La Grève, part two: the Real Deal

Hey, remember when I skipped out on a couple of classes to flounce around the Petit Palais and eat chocolates?  That was delightful.  I facetiously named the post in which I wrote about my exploits, "La Grève!" (French for "Strike!")  At the time, strikes seemed rather frivolous and fun--a good excuse to take a day off.

Well, well, well.  What have we here?  None other than a real-life, serious, and obnoxiously disruptive strike.  Luckily, the public transportation was only blocked up yesterday, though I still managed to get stuck in the metro for half an hour today when the train mysteriously stopped and all the lights turned off.  But it hasn't just been the public transport workers--the university professors are also pissed off.  I have asked a bunch of my foyer-mates the reason for the strike in higher education.  The answers I got where mostly comprised of eye-rolling, shrugging, and irritated mutterings that sounded like "Shai pas moi putain alors" (approximate translation: "Shit man who knows?").  The best explanation I found was in Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik's collection of essays, the thesis of which can best be summarized: the French are Ridiculous.  Of another, larger strike in the 90's, Gopnik writes, "Though the strike has developed a quasi-revolutionary momentum, it doesn't have anything like a quasi-revolutionary ideology; the slogan of the government functionaries at the heart of the strike is, essentially, 'Status quo forever'" (31).  

In any event, almost all of my classes this week were cancelled, and I hear that they'll probably be cancelled next week too.  The thing is, the professors' strike is very civilized; they are all "invited," though not obligated, to strike.  As a result, students never know if their prof is a grèviste (striker) or not.  So the studious among us show up to the classroom in time for class, only to conclude after 20 minutes that our prof must be busy striking.  There are never any helpful signs (such as, "I'm on strike today, piss off!") or emails ("Dear students, don't bother shlepping all the way to school today, I'm busy sleeping in...err, striking"), and no one has any idea when the strike will end.

...A week later...

All of my professors are still on strike.  Except, that is, for the one who conducts my 8am Monday class.  Seriously, of all the profs to stick around, why the one with the 8am class?!  I'm growing very fond of complaining, and I can't believe how much sympathy I'm getting from my French comrades.  If Clarice, who's heard me complain about the strike for the fourth time this week, were American, she would probably tell me to shut up and enjoy the free time.  Instead, she nods with understanding and does the French sigh (where they puff up their cheeks and slowly release the air through their slightly-parted lips in a pffft sound).  When I talked to the all-knowing Pièrrile (who is the foyer busybody: she sees all, hears all, and her number #1 pastime is sniggering about la directrice Marie-Joseph, who she calls MJ, behind her back), she too did the French sigh, accompanied by an exaggerated eye-roll.  Pièrrile responded that her professors were on strike too, except that it was a far more serious situation for her (it is always a far more serious situation for Pièrrile) because her university was an hour away AND she was fairly certain that one of her profs was hitting on her because he had a nasty habit of looking at her chest (hence, she explained, her recent penchant for turtlenecks).  I finished my complaining marathon with the more subdued Cécille, whose only response was "Oh lala lala..." (the more la's, the worse the situation).

Back in the states, especially in sunny, happy California where smiles are as necessary an accessory as sunglasses, complaining is not so kindly received.  A complainer is told to "stop being such a Negative Nancy," to "look on the bright side!", and that "every cloud has a silver lining."  Some idiomatic expressions, such as "the grass is always greener...", have French equivalents; the aforementioned expressions do not.  In fact, I remember that Sarah, my French friend who lived in California for a year, used to complain about everyone being so nice and smiley all the time ("they're not my friends," she explained, "so why are they all smiling at me").  In France, complaining isn't a bad thing; rather, it's a perfectly acceptable way to talk about the state of your life.  A couple of weeks ago, I walked into the kitchen one Tuesday night and declared, "Putain, j'ai la flemme de cuisiner!"  In English, "Ugh, God, I'm so sick of cooking!"  My French friends were delighted, and told me that I was really becoming une française.  I thought my friend Alex would be offended when I dryly remarked that complaining was a national sport in France; instead, he laughed and said, "exacte!"

It's February 3 and there are still no classes, still no news from the profs.  I'll update you if anything exciting happens; in the mean time, I'll try to find something interesting to complain about.

Bisous,

Alice

Il pleut des cordes

As I am too often wont to do, I sit at the little desk that faces my window and begin to write a blog entry instead of doing whatever I'm supposed to be doing.  In this case, I should be preparing English lessons for my tutees and packing for jolly ol' London.  But il pleut des cordes--it's raining cats and dogs--and all I feel like doing is making coffee and thinking over the events, big and small, of the past week.

So I'll compromise: write for a wee bit (I'm preparing myself for London by picking up some of their argot), drink some coffee to spur me into motion, and get to my packing and tutoring.

(Editor's note: I did in fact get to my obligations.  But I continued to add to this entry over the next few days, hence its length.)

My current state of mind can be described thus: I feel as though I'm on the cusp of a different perspective.  Ok, I know you're all going, "What? Cusp? Perspective? At least she's not writing about the weather again..."  But hold your proverbial horses, I can explain!

I watched Obama's inauguration speech last night online.  Besides being blown away by his ability to present rich prose in a way that is moving, but not sentimental, and easy to understand, though not simple, I started thinking about change (how could I not?) and transition.  The country is perched on the cusp between two vastly different states of mind, preparing for the sea change that is beginning to take place.  Though I'm exhilarated at the possibility of real change, I'm anxious for its embodiment, its concrete manifestation; but change is still only a twinkle in the cold January air.  We are thus on the cusp of a new way of being and seeing the world.  

Cusp, noun.

figurative: a point between two different situations or states, when a person or thing is poised between the two or just about to move from one to the other

Now perhaps you're beginning to understand why I can't stop using the word cusp.  It's a bizarre little word: its consonants are in unexpected places (the sound "sp" seems to belong at the beginning, not the end, of a word) and it has an awful lot of sounds crammed into one syllable.  But imagine "a pointed end where two curves meet" (like the tip of a Gothic arch), and you might start to see the visual onomatopoeia in cusp.  Onomatopoetic words are formed from the sound associated with that which the word describes (like meow or sizzle).  Cusps, however, are associated not with a sound but with an image.  In my mind, the image of cusp mirrors the word: an intersection between two continuous lines (the soft sound of "cu" meets the harder sound of "sp"), a breaking point between what was and what will be (the abrupt -p sound at the end).

So now that we are all sitting around saying "cusp, cuuusssssP, cccusppp" under our breath, we can return to the idea of being sur le point d'une nouvelle perspective (on the cusp of a new perspective), and maybe I'll even get around to writing about Paris!

How many novels, memoirs and essays have I read--from the comfort and familiarity of home on the West Coast--in which authors expound upon their ardent love for Paris?  Many.  In any event, I sped thirstily through these accounts, savoring the poignancy and immediacy of artful recreations of experience.  I, sitting in an armchair at home in Seattle or lounging on the lawn at Scripps, loved Paris too!  I too was part of the dream that is Paris, the mystique and legend of the city.

But when I arrived, among the bustle and hassle of setting up life in another country, I felt nothing of the sort: not only was the romance of Paris hidden from me, I was also acutely aware of my status as an étrangère--a foreigner, a stranger, an unknown.  There were, of course, moments when the curtain was swept back and glimpses of the magic appeared--an autumn walk through the Luxembourg gardens, having a disorganized, intellectual conversation with Quentin in the courtyard of the Musée de la Vie Romantique, peering out into the rain from a well-heated and softly-lit café--but I didn't experience Paris on a sensory level.  Rather, I was busy watching and listening, exploring, testing.  In my typical way, I was scrutinizing the city on an intellectual level, constantly wondering: What's this?  How do you do that?  Do I like this?  Do I want to do that?  How do I fit in here?  I was consumed by learning and analyzing.  And I was a bit disappointed to find that I didn't fall in love with the real, concrete Paris as easily as I fell in love with the literary version.

Recently, a few things--a trip, a book, a moment with a friend--conspired to shake up my way of seeing and understanding the city.  In the blog entry written shortly before returning home for Christmas break, I wrote that I would return to Paris with new eyes.  I was right that my perspective was going to change; I didn't know how that change would manifest itself.  It's true that I regard Seattle as home but, upon my return to Paris, I felt an attachment to the latter that I have never experienced with the former.  Paris felt like mine.  Seattle has never belonged to me in such a singular, independent way: I had come to Paris of my own accord, had discovered little gardens and warm cafés by myself, and had lived a hundred lovely moments which--though I longed to share them with my friends and family--now reside in my pocket as little private memories.  Paris has thus taken up residence in my being and has helped shape the abstract notion of my identity.

My friend Meredith and I sat on my desk the night before she returned to Boston, gazing out over the dreamy view of Paris rooftops.  For the first time, I felt real affection for those rooftops.  What has changed my perspective of Paris is not just that I have discovered it on my own, but also that I have shared it with friends that have become very dear.  As my friend Brooke so wisely quoted, "We'll always have Paris."

Bisous,

Alice

Paris is freezing. I'm in bed.

Alors.  The nearby church bells are chiming half pas six, it's well past dusk, and I have just finished some moderately disgusting instant coffee in an effort to jolt myself out of winter hibernation.  I haven't yet figured out why the bells ring so insistently at this hour, but for me their reverberations have come to indicate the transition from the rushed, harried workday to the evening, when the Parisians begin to head home, stopping by boulangeries to buy their dinner baguettes.  I am snugly wrapped in various layers of wool, cashmere and down, and have recently woken up from a long winter's nap.  Since my day has been far from taxing, the only explanation I can find for this lethargy is the season.

The day after I returned to Paris, the temperature proceeded to drop into the teens and stay there for a few biting days.  Fortunately, the sun shone brilliantly the entire time; the resulting combination of white winter light and below-freezing air was a great (in the sense of "considerable," not "fabulous") shock to the system--akin to being thrown into an ice bath.  As a swimmer in glacial water thrashes frantically about, I was bursting with energy, feeling almost manic.  Since then, I have managed to complete a paper, take a four-and-a-half hour 

exam, go out to dinner with friends twice and Aunt Jane once (mmm thanks for the delicious fish!), do a bit of shopping, complete three hours of English tutoring, go to a wine-fueled party, visit two museums, and make plans to see practically everyone I know in Paris....I've been back for a week.

After a late lunch today, however, I became very cold.  Even tea hadn't warmed me up.  The clouds have been creeping back into Paris, and with them the temperature has begun to rise (who ever thought the Southern California girl would think of 38 degrees as comparatively warm?!).  Nonetheless, I felt a cold seep into my bones this afternoon, and at four p.m. I could not resist crawling into bed.  "I'll just read for awhile, warm up," I said to myself.  I'm currently winding my way through Michael Ondaatje's memoir, Running in the Family (which I highly, highly suggest).  The book takes place in his country of birth, Ceylon, an island off the coast of India, where the temperature ranges from hot to a stifling-I-can't-stop-sweating hot.  Thoughts of orange sunsets and tropical breezes began to envelop me in a cozy, drowsy warmth (with a little help from my gargantuan down comforter), and soon I found myself on the point of m'assoupir (whose translation is "to doze off;" I adore this verb because it sounds like the contented sigh emitted upon finally lying down, and because it always makes me picture someone falling asleep in their soup).

...The next morning...

I woke up to the most fabulous sunrise this morning!  One of the (few) perks of living through a dark winter is that you don't have to wake up at five a.m. to enjoy the sunrise.  Don't get too jealous, however, because the Paris sky has resumed its habitual grayish blue after only an hour.  I'm drinking the last (swiftly cooling) drops of my tea, and contemplating what to do with a free day (exams are finally over!).  Because of the cold, my visits to the farmer's market have slowed.  But my infamous cabbage soup (infamous because I have been known to make giant vats of it, which linger in the garage freezer for weeks, maybe months on end) is calling my name.  Moreover, I have to keep up my reputation in the foyer as being one of the few Americans who can cook.  "You really surprised me," one of the Frenchies said, "because you're American...but you're a good cook!"  I smiled, but I resent this comment nonetheless.  It's like, Hello?!  As long as you avoid hamburger joints, you can find excellent cuisine in all U.S. cities--or at least all of the ones I've visited.  Plus, I've recently learned that putting ketchup on pasta is not uncommon in (even nice) French homes.  For God's sake, buy a jar of tomato sauce!  I digress.  Off to the farmer's market with me, and then perhaps I'll go sit in a café with a pretentious air, pretending to write the next Great American Novel.  Should probably keep my glasses on...

Bisous mes petits chous!

Flirtatious Customs Officers and Enormous Scarves: Welcome Back to France!

Bleary-eyed, vaguely frazzled, and feeling the kind of dirty that only 10 hours on a plane can create (it's a combination of the stale, recycled air and repeatedly dribbling "Honey Roasted Pretzel Mix" crumbs onto my lap), I stumble through Charles de Gaulle toward the baggage claim.  My giant, new, white wool scarf--I thought I had really outdone myself with its voluptuous enormity, but I was swiftly upstaged by a French woman in a scarf so big she couldn't turn her head--had decided to fuzz all over my black pants and black sweater.  I sort of resembled a very jet-lagged yeti (the fur lining my hood didn't help).

And yet, I knew for sure I was back in France when the passport control officer shamelessly flirted with me--and was apparently so distracted by my furry-ways that he almost forgot to ask for my residency card.  I gave him my passport and bent down to pick up a paper I had dropped.  When I straightened, he stared at me and demanded to see my passport.  "But I just gave it to you," I argued, surprised that my mouth was speaking French even though my brain wasn't properly working.

"Where's your passport?  I don't have it."

"Mais si!  I just--"

"Hey," said the officer, pulling out my passport from under his desk and cracking a smile, "I'm just messing with you!"  Since when do passport control officers "just mess with you"?  He proceeded to ask what I was studying, and made some remark about liking Sartre.  Exhausted as I was, I had to laugh at the ridiculosity of the situation.  I could have been smuggling illegal plant specimens, drugs, or killer beetles...but as long as I giggled and swept my curls aside coquettishly, pas de souci (no worries)!

Soon enough (or, more accurately, within two hours), I was bouncing through the glittering Parisian streets on the AirFrance bus.  My use of "glittering" is not meant to romanticize the scene: Paris may have beautiful architecture, a sedately flowing river and immaculate gardens, but its color is overwhelmingly gray.  On most days, particularly in winter, the sky is so gray it seems without depth: no clouds mark the difference between down here and up there.  Don't stare too hard into its bottomless (topless?) gray, you'll become swiftly disoriented.  This gray sky is punctuated only by the Paris rooftops, standing stiff and stately, in varying shades of gray--which, being a shade itself, makes for infinite gradations of gray; the city becomes a patchwork of grays.  But yesterday morning, the gray had been overtaken by glittering flakes of snow.  A thin white dusting covered the sidewalks, and the stone goddesses atop the Gare de Lyon wore shawls of immaculate snow.

Was it the snow, or had I never realized how beautiful Paris is?  I know it's hailed as the most beautiful city in the world, and tourists constantly drop in to "ooh" and ahh" at the sights, but I think it takes a familiar gaze to really appreciate the beauty of Paris.  I appreciated Paris more the second time I visited, and each time I return--even from a short trip--I'm temporarily awestruck by the city's charm.  The beauty is not éblouissant (dazzling); rather, what's delightful is the remarkable lack of ugliness.  It's like a set of silverware with no missing pieces: everything fits, very few elements look out-of-place, and the lines are familiar, repeated, and aesthetically pleasing.  Of course, my delight faded as soon as I had to lug my 60-pound bag up more than a few set of stairs in the metro.  But I regained my good humor after a long nap, and a dinner of French onion soup and some divine dessert called tarte citron meringue shared with my pals.

I would like to recount some tales of my culture shock upon returning to the U.S., but I'm a bit drained.  Plus, I only really have one good story which involves me pulling out euros to pay for a drink at Starbucks, almost saying merci, and practically choking on their version of a "café au lait" (there are quotation marks for a reason...I feel I have become almost as snobby as the French vis-à-vis American coffee).  I did have the urge to scream, "Merci!  Au revoir!!" as I left every shop and restaurant, but I successfully restrained myself.

Gros bisous,

Alice