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