La Bibliothèque Nationale (the Library)

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.