Acclaim by Association

If I told you that I have an undergraduate degree from an Ivy League school, a doctorate from another top American university, and once worked on Capitol Hill, would that make you interested in reading my blog?  I don't think so.  (And yes, those really are my credentials.)

And yet this week, I received an e-mail from a French fellow eager for me to post a review of his new book of poetry.  He didn't offer to send me the book; he didn't even share a few of his poems.  No, instead he told me that he was a professor at HEC (one of France's grand ecoles), a graduate of Sciences Po (another grand ecole), and he had formerly worked for a government minister.

Wow.  He sure picked the wrong audience.  While his school ties and membership in France's ultimate old boy network might have worked on the natives, it only impressed me by its irrelevance.  So chalk up one more difference in the cultural divide between the U.S. and France, now being exposed daily in press coverage of the Dominic Strauss Kahn affair.  Americans may think the fellow who graduated from Harvard is smart or they may hold him in contempt for being a useless egghead.  But buy a book of poetry on the strength of that association?  I don't think so.

When Life Gives You Lemons

Over the past four years, there have been any number of times when I have been fed up with this country and ready to hop on the first plane back home.  Someone sneering at my French, lousy customer service, and bad weather were just a few of the things that set me off.  But it's been a long time since I've had that feeling.  Is it because I know I'm already heading home so I'm willing to forgive the little things?  Or is that I've just become so acclimated to how things work that I just shrug and go on, knowing that getting frustrated serves no purpose?

Twice recently, someone cut in front of me in line, one time at the corner market, another time at the open air market and both times, I just let it go.  I have the French skills to make a fuss if I want to but I just couldn't summon the energy to do so.  And both times, the person standing behind me in line was insistent that I say something and prevent this grave injustice from occurring.  The first time, I actually said to the lady behind me that being American, I felt it more polite to rest neutral rather than call the offender out.  And believe it or not, she actually got a chuckle out of that.

All that being said, my skin is not made of steel.  Yesterday, I carefully assessed the lines for home delivery at the big supermarket.  Three registers were open and since you have to pay at least 100 euros to get delivery, most of the shoppers' carts were overflowing.  I contemplated and made my choice, only to have an overtanned lady, who had clearly had too much cosmetic surgery and probably spent more money on her hand bag than I spend on my entire wardrobe in a year, butt in front of me because she realized the line she was in only took cash.  I was all geared up to give it to her but she turned her head and studiously ignored me for the rest of the transaction.   And that's what pissed me off even more.  She knew she was in the wrong but her own self importance justified the action.

Okay, so this incident is not making me change my travel plans.   But it's a good reminder that life in Paris is not as candy coated as I may some day remember it to be.  And woe to the next person who tries to sneak ahead of me in line.  You can expect my cart on your heels and a good tongue lashing to boot.

Business Hours

Even after three years here, I'm constantly running afoul of the rhythms of Parisian life.  In the provinces, many shops close mid-day to allow Madame or Monsieur to eat a proper lunch.  In town, you're much more likely to see hours like these -- shops open at lunchtime and then closed mid afternoon with a reopening towards evening.  This is particularly true for food shops including bakeries, butchers, and cheese shops.  The chain stores operate on an American model with staggered shifts for their employees.  But do yourself a favor and stay out of Monoprix between 12:30 and 2:00 unless you like standing in long lines with the rest of Paris.  And definitely go back to the boulangerie for your bread after 6, when fresh batches will be coming out of the oven.

La France Vue Par....

My French teacher passed along this funny slideshow reminiscent of that iconic New Yorker cover depicting the New Yorker's view of the world. I wasted way too much time seeing if I could turn the .pdf file into a .jpg file, etc. I won't bore you with the details. Just enjoy.

The Logic of French Banking

Ages ago I ranted about my inability to break a 50 euro bill at a French bank, a bank at which I am a paying client. (Yes, there's really no such thing as free banking in France. But maybe that's the way things are going all over.) Since then, I've heard other expats with the same beef, boiling over with frustration at ATMs that dispense 50 euro bills like candy, bills that if presented at your local boulangerie, news kiosk, or grocery will be met with raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and request for a smaller bill.

But then this week, I heard another story that got to me to thinking. An acquaintance, who is the treasurer for a local volunteer organization, was explaining that her bank will not allow her to deposit cash. Actually she used to be able to make deposits but during a recent renovation, the branch lost its facilities for securing large sums of cash. So "checks only" is now the order of the day; if she must deposit cash, she has to go to the one location near the Opera (one of the most touristy areas of Paris and one where pickpockets are hard at work) to do so. Yes, that's right. A bank that doesn't accept cash because apparently it doesn't have a real safe.

Aha! It was a light bulb moment. They can't give you cash because they haven't got any. Makes sense right?

Perhaps only in some alternate universe that we will just call "France."

On further reflection, it was one of the moments when I realized that while I am slowly beginning to understand how this country works, I still don't get it.

Foreign Tongue

At first, Foreign Tongue, the debut novel by French-American author Vanina Marsot, kind of bugged me with its smarty pants insiders' view of Paris. The story of twenty something Anna, the novel begins when she has fled to Paris after a failed relationship in Los Angeles. Paris is a city she knows well from childhood summers spent with her French grandmother and a stint as a college student. But it seemed to me that there was almost too much specificity about Anna's neighborhood, the streets she wanders, the cafes she frequents, and the buses she takes. Yeah, yeah, I was thinking, quit showing off already. We get that you KNOW Paris.

Midway through, I changed my mind when bilingual Anna, who has taken the job of translating an erotic novel into English from French, starts to reflect on the intricacies of the French language and the intertwining of cultural values, expectations, and language itself. The ups and downs of Anna's love life take a back seat to these much more interesting musings on how language defines the self. Marsot takes on the tricky aspects of faux amis (words that sound alike in French and English but have different meanings), riffs on how the differences between Americans and the French play out in their speech, and shares with her readers a whole arsenal of French swear words. Personally I loved the fact that a bilingual person was just as confused by the construction "tu me manques" (literally "to me, you are missing") which translates as "I miss you." Bottom line? Not a must read but still a pleasant twist on the American in Paris theme. I'd call it classic chick lit with a healthy serving of linguistics and cross cultural angst.

The Business of Books

I've been a sucker for books all my life. The weekly visit to the library when I was a kid always netted a stack of 10 books to take home and it was rare that I hadn't finished all of them before it was time to go back. As an adult, I've always felt that bookstores are a bit like candy shops -- all those colorful titles from which to choose. It's usually hard for me to resist no matter how many titles are stacked up on my nightstand or that I've got a valid library card.

But the French publishers clearly have a different kind of consumer in mind. Both Flammarion and Gallimard have lines that take simplicity to a whole new level. For example, take this book:



A browsing American would just pass that one by. So here's the English language version put out by Knopf. Now hmmmm...dashing French officer, a touch of the Arc de Triomphe, what's that all about?



Call me shallow but I like the pictures.

P.S. Happy birthday to my favorite Capricorn. :)

Random

When I'm scanning the books on my shelf, the French titles on the spines read from the bottom up while the American ones are read from the top down. And yet in both languages, you read from left to right. I guess life's just like that some times.

Dressed for Success

I think everyone has that image of how Parisians dress -- always just so, heels and lipstick for ladies, crisply ironed shirts for men. And while there are plenty of folks who dress to the nines, come rain or shine, it's probably more accurate to say not that everyone's dressed up but that no one's ever dressed down. You just don't see people doing their errands in their gym clothes and come summer, you really don't see much of anyone in town (except the tourists) in shorts. Well, unless you're 22 and you like to wear really short shorts with tights underneath.

All this is a long way of saying, I've totally bought in. Yesterday, I spent most of the day at home, cooking and prepping for the belated Thanksgiving dinner we're having tonight with French friends. (And some of you will probably be relieved to know that there will not be any marshmallows on my sweet potatoes.) Midway through chopping, stirring, and washing dishes, I needed to go out to pick up a few last minute things. So what did I do? I changed out of my sweat pants and sneakers into cords and loafers, knotted a big scarf around my neck to hide my somewhat questionable top, brushed my hair and yes, even put on earrings. I'm hoping the florist and the vegetable guy appreciated the effort.

But you have to draw the line somewhere: I still don't change to take out the garbage, even daring to go down with my apron on and glasses perched on top of my head. But then, at least one gentlemen in my building thinks I'm my kids' nanny and if that means I don't have to reapply lipstick, so much the better.

Table Manners

What is the line between behavior that might be considered offensive in another culture and that which is just different? I started thinking about this question with respect to table manners. Americans are taught to always keep their fork in their right hand at the table (if you are right handed, that is) except when using a knife, and then the fork gets transferred to the left hand. When you're done cutting, you put down the knife and transfer the fork back to your right hand to eat.

Now the French (and for that matter most Europeans), when dealing with a dish that requires a knife, just keep the knife in the left and the fork in the right, and eat in a two handed style, piling up food on the back side of the fork. They even set the table with the fork and spoon facing down; often silverware is imprinted on what we Americans would consider the back side. And there's almost nothing that they'll eat with their hands, except, as my husband pointed out to me, asparagus.

So here's my question. I'm fine with using a fork and knife for things I might have eaten with my hands back home, pizza, for example. I can see how that might gross out someone who's not used to seeing that. But is the whole changing hands thing going to make my French dinner companion recoil? If a French person came to my house and put their bread on the table instead of on a plate, should that bother me?

I'm not sure and I certainly don't want to offend. Where do you draw the line between the truly rude and the quaintly other? Help me out here.

Top Ten

I've got two different Yahoo e-mail addresses: one which gives me a U.S. interface and another one which is convinced I'm French. So what? I can manage. But just for your edification, here are the top ten popular searches listed yesterday on each site:

U.S.

1. Mel Gibson
2. 21 Gun Salute
3. Alex Rodriguez
4. Pulmonary Embolism
5. Turducken
6. Robert Pattinson
7. E. Coli
8. Leo Frank
9. Flu Prevention
10. Tower of London Beefeaters

If you don't know what a turducken is, I suggest you listen to NPR's Morning Edition on Thanksgiving Day (available on-line for those not in the U.S.) as they traditionally run a segment on this culinary novelty.

France

1. Kylie Minogue
2. Identité Nationale
3. Plan cancer 2009-2013
4. Mel Gibson
5. Yannick Noah
6. Elton John
7. Perm-36
8. Sidney Govou
9. Nadine Morano
10. Louis Nicollin

I had to do a bit of sleuthing to learn that: Perm-36 is a former Soviet gulag; a writer for the Le Monde is doing a series on it. Sidney Govou is a French footballer (soccer player to my fellow Yanks). Nadine Morano is one of President Sarkozy's ministers. Louis Nicollin is a businessman and president of the Montpellier soccer team.

Personally I'm just thrilled to know that interest in Mel Gibson may be the one thing to keep 200 plus years of Franco-American friendship going.

Morning at the Movies

Several weeks ago, a couple of my friends and I hatched a great plan -- we would go see Julie and Julia together on Wednesday, September 16th, the day it opened in France, and benefit from the last day of La Rentrée du Cinéma when tickets would only be 4 euros.

It sounded like sheer genius, that is until a few days before when I started trying to track down show times and theaters. Then I learned something that I still find astonishing. While Wednesday is the day when new movies come out (as opposed to Friday as is the case in the U.S.), you cannot find out until Wednesday about show times for the week ahead.

Are you with me? Here's the deal. So say I know on Monday that I want to go to the movies on Wednesday or even Thursday or Friday. I have to wait until Wednesday morning to find out when and where I can actually see the film. Now, don't tell me to check the theater chains' Web sites or even sites like Cinofil or Allocine that have information for most of the theaters in Paris. Been there, done that, and no dice. And you can't call the theater because there is no phone number posted for the theater (of course, this is no different from back home). Tuesday evening, I finally went on the site for Le Figaro, crossing my fingers that Wednesday's Figaroscope would already be posted. And bingo (finally), there were the showtimes for Julie and Julia. In the end, as so often is the case, all's well that ends well. We enjoyed the movie at the bargain price, had a few good laughs and shed a few tears, and now we know better than to try to go to the movies on Wednesdays in the future.

Musings

I've been procastinating lately. It's taken me forever to get my hair cut, make an appointment with the eye doctor, get summer camps lined up for the kids. I have the French to handle these situations but still, it takes energy to think about the vocabulary I will need, imagine what I might hear and how to respond. Inevitably, it's never as difficult as I anticipate and even if I make a mistake, who really cares? But I guess I'm just not over that hump yet.

I remember reading in another expat's blog a while back that she never felt so alive as she did in Paris. At the time it didn't resonate with me at least in the exhilarated, thrilled sense of the phrase. I mean who can feel that way all the time? But then again, it's certainly true that living here takes a lot more energy than my old life ever did. And that's not to say I didn't enjoy my life in DC -- our neighborhood and friends, the kids' school, our family life, my job and colleagues. And I never did anything halfway. It's more that I really didn't have to stretch too much. It was more about the challenge of getting it all done and getting it done well than testing new experiences and going out of my comfort zone.

Even as certain aspects of Parisian life become more familiar, there's still a sense of newness for me, and as a result still an everpresent struggle to understand how things work and make things happen. Some days I'm completely up for it, others not so much.

There, now that that's off my chest, I best get off my butt and get to it.

News "Coverage"

I've never been a big fan of TV news. It's so much more efficient to read the newspaper or even listen to the radio and plus it's usually just plain boring. And though I've heard that watching the news in French would be a big plus for my language skills, I can't seem to get into the habit. The only time I end up watching the news is when I go to the gym where it's hard to ignore the monitors above the cardio machines. Watching is the operative word because there isn't any sound coming out of those monitors. Since I can't lip read French, the only thing that's really made an impression is that 1) the French must love off road car rallies because the coverage is extensive and 2) the sports anchors are, shall we say, much more casually attired than those in the U.S. Just so you don't think I'm exaggerating, get a load of this photo of Infosport anchor, Christine Carnaud:



And again, somewhat more conservatively dressed:



In contrast, two female anchors from ESPN's SportsCenter, lest you think it unfair to compare Carnaud with say, Katie Couric or Barbara Walters. (Note: I don't have a clue as to their names but I'm sure they're all fine journalists.)




I can't find anything on-line about Carnaud except for lots of other provocative photos and the fact that she was a model before becoming a news personality. I can assure you, however, that she's not the only one reading the news in outfits that are off the shoulder, down to there, or secured with just a string. Maybe if I were a guy, watching the news wouldn't be so boring after all.

Gift Wrap

Sometimes the differences in French and American ways of doing things just seem to pop out of nowhere and bite you where it counts. I really was not prepared for the fact that it is virtually impossible to purchase an empty gift box anywhere in Paris. (I am hedging a bit here because although I am worn out from tromping all over town following false leads, I'm quite confident that some savvy reader is going to set me straight. Quite frankly, I hope they do. It won't help me at the moment but I'll take the tip for later.)

Why? Because when you buy anything in a nice shop in Paris, the clerk pretty much always asks if it is for a gift. If you say yes, he or she will then pull out the tissue, the special stickers, the gift bag, the ribbon, and that little something you just bought suddenly becomes a work of art. If you say no, you'd better not be thinking "I'll just wrap it myself," because gift wrapping supplies are either a) low quality, b) extremely expensive, c) boring or d) all of the above.

All this is just to say, if you get a present from me wrapped in a plastic bag from Monoprix, my apologies. Next time I'll know better.

Field Trip to the Louvre

One of the great things for kids in Paris is that you get to take school field trips to the Louvre as opposed to the local Coca Cola bottling plant like when I was in elementary school. The downside is that first, the Louvre can be kind of a zoo, and second, you may end up with a guide like the one assigned to my child's group last week. Although guided visits are arranged in advance, the woman designated to take this group of 24 nine year olds through the Egyptian collection was absolutely unwilling to conduct the tour in English. Mind you, she could definitely speak English. I don't know whether she thought it was for the kids' own good that she speak in French or what. I can only tell you that she was absolutely resistant even when it was pointed out that a) English was the common language among this group of kids (who come from Belgium, Brazil, Canada, France, Germany, Korea, Israel, Italy, Mexico, the Netherlands, South Africa,and the U.S.) and b) that some of the kids had only had 3 months of French instruction. Her solution (in the cacophonous galleries) was that she would speak in French and the teachers and parents would translate. So the whole thing took twice as long as it needed to; fortunately, the children were all very patient and well behaved.

Well, actually, they weren't as well behaved as the guide would have liked. She berated one boy for yawning (who promptly burst out in tears) and rapped the heads of a couple of other kids who were talking instead of paying full attention (to the languge they don't fully understand). These kids had never seen anything like that...a stern talking to, yes, but a knock on the head, never. They were mightily impressed by the mummies, the sculptures, and the mastaba, but they'll never forget that guide.

10 Things Never to Do in Paris

Run out to the corner store for milk between noon and 2 pm. It's a sure bet that there will be 20 people in line with their lunch.

Say "yes" to the ladies in long skirts by the Eiffel Tower when they ask "do you speak English".

Do errands on the way home from the gym. Sorry, you have to go home, shower and change before you hit the bank, the dry cleaner, and elsewhere.

Fail to say "s'il vous plait" or "bonjour."

Plan to go shopping (for anything) on a Sunday afternoon. Unless it's right before Christmas, you're out of luck. Food shops are open in the morning but those doors slam shut around 2 pm. Or worse yet, go shopping at one of the few stores that has an exceptional Sunday opening. You'll find everyone else in Paris there.

Get off the bus by the front door.

Leave home without a city map. (Yes, even the locals carry them.)

Exit the supermarket when you've decided not to make a purchase through any lane except the one explicitly designated for this purpose.

Take a photo of anyone hawking Eiffel Tower trinkets. (It's pretty clear that they don't have vendor permits and my guess is that most of them are not in France legally to start with.)

Speak above a whisper while dining.

On the other hand, do feel free to: jump the turnstile in the subway, ride a Velib bike on the sidewalk, park your car in front of a garage entrance, push your way to the front of the line, and cast disapproving looks at people who bump into you without begging your pardon.

Did I leave anything out?

A Rose by Any Other Name?

More contradictions from the land where they're rife. Like many women of my generation, I didn't take my husband's name when we got married. It wasn't a big issue or a moment for me to take a political stand. He said that names are personal so do what you want and I was comfortable just keeping the name I had had for almost thirty years. Despite my very traditional and proper grandmother's concerns about the confusion this would create for our children, that never came to pass. In fact, it seemed that at least half of the kids at school had parents with different last names. I made it a policy never to get testy when teachers called me by my kids' last name but always introduced myself to them and corresponded with them using my own name.

Fast forward to our arrival in France, a country that seems at first glance decidely less traditional about such matters. Almost half (48 percent) of all births are to women who are not married to their partners. And even Ségolène Royal, who ran for president in the last go round, was never married to the father of her four children. (Imagine that happening in the U.S.!)

But apparently, my name on my passport doesn't carry much weight. Because my legal status in France is tied to my husband's employment, my carte de sejour (the official document that allows me to be here) was issued in his name (my first name, his last name). To add insult to injury, two other organizations we've joined have also been at a loss of how to deal with a couple with two last names. Our accounts there are now under a hyphenated name. (To make matters worse, I think the hyphenation is his name first for one of them, my name first for the other.) But what are you gonna do? I still have that other little issue of everyone thinking I'm either Spanish or Portugese to deal with as well but that's a story for another day.

Personal Space

The French definitely have a different sense of personal space. Or maybe it's that they don't have one at all. This morning when I got to the gym, the locker room was completely empty. I picked a random locker, sat down on one of a dozen smallish benches and started changing, throwing stuff in my locker, and retrieving my water bottle, towel, and iPod which I placed on the bench beside me. Another woman walked in and made a beeline for the locker right next to mine, and started putting her own gear on the same bench. Well there wasn't much room (and remember there was no one else there and every other bench was available) she sniffed and said something to the effect that I needed to move over. I mustered the only response possible: I said "oui" and got the heck out of there.

Then there was the sunny morning in July when I was standing in a line outside a photography exhibit. Two older ladies queued up behind me and, within seconds, apparently decided that they would get in the fastest if they stood so close to me that they were literally breathing down my neck. Then came the best part. They started complaining to each other about how hot it was. Well, dang it, I wanted to say, of course you are hot. If you would just back off, you would discover that the ambient temperature is about 25 degrees cooler over there than when your front is touching my back. But of course, with all the burden of ugly Americans everywhere hanging over me, I just stood there and waited patiently. Like all good Parisians do.

Keeping it Zipped

I've been writing this post in my head for some time, trying to figure out how to spin what I have to say in a way that feels light, breezy, and suitably G-rated. But sometimes there's just no beating around the bush. So, I ask, what is it with the men in Paris that so many feel perfectly comfortable whipping it out and peeing in public? I'm not just talking about panhandlers here. This seems to be generally accepted behavior. Two examples? The well-dressed gentleman of a certain age who was taking care of business just around the corner from the George V, one of Paris's ritziest hotels, and the little boy, pants around his ankles attending to nature's call outside our neighborhood bakery, while his mother, in line inside, gave him a big thumbs up through the window. Oh la la. Oy vey. Please.

Now it's true that toilets in Paris are not always easy to access. You really can't use those in cafés unless you're a paying customer or in museums until you've passed through the ticket line. Free toilet kiosks exist but these are few and far between. But still, since the women seem to be holding it, in a backwards version of potty parity, it seems only fair that men exercise the same self restraint.