to a fat little Frenchman who was clearly hitting on me, although he was married to a beautiful Russian woman who was pregnant with his child. Jerk.

Two hours later, my number was up, and I went to the desk to get my information. The lady looked at my current titre de séjour and then asked to see my passport. She looked at my VISA. "Just as I thought," she said. "I'm not the one you're supposed to see. You'll have to wait until 1:30 and see if you can get a ticket for window 25 where my colleague works. She's the one who deals with this." I had been up since 5:30. It was almost 11:00, and I was tired and hungry. In spite of myself, I could feel the tears welling up. No no no. No crying. And I didn't, but I came close enough that the lady took pity on me and at least got me my list of documents needed and answered some of my questions.

At 1:30, I returned and asked for a ticket for window 25. Success!! One person was ahead of me. When my number was called, I had the lady look at my file, and she told me that everything was complete except for the work authorization card which I could obtain from the Department of Labor. She gave me the address. It was in a town at least 5 miles away.

Gaby's mom Monique was kind enough to drive me to the Department of Labor (DDTEFP) building where the receptionist informed me that I could only get an appointment between the hours of 9:00 and 11:30, but that I could call anytime that afternoon. Monique called because I still sometimes have a hard time talking on the phone, especially when it's for complicated stuff like this. Although Monique was very polite, the lady working yelled at her for not knowing how anything in the Department of Labor worked. As if it were just common knowledge. She then told us that we ought to go to the DDTEFP in Nanterre because they would be more "friendly" there.

I went later that week since they are only open on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, something I found out the hard way. The first guy I talked to had no idea how to renew my work authorization and referred me to his friend, Patrick. Pat told me I needed to go back to the other DDTEFP where he said they might give me some trouble about renewing my card. He wished me luck and sent me on my way.

I returned to the first DDTEFP the next morning. There was no line, and I got right in. The lady I talked to was very nice and patient and answered all my questions. She informed me that I wouldn't need to renew my work authorization card because it was something that the Préfecture would do automatically. It was a new policy that was only a few months old. Great! I thanked her and left, a weight lifted from my shoulders, my heart much lighter, my worries nearly gone.

Today I got a letter from the Préfecture stating that my titre de séjour was almost ready. Yes!!
However, before I could pick it up, I would need to send them my renewed work authorization card within the next 15 days.

FML.

Metro Etiquette

2009-07-07T04:21:00.000-07:00

This post is directly inspired by my cousin Megan's blog on the metro in Singapore. I think everyone who regularly takes public transportation in a big city must have the same kinds of problems so I thought I'd do a post on how Paris' transportation system tries to handle some of them. Personally I find their signs rather entertaining, although not as good as the Singaporean rap video.

Their most recent campaign for train safety and comfort has involved these little conversation bubbles:

From the top clockwise: "Holding open the doors holds up the train." "The doors open; I let people get out." "Preparing to exit makes getting off the train easier." They are not very popular among the French who have complained about having huge guilt trips because of them. Not a problem for me or Gaby.

On one occasion we were trying to make a connection to get home to Poissy. As we pulled into the station in our first train, we could see our connecting train already stationed across the quai and getting ready to leave. Knowing the next one wouldn't arrive for 30 minutes, we ran like crazy to catch it, but Gaby still had to hold open the doors for me to get in which caused the train to have to wait a few seconds longer. Right in front of us on the doors just opposite was this sign:

"One second lost in the station = delays on the whole line." We laughed. Other people don't take it so well:
(A power outage = delays on the whole line)

I don't think those little bubbles will ever make people think twice about holding the doors open. But I don't mind; it seems to be a very small issue compared to the problem of getting out of the train. Letting others descend before getting on the train seems to be so hard for people to understand, that RATP has tried regular signs like the little one above but has also resorted to this:

Sometimes instead of arrows, they even use little footprints. I think it actually works pretty well!

Finally, the most famous sign in the Paris metro is this little pink rabbit.
The picture on the left is the original, and it's located on the doors of every metro in Paris. It says: Watch out!! Don't put your hands on the door or you risk getting pinched very hard!"

On the right is a picture making fun of the fact that the rabbit doesn't seem to have a right arm (which must have gotten cut off in the metro doors). "Obviously it's not the first time this has happened!"

There are other parodies that have nothing to do with the metro: "Watch out!! Don't look at ads: you risk getting manipulated!"
The pink rabbit warning is so famous that it even reached that stupid show Jackass.

I honestly have no idea how effective these little signs are, and of course such signs don't cover every metro offense--how could they? After all, if there were a sign for everything, (it's rush hour and a thin lady takes up 2 seats or a businessman leans against an entire pole so he can work his crossword or a teenage girl stays seated in her fold-down seat near the doors and has the gall to scowl at people when they trip over her) the trains would simply be covered in warning stickers. So I grin and bear it and remind myself that despite any inconveniences, taking the train is still much better than sitting in a car in rush hour traffic in Paris (or anywhere).

L'arachnophobie

2009-06-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

Although I have an intense fear of bugs, especially roaches, spiders have never really bothered me very much. Growing up with a biologist dad, I quickly learned how to identify the venomous brown recluse spider, the only dangerous spider in Northeastern Kansas. But even the threat of their necrotic toxin didn't seem to instill any sort of real fear in me (although it probably should have). And as for harmless spiders, no problem! I even found little black jumping spiders kind of cute. Such a statement would make my highly arachnophobic twin cringe, and I'll admit that I've teased her many, many times for her fear of spiders.

Perhaps she would be pleased to know that karma has finally come back to bite me in the ass.

When I've visited France in the past, I've never seen any kinds of spiders anywhere. In the 19th-century foyer in the 7th district, there were none. No spiders invaded the modern foyer in the 18th district. Neither of my apartments in Paris had them. I've never seen a single one at Gaby's house. Even when I took walks in the forests, I didn't ever see any spiders! I was beginning to think France just didn't have as many spiders as the U.S. or that they simply tended to avoid the Paris area.

Boy was I wrong.

One night a month or so ago, I was getting ready for bed and had just removed my contacts. As I was drying my hands, I happened to look down and through blurred vision could see a very dark spot in the corner of the otherwise white walls. What was that? Mud? How had it gotten on the wall? I put on my glasses. It was a spider, but not just any spider. An enormous one. I stood there frozen staring at its dark brown bulbous abdomen and long hairy legs curled up underneath it. Ugh.

Gaby? I croaked. He must have sensed the fear in my voice because he came to the bathroom immediately. I pointed.

Do you want me to kill it? he asked.

Now this might seem like a dumb question to most people, but not to me. I usually cannot stand to kill spiders; they're supposed to be our friends and take care of all kinds of nuisance insects. So usually I just trap them in a jar and take them outside to be released into the wild where they belong. Not this time. The spider was in a corner where trapping it would have been difficult, and I just couldn't imagine trying to fit it underneath one of our narrow glasses. To see if it was alive, Gaby sprayed it with the shower nozzle. It fell on the floor and didn't move.

See? he said, It's not even alive.

Could you spray it one more time just in case? I asked.

He did. The spider immediately spread out its long long legs and tried to run away, fast. It was probably almost 3 inches long with its leg span and it was heading straight towards me. I tried not to scream. Gaby's shoe came down on it and I closed my eyes and covered my ears to avoid hearing that awful crunch. Brr.

Two days later, we found another one just as big that we had unknowingly killed by closing the bathroom door on it. Fearing we might have a spider problem, I tried to determine where they could be coming from. I covered up a washing machine pipe that's not in use at least to keep them from hiding in there, but hoping that that was their entry point. Right. Then we didn't see any more of them for awhile and I figured that was the end of it.

Out of curiosity, I tried to figure out what kind of spiders they were through different websites. They looked and crawled almost like wolf spiders, but they seemed smaller. I finally found pictures and descriptions that most closely fit our spiders, and apparently they're quite simply referred to as "Giant House Spiders." Great. Huge spiders that regularly come indoors.

Last night we found the latest one, just as big as the other two, in the bedroom, closest to my side of the bed of course and with the beginnings of a thick web to go along with it. Sick. It has since joined its fellow spiders in the arachnid afterlife and I spent a night of fear-induced insomnia. The thought of such enormous spiders crawling on me freaks me out way too much.

So yay. Thanks France. Way to pull a fast one on me, making me think there were no spiders near Paris or just little harmless ones. Instead we've got mini-tarantulas wandering around. Sorry Jill for ever making fun of your arachnophobia.

La Bière

2009-06-03T14:21:00.000-07:00

Beer? Yes, I know. Since I'm in France, I should be talking about their smooth Côtes du Rhônes, bubbly champagne and crisp Sauvignon Blancs. I do sincerely enjoy French wine and still believe the best wine comes from France (sorry California), but today I'd rather put aside this (more sophisticated?) drink and talk about beer in France.

BEER. As the beverage of choice for parties, BBQ's and big sporting events it seems like it should always be written in all capitals. And yet, despite BEER's reputation, the French have managed to avoid any coarse associations in their treatment of it and have somehow made it seem closer to...wine. The word itself, la bière, is lighter than its English equivalent, the R gently rolling off the back of the palate instead of being swallowed as it is in American English. The gender is feminine.

When I first came to Paris, I made the mistake of ordering une bière without specifying the size and was surprised when they brought out a small yet heavy chalice of 25 centiliters--about a half-pint in the US and less than a can of soda. How darling! The bottles are smaller too which certainly helped explain how my French students could brag about being able to drink 10 to 12 bottles of beer at their parties. Yes, 10-12 cute squat little 25 cl containers (compared to the US' standard 35.5 cl bottles).
Am I being the typical American who likes everything BIG? Yes, I am. And France does offer pints of beer as well. You just have to specify that you would like a grande bière or 50 cl.

France itself makes many beers, although unfortunately, I've tried only a few pretty standard ones. They have Kronenbourg which is like Bud Light (definitely not my favorite) and the Pelforth beers that I tend to enjoy more. Desperados is an odd sort of tequila / beer combination that tastes rather refreshing if you can get past the smell.

But a really nice thing about ordering beer in France is that bars regularly offer the more expensive, harder-to-find beers that the US may or may not import.

I'm a fan of Belgian beers. Leffe is a pretty standard beer with good flavor. There's also the widely available Hoegaarden (in the US too, I know), often on tap here and delicious with a slice of lemon on a hot summer night. Chimay Bleue, one of my favorites, has a rich, deep taste with hints of caramel. And of course there are the fun fruity lambics such as Lindeman's Framboise, a purple raspberry beer and Kriek, a tart ruby-red cherry-flavored beer.
When I ordered one of these fruity beers at a bar, my Irish colleague looked at it in disgust and said, "Ewww...smells like jam! It's like you're drinkin' a cup o' jam isn't it?" But he couldn't resist tasting it and then ordered himself one the next round. It's worth trying, but definitely only in the 25 cl quantities.

Finally, my favorite beer that's available in many Parisian Irish pubs is Kilkenny, a creamy red Irish ale lighter than Guinness but full of flavor. Unfortunately, this beer is not available in the U.S.! So if you're ever abroad, even in Canada, and you like darker rich beers, order yourself a pint.
These are just a few of the beers that I've discovered so far while living in a wine country. Why limit myself to wines? Someday I'll write about my favorite wines, but for now I'm going to stick with my little European (okay...mostly Belgian) beer tour. Cheers!

La Bibliothèque Nationale (the Library)

2009-05-10T13:40:00.000-07:00

There is one library in Paris that I have been avoiding this entire academic year. To find my much-needed sources, I opted instead for my university's library. When I couldn't find my books there, I went to Gaby's university's library. I even checked Amazon and FNAC for books that those libraries didn't have.

But last week, I could no longer put off the dreaded task. I needed books that could be found only at France's Bibliothèque Nationale, aka the BN (or as my snobby French colleagues like to call it "La Bibliothèque François Mitterand.") In any case, all the names refer to the same place: France's National Library. Or as I liked to think of it: Hell.

So I tend to overdramatize. But that place is no picnic either.

There are two levels to the library: the Upper Level which is open to the public, and the Lower Level which...isn't. I'd bought a library card to the Upper Level way back in September but had found the selection of books to be unsatisfactory. Plus, there was the time I'd dragged myself all the way across Paris in the pouring rain to get some work done only to find upon my arrival that the Upper Level was closed. On a MONDAY.

It was with dismay that I discovered that the several books that I needed were available only at the BN's Lower Level. The special level. The level that required an interview with a librarian who would then determine if you really needed to use the books there. Yeah.

Gaby and I went together, which made things less scary for me. Our interviews went fine (thank God!), and then our librarian told us how to use the library which unfortunately was full that day. Full? Yes, it would be better to make a reservation for a seat or come back another day. A reservation? Yes, or to come in the morning for the few open seats that are non-reservable.

I tried to make a reservation the following week. Full. I would have to go in the early morning to try to get one of those coveted seats, and that's just what I did.

I arrived, had my bag checked and went through the metal detector. Then I checked in my bag at the vestiaire where they gave me a transparent plastic briefcase to put my belongings in: laptop, paper, novel, writing utensils. I was then ready to go through the first set of turnstiles. I scanned my library card, a green light indicated a free passage and I pushed open a very tall set of heavy metal doors.

To my right, two gleaming escalators led down to the reception area of the Lower Level where I had to ask the lady at the desk if there were any seats available in Room V, the French literature room. She informed me that there were a few seats left for the morning. I could have one, but I would have to give it up in the afternoon since it was reserved. She gave me a seat number, and I was then allowed to go through a second set of turnstiles, through more heavy doors and finally into the Lower Level.
Thick plush red carpeting led the way to room V, where I saw rows of big wooden tables lined up with small lamps at each work space. The tables were mostly empty, and I felt rather annoyed that they were nearly all supposedly taken. I found seat 36. In front of it, a little red light indicated it was reserved for me. A green light was next to it. I put away my affairs and headed over to the computers where I could make my book reservations. Oh yes, aside from a few books in Room V, there is no access to most of the stacks. You have to reserve the book and when it's ready at the desk, the little green light at your table lights up. It can take 45 minutes for it to arrive.

I reserved one book and then found another one in the available stacks. When I arrived back at my seat, I noticed the green light was blinking. My reserved book was available? Already? I went to the desk where the librarian took my card. "No, it's not ready yet," he informed me. "But my green light is flashing," I said, puzzled. "That's for the afternoon person," he said, sounding rather irritated at me. Umm...how was I to know when my book was ready? Too shy to ask, I figured I could work with my available book first.

Finally, when I had only one hour left for my reserved seat, I returned to the desk to see if my other book was ready. A friendly-looking lady took my card and then frowned. "Oh...you wanted these books." I nodded. "Well, you'll have to use the microfiche instead," she said. "Why?" I asked. "Are the books not available?" "They are," she replied, "but when it's this type of book, we prefer you to use the microfilm." She then handed me a piece of paper with the call number for the microfilm written on it and told me I would need to reserve it. And then wait 45 minutes for it to be ready. This would leave me 15 minutes to look through the source. I smiled tightly and told I was just going to cancel my order because I didn't have time to wait. She was very apologetic about it. It was okay, I said, I'd come back the next day.

As I packed up my belongings though, I could feel my frustration mounting. If they preferred that people didn't look at the books, why did they make them available for reservation? Why couldn't they have sent down the microfilm instead? Why couldn't the first librarian have told me there was a problem with my order? Well, at least I'd been able to get a lot of information from my other book, I thought to myself consolingly.

When I went to the BN the next day, the seats were all "taken." I pictured the nearly empty room. But fortunately the receptionist gave me a place in a science room where I ordered my microfilm immediately. Success! It arrived in 20 minutes and I was able to spend the entire morning looking through one of Alexandre Dumas' newspapers that he'd run.

That day I left feeling like an accomplished scholar. I decided that although the BN is intimidating, not really user-friendly, and requires a certain amount of patience, it was a good experience to figure out how to use it. Just another step towards becoming a real researcher. And honestly, the sources they have are just really cool. I just hope my next sessions over there prove to be good experiences as well.

La Famille à Paris Part III, Hamming It Up at the Museums

2009-04-20T11:22:00.000-07:00

After three full days of touring, everyone was ready for a bit of a break. So we took it easy on Wednesday and did some souvenir shopping and light sight-seeing. It was good to do something rather relaxing. Marissa and I checked out the cute boutiques (that I'm usually too shy to go into) in the upscale Saint-Germain neighborhood and then went to the French version of Express for some casual stuff. We found cute flats.

Meanwhile, Jill and our parents had walked down the Rue de Rivoli to see the Louvre courtyard and the Tuilerie Gardens.

My dad thought it looked like the perfect place to go bowling. Ahh...can't escape it.

And unfortunately, Jill discovered that Paris can be a lonely city for some.

Marissa, my mom and I were too serious for such antics I suppose. Or we just found Jill and Daddy entertaining enough. ;) I take it as a sign that they were feeling very comfortable in Paris.

Thursday was the last day my family would be there, and it was also the day of a National Strike. Sure that the train lines would be mostly down, I'd advised everyone to save the nearby museums for that day, just so we could avoid the metro as much as possible. Of course, the clowning around didn't stop that day either.
I guess my dad missed teasing the poor cats back home.

In the afternoon, we headed over to the Musée d'Orsay which is famous for all of its impressionist paintings by the likes of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and Cézanne. Unfortunately (and most unexpectedly!) they had closed off the floor with the most famous paintings because of the national strike!! WHAT??? The museums were on strike too? No one explained why the floor was closed; everyone just kept saying the same thing: "C'est la grève." "It's the strike." Sigh....

My dad, always managing to keep his sense of humor, made the best of the paintings we still had access to. When this portrait of the biologist Louis Pasteur was painted, he was about the same age as my dad is now. I think the resemblance is striking.

And Jill and my mom also managed to take full advantage of the exhibits the museum did have open that day. Even after Marissa, Daddy and I had finished seeing everything, they were still off looking at all the paintings and sculptures in great detail.

We waited for awhile. Note that Marissa's pointing at her watch.

Then we finally left to go get some expensive Coca Lights in a nearby café.

The waiter there seemed to like to joke around as much as my dad. When we came into the cafe, I asked him if we could sit anywhere. His smart-aleck answer? "Well, if you mean can you sit downstairs, sure! Go ahead. But if you want to sit in this seat behind the bar (indicating a random stool), well...I'm afraid that's not possible." That wasn't even the worst of it. As we were sitting enjoying our Cokes (and a Schweppes Agrumes for Marissa), a clueless little Japanese girl came down the stairs and asked the same waiter where the bathroom was. "The bathroom?" he said with a puzzled expression. "We don't have one. You need to pee? Here, use this," he suggested, holding up a glass. The look on her face was priceless, and I could see he was trying to keep from laughing too hard as he directed her to the real bathroom. We were all cracking up.

We finally met back up with Jill and Mom and got ready to find a place for our dinner together in Paris. We decided on a little Italian place not far from the hotel. I know, I know. It's just that that's what sounded good.

And it was good! After the meal, we walked around Paris just a bit more and then everyone headed back to the hotel where we said our goodbyes, and I tried not to be too sad.

Ever since my very first trip to Paris in 1998, I've been dreaming (literally!) of the day my whole family could come visit and we could see the city together. The reality was better than anything I could have imagined. I only wish they could have stayed a little bit longer! Well, I suppose I'll just look forward to future tours of France (other European countries?) together. :)

La Famille à Paris Part II, La Banlieue

2009-04-20T06:45:00.000-07:00

Most people who have studied French have learned at one time or another that the Paris banlieue or the suburbs are places to be avoided, the French equivalent of the poor inner city. Movies like "La Haine" and "Banlieue 13" and news reports about riots and car burning in Paris' banlieue have only reinforced these impressions. The truth is, while there are poor suburbs around Paris, there are also very nice ones, and even rich ones that we don't hear about as often.

My family spent Monday evening and then all day on Tuesday in the Paris suburbs. First they came to visit Gaby and me in Poissy to check out our humble apartment overlooking the Seine.

Then we went outside to look over the Seine ourselves.
Of course we had to show the family around our charming little town.
They thought it looked like a nice place to live! This was a bit of a relief because we'd thought they would think we'd made them come all the way out to the suburbs just to see...crap.
(A most unfortunate abbreviation, especially for a restaurant, eh?)

After Poissy, we headed over to Achères where Gaby's mom had prepared an Alsacian French meal of flammekuche (a very thincrust pizza-like dish with cream), a large ham, potatoes and fruit tarts. She'd also bought some Veuve Clicquot champagne to welcome them. It was a fun and interesting night of translating for Gaby and me. Everyone got along great, and it was getting late by the time we headed back to the train to accompany my family back into Paris.

We were glad to get them back to the hotel at a reasonable hour because Tuesday was to be spent at Versailles, another suburb of Paris that tourists don't usually think of as being the dreaded "banlieue." The town itself is very pretty (and rich), and the château is just spectacular (and huge!).
We visited all the wings that were open that day. The beautiful chapel:

And of course the recently renovated and extravagant Galérie des Glaces (the gallery of mirrors).

Lunch was simple curried chicken baguette sandwiches outside on the steps.

And then we went to explore the Versailles gardens. These are actually my favorite part of Versailles, and I was disappointed that the small gardens were closed for the winter.

But my family still got an idea of how amazing (and again, huge!) such gardens could be.

And so concluded our third busy day together in ...er near..Paris.

La Famille à Paris, Part I

2009-04-20T02:28:00.000-07:00

My family came to visit me in Paris over a month ago. I'm just blogging about it now because it's taken me that long to recover. Okay, okay...that's totally not true. Actually I've just been working on other stuff and the blog has had to take a backseat to my other projects (i.e. the dissertation).

I'll admit that I was rather worried before my family came because I wanted to be a good guide. They would be in Paris for less than a week, and I wanted them to have the best time possible in only a few days. Would the weather be okay in the middle of March or would it rain everyday? What should we see? What days should we go to certain sites? What days were these sites closed? Where would we eat? What would they like? What French foods should they absolutely try? Would they have a hard time since most of them didn't speak French?

Well, of course, I did a lot of worrying for nothing because everything turned out fine. The weather was beautiful, and I discovered that I belong to a family of really great travelers who want to see and do a lot. I should have known. They arrived early Sunday morning at Charles de Gaulle airport, and Gaby and I went to meet them.

Once in Paris, we got some breakfast/lunch at a little café near the Saint-Michel fountain and then were ready to start our tour of the city. First, Notre Dame de Paris. I always forget how beautiful it really is.
Next, the Bateaux Mouches, or in English, the flyboats. This was a great way to get an overview of the major sites in Paris. Plus my poor jetlagged family could relax (and even sleep a little) during the tour.
The rest of the day was pretty relaxed. Everyone was able to check into the hotel at 3:oo and take much-needed naps and then explore the neighborhood just a little bit. Incidentally, my parents had gotten a hotel not far from my old Paris apartment in the 6th. It was so good to hang out in my old familiar neighborhood.
Monday was the day of the Towers, or climbing day. We started with the Arc de Triomphe where we climbed the spiraling staircase to the very top.
And the view:
After a stroll down the Champs Elysées, our next stop was the Eiffel Tower. We had planned on taking the elevator up, but realized that we would have to wait two hours in line. We decided to test our fitness levels and take the stairs. Most of us found out we were seriously out of shape, and we marveled at the people who were actually smoking as they walked up the steps. UGH. Still, the walk was worth it.
As we made our way back down the stairs, we snickered at all the people huffing and puffing on their way up. We even made encouraging remarks like, "Don't worry...only 400 more steps to go." We're nice like that.
Although we were tired (and some of us aching--okay, me), our first full day together in one of the most beautiful cities in the world had turned out great. But it wasn't over yet. My family had decided that it would be nice to visit Poissy where Gaby and I live.

Life at the Laundromat

2009-02-21T10:51:00.000-08:00

As you may know from a previous post, I do not like doing laundry. This dislike is compounded by the fact that I actually have to leave the apartment and go to the downtown laundromat to wash my clothes. Without a car. While it's not too far away, it's definitely no walk in the park and it tends to lead me to ...some interesting folks.

A few weeks ago, I was dragging my enormous suitcase of clean garments back home through downtown Poissy and feeling very self-conscious because the wheels were making a really loud noise as they rolled over the stony sidewalk. But I told myself that it was all in my head to feel like a weird foreign girl that everyone was looking at. This shaky sense of normalcy was destroyed by a boy across the street.

"HEY!!" he yelled at me. I looked up. "You mjohgiagh the suitcase?" he yelled. I really had no idea what he was saying about my suitcase, so I ignored him, although I was cringing inside about the loud wheels. He insisted. "HEY! YOU mfaohfoaush THE SUITCASE?" This time I frowned at him, but he wouldn't shut up. I quickened my pace, my face getting hot as the wheels rolled even more loudly against the pavement and the boy continued to scream at me about my suitcase. I cursed myself for not being able to understand him. It was French after all. Why couldn't I understand that ONE word?? Especially when he kept repeating it. Ugh. I still have no idea what he was saying.

Of course this experience did not have me looking forward to doing laundry again anytime soon, and I put it off, even resorting to handwashing some items. But as I was running out of clean clothes and had a lunch date with a girlfriend the next day, I grudgingly packed everything into a couple of large shopping bags (no loud suitcase for me this time) and once again headed out to the laundromat for a new adventure.

When I arrived, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Like a magic marker. It took me a second to realize that it was coming from one of the dry cleaning machines. This was the first time I'd ever seen anyone use one of these machines, so out of curiosity I looked to see what they were cleaning. Hmm...a rug. This, despite the fact that in huge red letters right above the machine door it was marked "RUGS PROHIBITED". I briefly wondered why rugs wouldn't be allowed but didn't think anything of it and went about starting my wash and then my usual people-watching.

That's the thing about the laundromat. There's always at least one interesting character. On this particular day, green girl was there. I call her that because she was dressed entirely in green, even her shoes. I've run into her before at the laundromat. She is extremely polite to me, and I'm always nice back to her, but you can tell she's not all there. She mostly likes to let people know what items she has or doesn't have, although her remarks tend to be rather off-color when she talks to men. Today for example, as I was taking my clothes from the dryer, she asked me if I had a daughter. When I told her "no," with a smile she said that she didn't have one either. She then moved on to the man standing a few dryers down and said to him, "Sir, you and I have not slept together." "Indeed," replied the man and went about his folding with absolutely no other reaction. I tried not to laugh as green girl then focused her attention on a couple who had just walked in.

As it turned out, they were the dry-cleaning people, come back to retrieve their "prohibited" rug. When they opened the door to the machine, it was clear that something was not right. The smell of dry-cleaning solvent was sickeningly strong. I doubled my efforts to finish my folding faster, but couldn't keep from looking over at them. Although they were not speaking French, it was clear that they were not very happy with the results of the cleaning. As they argued about the rug, green girl piped up behind them:

"I don't have a rug at my house," she said.

"WHAT?" the couple asked in an exasperated tone.

"I DON'T HAVE A RUG AT MY HOUSE! No, I don't have a rug. Or a carpet. No rug or carpet at home. I don't have a computer either."

I once again looked at the couple, waiting for them to tell her off, but the woman just tersely said, "Well, it's better that way."

It was at this point that I realized that their problem with the rug was not just the poor cleaning. It was soaked through with solvent and dripping everywhere; as they pulled it out of the machine, a pool of dry-cleaning fluid splashed onto the floor. The smell was cloistering, like ten thousand magic markers opened all at once. The possibility of an instant migraine was tremendous. I hurriedly grabbed my last few pairs of socks, crammed them into my full shopping bags and headed out the door. But not before seeing the couple stuffing their dripping wet rug into one of the dryers. This was not going to end well.

Maybe I should have stayed and told them not to do that, but I didn't think it would have mattered. They weren't supposed to have put their rug in the dry-cleaning machine and they had done it anyway. The solvent wasn't flammable, although it would probably leave behind its terribly strong smell and maybe ruin the dryer. And the heat of the dryer along with the solvent might ruin the rug. I know it might sound bad, but I couldn't be bothered to say anything. I didn't have any alternative drying solutions for the couple, and the prospect of spending Saturday evening lying quietly in a dark room was not very appealing.

So, heavy bags in hand, I simply continued walking down the busy street and wondered if the couple was regretting not having paid for a professional cleaning. And if green girl would let them know what else she didn't have at home. And of course...what would happen next time I went to the laundromat.

The Slogans

2009-02-19T11:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, I realize this strike has been dominating my blog posts, but it's the biggest thing going on in my life right now. (That is, until my family comes to visit at which point I'll be sure to document all their reactions to French life.)

One of my favorite parts of going to demonstrations is seeing all the slogans. I love this combination of creativity and activism, and I just can't resist sharing a little of what I've seen so far. Most of the signs I see are from the English department at Paris VII, so many are in English or make reference to English or American culture. But my favorite ones are the ones that are all in French.

Yes we can (overcome) !
Guess they still love Obama.

The University Strikes Back
The Return of the Teacher
Gotta love these two Star Wars references as well as the play on the word "strike."

Fac off!
The "fac" is the university in French, and the way they pronounce it is very similar to another "f" word.

La LRU nous gonfle. (written on a balloon)
In slang, "The LRU reform wears us out." But "gonfler" also means "to inflate."

And I've saved my favorite for last:

Si tu veux que j'arrête de te casser les couilles, arrête de nous couper les bourses.
"If you want me to stop breaking your balls, stop cutting our funding."

But in a lovely play on words "bourses" can also mean "balls" in which case it reads:
"If you want me to stop breaking your balls, stop cutting ours off."

Ahh...the French have such a way with words. ;)

Back to work...on strike.

2009-02-14T03:00:00.000-08:00

I was nervous about going to the university on Thursday. It was supposed to be the first day of my classes for the spring semester at Nanterre, but I knew that all the universities across the country were on strike. I had no idea what to expect, but the day turned out fine.

While my afternoon and evening classes were empty, in my morning class, I had 7 students out of 25. I asked them what they were doing there because frankly I was surprised to see anybody. They informed me that they didn't care about the strike. What?!

We spent the next 15 minutes talking about the reasons for the strike and what it meant for them as students. As it turns out, they were well-informed about the anti-education reforms being passed, and they did care about how that would affect their profs and fellow students. But not enough to miss class over it. They also insisted that they would show up to class the next week, a day when there will be another huge national education demonstration.

Most people would applaud those students for showing up. Although I appreciated their enthusiasm for working on their English, I was rather disappointed that they weren't looking at the bigger picture. Especially since I would be sending the entire class their assignments through email throughout this strike period.

To be clear, striking at the university does not mean that students just don't show up for class. Sure, there are students who will use the strike as an excuse not to get out of bed in the morning, but there are also thousands who use that time to get informed and make plans to mobilize other students. So although no one came to class on Thursday, the university was far from deserted.

Professors and students alike have been giving informational presentations about the strike. At some universities, the profs have even organized workshops where they give talks on labor history, history of protests and current work situations around the world.

Thursday afternoon there was a General Assembly meeting where students, faculty and administrators voted for motions against the reform. It was also a time to pass around sign-up lists and create committees who would be in charge of different actions to protest the reforms. They needed people to create signs and banners for the next manif'. They needed others to pass out tracts at the train stations and make people aware of why the universities are against the reforms. This is especially important since the French media has insisted that profs are against any sort of change and are just lazy people in cushy jobs, a gross misconception perpetuated by irresponsible journalism.

All in all, the strike has hardly been a vacation for anyone. I've never seen so many involved students who are thinking for themselves, organizing themselves and working together to fight for their rights. It is just incredible. When I look out across the amphitheater where at least 1000 are assembled in solidarity against these reforms, I feel such a sense of strength and optimism (and yes, pride too) and the whole scene brings to mind a chant from a demonstration in Madison: Do you know what democracy looks like? This is what democracy looks like.

Potato Chips in France

2009-02-06T05:32:00.000-08:00

My favorite chips in the U.S. are Krunchers' Jalapeno chips. I love the satisfying crunch and the very spicy flavor. Of course they are unavailable here and I rely on the very generous (and $$) care packages my family sends me now and then. And if I really want a little spice and a taste of the U.S., the stores do carry Pringles Hot & Spicy chips which I indulge in every now and then.

Why not just eat French potato chips? Don't they have their own brands and flavors. Yes. Yes, they do. Just last week, I laughingly pointed at a bag of "Chicken and Thyme" chips which Gaby consequently added to our basket for me to try. They were good, although it was kind of like eating crunchy soup. They also have chips with "Bolognaise" flavor...as in the spaghetti sauce? I think so. There's roasted beef and braised chicken and some chips that are Mustard and Pickle flavored. I haven't tried them all...yet.

I guess I just feel like chips should have names and flavors that seem more "snacky" and less like meals. If I want roast beef, I want real roast beef and not a chip that tastes like sort of like roast beef. Okay, maybe sometime I will want a chip that tastes like roast beef; they're probably very good. But the "snack vs. meal" thing explains in part why mustard and pickle chips rather than "braised chicken" or "roast beef" are next on my list of chips to try. I've heard they're delicious.

Plus de Chercheurs, Moins de Traders!

2009-02-06T04:22:00.000-08:00

February 5th marked another demonstration day for the students and faculty of the Universities of Paris. Paris III and Paris VII were the two most visible groups, adding up to around 3600 students and teachers.

Our numbers were rather disappointing. I'd been hoping to see more people from my university, Paris X, but found out that people aren't as mobilized yet since the second semester doesn't start until Monday. Our route was also disappointing. When demonstrations are organized in Paris, the prefecture of police has to be notified and they have to approve the date and the path of the demonstration. Obviously, they had approved a path that would be visible to few people.

We were supposed to end the manif at the pre-approved Place du Panthéon which is in the Latin Quarter next to the Sorbonne. Even then, there seemed to be few people around; our demonstration had been effectively contained so that we had disturbed only a handful of drivers and gotten the attention of only a few people who looked out the windows of their workplaces or apartments. I think it's safe to say that many of us were feeling like we still needed to be seen and heard.

So when the CRS tried to physically contain us at the Panthéon, they unwittingly put some fuel on the fire and motivated our group to march on. The riot police had used their trucks and a few armored men to block the street leading from the Place du Panthéon down to Saint-Michel. Unfortunately for them, they'd thought we students would keep to the streets and had neglected to block the open sidewalks on either side. They must have though we were stupid. In a calm but determined movement, our crowd of demonstrators headed towards these open paths. The cops made a vain attempt to stop us. However, they were terribly outnumbered and ended up leaving the middle of the street wide open. At this point all of the the demonstrators got past them and poured out onto the very busy Boulevard Saint-Michel where we headed towards the Seine. There was nothing they could do to stop us except call for backup and try to cut us off elsewhere.

To avoid their roadblocks, several hundred of us turned onto the equally busy Boulevard Saint-Germain which was choked with rush-hour traffic. As we marched between the cars yelling "Sarkozy, t'es foutu, la jeunesse est dans la rue!" and "Etudiants pas contents!" we were happily surprised to see that many of the drivers and passengers were giving us the thumbs-up and even cheering us on. Keep in mind that this was in one of the very richest districts in Paris where views tend to be very conservative. The reaction was amazing.

Our group continued on towards the Quais de la Seine where we were still trying to stay one step ahead of the cops. Traffic, narrow streets and lack of communication kept our group from staying tightly together and at one very tense and frightening moment, about 30 of us found ourselves surrounded by policemen carrying shields, teargas, tasers and nightsticks. One wrong move would have meant very bad consequences for us. We put our hands up in surrender and were allowed to leave under the unsaid condition that our manif' be considered over. A few ultra-leftists wanted to continue, but the rest of us agreed that it was safer to stop.

We had made ourselves heard despite our smaller-than-expected numbers. We had been a success. On Tuesday, students and profs from all over the country will unite in Paris for a national demonstration against the reforms. I'm hoping for a good turnout.

Journée de Grève (France on strike!)

2009-01-30T01:45:00.000-08:00

Quand il y a une grève en France, personne ne s'en aperçoit. (When there's a strike in France, no one notices.)
--Nicolas Sarkozy

Well, I seriously doubt Sarko and friends could have ignored the strikes and demonstrations on Thursday, January 29th. The post office, the train, auto and metal workers, the hospitals, the high schools, the universities, the students and more all turned up to protest the French government's response to the economic crisis as well as the so-called reforms it has proposed. An estimated 500,000 of us marched in the biggest demonstration I've ever participated in. And that was in Paris alone where not everyone could make it because the trains (on strike) were running on limited service.

I'm not going to pretend to know all the reasons that all the different workers are on strike. I know that in the private sector, a lot of people have been laid off because of the economic crisis or they've had their hours cut way back with wages that are impossible to live on. Nothing has been done to help them. The public sector is being threatened with privatization because the government claims it doesn't have the money to continue to fund public services, including hospitals, schools and the post office. Of course, this same government, who can't spare a penny for the regular joe, managed to find billions of euros to bail out the banks who caused the current economic crisis in the first place. French workers of all trades are deciding it's time to stand up and let their government know that they've had enough. And they're right.

Education is one of the major areas under attack. At all levels it is facing budget cuts which have led to huge staff and faculty cuts. To make matters worse, Sarkozy has decided that French universities should rely on private rather than public funds. What he's really saying is that students should pay much higher tuition rates. Everyone knows that this spells disaster for anyone seeking an education, especially for those with lower incomes. As someone who is unhappy about having to pay back student loans in the years to come, I will of course fight for other people to have the right to an affordable education.

Sarko also wants professor evaluation to change. For those who may not know, professor evaluation as it stands is stringent; profs don't sit around patting each other on the back and telling each other "good job." Under the new plan, a (government-appointed?) committee will do evalutions. Profs who are not considered "good researchers" will be given much heavier teaching loads than those who are. Obviously, teaching more classes will not afford these so-called poor researchers time to do any research, but this doesn't seem to be a concern for the government.

These are just a few of the major education reforms Sarkozy is calling for, but they're enough for me to be on the side of the teachers and the students. Even if I'm not sure that I myself will be able to strike--I cringe at the thought of being a scab, I will show my solidarity with the courageous people who are on strike. There are more manifs to come, and I will be there to at least add to the number of demonstrators. If the students go on strike to defend their right to an education, I will support them however I can.

This has been a difficult post to write. There is so much more to say on this subject, and I've hardly done it justice here. In any case, I hold great hope that by taking to the streets, by disrupting the system, by making it impossible for Sarko and his cronies to continue to ignore us, we can resist these reactionary "reforms." It's worked in recent years, and it can work now if we all stick together.

Excuse my French

2009-01-20T08:24:00.000-08:00

At some point during the semester one of my students said that she thought English people cursed more than Americans. She had spent a few years in England, and apparently the English were always dropping the f-word. By contrast, when she'd gone to the States, all the Americans tried to avoid cursing as much as possible. Or if they did let a swear word slip past, they immediately apologized for their language. Another student agreed with the first's observations and then added that the French cursed even more than the English did.

As I later reflected on this, it occurred to me that this was probably true. My students are always saying "putain" this and "putain" that. "Putain" by the way, is the equivalent of the f-word. And maybe this would seem normal on a college campus. After all, I've heard it plenty of times at UW and at KU--a common word in students' vocabulary. In France, however, it's definitely not limited to young people who are talking with their friends and peers. My dad once recounted the story of how he and my mom were taking a tour of the Louvre with an English-speaking French guide. They had stopped in front of a painting of two lovers, and as the guide was describing the lovers' secret affair, she casually added about the woman, "Of course she f***ed him." My dad was completely taken aback and quickly looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Unfortunately, the other tourists' attention spans were a bit shorter and they showed absolutely no reaction, or perhaps they had just assumed that she couldn't have said such a word to a tourist group. My mom swears the guide did not say that word. However, given my experiences here, I'm more inclined to believe that she did. How many times have I heard journalists on national television say "putain"? Many, many times. How many times have I heard them say "f***"? Surprisingly more often than one would think. No FCC here to punish them with fines for indecent language.

Even in Gaby's family, the language is more vulgar than it is in my American family. And it's not as if his family is considered exceptional as far as bad language; rather, this is the norm. One evening before dinner, I told Gaby's mom that grading tons of essays was really "chiant" because that's the word I've heard people use when they want to say something is really annoying and boring. Her face lit up and she exclaimed, "Wow, you're really making progress in French!" This is the phrase she uses whenever I unintentionally use vulgar language. Literally I had said that that grading a ton of papers is "shitty." Similarly, if I wanted to express that something was broken, or ruined or messed up completely, I would be inclined to say it was "foutu" and I would be thinking "broken, ruined, etc." But really this is the equivalent of saying that something is "f***ed" or all "f***ed up."

I asked my students if they said such words in front of their grandparents. Most shrugged and said it depended on the grandparents while some even claimed that their own grandparents said such words. What? I tried to imagine my grandmother ever saying something along the lines of "My garden is completely f***ed up, Rod." o_O No. No no no no no.

In France those words just don't seem to carry the same taboo. I don't know if that's strange or if it's stranger that we place such importance on them in English. Or maybe it's just that curse words in English sound harsher and uglier than they do in French. Perhaps more people, including the French, would agree with the Merovingian that "[cursing in French] is like wiping your ass with silk."

Lunch in Italy and Picasso in Antibes

2009-01-15T02:46:00.000-08:00

I realize this is the 21st century equivalent of a vacation slideshow, but I don't care. Yeah, I'm one of THOSE people. We decided to go to Italy for lunch. It sounds glamorous, but it was just an hour away. And it looked pretty much like France except for all the signs in Italian.

Here's Gaby at the little restaurant. Can't you tell we're in Italy?
I will say that the food was delicious. I had an excellent lasagna and Gaby had a pizza made with Prosciutto ham and fresh mozzarella. There was no tomato sauce, just big slices of fresh tomatoes. Very tasty.

We walked down the boardwalk afterwards for a little while. The most striking thing about the town was that many of the houses on the hills seemed to be piled on top of each other. From there we went into Monte Carlo and walked around the docks where we saw some enormous yachts that people were getting ready for New Year's parties. You can't see the big yachts in this picture--I would have felt weird photographing them with a bunch of strangers on board like that.
There was also a little Christmas market where they sell holiday sorts of things and serve all kinds of food (think melted cheese poured over potatoes with little slices of bacon...mmm...), mulled wine and other hot drinks. We stopped for hot Belgian waffles with chocolate sauce drizzled over them.
The last day, we headed into downtown Antibes, the old part of town where all the streets are narrow and so quaint.
And then we went to the Picasso museum which is in old Antibes. It was in a castle where Picasso had spent some time painting. Although the paintings were fine, I liked the sculptures the best. Those guitars were awesome.

And I'm not sure what these sculptures are supposed to be, but I call the one on the left "Deformed little cat." Maybe it's supposed to be an owl.

Anyway, that concluded our little trip and we headed back to Poissy the next day. It was a good little holiday. That said, I do hope that I will someday be able to go to the beach when it's warm outside and not too windy and not rainy. And not too crowded . . . Right.

Juan-les-Pins & Cannes

2009-01-14T10:19:00.000-08:00

Gaby and I went down south over the holidays. Yes, this is a late post because I've been rather lazy over the holidays. Anyway, although it was still cold, it was not nearly as cold as Paris, and a lot of trees were still green. And there were palm trees and the beautiful Mediterranean. If it didn't get so crowded in the warm months, it would be a great place to live.

We stayed in a little studio apartment in Juan-les-Pins which is very close to Cannes.

Here's a view of the upper courtyard:

There were palm trees and orange trees (with oranges!) in December. Beautiful.
It may look sunny and warm, but our first day there was freezing!! The North wind was so strong, I almost lost my hat and finally took it off for the pics. And no, Gaby did not spike up his hair with tons of gel; the wind is blowing it back.

In spite of the cold, the trip was worth it because the Mediterranean is just amazing. In the background, you can see the Alps.

We went to Cannes our second day there and took a picture on the famous red carpet just outside the cinema. We tried to ham it up a little bit but were nothing compared to a group of Italians who totally put on a mafia act. They were great. The slogan on the big poster above us was: City Zen Cannes. I thought it was a cute play on words.

There were also handprints of movie stars who had come to the festival. This one is Samuel L. Jackson's print for Pulp Fiction.

There were other fun things about that area as well.

And of course, it was gorgeous. Sigh...

In the following days, we went to Monaco, over the border into Italy and then explored the old part of Antibes. More on that next time.

Laundry

2009-01-14T09:22:00.000-08:00

Washing clothes seems to be a fairly straightforward concept. You toss in some detergent, put the clothes in the washer, choose hot, warm or cold water and then press start. And your clothes are done in 30-45 minutes at which point you can choose to machine or line dry them. Piece of cake.

Except in France, it's not. Well, not for me anyway. The French tend to wash everything in hot water. They even have ads on TV about laundry detergents that will get your clothes clean, even if you wash them in COLD water! As someone who washes only whites in hot water and nearly everything else in warm or cold, I have come to hate French washing machines. They're slow, needlessly complicated with their settings (pre-wash, wash, long cycle, short cycle, extra rinse, active soak, intensive wash, cotton, synthetique, delicates, wool, 95, 60, 50, 40, or 30 degrees, and * (whatever that means). Okay, okay, I realize that American machines also have the fabric settings, but the last American washing machine I used did not even have those. And I liked it that way.
It may look like an innocent washer, but it's evil I tell you. Pure evil.
Damn, the settings are still too small to read. Too bad. At least you can see all the buttons on the left. Overwhelming for me.

The first time I washed a sweater in a French washing machine, I chose the coldest setting I could find on that particular machine. Thirty degrees. Celsius. I did not do the math in my head to figure out what 30 degrees was in Fahrenheit. "It's the lowest temperature written on the machine, so it must be pretty cool" was the only thought that went through my head. My washing-machine-safe wool sweater would be fine. I should have known better. If I had even just estimated, I would have known that 30 degrees Celsius or 86 degrees Fahrenheit spells disaster for a wool sweater, even a machine-safe one. A second wool sweater met a similar fate this year when it accidently got mixed in with some dark colors, colors that I normally would have washed in cold water in the U.S.

Sweaters have not been the only victims of the washers. This past week, I went to do some bedclothes that had been piling up. I usually wash these on hot, but thinking of my sweaters, I chose a conservative 60 degrees (140 F). The duvet covers came out fine. The fitted cotton sheet did not. It's supposed to fit on a queen sized bed; when it came out, it looked like it would fit on a double bed. I later managed to yank it down over the corners of the mattress which then bowed terribly in the middle. No matter! I got it onto the bed which means that I won! Hahahahahaha! It's on there now, probably digging holes into the side of the mattress as I type...Damn French machines.

I'm sure at some point I'll come to appreciate all the different temperature settings and the options for extra-slow washes, but at the moment, I just want the simplicity of Hot, Warm, Cold, Start.

Europeans and Kansas

2008-12-15T00:48:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I went to a Christmas party thrown by one of my Irish colleagues and her Irish roommate. Part of the merriment of the party was that we lecturers at Nanterre could finally relax and actually talk to each other about stuff other than school. And we got to talk to people that we just never see at the university because of our schedules. Naturally, everyone still wanted to know exactly where everyone else was from. (Probably so we can make little judgments or little jokes about it.) Although I've lived in Wisconsin for the past several years, I always tell new acquaintances that I'm from Kansas. It's still "home" to me, as it's where my family and some very dear friends are. Anyone from Kansas can imagine the kinds of responses I got, each one different.

The Irish roommate asked if I knew Clark Kent by chance. This is the first time anyone has asked me this and being a superhero fan, I was tickled. This has to be the best reaction anyone has had about my origins.

The two Irish friends who lived in the country and who were prone to sheep invading their yards said that to them Kansas seemed like such a magical place. Magical!?! Well, they explained, it was a place they associated with the Wizard of Oz. Of course it was magical. I think this is possibly the nicest version of the "Dorothy and Toto" response that I have ever gotten. I decided I liked these Irish folks.

The last response came from one of my English colleagues who had perhaps the most critical question to ask me. "Kansas, eh? How's evolution going down there?" Sigh. Fair enough question, but I cringed as I explained to the other Europeans about the creationists who want to have religion taught in science classes. They were both amused and horrified I think.

And so I've concluded from all this that in the European mind, Kansas must indeed be a mystical place. Although a seemingly humble state often represented in films as nothing more than farmhouses, livestock and fields, it is Superman's home. Dorothy and Toto were whisked away from Kansas to an magical kingdom with talking lions and tin men. Even The Onion compared Kansas to the Bermuda Triangle at one point. And of course, there's creationism. Who would have thought that my home state would seem so fantastical to the folks on the other side of the pond?

Grading

2008-12-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

I love teaching. To me, the whole profession is incredibly rewarding even with the long hours of planning and correcting. When I'm not doing that, I'm in front of my students being the odd combination of teacher, talk show host and comedian. (Okay, I can only be a comedian on my really good days.)

The only thing I don't really like about teaching is grading. I should clarify. Correcting copies is fine. Sure it can be tedious, but it lets me know what my students still don't understand. It's the actual assigning of a grade that I really don't like. Ugh. Maybe I just don't like to give my students bad grades even when I know that those are the grades they earned.

In France, marking is particularly hard simply because the point of it all seems to be to let the students know that they don't know anything. Their marks just seem to scream at them, "You're so incredibly stupid !!" For one thing, the grading system is not out of 100 points but out of 20. Yes, twenty. It doesn't leave much room for variation, and you certainly can't lose very many points without failing.

To make things even worse, you can't simply adjust the grading system to the American version. That would be too easy. Nobody ever gets 18/20 or higher unless they've completed the assignment as well as a professor. A perfect score or even nineteen out of twenty is the stuff of legends. Give the students a grade like that and they'll think it's a mistake. The best score most students can hope for is a sixteen--an 80%. A low B by US standards. So why don't they grade out of sixteen points instead of out of twenty? I have no idea. All I know is that 16 is very good, anything below ten is failing and anything in between 10 and 16 is considered good or average.

So here I am going through my poor students' copies, correcting their little English mistakes, suggesting better ways for them to organize their essays and then trying to assign them a French grade even though I have the "feel-good" American system stuck in my head. I know that they will be surprised when they get their exams back. I can already hear the comments: "Mais, c'est très gentil Madame." This is really nice, Ma'am. Meaning "too nice." Whereas most French teachers would fail around three quarters of their students, I just cannot do it. Sure the students' work isn't perfect, but in most cases, I wouldn't say it was at the level of failing. So why fail them?

And so it is with this sense of fairness (or pity?) that I assign my students their "too nice" grades. And most of them will not only pass my class, but will probably pass it with a "good grade." That's okay with me. I tell myself that my high marks will tip the scales just a tiny bit in the direction of encouragement and maybe, just maybe, allow my students to continue their studies at the university. But in reality, it's more likely that such marks will only give me the reputation of being the silly, easy-grading American teacher. Ugh.

Music in the metro (the good, the bad and the ugly)

2008-12-08T15:04:00.000-08:00

I use the Paris railway system (metro, RER, SNCF) nearly everyday and think that it is absolutely fabulous despite any delays or cancellations. And I do think that the railway system does make efforts to make public transportation a pleasant experience. For example, there is almost always music on the Paris railways and in the stations. Music in the metros is probably on my list of the top 10 things I love about Parisian life. And...it's also on my list of the 10 things I hate about Parisian life. I tend to classify metro music into one of three categories.

The first category is comprised of the professional musicians. To play in the Parisian metros, you need to audition for the job and you are given a sort of license to play there. Different stations have different musicians. Just the other day, I was in the Palais Royal station where a man was playing lovely music on his violin. It was so calming and so fitting for a station that leads into the Louvre. In another station, I've heard the most amazing accordion player. Yes, you read that right. I'm usually not a huge fan, but this guy can play all the parts of Vivaldi's "Winter" on his accordion. It is just incredible.

In the second category are the guys who are not licensed to play in the metro, but who are trying to earn some cash with a little entertainment. This can be hit or miss, but usually these guys aren't too bad! A few days ago, I was in a very crowded RER train and a guy shouted out that he was going to sing a little tune for everyone's enjoyment. As it turned out, he couldn't sing at all which he admitted afterward. He then said that he really just wanted a little extra money and that he was sad because it was Christmas time and he had no girlfriend. The whole thing turned into this great little comedy routine. Everyone was laughing. Excellent. Unfortunately, I couldn't see who he was and so couldn't hand him over the change from my pocket.

The last category is the only one that I really just cannot stand. It has apparently become a trend for people to "share" their music with everyone on the train. This means that they open the music they've loaded onto their cell phones and turn the volume all the way up. They seem to have this idea that they're doing everyone an incredible favor by playing tinny-sounding hip hop through their crappy little phone speakers. Why why why? I thought it was part of this need to be the center of attention--like they're on a reality show. Gaby's theory is that they can better pretend they're in a music video if they're playing their music out loud and everyone's glaring at them. I think he's onto something.

How to deal? For category 1, no problem. I love it. For category 2, I have my mp3 player and earphones ready just in case the entertainment's not so entertaining. And for category 3? Well, I've started carrying around a hammer so I can ... ... I mean, I'll just turn up my own music and hope it drowns out theirs. SIGH.

Files d'attente or Waiting in line.

2008-12-03T10:35:00.000-08:00

I hate waiting in line. There are instances where I manage to stay relaxed and patient, but usually I'm thinking of all the better things I could be doing if I were not having to wait.

And the problem in France? French people do not know how to wait in lines because they never really FORM any LINE. Their idea of queuing is more like crowding and then pushing past everyone else to get to the front first. It doesn't matter what the line is for--the ATM, the lunch counter, the metro ticket window, the checkout desk at the library--I encounter this crowding problem everywhere. Most times I'm not even sure where to stand because it's absolutely impossible to tell where the line begins and ends. Just so you have an idea, this is a random picture of a French "line." No beginning or end in sight.

To make matters worse, there's always the little crowd of people who are just standing around next to the line and who seem oblivious to the fact that some people are trying to actually get something.

In the US, I would have fewer problems with this, even if "queuing" and "crowding" were synonymous there as well. If someone tried to cut in front of me, I would not hesitate to tell them that they need to wait their turn like everyone else. But saying something to the same effect in French seems rather...daunting. The last thing I need is some snotty French girl (it's always been snotty girls who have cut in front of me) bitching me out in the kind of rapid slangy French that I don't understand very well.

So what to do? At this point, I'm considering playing the foreign card. Yes, after having lost my place more than half a dozen times, I would do it. I'll go wherever I want in the crowd..er...line, and if someone complains that I've cut in front of them, I'll just say, "Uh...Daysolay...Jay nay paRlay paw fransay" and feign ignorance over any signs they might make about going to the end of the line, wherever that might be. And they can think I'm a stupid American as much as they want. I'll still be getting my sandwich first.

French apartments

2008-12-03T09:52:00.001-08:00

Sorry for the hiatus, but we've been moving. We finally found a new apartment...er...back at the beginning of November. This is cause for celebration (much like the carte de sejour was) because as anyone who has lived in or near Paris knows, finding an apartment is an arduous task.

The last time I lived in Paris, I searched for a month. This did not mean browsing the housing ads and circling a few places that might interest me and then calling when it was convenient. No. Apartment hunting means WAR. It means calling at least ten places every single day and making appointments and then trying desperately to please the landlord and hope that (s)he'll take pity on you and let you have a place to live.

This time Gaby did all of this for us. My hero!! Still, the apartment hunt seemed to be an uphill battle.

The first problem was with the ads themselves. Just because they're posted and the paper says they're "new" doesn't mean that they really are. Many times, we found out that the apartments in our "new" ads had been rented for several weeks already and that the ad was more than a month old. Another problem with the ads was that some landlords just lie about their apartments. For instance, "10 minute walk to the train station" often really means "10 minute sprint but 25 minute walk". Oh, and when they say an apartment is 30 meters squared, they are counting every single space in the apartment, including every single stair and even the closet with the water heater in it. I've seen some very small "30m2" apartments.

Second problem? The landlords ultimately get to choose who lives there and their criteria can be very subjective. It's almost like going to an interview if you're dealing with the landlord personally. My last landlord picked me because I was an English teacher and he wanted extra lessons. Gaby and I were not so lucky in one case. We visited one very charming studio one Friday evening during an open house. What we didn't realize was that the landlady had already decided she wanted a single female student to live there. So, she told any young girls to visit the apartment on Thursday and any young guys or couples to visit on Friday. What a waste of time for us! By Friday, she'd already chosen her new renter and we were just there...well, I don't know why we were there.

Last problem. Money. If you go through an agency, (which we finally did out of desperation), they absolutely require that you make not just double the rent of an apartment, but THREE times the amount. As a lecturer at the university, I make very little money for big-city living. Under their criteria I would often not be able to rent a 9m2 studio. Nine meters squared is the size of a walk-in closet by the way. But Gaby and I together were fine with his fam as co-signers. Whew!

Now for the good news. The apartment is fabulous!! It's not a studio which is nice because I like having my rooms separated. It is literally 2 minutes from the train station, but not facing the train station so we don't have a noise problem. And the best part? It overlooks the Seine.

Okay okay, that's not exactly our view. But it almost is! I took the picture below from our living room window.

Autumn here was gorgeous. All the leaves are gone now, but that just makes it easier to see the ducks and swans swimming in the Seine.

And the inside? Well, we're still busy decorating which is hard to do when we're both desperately trying to finish papers or dissertation chapters. In any case, it's good to have such a quaint place to call our own. :)

American Elections in France

2008-11-07T13:53:00.000-08:00

After Bush was re-elected in 2004, many many French people asked me, "How can you Americans be so stupid??" Yes, they said it just like that. There was no sugar-coating. They had been hoping that we Americans would show the world how angry we were with Bush by voting him out of office. Of course they were disappointed. But since then, their hope for Americans to redeem themselves has only grown.

The French's interest and enthusiasm for this year's elections has been overwhelming. I'm not sure I've ever seen so many people waiting and hoping for Obama to be voted into office...well...at least not so many people who are not American. Of the nine classes I'm teaching this semester, I think the students of eight of them wanted to talk in depth about the elections at some point. The question that everyone had on the very first day of class (in all my classes) was, "Who will you be voting for?"

Everyday on the French news there were multiple reports about the American elections. I knew everything that was going on, but my students (embarrassingly enough) always seemed to know more. One Frenchman who was interviewed admitted that he was more interested in the American elections than in the French ones.

And of course there are the Guignols de l'Info, a satirical puppet show that does not hesitate to make fun of Americans...or French people....or anyone for that matter. (see pic* above) They portrayed John McCain as the tough war hero whose body parts had all been replaced by machines or transplants. And Obama was the candidate who replied to nearly every question with "YES WE CAN!" or something that almost rhymed with it (Genghis Khan! Nicole Kidman!). His guignol ad campaigns played like movie trailers. The jingle "Do you believe in magic?"was always playing in the background, followed by an American-accented "Je suis Barack Obama et j'approuve ce message."

I highly recommend that you check out the Guignols just to get an idea of what they look and sound like, even if you don't understand French:

http://www.canalplus.fr/c-humour/pid1784-c-les-guignols.html

And the day of the elections? Everyone was waiting. Cafés held mock elections where the French "voted" for Obama. Later, there were all-night parties where people stayed up and waited for the results. And the next day? My students said they got text messages at 5:00 am telling them that Obama had won. There were big celebrations everywhere, with more French people than Americans. People were comparing Obama to the Messiah, and some of my students told me their faith in the American dream had been renewed. When Gaby went to the university, one of his classmates clapped him on the back and exclaimed, "On a gagné!" (We won!) We. Oui.

I finally had to ask my students why the French were so interested in the US. And they said that it was simply because the US influences so many other countries economically and culturally. Many did admit however that they did not think things would change in France just because Obama had been elected. Others said that they felt better about the US's image, and they thought Obama would take care of his country. "After all," one student informed me, "the US has lots of problems."

Obama is a symbol of hope and change for so many people in America and abroad. Am I hopeful? I am always hopeful. But do I believe in magic?

* image taken from http://www.tele7.fr/tv/news-tele/les-guignols-de-l-info-obama-et-mccain-en-images/(gid)/595208

Le Halloween

2008-10-31T12:49:00.000-07:00

Halloween in France is definitely (and unfortunately) not like Halloween in the USA. I was looking forward to making jack o' lanterns with Gaby and his mom. It's my favorite part of Halloween. We went to three big supermarkets and couldn't find pumpkins anywhere. No Jack o' lanterns. :( Sad face.

Even worse, we didn't buy candy this year, mainly because the stores don't sell the big promotional bags of it. I kept putting it off because I didn't want to spend 3-4 euros on a tiny bag of lollipops that I would probably end up eating myself before Halloween night.

We were not off to a good start, but I supposed seeing people in costumes could still be a possibility. No. The only people who dress up in costumes are the North Americans and the Brits. That's not to say that the French don't try to get into the spirit of things. Some of my students told me they were going to costume parties. Fabulous! Then they told me they hadn't decided what to wear and admitted that they might not dress up after all. Well, okay....I can't be too critical. I don't like to dress up that much either. At least they were having parties.

And the cute little French kids would be dressing up, right? That would be good enough. No. Here, even the kids don't usually dress up, but they still go trick or treating. They might put on a little wig or eye mask and that's it. They ring the door bell and basically say, "I'm CRAZY wig head! Give me some candy."

Okay, okay, they really just say, "Give me some candy."

If you don't have candy, watch out. When the French kids go "trick or treating," they go *trick* or treating. We informed a small group of girls that we had forgotten to get candy. They yelled at us phrases that I didn't know could come out of 7-year old girls' mouths. Five minutes later, they came back and overturned all our trashcans (trash, recycling and glass). When Gaby caught them, they lied and said that some "black kids" had done it. And then when he didn't believe them, they said they would come back and do it all again and egg the house. Because we hadn't given them 2 or 3 pieces of candy. *&^$*@&% &*^*&%%$$!!!! WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE????!!

Apparently, they "trick or treat" the whole weekend. o_O

A French Halloween horror story if I've ever heard one. They won't ever be getting any candy from me. GRRRRR....

So what will this poor disappointed American be doing tonight? I'll be curling up with Gaby, a bag of popcorn and the classic Halloween horror film. That will be a good enough Halloween for me.

French Stores

2008-10-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

We ran out of toilet paper this morning. As I was the only one home in the early afternoon and I had already had several glasses of Evian and Coca light, I decided it would be wise to run a few errands. Of course this means walking because I don't have a car here, but that was okay. It was a gorgeous fall day. So I grabbed my jacket and wallet and headed out to downtown Achères.

As I was walking, I couldn't help but notice how empty the streets were. I figured it was normal. Everyone was at work or school right? And then as I neared the pharmacy, I saw that its little green cross was not illuminated. Closed? On a Tuesday? Was it a holiday? Just beyond the pharmacy, I could see that the small grocery store ED's was also closed, the metal cages pulled over the doors and windows. It couldn't be a holiday. Someone would've told me right?

And then I remembered. It was still "lunchtime." French stores all close for lunch sometime around noon and and don't open again until 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon. The pharmacy wouldn't reopen until 2:30. I didn't even look at the grocery store's hours, but instead headed back home desperately hoping that there was perhaps a stray roll of toilet paper (or Kleenex! or even paper towels!) in one of the cabinets. And I really began to wish I had skipped that last glass of Coca Light...sigh....

At about 3:30, Gaby got home and we got ready to head out again. But clouds had moved in by this time and as I was once again putting on my jacket, it started pouring outside. Too much pop, pouring rain and no TP are a bad combination. Today France was definitely against me. I missed Target. And its long hours. And my car. :(

Don't get me wrong. I do think it's nice that people get a 2-hour lunch. As someone who usually has to scarf down a sandwich between classes, I can appreciate having time to enjoy a meal and even digest a little before returning to work. That said, I still wish that there was some sort of emergency store open for people who run out of a very necessary item right before or even during the lunch hours.

Oh, and when we did finally get to the store to run our errands, we very nearly forgot the toilet paper believe it or not. Sigh...

La Formation Civique

2008-10-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

I was not looking forward to this class that all foreigners are required to take to learn about living in France. For one thing it would last from 9:00 to 5:00. For another, most of the session was to focus on "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité." Eight hours of brainwashing straight out of George Orwell's 1984. I was sure of it.

I arrived 15 minutes early and joined a few other shy-looking foreigners outside of a building with the sign INSTEP posted on its door. I guess INSTEP is the private company that does this formation. Close to 9:00, a young woman greeted us with a friendly "Bonjour", invited us to come inside and offered us some coffee. This was not what I was expecting at all. Once we were in a small classroom, she introduced herself as Clotilde and told us she would like us to introduce ourselves and tell how long we had been in France and where we were from. A lot of people were from Africa, mainly Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia, but also some people from Mali, Cameroun, and the Ivory Coast. Others came from all over. There were people from the Philippines, the Ukraine, Mexico, China, Argentina, Brazil and Haiti. I was the only American and I had been there the shortest amount of time out of everyone.

Everyone was really nice, including the teacher. We started with a short history of France, all the way up to the present day. That was okay. But then we talked about living in France, French government, voting and some French laws. I had thought that France was pretty much just like the U.S. when it came to some basic freedoms. But apparently the freedom of speech is a little more limited. For example, it is against the law to spout off neo-nazi ideas. In the U.S. we can totally say those kinds of things no matter how awful they are.

We also talked about really practical things like finding an apartment, signing up kids for school or finding daycare. (In France, you have to apply for a daycare center when you're only 2 months pregnant. Otherwise you won't get a spot because there's just not room.) The teacher also helped us know what to do if we ever found ourselves facing any kind of discrimination or even spousal abuse. She gave us numbers to call and everything.

One of the most interesting aspects of the whole thing though was hearing about everyone else's countries. We did a lot of comparisons and people asked a lot of questions. Some of the Maghrébins (people from Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia) were shocked and kind of upset when they found out that people from the USA and Mexico didn't need a VISA just to visit France. Considering their histories with France, I would have been kind of mad too if I were them.

The formation lasted until 4:30--we got to go a bit early. Before we left, the teacher congratulated us and then presented us with blue certificates stating that we had completed our formation civique. Yay! Now we just have to keep the certificates and bring them with us when we renew our green cards.

All in all, although I still would have preferred to do my own work that day, it really wasn't a bad class to have taken. Or maybe Big Brother just got to me. o_O (wink)

Faubourg 36

2008-10-10T13:39:00.000-07:00

Faubourg 36 is a film that exemplifies what I associate with traditional France: the winding streets and stairways of Paris, the strikes, the cabaret-type spectacles with a sprinkling of accordeon music, and of course, the love story. The delightful music, costumes and sets certainly make Faubourg 36 beautiful to watch on the big screen, but the film is not simply a superficial show of song and sentiment. It offers much more. Set in 1930s Paris at the election of the Front Populaire, the plot revolves around a small working class group of people--three men and a young woman--who try to find stability in their lives by occupying and eventually reopening their neighborhood theater, le Chansonia. The characters' personal stories and their collective struggle against the right-wing mafia-esque theater owner illustrate some of the political, social and financial hardships faced by many during the Great Depression. With its beautiful presentation and touching story that is more profound than the previews would suggest, this film is a must-see at the cinema. I can only hope that it makes it to the United States.

http://www.faubourg36-lefilm.com/

La Bretagne (Brittany)

2008-10-07T02:58:00.000-07:00

We traveled to Brittany at the beginning of September (yes, this is a late late post). Anyway, it's a lovely part of France known for its crêpes and galettes (savory buckwheat crepes). After visiting the English Channel seaside or La Manche (the sleeve), as the French call it, we enjoyed some of those crêpes and galettes at a little restaurant nearby.

Brittany also has more than a few walled in medieval towns (cités fortifiées), and we visited one by the name of Moncontour--taking this picture was the only way I could remember the name. (blush)

I thought this little passage looked really pretty with the flowers growing out of the walls, the little lamp hanging down and the red Tudor-style house in the background. Gaby's used to this sort of thing I imagine, but we stopped to get a picture for me. His mom took this one. :)

This is the same passage from the other side. I don't know who those people are, but that woman's sweater seems to complement those flowers on the right and adds a nice little splash of color.
Okay, I know they're just houses, but to me they look cool and so European with the stone and shutters and flowers in the window boxes. And can't you just imagine French people leaning out the windows and breaking into the opening "Bonjour, bonjour.." song from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast"? No? It's just me? Okay. Sigh....

Another walled passage on our way out of the town.

At the end of the passage, I had to stop and admire the hydrangea, a flower that I associate with Brittany because I always see so many of them there.

And finally the French countryside on the way back to Achères. If I didn't know better, I would guess that this picture was taken in Kansas. Ahh...no place like home. Good thing France reminds me of the Sunflower State in a few little ways. ;)

La Carte de Séjour (the French Green Card)

2008-10-06T09:21:00.000-07:00

I got my receipt for my French green card (mon récépissé)!! Anyone who has been through the trials and tribulations of immigration bureaucracy knows that this is reason for celebration. Getting the récépissé means I can get paid. I should buy some champagne and some of those little crackers with bacon in the middle.

You might wonder how bad it can possibly be to get a carte de séjour. VERY VERY BAD. When I tried to get one four years ago, I must have made little mistakes every step of the way because nothing went right. I didn't get paid for over 2 months. Later I got my pay cut for 2 weeks because I'd forgotten to get my work authorization card. After I did apply for it, it got lost in the mail and I had to beg for a new copy.

This time was much easier because I'm not living in Paris and do not have to go to the crowded Paris prefecture where they process these documents. Instead, I'm living in the small town of Achères in Les Yvelines, a suburban district west of Paris. This means I get to go to the Versailles prefecture--yes, that Versailles with the famous château. I also have the amazing advantage of having my own personal French guide to support me along the way and interject when necessary in perfect French. Thank you sweet Gaby!

This is not to say that everything was rosy just west of Paris. First, we went to the wrong prefecture which was over an hour away by train. There, the fonctionnaire told us that their office processes cartes de sejour only for foreigners married to French citizens. Huh? We would have to go to the Versailles prefecture which opens at 8:45 everyday. Since they accept only about 20 applicants a day, it's best to arrive early to get a spot. About 5:00 a.m. would be fine. Sad face. We got up in the middle of the night and arrived at the prefecture at 5:30. Not a soul in sight. So we were first right? But after two hours, there was still no one else. Something was not right. At 7:30, the doors opened, so we went inside to ask about my green card. The receptionist informed us that the carte de séjour door was in the annex 2 blocks away. Indeed. Fifty people were in line ahead of us. So much for getting up early. I began mentally preparing myself to come back the next day.

The doors opened, the line moved quickly and we were inside by 9:00. And then the unexpected happened. At the reception, I found out that there was a special window for salaried workers like me (guichet 25) and that it would open at 9:30. There had been no need to arrive so early after all since not many salaried workers were asking for their green cards. What??! We could have come at 9:30 and been fine?? I could hardly complain though; I would have an appointment that day. In the end, the line was very short and the woman working at window 25 turned out to be okay. She gave me a list of all the documents I would need and told me to mail them to the prefecture. I told her I had all my documents with me and couldn't I just leave them there with her? She repeated that I needed to mail them. Gaby stepped in. She told me I could leave my documents there. Whew!

Several days later, I got a letter in the mail saying my file had been accepted and that my receipt was ready to be picked up. This meant going back to Versailles prefecture, but at a reasonable hour (ahem, 10:30). Everything went smoothly, I got my récépissé and now I will finally have money deposited in my new French bank account.

I consider myself lucky because despite the little inconveniences, Versailles got things done quickly. My poor American colleagues are still dealing with their nightmare prefectures in Paris and Nanterre and may not get their récépissés for least 2 or 3 more months. This means no pay for 2 or 3 months. These are the conditions for salaried workers who have work contracts. And for immigrants who are still looking for work? I imagine they're forced to waste precious time waiting in line every morning at the prefecture trying to get an appointment. And that's only the beginning.

French meetings

2008-09-29T12:19:00.000-07:00

I've decided I rather like French meetings. I guess I should say that I liked the three that I've been to in the past month. It's not that the content of the meetings themselves is particularly interesting or that it's always well-presented. No, no. It's knowing that at the end of the meeting, there will be drinks and snacks. And that the person in charge of it all seems to be rushing through his information in order to get to the drinks and snacks in a timely manner.

At the beginning of September, a meeting for all the Anglophone lecturers at Nanterre was followed by red wine and little savory snacks. After this, we were treated to a simple yet delicious lunch of enormous baguette sandwiches. And then to coffee. So nice.

Last week, I went to an obligatory departmental meeting that I was absolutely dreading because I knew I wouldn't know anybody and I wouldn't know what anybody was talking about. To make matters worse, the room we were to meet in was designed to hold 30 people, but over twice as many would be attending. Ugh.

The meeting was indeed crowded, long and full of repetitions, but all this was smoothed over by drinks and food at the end. There was a nice little selection of red and rosé wines, a brut hard cider and various fruit juices. And then there were all sorts of little crackers that would be incredibly well-received in the U.S. if only they were available there! Some of my favorites were shaped like tiny pizzas. And tasted like them too. Another one looked like a normal Ritz cracker, but lo and behold, on the inside of it, there was BACON. Heavenly.

And this was only the beginning. After our departmental meeting, we had to go to another one that was for all the language departments. I believe this one wasn't meant to be a real meeting at all, but rather, an excuse to eat. The speaker made a few introductions and then we were invited to help ourselves to a large spread the departments had provided. Quiche, chips and dips, more crackers and nuts, trays and trays of lovely miniature tarts, cream puffs and other French pastries that I'm not familiar with, and of course a variety of red and white wine, soda and juice. Fabulous.

And so, for me, it turnedout that the most difficult part of the meetings was trying not to look too piggy around all the food. Considering I walked out with a big guacamole stain on my white blouse, I don't think I succeeded.

Life is a Bowl of Cherries (or grapes...or melon)

2008-09-23T10:43:00.001-07:00

Ha ! soutenez-moi, je me pâme !
Ce morceau me chatouille l’âme.
--Saint-Amant "Le Melon"

Mmmm...I love fruit, and here in France, I can hardly get enough of it. The melon in the picture has not been photo-shopped. It's really that orange and so sweet, it's almost guilt-inducing. As I'm used to having melon readily available for breakfast and snacking, I bought one the other day to feel a little more chez moi. The melons here are small, not much bigger than a softball, but boy are they packed with flavor. When I bit into a slice of it this afternoon, I had to remind myself that I was eating a healthful fruit and not a sugary piece of candy.

Almost daily, I pass a man selling fruits and vegetables at a little stand in the Achères train station. He arranges them so beautifully with some fruits cut in half to show how deliciously ripe they are. And every time, I have to will myself to keep walking without buying something. Not that it would be bad to buy fruit of all things, but I'm not sure I'd be able to eat it all and then it would go to waste. Not to mention my budget. So, for now I'm planning to get my little favorites one at a time. After payday, when I'll be earning real euros and not the sadly weak dollars (sigh), it's quite possible that I'll go nuts (or bananas?) and buy all the fruit I want. :P

La Visite Medicale or Being a Good French Citizen

2008-09-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

All people not belonging to the E.U. must undergo a short medical visit at immigration services. It's not invasive and not a big deal. They check vision, height, weight and take x-rays to check for tuberculosis, just in case we are unknowingly dying of consumption. I've done this all before and knew what to expect. Or at least I thought I did.

When I arrived at the immigration services building, I noticed that the name had changed from OMI to ANAEM. I can't remember what these letters stand for, but the change should have clued me in that things would be different this time.

Upon arrival, the other foreigners and I were herded into a small conference room and seated around a large table. Big windows overlooked the street and a small table with fresh hot coffee and tea stood in a corner. Nice. On the wall to my right, the official portrait of Nicolas Sarkozy looked down on us, a little group of étrangers. Not so nice. Next to his picture hung a screen with a projected notice that our medical visit would last for a half-day. What? A half-day? We all groaned. A few minutes later, a woman came in and explained to us in French that we would have our medical visit and that then we would have to sign a contract with the state saying that we would all make an effort to live like good French citizens. A contract. Weird.

So, what does it mean to be a good French citizen? Well, first and foremost, I guess it means speaking French because anyone who doesn't speak French well enough is required by the government to take French classes. My French was good enough, and they gave me a special certificate to prove it.

Being a good citizen also means accepting the way of life in France. As an introduction to this, they had us watch a short film that explained that everyone in France is equal:

Vivre ensemble en France

The film showed many beautiful pictures of France but focused mainly on the French slogan: Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Sure, it all sounds good, let's be frank. Is it true? I can think of more than a few examples that contradict this famous motto (just as I could in my own country), but this post would be way too long. Another time.

Let's just say that it was with a jaded view that I watched this little piece, shook my head, and wondered what sort of propaganda I would see during my obligatory formation civique.

La Mode

2008-09-19T09:52:00.001-07:00

As a girl from the Midwest, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not really into avant-garde fashion. Or even just fashion, period. Sure, I watch "Project Runway" when I can. I take note of Stacy and Clinton's clothing advice for short girls in "What not to Wear." But more often than not, I'm a plain old tee-shirt and jeans kind of gal.

Now that I'm in Paris, one of the fashion capitals of the world, I see some unusual and often beautiful clothing that I would be curious to wear or at least try on. I could go on forever about the shoes alone. And I would love all of these items even more if they were somewhat affordable...sigh....

On the other hand, in such a city of high fashion, I am exposed to some very...well, let's not beat around the bush...UGLY, UGLY styles. Here, the the 1980s are once again in full swing. Everywhere I see the skinny jeans (aka tapered jeans) that are unflattering on everyone but the thinnest girls. Fine. I can deal with that. I can even think that the brightly colored stockings, leggings, tunics worn off the shoulder, big chunky belts and jewelry, and unlaced hightop basketball shoes are fun. Amazingly, the Euro-mullets no longer faze me.

What has really thrown me for a loop are the Hammer pants. Yes, as in MC Hammer. My, my, my, my. I can hardly count the number of men and women I've seen wearing these billowing pants, often buttoned at the ankles, the crotch hanging down to their knees. I even saw a girl wearing acid-washed denim Hammer capris. I stared at her shamelessly while silently cursing myself for not having my camera. This is the closest image I could find:

Why, dear French people?? WHY ?

Perhaps the worst thing about this new trend is that I very likely will see it reproduced in the Midwest within the next few years. And quite possibly paired with Uggs. Sigh.

Arrival at CDG-Terminal 1

2008-09-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

The very first time I came to France was ten years ago in June of 1998. A French major who was too shy to study abroad for a year, I had decided to do the short summer program in Paris. I was with a group of about 30 American students, it was the first time I'd been to Europe, and the French were hosting the World Cup that year. Other students who had already been to France had shared their stories with me, filling my head with grand images of the beautiful country and its culture. And so it was with high expectations of French glamor and romanticism that I stepped off the plane into the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Terminal One. The old part.

Instead of my highly-anticipated picture of fashion, beauty, class, and art (yes even at the airport), I was greeted by a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and a terminal that resembled my parents' unfinished basement. My disappointment turned to horrified awe as I watched several agents of the Police Nationale walk by carrying big automatic weapons. Whoa. Had I really just arrived in France?? The last remnants of my naive vision were swept away by the customs agent who yelled at me in English for not having my customs card filled out correctly. Yes, the first time I came in France, I found myself defiantly holding back tears at the baggage claim and wondering if I hadn't made a mistake by choosing to study abroad.

How different from my arrival at Charles de Gaulle ten years later! An experienced traveler who's returned to France many times since my first trip (which did turn out lovely despite the rocky start), I breezed through Terminal One. Well, okay, after waiting in line at the bathroom (only 3 stalls at the very busy CDG!!), I breezed right through. Terminal One still looks like a basement but no cigarette smoke clouded my way. No one yelled at me, I didn't cry and I thankfully did not see the Police Nationale. Instead, Gaby was waiting for me at the gate with open arms and kisses. His mom greeted me with the two bises and a very welcome pastry. From McDonald's. Okay, it's not really French but so delicious all the same and unavailable in American McDonalds, so that makes it special, right? Through the hugs and kisses and then later during the drive to the suburbs just to the west of Paris, I was acutely aware of how incredibly familiar everything was. How pleasant to find that France seemed less a mysterious foreign country and more like a comfortable (and very charming) second home. Was it the American fast food? My dear Gaby and his mom waiting to welcome me? Or is it just that I have become so accustomed to this place? I suppose it's most likely a combination of the three. That said, I'm sure France still holds plenty of surprises, both good and bad, and I'll be waiting to discover them.