Last night, as I was getting ready to go out, my host-mom was putting her daughters to bed. Among the typical good night wishes bonne nuit, bisous, chouchou and requests for lights to be left on and bibrons to be made, something strange emerged.
Kid: J'ai mal au ventre (my stomach hurts)
Mom: Eh oui, j'ai mal à la France
Kid: J'ai mal à la Russie!
Mom: J'ai mal aux saussissons!
It was the first time I'd heard, or at least caught onto, something ressembling the kind of idiotic inside jokes that families make-- jokes bred, I think, by a need to relieve the stress of living amongst one another hour after hour with a healthy does of loony. I don't intend this entry to be some sort of 'everyone smiles in the same language' kind of crap. Well, actually, maybe I do.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Anyone out there...anyone?
So I clearly haven't been so diligent about updating my blog these days, and I'm not certain people are still reading it-- so if you ARE reading it, please leave a comment letting me know! Otherwise, I will assume that my blog has become the virtual equivalent of talking to a wall, or worse, an imaginary group of friends.
Let me say that my recent absence is not for lack of things to write about. Life in Lyon is as challenging, absurd, thought-provoking as always. I just haven't had connection to the internet on my own computer. From now on, I'm going to try to take a different approach-- to just write short but frequent entries rather than these long, ruminative, probably tedious pondering on life as an ex-pat. That is, of course, if anyone is still reading in the first place.
And what could demonstrate my newfound conversion to brevity better than...a list?
The sort of fantasy I'd always had, and I think it is one shared by countless exchange students, was for some very fun, friendly French students to introduce themselves to me, show interest in me, where I'm from and why I'm here, compliment my French, but coyly correct my mistakes, and then, most importantly of all, ask me to hang out with them.
After six months in Lyon, I'd written this off as a laughable pipe dream. But friends, it has actually happened!
And so here I am (or was) sitting in a bar, the only exchange student among a group of French girls and boys, straining to follow the trail of their banter over the blaring music, whilst self-consciously sipping the prim little glass of white wine they teased me for having ordered (I was in the mood for it!)
And here I am (or was) walking down the streets of Lyon with them at 1am as they speak in English and I speak in French (practice all around!)
And here I am, greeting one of them with a bisous before we go to take a coffee at an outdoor cafe.
And I figure, even if nothing comes of this, I'll at least have these moments to remember when I look back on my year in France.
Let me say that my recent absence is not for lack of things to write about. Life in Lyon is as challenging, absurd, thought-provoking as always. I just haven't had connection to the internet on my own computer. From now on, I'm going to try to take a different approach-- to just write short but frequent entries rather than these long, ruminative, probably tedious pondering on life as an ex-pat. That is, of course, if anyone is still reading in the first place.
And what could demonstrate my newfound conversion to brevity better than...a list?
Signs that I’ve been living in France for awhile
1) If possible, I try to cater my shopping so that the cashiers won’t have to give me any large amount of change.
2) No matter how warm it is, my neck feels cold and naked without a scarf.
3) I can easily go 24 hours without the internet.
4) I cannot go 24 hours without cheese.
5) I have lots of difficulty typing on English keyboards.
6) I think that 1 euro (i.e. $1.50) is a reasonable, even cheap, price to pay for a can of coke.
7) The idea of exerting any energy whatsoever on Sunday, besides maybe for cooking a good meal, disgusts me.
8) Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni have replaced Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as the couple of interest in my mind
9) I no longer 'think' of plans, I 'propose' them. I tell people I am 'in accord' with them and I say things like 'I'll call at her' and 'I got myself up'
10) I barely notice when service is slow, and when it's fast I treat the server like my best friend.
11) Upon looking at the ‘tall’ starbucks latte I’ve ordered I think ‘my god, that’s huge ! there’s no way I’ll ever finish it all !’
Despite my doubts, I still finish the latte. And want more.
Ve-love
So, after months and months of avoiding Lyon’s bike system out of fear, laziness, and a lack of sufficient funds for the deposit, I finally got my act together and purchased a Velov card. Now my only regret is that I didn’t do this earlier. Much earlier.
Now, for those who are unacquainted with the concept of such a system (i.e. non-europeans) I will give a quick run-down of how it works. The Velov is essentially a bike rental system available to anyone with a French bank account. To use it, you purchase a Velov card (just 1 euro for a whole week) and pick up a bike at one of the various stations positioned around the city. Afterwards, all you need to do is drop it off at another one. It’s all machine operated and very efficient, except of course, when the bikes are faulty (which is often). The practical benefits are bien evident – it’s cheap, good exercise, and environmentally friendly.
But what pleases me the most about the Velov is the feeling of swiftness you get whizzing around on it from point A to point B. It’s as though I’m suddenly seeing Lyon through new eyes—those of a well adjusted local and not a confused foreigner. On the bike, I can easily glide past the numerous street solicitors as well as the standard creeps without having to exchange a word. A strange feeling of control is attained.
(warning : feeling not attained on a Sunday afternoon in the Parc de la Tete d’Or whilst put-putting through the masses—all cardiovascular benefits will be negated by the blood boiling rage you will feel for the folks that walk slower than snails).
French Friends??
As of two or three weeks ago, I had basically resigned myself to never having any French friends. I figured it was a pity, but tant pis. Until then, I had met a fair number of Frenchies, but the language barrier just rendered it too difficult for me to make any sort of real connection. It was always the same, really-- we'd be introduced, make small talk which would eventually fizzle due to my inability to understand or just a plain lack of things in common. None of them ever showed interest in extending our friendship beyond the occasional party or casual chatting at school.
The sort of fantasy I'd always had, and I think it is one shared by countless exchange students, was for some very fun, friendly French students to introduce themselves to me, show interest in me, where I'm from and why I'm here, compliment my French, but coyly correct my mistakes, and then, most importantly of all, ask me to hang out with them.
After six months in Lyon, I'd written this off as a laughable pipe dream. But friends, it has actually happened!
And so here I am (or was) sitting in a bar, the only exchange student among a group of French girls and boys, straining to follow the trail of their banter over the blaring music, whilst self-consciously sipping the prim little glass of white wine they teased me for having ordered (I was in the mood for it!)
And here I am (or was) walking down the streets of Lyon with them at 1am as they speak in English and I speak in French (practice all around!)
And here I am, greeting one of them with a bisous before we go to take a coffee at an outdoor cafe.
And I figure, even if nothing comes of this, I'll at least have these moments to remember when I look back on my year in France.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Saint Valentin!
Note: I wrote this two weeks ago but have only now gotten around to posting it. Enjoy!
This morning was no different from a typical morning— as usual my alarm went off and I continued telling myself I would « get up in five minutes, like, for real this time. » Of course, this resulted in me having hurry like hell (I regret all the money I have spent on make-up, as I never have time to put in on anyway). I was dashing into the metro station, whipping out my wallet in which my precious tecely monthly pass is stowed, only to get an annoying surprise : the doors would not open. Why ? Because my card had in fact, expired. Yes indeed, it was now February.
Once I ‘d gotten over my annoyance with both the transportation system and myself, for forgetting, and once I’d reluctantly purchased a croissant to get change to buy a metro ticket, it dawned on me that the beginning of February is pretty significant, inasmuch as it marks the halfway point of my ten month stay in France. It’s difficult to grasp the fact that I’m now ‘over the hump’ you might say- that from this point on my time in France will start to feel, more and more, as though it’s dwindling away. On the other hand, I can’t believe I’m only halfway through it—after all that has happened, the struggles, the friendships, the crazy encounters, the culture shock— it’s hard to believe I’ve lived through all that, and was, the whole time…just getting started.
Luckily, to keep life from getting banal, I’ve got a whole new set of challenges facing me. I have taken on the job of being a « jeune fill au pair » for two French girls. Yes, I now live with a French family. A very French family. As in—they say things like « c’est la vie » eat stinky cheese like it’s going out of style and have the collected works of Victor Hugo proudly displayed on their living room bookshelf. I just went to check on the girls a minute ago, actually, and the older one was teaching the younger one about your basic three dimensional shapes. I was never aware that you could cover this subject using French cheese packaging for examples, but it is all the sudden completely clear. The wedge of camembert, the cylinder of chevre ! What’s next – a field trip to the epicerie ?
It’s odd the way speaking a different language proves to be not only mentally, but actually physically tiring. As of late, I have found myself exhausted in addition to having an suspicious penchant for sleeping nine, ten hours straight. Despite this, I have not for one second found myself wishing to be back in my old apartment. Now, as opposed to last semester, I am learning new words and phrases on a daily basis. The first words I utter each day are French ones (and unlike before, they’re not just un cafe creme, s’il vous plait). At last it feels like I’m getting the immersion experience I came here for. And my mattress, in addition to being twice the size of my old one, doesn’t cost me a dime.
The girls are aged 8 and 11, so my job consists mostly in mitigating their squabbles and transporting them to and from their various activities. Sometimes it’s very easy and I feel like I’m barely working. I unload the dishwasher while they do their homework, bring ‘em a glass of water, make a joke or two—whatever. Even being authoritative hasn’t proved to be too much of a challenge despite my dodgy French. And yet, it’s challenging in a different way. The kind of challenge presented by sitting around a dinner table with a family that isn’t your own, and not quite understanding what they’re all chuckling over, whilst trying to conceal that fact (the smiling and chuckling along strategy stops working at the point where they turn to you and ask « tu comprends ? ») The kind of challenge presented by the constant feeling that you may commit some horrific cultural faux pas (or rather, a grosse betise) any minute. The kind of challenge that comes from having your own language bottled up inside you all day. Save some text messages, I haven’t spoken English all day, and now, writing this, I am amazed at how reflexively I edit my sentences- how intuitive my sense for what sounds and doesn’t sound good really is. Hah, well, or at least how intuitive it feels- god knows, it wouldn’t hurt to edit my blog entires a little more.
But I wasn’t quite correct in equating not speaking English to the suppression of words- it’s bigger than that. It’s the suppression of personality that can get to you. And the contrast between who I am with this family (somewhat daft, bashful but bubbly, goofy au pair) and who I really am (a wee bit of a sarcastic bitch) couldn’t be more apparent than when I have friends over. Speaking to them in English, I suddenly become concious of, and infinitely grateful for, the ability to express my thoughts, subtle nuances and all. But it feels weird being able to do so in a place where I normally can’t.
Never being able to say exactly what I want to is frustrating, and yet, I can’t imagine going back to a world where I always could- though I know I inevitably will. Wrestling with the monster that is French syntax has become such an integral part of my life that I think I’d feel strangely restless without the struggle. Bored, too, not being able to construct phrases like « les filles, je ne veux pas sois mechant, mais ma patience n’est pas…grande…comme les montagnes » (Girls, I don’t want to be mean, but my patience isn’t…big…like mountains).
The language is also starting to grow on me, much like a somewhat dopey, awkward boy. Repellant at first (seemed impossible) then ever-so-slightly charming until one day, I realized as I was sitting in class, that I was actually taking pleasure in listening to the lecture- not for the subject matter, but for that sort of hushed elegance you rarely find in English. That’s right- hit me with those liasons ! Bizarre, but I was listening to it in almost the same way I listen to music- appreciating its sonority, anticipating all the dips and bends in the cadence. Though I always hoped I’d be able eventually speak French, I never fathomed a day would come when I’d actually take pleasure in it. And though there are times (many) when I feel like I’m progressing at a snail’s pace, when I think back to where I was a year ago, or hell, even five months ago, I’m pretty baffled.
Luckily I’ve got the girls to keep me from getting too full of myself. When I make a mistake, instead of being coyly corrected, I am given a harsh reprimanding by my eight year old girl. That is- when I’m still coherent. When she raises one eyebrow, screws up her nose and cocks her head to the side, I know I’ve ceased to make any sense at all. But the miscommunications can be pretty funny. On our first day together, she asked me to « devine » (guess) who was taking her to the ski bus tomorrow. In return, I asked her who this « Devine » character was. Now Devine has become a somewhat mythical figure, popping up in imaginary games and jokes.
She also told me had learned two phrases in English from her old au pair, a girl from New Zealand who spoke barely any French when she first arrived. They were : Oh my goodness ! and Shutup !
I have to say, after two weeks of being this kid’s au pair, I understand why. Perfectly.
And here is some French that she has taught me.
« Ca pu ! » (that stinks ! referring to my bedroom where the garbage can had gone a little too long without emptying)
« J’ai mal au ventre » (I’ve got a stomach ache--her excuse every night for not sleeping)
« Est-ce que tu crains si je fais ca » (are you ticklish ?)
« J’ai honte » (Literally « I have shame » but I think this is how the French say « I’m embarrased » considering she said this after she insisted on pushing her doll’s stroller to McDonalds, then had to face the reality of doing so).
« J'ai pete"-- I farted
Okay, so nothing that’s going to be particularly helpful when it comes to analyzing Proust, but I’m glad to know it.
Because we are in the thick of winter, and because I spend several hours a week around kids, it was somewhat inevitable that I would get sick. It started with a little congestion and a cough, but when I got my first ear ache I knew it was time to call a doctor. Naturally, my host mom was only too eager to supply me with her doctor’s number, as me being bed-ridden would make life around the house significantly more inconvenient. So I called and got an appointment for the next day- 5pm. When I told my host mom this, she nodded, then reflected for a minute and said « let’s see if we can get you in in the morning instead, otherwise you’ll be really sick . » In addition, she bought me some pills and gave me a silk bandanna to wear around my neck in the evening (apparently keeping your neck warm makes your throat less sore). Now, I’ve always been of the « grind your teeth and stick it » persuasion when it comes to illness. Unless I’m in physical pain (like the earache) I consider it a bother to go the doctor. I suspected this attitude was very un-French and my suspicions were confirmed. The next morning I went to the doctor. Luckily, I understood everything she was saying, including ‘take off your shirt and hang it up on the hook, please.’ Suspicion number 2 confirmed—French doctors love to get your naked.
The appointment was all very painless, however—just the usual stuff. The painful part came afterwards, in first, the 32 euros (cash only !) I had to hand over to the doctor, and then, the 33 euros worth of medication that she prescribed me. As it was, I barely felt ill, yet this lady sure as hell felt differently. I needed, apparently, 10 days of anitbiotics, a decongestent, cough syrup, nasal spray, and just in case my senses hadn’t been sufficiently numbed- painkillers.
Clearly this is not a place where New Age medicin or ‘natural’ healing has taken off. But since the average lifespan of a French woman is 84 years, I don’t feel I can critique their approach. I mean, imagine what the lifespan would be if they didn’t smoke ?! I have to admit also, that I got quite excited about taking all these drugs once they were in my hands (please nobody take that quote out of context). I somehow imagined them doing something miraculous—give me boundless energy, happiness, life…
Reality : I felt much the same, a bit more tired, actually and a bit sick to my stomach. So yes, I started to actually feel worse. But this is only day 2, so we’ll see.
Later that day, I told the eight year old about all the medicine I’d been prescribed and she asked me who paid for it. I told her that I had, but that the government would (thank god) be re-imbursing me every penny. Then she asked the classic and very intelligent one word question that children are known to ask : pourquoi ? (why ?)
Before I could open my mouth, the eleven year old jumped in. She apparently, had this all sussed out.
Because it’s not your fault if you get sick.
It isn’t like I haven’t heard this argument before, but every time I hear it, I’m amazed by it’s simplicity and truth. What followed, however, demonstrates the kind of thinking that has become familiar to me as ‘typically French.’
C’est la faute de l’etat. (It’s the government’s fault).
She went on to explain how certain governmental policies could lead to illness (precocious 11 year old, I know). Pollution, for example, a general lack of cleanliness etc. Impressed as I was by her reasoning skills, I couldn’t help but sense that she was reciting something that she had been told over, by parents, teachers, television, newspapers. It amazed me because never in my life have I blamed the state for getting ill. If I’ve blamed anyone, it’s been myself—I assume I haven’t been taking care of myself properly, that I haven’t been conscientious enough of my germ-infested environment, that I haven’t dressed warmly enough etc. And though I was baffled by Appolline’s unwavering certainly that the government was to be blamed for our illnesses, I realized later that it was just as unwavering as my previous assumption that it wasn’t. Such is the radical difference between us socialists and capitalists, I suppose.
And that I suppose, is why I see passing the blame on to something else as typically French. I have to admit, I get a little fed up with the way they always seem to turn and point their finger at the government when things are not to their liking—all the strikes seem like a political manifestation of the passive-aggressive silent treatment- a tactic of avoidance rather than confrontation. But I should probably shutup. After all, they live until 84! That means, no matter, what, they’ll be getting the last word.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
One big serving of cracked out (i.e. exam folly)
Woohoo ! I am officially en vacances ! It’s the first time in my life I’ve gotten to properly celebrate that fact and decompress- usually I go straight from frantic essay writing to frantic packing before rushing to the airport and barely catching the connecting flight home. Not this year. Now is my chance to indulge in the pleasures of sleeping in till 1pm, downloading Christmas music, and spending immoral amounts of time on personal grooming. Considering that I barely survived the last two weeks of school- I feel entitled.
The last two weeks of school…I think the gaping hole in my blog speaks for itself.
I’d prefer to forget the whole thing entirely, but I’ll recount a few memories that may haunt me forever.
- self-medicating with a large pack of « super-acide » gummy worms to the point of being teary-eyed and sure that I had not only given myself a cavity, but also burnt off every single one of taste buds for good.
- Stepping crusty-eyed out of my residence at 3pm one day with the resolve to motivate myself to start the five page paper I needed to write in a single night with an overpriced starbucks, before bumping into two girls I knew. The conversation went something like this :
Me : How are you ?
Them : Oh good, how are you ?
Me : Ughhh. Okay. I’m just going to get some coffee and start working on this paper. I have so much work…
Them : Awww.
Me : Meh.
Them : I haven’t had that much, actually—
-- no, me neither.
Me : …
Them : I’m sure it’ll be different next semester
-- OH yeah, definitely, it will all even out in the end.
Me :…Yeah, well. You know.
Them : So, where do you want to go shopping ?
--- Oh, mmm, I’d really like to get a bagel first.
--- Oh yeah !
--- And then maybe go to that vintage shop by Hotel de Ville
--- Oh okay ! Well what shall we do first—the vintage shop, or the bagel ?
Me : Bagels….
- Making the 35 minute trek to campus (no metro pass for me this month) for my 8 :30 am class after having been awake all night writing about power dynamics in « Le Mariage de Figaro » moody emo music wailing through my headphones and realizing that in my paper, I had forgotten to include the all-important problematique.
- Getting strange, slightly disgusted looks from the girl sitting next to me in 18th century littérature when I continued to fall asleep, then jolt awake.
- Deciding that, instead of taking serious notes for the last lecture of « European Cultural Movements » I was going to entertain my friend Ben with drawings of Jean-Paul Sartre swimming among various sea creatures. This resulted in the two of us falling into a helpless and poorly-concealed fit of giggles that lasted 10 minutes and left us teary eyes and barely able to breathe. It was cathartic.
- Saying « fuck all » to library policy and sneaking a baguette sandwich in as I rushed to finish my essay on Baroque art- leaving a mass of bread crumbs behind me. There library- that’s what you get for being crappy and not having any comfortable couches to sleep on or cubicles to surreptitiously eat in !
- Looking in the mirror when I got home after not having slept for over 40 hours and detecting a brand new greenish tint to my face.
- Chatting online to a friend as I was pulling an all-nighter
Her : How are you ?
Me : you know that scene in the simpsons, where apu has a flashback to working in the quickie mart for three days straight ? that’s how i am.
- Crying. A lot.
A more organized and generally better person would have organized her time so as to avoid all of this pain and melodrama. Alas, I’m only human. Excruciatingly human.
It wasn’t all bad, though. To start, I turned 21 (rather anticlimactic in France, but birthdays are always nice). And my friends Chloe and Jenn came to visit me from Montpelier. They brought me some amazing gifts (treasures from the 1 euro store- a Jafar key ring and chocolate eggs with plastic animals inside) and we had fun seeing what we could of the Fete de Lumieres (more on this hype later). It was nice to have guests, as it sometimes gets a little lonely and dull in my apartment. For my birthday, I had a joint party with my friend Zoe who’s turning 21 soon. Our attempts at Mexican cuisine were a little dogdy, but I think most people were just happy to be getting free food. And naturally, I stayed sober. So sober that I told a French lad who spoke perfect English with a British accent and would not let on how he’d learned to speak so well, that I too was French and had learned English from working at Disneyland over the summer. Fortunately, he found this funny.
I have found in life that bragging of any sort tends to bite you in the ass later on, and this theory was well demonstrated with the recent Fete de Lumieres. The Fete de Lumieres is the main festival in Lyon- in which the entire city is decorated with various light displays. Quite awhile back, I realized that it was going to fall on my birthday, and so whenever anyone mentioned it, I annoyingly chirped, in english or french, « Oh, you know- that’s the time of my birthday ! » After years of birthdays spent slaving away studying for a final exam or writing a paper, I was overjoyed to see that I would, quite obviously, be celebrating my 21st in style.
Now for the reality of the Fete de Lumieres : clenching my teeth as I tried, tried to move through the thousands of seemingly aimless amblers that filled the streets of Lyon, clutching my purse so as to protect myself from the rumored pickpocketers, far far far from being able to appreciate anything going on around me and apologizing to my two friends who had come up expecting something resembling good ol’ Christmas festivities for the disappointing nature of what Lyon considers its pride and joy.
The pinnacle of this enchanting experience was Place de Terraux—wherein we found thousands of people crammed around a rotating globe of sorts, glowing all different sorts of colors. I thought surely I must have been missing something. We trudged home freezing, tired, and disillusioned.
According to one of their travel guides, the Lyonnaise have a complex about their city paling in comparison to Paris. At times like this, I can see why.
I think there are some really neat displays to be found at the Fete de Lumieres- it’s just a matter of knowing where to go and when to go there. I really believe this. All the same, I firmly maintain that the very point of a festival is defeated when you have to PLAN how you will see it, then waddle your way through a slew of grumpy pedestrians to get where you want to go. Thumbs down, Fete de Lumieres. Thumbs down.
As the semester comes to an end, I can’t help but reflect on my life here- the surreality of having already completed a semester, of being half-way done academically. I can’t say whether or not Lyon has lived up to my expectations, because I hardly knew what the expect coming here. I recall having a few comically unrealistic visions of dining in fancy restaurants with dashing French men whilst discussing- in prefect French- the philosophical underpinnings of Camus novels (okay, maybe that’s a hyperbolic amalgamation of my various expectations, but you get the point). I guess being twenty years old didn’t do much to put me above this sort of fairy-tale thinking. How quickly one learns !
Maybe some people get this sort of fairy-tale experience. I certainly don’t know any of them, nor do I want to. They can go on leading their pristine lives and leave the rest of us to giggle at the wrong times and blunder our merry way along.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
I don't lie
...and I'm not crazy, either. Here is veritable proof of the street musicians. Too bad I didn't catch them asking me for money, but that might have taken away the magic, just a tad...
Friday, November 30, 2007
A Love Letter
To the gals next door,
Listen- I've been drunk a time or two in my life- so you can't say I "just don't get it." I understand that inebriation can spawn the desire to dance, to sing, to hide Camembert cheese under a friends notebook (it happened, I was the victim) . What I cannot understand is it spawning the desire to SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS. Repeatedly? Out the window? Before falling into piles of giggles. I've witnessed the slumber parties of my 10 year old sister, and I can tell you that her and her friends conduct themselves with more maturity than you do. You can't use the excuse of this being a one-time occurance either. Perhaps you don't realize it, but this is what you do every time you have one of your little dorm-parties. I'm usually out on Friday and Saturday nights, but whenever I'm in- it's probably because I want to sleep or study. Thank you for making that impossible.
But what now? Dead silence? I guess the hate vibes have sealed your mouths shut.
Just a little note, ladies: the next time you have one of your scream-a-thons I am going to invite all of my friends over spontaneously to stand in my room and make kookaburra noises with me for as long as it takes you to get the point. Chances are, some of you are Australian. Consider this a lil' reminder of home :-D
What I am really trying to say, ladies (the condescension is so thick it can hardly get down my throat) is that while you may be in France to scream, I actually came here with the intention of learning the language. Which sometimes involves writing long papers on boring subjects- like death in Baroque art. It is very annoying to hear you having so much fun, while I sit here slaving away at the computer.
So shut up already!
Listen- I've been drunk a time or two in my life- so you can't say I "just don't get it." I understand that inebriation can spawn the desire to dance, to sing, to hide Camembert cheese under a friends notebook (it happened, I was the victim) . What I cannot understand is it spawning the desire to SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS. Repeatedly? Out the window? Before falling into piles of giggles. I've witnessed the slumber parties of my 10 year old sister, and I can tell you that her and her friends conduct themselves with more maturity than you do. You can't use the excuse of this being a one-time occurance either. Perhaps you don't realize it, but this is what you do every time you have one of your little dorm-parties. I'm usually out on Friday and Saturday nights, but whenever I'm in- it's probably because I want to sleep or study. Thank you for making that impossible.
But what now? Dead silence? I guess the hate vibes have sealed your mouths shut.
Just a little note, ladies: the next time you have one of your scream-a-thons I am going to invite all of my friends over spontaneously to stand in my room and make kookaburra noises with me for as long as it takes you to get the point. Chances are, some of you are Australian. Consider this a lil' reminder of home :-D
What I am really trying to say, ladies (the condescension is so thick it can hardly get down my throat) is that while you may be in France to scream, I actually came here with the intention of learning the language. Which sometimes involves writing long papers on boring subjects- like death in Baroque art. It is very annoying to hear you having so much fun, while I sit here slaving away at the computer.
So shut up already!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Mardi Noir
The French are protesting. What are they protesting? From what I can gather: everything. Officially, it's reduced wages, reduced employment benefits, pension etc. (specifically for public transport workers) and the privatization of universities. But out in the streets, it seems that everyone has taken Mardi Noir (Black Tuesday) as an opportunity to voice their discontent. People are out there (literally right out there, I was just among them and now I can hear them ranting and chanting and stomping about) with signs asking for better employment, better wages, less homelessness etc. Students representing their universities and lycees, non-profit organizations, old people, young people, babies being pushed along in strollers (you truly get initiated to this sort of thing early in France).
But while there is a definite sense of determination in the air, an undeniable atmosphere of passion, you also get the sense that this is quite normal for them. Nobody looks like they're having the same adrenaline rush I had when I marched in front of the Capital to protest the war in Iraq. But maybe that's just an outsider's perspective- who's to say? If there could possibly be such a thing as a "calm" protest, this would be it. Two mom's strolling their babies side-by-side and appearing to be talking about the weather. Little kids meandering on the sides with a treat from the bakery in hand- not looking scared, or fascinated, or excited- as I imagine my little siblings would if there were to suddenly be a protest in the streets of our neighborhood (the only thing I can imagine Castle Pines North residents protesting is the demolition of Starbucks).
One can say all they want about the French lacking ambition, but it's a hard point to sell when you see how consistently they get off their butts and voice their discontent with a current policy.
People here might not work as much- (I do in fact, feel that most work too little)- but, in my view, their lack of enslavement to the rat race is just what allows them to be so politically aware, to follow what the government is doing and to stop it before it's too late. Protesting seems to have gone out of style in America, though complaining sure hasn't. Even if you think that the complaints of the French are petty (and at times they can seem so- do they really need to retire at 50?) you have to admire them for having the gumption, and courage, to actually do something about it.
All that said, it the truth of the matter is that the French economy isn't doing so hot and that seems to be a reality people here aren't willing to face. If retiring with a full pension at 50 seems too good to be true, it's because it probably is. While I feel that that negotiations with the people are in order, I doubt very strongly that the government can realistically give the French all that they're asking for without wreaking more havoc on the economy. The economy seems to be to France what the environment is to America: an issue whose existence people tend to ignore, or deny because it doesn't effect their generation directly.
They seem to at least have the maturity of thought to protest the issues and not the man-in-charge- aka, Sarkozy. Rather than throwing all the blame on the President- as we tend to do- these protests recognize that it's the government rather than just one man who is behind all these changes and that therefore, the government is who they should be targeting. Unlike the protest I attended in the U.S. , there weren't any inflatable devil-Sarkozys or even, as I saw anti-sarko signs. But that could also have something to do with the fact that it's so early in his term and they know that- complain or not- he's going to be around awhile.
Oh, and despite my strong belief in affordable education, I can't help but roll my eyes a little at the rampant fear that college costs might rise from a whopping...200 euros a year! That's how much I spend on BOOKS alone in the U.S.
On a semi-related note, I feel that I'm already developing somewhat of a city-dweller edge. I was just shopping at the mall yesterday when I realized how hostile my thoughts were- toward the shopkeepers and the other patrons. Just as though I was ready for someone to reprimand me, for one of those suspicious-eyed guards to accuse me of trying to shoplift. What is with having a security guard in a damn parfumerie, huh? Especially one that stares so relentlessly at you that you start to feel you actually are a thief. I'M JUST TRYING TO BUY A DAMN CONCEALER STICK! And in the midst of all this tension, this inner-grumbling, I began to understand why everyone here is a bit chilly-mannered, a bit sour-faced. They've lived in the city's combative atmosphere for years. I'm just hoping that I can somehow avoid coming back to America a jaded and bitter person, who, while having gained a fashion sense, has lost a good portion of her humanity. I hope that I can retain some of the good things city-life has given me- boldness, assertiveness, je m'en fous-ness, and lose the edginess, which would come off as especially absurd and arrogant in the oh-so-congenial Chapel Hill (which in retrospect, seems unfathomably friendly).
Oh, but they're not all bad-- for my Dad at least- who came to visit this weekend. We were stopped on the sidewalk walking back to my apartment by a lady, who, seeing that we had suitcases, said (in english) "where are you from? welcome to our city!" I am still bitter about never getting such a warm welcome. But I wanted to Lyon to make a good impression on my Dad, which I think it for the most part did, despite the multiple instances of things working according to French "logic." I told him about my grammar teacher Madame Meunier's favorite saying: "C'est pas logique!" (for when you get an answer wrong) and it became the catch phrase of his visit. You have to use use a SECRET CODE for the elevator in one building at your hotel but not another? C'est pas logique! The women at the Salon de The continue to serve the customers at the counter while you wait to order your coffee? C'est pas logique! The grocery stores close down at lunch, just when you need food the most? C'est pas logique!
C'est la France. C'est pas logique.
It was a weekend of un-thinkable luxuries- taxis, and three course meals, hot wine bought from street vendors and spontaneous chocolat chaudes in cafes. Moreover, I now have high speed internet and a cabinet bursting with groceries. SWEET HEAVEN! That's not to say we didn't
suffer a little- it was brutally, bitterly cold. Nevertheless, we did a respectable amount of sight-seeing- The presqu'ile and Vieux Lyon, taking the funicular up to Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere- which I discovered is much more splendid when you're not dizzy and dehydrated from walking all the way up to it. We also saw the ancient gallo-roman ruins and the amphitheater (built in 15BC) which was spectacular and just really surreal. Despite the cold, we were lucky enough to have lots of sunshine so it worked out alright. Our original plan was to go to the Parc de la Tete d'Or afterwards, but once we sat down and had a coffee, the extent of our tiredness sank in and we concluded we were more up for a film. So we walked all the way to the Pathe at Bellecour to see if there were any American/British films playing with just French subtitles. Unfortunately, there weren't, so we just had our own cinema experience watching clips of the Colbert report on Comedy Central in my apartment for the next hour or so.
On Saturday we had a traditional French dinner, but on Sunday we opted for a Thai restaurant in Vieux Lyon. We were the only customers there, but instead of that being awkward it was actually very relaxed and pleasant. The food was great too. I couldn't help but giggle- however, when the owners popped in a soundtrack upon our arrival that began with a pan-flute version of "The Sound of Silence"- a soundtrack that had commenced its third rotation by the time we finally left. It was just too goofy- and perfect.
So alas, it's back to the world of independent city girl-ism. No Christmas in the U.S. for me. Sad, because I could really stand to stretch out on the couch and play with my dog and talk to my family and eat home-cooked meals. But at $2000 + that's a luxury I just can't afford. And anyway, I'm quite excited about the ex-pat collaboration Elizabeth and I are having in Paris, which will undoubtedly be magical. This year I actually have more Christmas spirit than ever and I think it's the excitement of experiencing the holidays somewhere new. With ex-pat Thanksgiving dinners, advent parties and the fete de lumieres, I think it will be one of my most
exciting holiday seasons yet.
But while there is a definite sense of determination in the air, an undeniable atmosphere of passion, you also get the sense that this is quite normal for them. Nobody looks like they're having the same adrenaline rush I had when I marched in front of the Capital to protest the war in Iraq. But maybe that's just an outsider's perspective- who's to say? If there could possibly be such a thing as a "calm" protest, this would be it. Two mom's strolling their babies side-by-side and appearing to be talking about the weather. Little kids meandering on the sides with a treat from the bakery in hand- not looking scared, or fascinated, or excited- as I imagine my little siblings would if there were to suddenly be a protest in the streets of our neighborhood (the only thing I can imagine Castle Pines North residents protesting is the demolition of Starbucks).
One can say all they want about the French lacking ambition, but it's a hard point to sell when you see how consistently they get off their butts and voice their discontent with a current policy.
People here might not work as much- (I do in fact, feel that most work too little)- but, in my view, their lack of enslavement to the rat race is just what allows them to be so politically aware, to follow what the government is doing and to stop it before it's too late. Protesting seems to have gone out of style in America, though complaining sure hasn't. Even if you think that the complaints of the French are petty (and at times they can seem so- do they really need to retire at 50?) you have to admire them for having the gumption, and courage, to actually do something about it.
All that said, it the truth of the matter is that the French economy isn't doing so hot and that seems to be a reality people here aren't willing to face. If retiring with a full pension at 50 seems too good to be true, it's because it probably is. While I feel that that negotiations with the people are in order, I doubt very strongly that the government can realistically give the French all that they're asking for without wreaking more havoc on the economy. The economy seems to be to France what the environment is to America: an issue whose existence people tend to ignore, or deny because it doesn't effect their generation directly.
They seem to at least have the maturity of thought to protest the issues and not the man-in-charge- aka, Sarkozy. Rather than throwing all the blame on the President- as we tend to do- these protests recognize that it's the government rather than just one man who is behind all these changes and that therefore, the government is who they should be targeting. Unlike the protest I attended in the U.S. , there weren't any inflatable devil-Sarkozys or even, as I saw anti-sarko signs. But that could also have something to do with the fact that it's so early in his term and they know that- complain or not- he's going to be around awhile.
Oh, and despite my strong belief in affordable education, I can't help but roll my eyes a little at the rampant fear that college costs might rise from a whopping...200 euros a year! That's how much I spend on BOOKS alone in the U.S.
On a semi-related note, I feel that I'm already developing somewhat of a city-dweller edge. I was just shopping at the mall yesterday when I realized how hostile my thoughts were- toward the shopkeepers and the other patrons. Just as though I was ready for someone to reprimand me, for one of those suspicious-eyed guards to accuse me of trying to shoplift. What is with having a security guard in a damn parfumerie, huh? Especially one that stares so relentlessly at you that you start to feel you actually are a thief. I'M JUST TRYING TO BUY A DAMN CONCEALER STICK! And in the midst of all this tension, this inner-grumbling, I began to understand why everyone here is a bit chilly-mannered, a bit sour-faced. They've lived in the city's combative atmosphere for years. I'm just hoping that I can somehow avoid coming back to America a jaded and bitter person, who, while having gained a fashion sense, has lost a good portion of her humanity. I hope that I can retain some of the good things city-life has given me- boldness, assertiveness, je m'en fous-ness, and lose the edginess, which would come off as especially absurd and arrogant in the oh-so-congenial Chapel Hill (which in retrospect, seems unfathomably friendly).
Oh, but they're not all bad-- for my Dad at least- who came to visit this weekend. We were stopped on the sidewalk walking back to my apartment by a lady, who, seeing that we had suitcases, said (in english) "where are you from? welcome to our city!" I am still bitter about never getting such a warm welcome. But I wanted to Lyon to make a good impression on my Dad, which I think it for the most part did, despite the multiple instances of things working according to French "logic." I told him about my grammar teacher Madame Meunier's favorite saying: "C'est pas logique!" (for when you get an answer wrong) and it became the catch phrase of his visit. You have to use use a SECRET CODE for the elevator in one building at your hotel but not another? C'est pas logique! The women at the Salon de The continue to serve the customers at the counter while you wait to order your coffee? C'est pas logique! The grocery stores close down at lunch, just when you need food the most? C'est pas logique!
C'est la France. C'est pas logique.
It was a weekend of un-thinkable luxuries- taxis, and three course meals, hot wine bought from street vendors and spontaneous chocolat chaudes in cafes. Moreover, I now have high speed internet and a cabinet bursting with groceries. SWEET HEAVEN! That's not to say we didn't
suffer a little- it was brutally, bitterly cold. Nevertheless, we did a respectable amount of sight-seeing- The presqu'ile and Vieux Lyon, taking the funicular up to Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere- which I discovered is much more splendid when you're not dizzy and dehydrated from walking all the way up to it. We also saw the ancient gallo-roman ruins and the amphitheater (built in 15BC) which was spectacular and just really surreal. Despite the cold, we were lucky enough to have lots of sunshine so it worked out alright. Our original plan was to go to the Parc de la Tete d'Or afterwards, but once we sat down and had a coffee, the extent of our tiredness sank in and we concluded we were more up for a film. So we walked all the way to the Pathe at Bellecour to see if there were any American/British films playing with just French subtitles. Unfortunately, there weren't, so we just had our own cinema experience watching clips of the Colbert report on Comedy Central in my apartment for the next hour or so.
On Saturday we had a traditional French dinner, but on Sunday we opted for a Thai restaurant in Vieux Lyon. We were the only customers there, but instead of that being awkward it was actually very relaxed and pleasant. The food was great too. I couldn't help but giggle- however, when the owners popped in a soundtrack upon our arrival that began with a pan-flute version of "The Sound of Silence"- a soundtrack that had commenced its third rotation by the time we finally left. It was just too goofy- and perfect.
So alas, it's back to the world of independent city girl-ism. No Christmas in the U.S. for me. Sad, because I could really stand to stretch out on the couch and play with my dog and talk to my family and eat home-cooked meals. But at $2000 + that's a luxury I just can't afford. And anyway, I'm quite excited about the ex-pat collaboration Elizabeth and I are having in Paris, which will undoubtedly be magical. This year I actually have more Christmas spirit than ever and I think it's the excitement of experiencing the holidays somewhere new. With ex-pat Thanksgiving dinners, advent parties and the fete de lumieres, I think it will be one of my most
exciting holiday seasons yet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
