Words of Wisdom from a 12-year-old

Yesterday night, as I was explaining how to use "myself, yourself, herself, etc." to my 12-year-old French tutee Jérôme (I give him and his little brother, Angelico (yes, Angelico), English lessons once a week), we got distracted.  Given my penchant for chatting, and Jérôme's devilishly charming nature (I am convinced that he will soon be breaking the hearts of little teenage girls all over Paris), this is not a terribly uncommon occurrence.  But don't tell that to their maman, because I get paid for this gig.  Anyway, inspired by the brief snowfall that afternoon, we began discussing December and our impending vacations.  We discovered that we were both December babies (he was born the 11th, I the 18th); I thought the drizzly-half-snow-gloom was depressing, he thought it was nice ("C'est Paris!" he argued); I told him I was going back to states soon, and we agreed that Paris was a hard city to leave.  "It's funny," I told him in my slow, carefully-enunciated English, "a month ago, I was a bit homesick and I couldn't wait to go back to the West Coast.  And now that I'm leaving in a week, I'm a bit sad to go!"  And that's when Jérôme shared his 12-year-old wisdom with me: "On pleure quand on arrive et on pleure quand on repart" (translation: We cry when we arrive, and we cry when we leave again).

Sometimes the best bits of wisdom are also the simplest and the most obvious--though you don't necessarily see them.  After months of loving and hating Paris, of feeling somewhat enamored and then completely ambivalent, I finally feel as though I am, whether I like it or not, a part of the city.  I hurry through the cold, gray streets with the best of them, trying to bury my hands deeper in my pockets.  I wander starry-eyed around Montmartre, enchanted by the old stones and dazzling views.  I'm a regular at the nearby Café Nemrod, where my friends and I drink wine and nibble on salted peanuts; the clientele ranges from well-dressed but not obnoxiously-trendy 20-somethings to older neighborhood residents (like the old man who reads the paper and usually orders a pain au chocolat and a beer).  I know the guy at the fresh fruit and veggie store, who knows that I like apples that are "tart but a little sweet too."

I am eagerly looking forward to those mountains and evergreens as we fly in over Seattle.  I can't wait to have a little breathing room (and breath fresh, cleaner air!) and drive around in the Subaru blasting forgotten CD's and 80-degree air.  I'm going to bake bread with Daddy, go to Central Market with Mommy, probably be dragged to a ridiculous movie that I will pretend to dislike with Sarah, and tool around Fremont with Emily.  And the dogs will smell as bad as ever!  Nonetheless, I am getting a bit sad to leave Paris.  The feeling is not pronounced, particularly because I'm coming back in January, but it lingers under the eaves and in the twinkling Christmas lights.  I know that I'll come back to the city with new eyes.  Paris will not have changed too much, but my relationship to it will have.  The first chapter of my Parisian sojourn is closing.

The French have a saying, which is employed in all kinds of situations, from grammar lessons to metro strikes: "C'est comme ça" ("It's like that").  It's uttered with the same finality as Jérôme's words of wisdom about coming and going.  Maybe the situation is melancholy, maybe it's frustrating, or maybe it's just neutral; in any even, C'est comme ça.  No solution is offered, no advice or logic is included.  It's completely obvious, and very simple, but also enlightening.  If you're feeling gloomy, let the gloom have its day in the sun!  If you want to punch something, you're not really entitled to violence, but you can scream curse words!  If your feelings are completely ambiguous, let the mediocrity reign!  The expression is a way of acknowledging one's feelings, without trying to change them.  It's refreshing.  You're unhappy, pissed off, jealous, thrilled, excited, glum, ambivalent.  That's life.  C'est comme ça.

The date of my departure approaches, and my sentiments are as mixed up as a bowl of Cassoulet.  But--although I realize this would be an excellent moment to repeat the aforementioned expression, I'll spare you--Cassoulet's is pretty good.  So I'm not complaining.

Bises,

Alice

La Grève!

Nobody loves the French as much as the French.  But I'm not complaining.  Au contraire.  I'm feeling uncharacteristically rebellious and thus have decided to take a page from the unapologetically self-adoring Gaulois.  Which is to say, I've decided to devote today to...myself!  Yes, I'm staging a strike--against classes, constraints, rules, requirements, expectations.  I am going in quest of the self, a task made noble by so many self-obsessed French intellectuals (think of the beginning of Rousseau's Les Confessions: "Moi, seul."  Or Pascal's, "Qu'est-ce que le moi?", a translation of which wouldn't do it justice, but you get the idea).  I have been feeling rather intellectually stifled of late.  I'm in first and second year classes learning to categorize rhymes by their number of homophonies, while Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being and a bizarre collection of short stories by David Foster Wallace that I found at an anglophone bookstore wait on my bedside table.  I remember why I fell in love with French literature; analyzing rhyme-schemes was not one of the reasons.

But I'm uneasy.  I'm so used to following the rules that I'm worried I'm going to get kicked out (I'm not sure who would do the kicking, or from where I would get kicked...the vagueness of this worry signals its inherently psychological nature...where's my therapist when I need her?).  Cultural, geographical, emotional, and intellectual transplantation has not clarified my idea of who I am.  It has, however, brought into focus what I enjoy, and what I don't.  I'll get that paper done at some point in the next couple of days.  But seeing as rigid literary analysis is not going to help me on my quest of the self, I think it's going to have to take a rain-check (and, surprise! it's raining).

So.  We've made an executive decision to Strike (la Grève!).

What do we want?  Good books, creative freedom, time to wander and think and drink coffee and go to cool museums.

When do we want it?  Now!

First order of business: lunch.  Ever notice the lack of hunger strikes in France?  We want change, but we are not willing to sacrifice our Roquefort for it.

Second order of business: the Patrick Demarchelier photography exhibit at the Petit Palais.  The Louvre is great, but not quite alternative enough for an intellectual strike.

Third order of business: starting in on that pile of bedside-table books.  I'm loading a couple into my bag, and staking out a café for the remainder of this rainy afternoon.  No café crème is safe!

Well.  I hope you have found this shamelessly self-interested entry inspiring.  Go forth, dear friends and family, and take a day off to read, write, or do whatever you do that is sacred to your being.  And if anybody complains, yell: "La Grève!!"

Bisous,

Alice

...later that day...

I still have not done any homework.  I have, however, gone to a fabulous photography exhibit, demolished a double café and a croque monsieur, seen an excellent movie, and lounged at two different cafés with friends.  We discussed such lofty, intellectual pursuits as MTV's The Hills (a horribly idiotic and yet fascinating reality-television show about rich, spoiled girls flouncing around L.A.  I miss California enough to sigh nostalgically at the smoggy sunsets) and how academic success affects our self-conceptions.  Given that my academic success has a profound effect on my idea of who I am and what I'm worth, one would think that my day of Strike would leave me feeling low and remorseful.  But I guess that good ol' French joie de vivre has gotten to me; here I sit, writing a blog entry instead of a analytical paper, contentedly chewing on some dark-chocolate-covered-caramels.  I hate to concede defeat--sorry Hershey's!--but the chocolate here is divine.

Here are the highlights of my rogue afternoon:

En route to the Petit Palais, my friend and I ran into a kitschy, little Christmas market by the Champs Elysées.  At one stand, there was a VAT (as in, the size of a small car) of bubbling cheese rounds and potatoes.  Since we had recently accomplished Order of Business #1 (lunch), we contented ourselves by whiffing the delightful vat (I've tried to think of a better word but vat is really the mot juste).  Not subtle, not particularly refined, but you can't really go wrong with a gargantuan vat of cheese and potatoes.

Once inside the gorgeous Petit Palais, we found the Patrick Demarchelier exhibit quite captivating.  We're talking modern photos of naked ladies next to classical statues of naked ladies.  Lots of naked ladies, another great love of the French people.  But in all seriousness, the expo was great, until we ran into...Patrick Demarchelier himself!!  The photography master was being filmed in front of his oeuvre; we recognized him from the photo he took of himself with the Princess Diana.  In sneakers and a raincoat, he was no rockstar, but we were a bit star-struck nonetheless.  Wednesday afternoon rebellions do pay off!

Then off we went to see The Visitor.  We tried to buy tickets for "The Visitor," only to be looked at quizzically by the vendor.  So, more slowly, my friend repeated "The Visitor"; still no sign of recognition.  I mean, the movie's title is English, and they were only showing one movie at that hour, so by process of elimination...Finally I said "le Visiteur," pronounced "vee-zee-TEEEUUEEUUURR" and a good laugh was had by all.  But do go see this movie if you haven't already, I give it top marks.

Seeing as my caramels are heavily depleted, I think it's time I wrap it up and do the one Order of Business I have not yet accomplished.  The books on my bedside table await.  My fluffy bed beckons.

Goodnight to all.  May my day be inspiration to you all.  The French have done it before, and they'll do it again.  Why?  Because it works.  And it's a fabulous excuse to take a day off.  Long live la grève!!