Dragons and Valentines

This year's Saint-Valentin weekend was as much a celebration of my love for Paris as of my relationship with Tom. Although we did nothing particularly spectacular, we spent a long, leisurely weekend together, taking advantage of all the city has to offer. On Friday we met up at the legendary "L'As du Falafel" (recommended by Lenny Kravitz, apparently) for lunch before spending an afternoon amongst the orthodox Jews and drag queens of the Marais, visiting a museum, stopping for hot chocolate, and generally enjoying the unseasonably sunny day. Dinner was a French-inspired collective effort with Lucy, an artist-in-residence whose cooking skills rival Tom's: basque prawns and rice, a Roquefort/walnut salad, and an apple tart and custard for dessert.

Saturday: stroll around the Alesia area and a visit to a vibrant weekend flea market to pick up extra plates and cutlery. Dance at the Canadian House, which was small but delightfully goofy and Valentine's themed (because who doesn't associate tea-light candles, lasers and shitty American pop music with February 14th?). Sunday: Chinese lunch in the "ethnic" Belleville quarter, in a packed restaurant with a street-side window to afford a view of the the slightly lame Chinese New Year parade. Happy year of the Tiger!

Working out the world of work

Relative to the U.S., French business hours and practices are extremely inconvenient and, from an American perspective, downright rude. To start off it can often be difficult to even make it to a business while they're open. France works a 35-hour week. Shops and services open late, then close again shortly thereafter for a two hour lunch break. (Fortunately, some of them stay open later than they would in the U.S.--for example, the Cité Universitaire Post Office is open from 2pm-8pm, which makes a lot of sense when you realize that the French start their days later and don't usually eat dinner until 9pm or so). By law, most of France shuts down on a Sunday, and many stores opt to take a Monday or Tuesday off as well.

There is also little to no concept of "customer service". As I discovered through my Hertz battles a few weeks ago, the customer is NOT always right in France, nor even valued. Part of this is due to the fact that many of the retail and food service jobs that are snubbed as low-class and low-paying in the US are salaried careers in France (with the notable exceptions of the "Arabe" 7-11esque stores, kebab vendors, Asian traiteurs--basically anything minority-run), meaning that hostesses and waiters don't feel compelled to debase themselves for tips, and to the contrary are often very proactive in maintaining a mutual power/respect balance. The benefit is that people take a lot of pride in their work, are good at what they do and are generally recognized as such. The bad news is, well, let's take the example of my friend Barclay. When we went out to get a post-class pint, we opted to sit at one of the outdoor, street-side tables underneath a heater. As the waiter was placing our pints on the table he got bumped from behind by a pedestrian, spilling most of Barclay's beer onto her lap. Although he apologized and immediately ran in to grab a towel, he left most of the clean-up to us and didn't offer anything in the way of compensation (a pint on the house, or a discount, for example). This would have been totally unacceptable in the US, but in France no one near us even batted an eye.

And yet, most of the people I interact with on a daily basis are, if not more polite, at least a lot more competent and knowledgeable than their American equivalents. After an episode of intestinal angst this past weekend I found myself visiting a string of pharmacies. Never did I wait longer than three minutes in line, and I was extremely appreciative of the medical expertise expected of pharmacists here, who are able to evaluate symptoms and distribute mild prescription drugs without the hassle of doctor involvement (or inflated US prices). I also love bakery or open air market staff, who exude quality, from their food, to their promptness, to the care they put into the wrapping of their products. Apparently I'm not the only one--here's a BBC piece about Parisians that seems to agree (and reads like what my blog aspires to be).

I've been spending a lot of time lately considering this system, browsing job listings and trying to imagine myself as an employed woman in Paris next year. As an employee, the late starts, long lunches, frequent vacations and short work weeks would seem luxurious rather than irritating. Until my own country sorts things out, the health care would be lovely. And another year here, this time as a "real" adult with an apartment in a cosmopolitan city wouldn't be too shabby. First task: tackle the French formatted CV, which is surprisingly different...you're expected to list hobbies and "competencies" and to attach a photograph, which surely invites racism/other appearance-based prejudice, but hey, it's France. If customer service is in its infancy here, the idea of political correctness has yet to be born.

Song of sixpence surprise

My Mondays are hell this semester. One class in the morning, then a brief break to haul my butt across the city and grab lunch before a grammar tutorial and a literature tutorial. I then have half an hour to incorporate edits from the earlier grammar tutorial into the mini-paper for my last course before reading it out loud in front of the class, to be picked apart by the prof. It's an incredibly stressful day, but in a way it's nice to have some of my schedule concentrated; it makes the rest of the week a little easier. Additionally, that last class of the day with the out-loud reading is definitely going to be my most challenging this term, and it's actually really ideal timing. At the end of a long day of French immersion, my speaking abilities are at their peak, and seeing as how I'm naturally at my sharpest, intellectually, in the evenings, it should all turn out alright (with a little help from espresso, of course).

The problem is that this 8am-8pm Monday means I have to reform my procrastinating ways and be disciplined about getting a lot of work done in advance. I also have to make sure I get enough sleep Sunday night to function, which can be difficult to do after adjusting to a late night/late morning weekend sleep schedule. I failed at the latter goal this week, which meant that I worked about three times as long as I had slept and was super strung out when I finally got home.

Luckily, there's Tom. In one of our many Oxford conversations I mentioned to Tom that I really miss my favorite pub dinner: steak and ale pie. When I got home he had pie surprises (surPIESes?) waiting for me--complete with pastry monograms and minty "mushy peas"! (Feel free to go "awwwww"). I couldn't resist a few photos before digging in.

Amsterdam it all, part II

The remaining part of our journey was, thank God, fairly uneventful. The leisurely drive through snow-blanketed countryside was much more pleasant in the daylight (not to mention with a functional car). We stopped at a few rest-stops for munchies, read passages out-loud from one of our class novels, laughed at a dutch techno cover of "Sweet Caroline" on the radio and got helpful directions drawn on the inside cover of one of my books next to where I had scribbled Hertz numbers and addresses in the dark the night before. We rolled up to Amsterdam, appropriately, at about 4:20, parked outside the city and snagged a tram ride in. We had finally made it.

The evening in Amsterdam was magical. After stowing our stuff at the hostel we headed out to a coffeeshop to unwind from our harrowing journey. By the time we emerged to find dinner it was snowing again--fat fluffy flakes that were enough to limit the pedestrian traffic but not so much as to be overwhelming. We watched the snow through the window at a cute little Italian place, where our waiter spoke like Mario and gave us complimentary coffee after our personal pizzas. We then went on a walk through downtown Amsterdam through snow that had, by this point, changed to Dippin' Dots-sized spheres that you could catch in cupped hands or open mouths. Once we started to get cold we settled into a reggae-themed café for an hour or so before grabbing a chocolate/strawberry waffle dessert and heading back to the hostel. Back at the hostel we hung out on the balcony of our room with a pair of Portuguese girls for as long as we could stand the cold, listening to Manu Chau, Edith Piaf and Radiohead.

The new day dawned sunny and clear, making for some perfect strolling along curved streets and picturesque canals. Amsterdam as a city is pretty charming. The high rate of biking, walking and tram-ing makes for very little car traffic, and I found the Dutch to be very friendly people. Listening to Dutch was like looking at one of those Magic Eye posters that were big in the 90s--if I let my hearing slide out of focus, it almost began to make sense, but as soon as I'd get excited and really start to listen the illusion of comprehension would suddenly vanish. It definitely seemed closer to English than German, though, and I get the feeling that if I spent any significant amount of time in the Netherlands (and if I had the need, which isn't likely considering the high level of spoken English there) I could pick up a workable amount of the language without too much trouble.

We arrived home late Sunday night without any further car mishaps, leaving me drained for a full slate of classes the next day but otherwise satisfied. Considering everything that went wrong, the trip could have been a disaster, but over a pint the next night we all agreed that it had actually been pretty amazing. Despite the obstacles, everyone in the group retained a pretty laid-back, take-things-as-they-come perspective, an the end, the journey itself and the people made up for the fact that we didn't quite have the time for the Van Gogh museum or the Anne Frank house.

That's ok. After all, there's always the tulip festival in April/May. Although next time I may take the train...

A day at the Abbaye

I used my Friday off to bum along on a trustfundergrad day-trip to the Abbaye de Royaumont, which is about an hour northwest of Paris. The abbaye itself was nothing spectacular, especially compared to those I saw in England (which were better-maintained, steeped in history and exuded that contemplative and timeless "sacred" feeling...this one was pretty uninspiring in comparison). The unseasonably warm and sunny weather made it a pleasant afternoon to spend in the country nonetheless. My group got stuck with a terribly dull tour guide, but I was able to amuse myself by imagining that every time she said "abbé" (abbot) she was actually saying "abeille" (bee), and I was soon chuckling at the thought of bumble bees buzzing through the halls of high, vaulted ceilings.

The sub-par abbey and tour were of little consequence, however, as the main reason I (and everyone else) came on this particular trip was for the lunch. After being lead into a truly Harry Potter-esque, elegant, naturally-lit room with we were treated to a gourmet meal that spanned three hours, four courses and about a bottle of wine per person. First course: tapenade on toast, chive and garlic cheese wrapped in roasted eggplant. Second course: pork in a dark sauce, potatoes. Third course: cheese and salad. Desert: coffee, vanilla bean ice cream dusted with pistachios and a vanilla custard with a dark chocolate and caramel crunch base. A very elegant, very French afternoon, and a great opportunity to relax and chat with a few of the grad students I don't see on a regular basis.

The undergrads made me feel old--and proud. On top of abusing the privilege of free wine refills with lunch a group of freshman had smuggled seven or so extra bottles aboard the bus and, in spite of having two of them confiscated by an irritated administrato, they still managed to get wildly day drunk. The result was an ill-planned, wet escapade across the canal followed by a rather harsh bus ride back. The kid who had been their ringleader managed to vomit all over the front of himself before ruining his camera bag catching the rest. Afraid of punishment, he tried to keep his suffering on the DL in the back of the bus, but all he really ended up accomplishing was that he inflicted the nauseating smell on his hoard of unhappy, drunken comrades. When the bus finally pulled up to Trocadero they stumbled green-faced and humiliated back onto the streets of Paris. If I hadn't also been somewhat subject to the smell in the front of the bus it would have been a pretty comical sight. My first instinct was to be irritated at the kid, but I ended up just feeling bad for him. I suppose everyone has to test their limits during Freshman year, but at least for most of us it doesn't involve being subjected, puke-covered, to public chastising from your teachers, followed by a metro-ride home at rushhour surrounded by sneering commuters and an eventual confrontation by a home-stay family. Poor guy. I gave him a stick of gum, a pack of Kleenex and a bottle of water and wished him well before I went on my way.

Amsterdam it all, part one

In my past travels I have always been the designated planner; it has always fallen on me to book the train and the hostel, research the sights and round up the participants. This is due, in part, to the fact that I'm good at handling such details and motivated to put in the work to ensure a good trip. My friends are happy to let me handle things. It's also due to the rather embarrassing fact that I'm slightly obsessive and would likely be unwilling to surrender control and allow them to handle things even if they wanted do. When a few grads here approached me and pitched a last-minute weekend road trip to Amsterdam, with rental car and hostel already taken care of, I was wary but, after brief reflection, willing.

Things went wrong from the get-go. A graduate lunch at NYU lasted longer than we expected, and problems on the RER-B line meant that it took us several trains longer than usual to get out to the airport and the rental car place (Murphey's law of the metro, as witnessed with several exams last semester: if you ever actually *need* to get somewhere on time, the metro *will* be broken). Once we finally got the car and got on the road it was around 5pm. We made it through a little bit of commuter traffic around Paris and up through Northern France, and had just passed the Belgian border when...BAM. Our rear passenger-side tire blew out.

At first it seemed as if things would be okay. Lindsey's boyfriend Pat knew how to change a tire, so he got to work with the jack and the lug nuts and had that sucker ready to pop off in no time. Unfortunately, it wouldn't. We tracked down the owner's manual for help--a picture in the manual showed using a bar to lever the tire off. Although our tire didn't match the one in the image, we found a place to lodge the bar and lever. Much to our dismay the bar gave out before the tire. It began to snow. I made the first call to roadside assistance, giving our license number, rental agreement and cell phone to the Belgian branch of Hertz's insurance call-line. After waiting an hour we called again, only to find out that Hertz had no record of our original call. We were on the phone with them a third time when the repair man finally pulled up behind us, almost a full three hours after we had pulled over.

After using a sledgehammer to knock off the obstinate tire the man fixed the "doughnut" temporary tire in place and left us in the snowy dark to figure things out, telling us to go no faster than 80km and no further than 30 km/h. We pulled into a reststop 5km up the road, where I began the first in a series of frustrating phone calls with Hertz. No, there was no way to repair the tire until the following afternoon. No, there was no way to get a replacement car without returning to Paris. No, there was no way to get a refund on a car once a contract had been started. No, they couldn't tell me what to do about being far from our destination and already-paid hotel; I needed to talk to customer service. No, the customer service office would not reopen until Monday. No, we can't guarantee you'll be reimbursed for a hotel unless you're in France and the car is out of service. "We're 5 km over the border. We can come back to France. We *want* to come back to France; we're in the Femish part of Belgium and don't speak Dutch. What's your definition of 'out of service'? Where exactly do you expect us to get with a doughnut tire in a snowstorm?"

In the end we returned to Lille (a city in Nothern France) where my angry insistence scored us three free hotel rooms (one for Phinn, who was ill, one "couple" room for Lindsey and Pat, and a double twin room for James and I) and a pretty deluxe complimentary breakfast. We rolled in a little after midnight, trekked through deserted (but fairly picturesque) streets to the only diner-esque restaurant still open, and feasted on eggs and beer as we made fun of the hickish regional French accent. Under heavy pressure, Hertz had promised to call me at 8am the next morning to work things out with the car. I gave them a half hour to redeem themselves, then called at 8:30. "I'm sorry, but we don't have a record of your car even existing in our database. Are you sure you have the license plate number right?" I'm sure. I have it memorized by now. If you don't have it, does that mean I can keep the car? "Oh. One moment please. *pause* Yes, I found your file. You can go to the central train station to pick up a replacement car."

Half way to the train station Hertz called back. "Hi, we're calling back from last night to tell you that you can pick up a replacement car at the airport. Get there before noon. No, what you were told is wrong, there are no available vehicles of that size (apparently a five-person car is huge by European standards) at that location." Cue exit by a rather under-the-weather Phinn, who finally said "j'en ai marre!" (I've had enough of this crap!) and caught a TGV back to Paris. At the airport: "I told them that a car wouldn't be ready until after 5! Oh, and you owe us money for the tire; you were at fault." Cue me gearing up to really bust some balls. "Oh, you're right, you did buy insurance. Oh, we do have a car. Here are the keys. Have a nice trip."

This sign pretty much summed up the way we felt about Lille when we finally left, down one person, about half a day and several hours of sleep, and got back on the autoroute towards the Netherlands.

(stay tuned for part two....)

Reading like a Frog

If I ever become a professor I vow to:

1) Not be afraid to admit that I may be wrong
2) Be open to other views that aren't my own

Literature as I see it is pretty subjective. That's the value of the form. One inspired person writes a book, a million others read it; each is free (and encouraged!) to form their own interpretation, which are, in turn, shared, debated, and even published to ultimately further the artistic and intellectual exchange.

The wall I keep butting my head into as a lit student in France is that the French approach literature with the same assumptions that they bring to everything: that there is a "right" and a "wrong" way to do things, that there are "good" novels, and then, well, everything else . The positive side of this is that the French hold their literary heroes in very high esteem that they pass onto their children, and anyone with a basic high school education can extoll the virtues of Balzac, Flaubert or Molière in a reasonably intelligent and informed manner. The bad news is that their self-adoration is blind--any master inducted into the French cannon is automatically right, or good, and there is a sole, right way to approach their work.

The implications of this for me is that my courses here are heavy on lecture and not overly open to interpretation. I miss my literature courses in the U.S., where I was allowed to dislike works as long as I could defend my position with something substantive, where holding an opinion that differed from the professor's perspective was an invitation to discussion and possible movement on both sides. I really started to let my intellectual claws out during a guest lecture today--not because I disagreed with the lecturer, per se, but because her stuck-up, Sorbonne attitude didn't permit any sort of challenge to her own interpretation, regardless of textual evidence. There was a really terse half hour at the end of our workshop, and it was only because I made the conscious and difficult decision to bite my tongue that it didn't erupt into a full-blown argument.

I'm trying to value this insight into to the French way of thinking and learn to read like a Frog. After all, as frustrating as no-flexibility is there might be something to said for the traditional approach. I'll be the first to admit that American liberal arts, while fun, can veer towards pointless academic masturbation occasionally. And if my medieval literature course is any judge, there's still hope for the French. Although the gender-riffic observations in my reading journal for that class attracted the attention of my professor ("oh my, you really did find a lot of sexual undertones, didn't you? Is 'lesbianism' a word?") to her credit, she didn't mark me down, and even admitted that my interpretations had at least made her think about things differently, even if she didn't necessarily agree.

If I ever do get to be a professor, you can be sure that I'll be pro-discussion and pro-creativity, no matter what country I'm in. It will also be nice to finally have that respect that comes with the PhD, so that when a small-minded lecturer says something I disagree with, my "actually..." will command a little more respect.