I feel that I truly owe a post to the fabulous transportation that has gotten me to and from France and then the amazing transportation that gets me around Paris. It's so meaningful to a commuter who depends on the public transportation. And we really do have an exceptional system here. Despite the fact that every morning I extend my elbows out and resolve to push anyone who gets in the way of my getting on my train or who does not respect the universal code (walking on the right), I love the Metro. It is one of the absolute most amazing things about this city. It's brilliant. Part of the reason that Paris feels like home now is that I never EVER feel lost. For a girl with little to no sense of direction, this is a remarkable feat. I can be dropped off pretty much anywhere in the city (and just outside), and, as long as the Metro goes there, I absolutely know I can find my way back easily. I'm never nervous about this. My Pass Navigo (72 euros a month for zones 1-3; half of which my employer will eventually be reimbursing) allows me unlimited rides on any of the transportation within the 3 zones.
But, because I am in France, I have the constant reminder of not taking this fantastic system or its workers for granted.
Today is a fabulous day in Paris. We are having a "mega-grève." "Grève" is the all-important French word, meaning strike. If you are interested in living in France, you must must get to know this word. It is an il faut. It will become incredibly important in your life. Some days, it will be nothing more than a huge pain in the butt. Because of certain new laws, trains are supposed to continue operating, even during a grève. The strike, however, causes incredible disturbances in transportation, leaving weary commuters such as myself waiting for trains that normally run every ten minutes for over an hour. Worse, though, is that the trains cannot accommodate all the people wanting to take them when they are running so few and far between. At Gare St. Lazare on a grève day, I've seen people expelled from the train and just popping off it. When the doors close, people have push themselves and everyone else inside even tighter. It is vraiment terrible.
Today, however, is glorious because I (and many many others) cannot even get to work. So, we are not expected to go. It is not just transportation on strike, though. Apparently other unions are also in solidarity, among them education unions. This, I am told, does not actually include me or the other assistants de langue. I have colleagues who are striking today. Unlike American strikes, however, the teachers do not picket outside of their schools. There are no substitutes called in. You strike by not showing up. I believe you are docked a day's pay. Yet, unless you tell them you are striking, the school does not know that you are on strike. They generally assume that you just can't make it because of the simultaneous transportation strikes.
Now, I'm not sure what this mega-grève is actually about. Colleagues of mine who are actually striking were not able to tell me what it was about. Another colleague told me the vague reason: the cost of living is too high and salaries are not matched to it. I'm not sure whether they're actually demanding more money, though. My understanding is that this grève will last only for today and that tomorrow everything should resume normal operation. I am not sure if there are actual demands or that those demands will actually be met. Perhaps people here just really enjoy "making a stand" (read: taking the day off). Either way, I'm pretty grateful.
There is actually going to be a demonstration. I believe about 50,000 people are expected. As usual with demonstrations, it will be passing through my neighborhood. Among the many joys of the Bastille, its historical significance is not overlooked when protesters want to march. I feel proud to be a resident of this highly symbolic neighborhood.
The U.S. Embassy Warden sent this email to Americans registered with the embassy:
"According to local police, there will be a large demonstration organized by the major French trade unions this Thursday, January 29, 2009, beginning at 1:00 p.m. A march will begin at Place de la Bastille and end at Place de l’Opéra. Areas affected will be Place de la Bastille, boulevard Beaumarchais, boulevard Filles du Calvaire, boulevard du Temple, Place de la République, boulevard Saint Martin, boulevard Saint Denis, boulevard Poissonnière, boulevard Montmartre, boulevard des Italiens, boulevard des Capucines, and Place de l’Opéra. Local police estimate the demonstration should end around 8:00 p.m."
This is all pretty exciting. In the States, we don't really get these opportunities to see the police barricading the streets, holding up their riot shields. It's pretty cool, actually.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sundays
Sundays in Paris are sort of magical.
Once you get over the fact that everything is closed, and you just learn to go with it, Sundays are beautiful. You really are not expected to be accomplishing anything. No one is really accomplishing anything. They're days to be idled outside, to be enjoyed. You see people walking leisurely, strolling. And even the most sour-faced Parisians will be caught smiling on Sundays.
I just got back from Reims today (post to come), and my friends and I spent part of the unusually sunny Sunday morning in Cafe Francais. I had a pain au chocolat and just enjoyed being where I was.
All along my commercial street, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything was mostly closed, but people still strolled. Across the street, at another part of the circle that makes up the Bastille area, the open air market was going on. It was a relaxed sort of day. The kind of day that Sunday should be, but almost never is back in the States.
I find myself not even feeling what Theo and I dubbed "the Sunday feeling" when we were kids. The infamous Sunday feeling is a guilty-in-your-stomach-horrible feeling that we'd get on Sundays. Sundays brought Mondays and the beginning of the school week.
Now, Sundays are meant to be relaxing. I actually enjoy having the time to do the laundry on Sunday and to do not much more than walk around. There's something special about them in the same way that there's something special about the buildings here. At first I was so unbelievably frustrated by the fact that there were beautiful building facades that sometimes led to hideous, bereft interiors. Now, though, that I've seen my share of the inside of French residential buildings, I know that they often hide something else.
Many buildings are "digicode" protected. You type in an alphanumeric code to open up the front door. More often than not, though, this does not lead to an apartment building hallway. Rather, it often leads to a courtyard. These courtyards range in style from the terrifying one in a building in Belleville (where I briefly considered an apartment) to the historic buildings I've been in. The first one had my eyes warily darting behind garbage cans, looking for axe murderers lurking in the shadows. Then there was the hidden oasis in the 20th arrondissement where Sarah and I stayed. This one was overflowing with flowers and trees in pots and a golden dog who greeted us when we entered. Then there was Sarah's historic building with its dramatic courtyard. After a few glasses of wine, we would stand in this courtyard and pretend to be statues or to put on Greek tragedies.
I'm coming to discover that much of Paris is like this. There are all sorts of hidden pleasures behind the doors.
Once you get over the fact that everything is closed, and you just learn to go with it, Sundays are beautiful. You really are not expected to be accomplishing anything. No one is really accomplishing anything. They're days to be idled outside, to be enjoyed. You see people walking leisurely, strolling. And even the most sour-faced Parisians will be caught smiling on Sundays.
I just got back from Reims today (post to come), and my friends and I spent part of the unusually sunny Sunday morning in Cafe Francais. I had a pain au chocolat and just enjoyed being where I was.
All along my commercial street, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine, everything was mostly closed, but people still strolled. Across the street, at another part of the circle that makes up the Bastille area, the open air market was going on. It was a relaxed sort of day. The kind of day that Sunday should be, but almost never is back in the States.
I find myself not even feeling what Theo and I dubbed "the Sunday feeling" when we were kids. The infamous Sunday feeling is a guilty-in-your-stomach-horrible feeling that we'd get on Sundays. Sundays brought Mondays and the beginning of the school week.
Now, Sundays are meant to be relaxing. I actually enjoy having the time to do the laundry on Sunday and to do not much more than walk around. There's something special about them in the same way that there's something special about the buildings here. At first I was so unbelievably frustrated by the fact that there were beautiful building facades that sometimes led to hideous, bereft interiors. Now, though, that I've seen my share of the inside of French residential buildings, I know that they often hide something else.
Many buildings are "digicode" protected. You type in an alphanumeric code to open up the front door. More often than not, though, this does not lead to an apartment building hallway. Rather, it often leads to a courtyard. These courtyards range in style from the terrifying one in a building in Belleville (where I briefly considered an apartment) to the historic buildings I've been in. The first one had my eyes warily darting behind garbage cans, looking for axe murderers lurking in the shadows. Then there was the hidden oasis in the 20th arrondissement where Sarah and I stayed. This one was overflowing with flowers and trees in pots and a golden dog who greeted us when we entered. Then there was Sarah's historic building with its dramatic courtyard. After a few glasses of wine, we would stand in this courtyard and pretend to be statues or to put on Greek tragedies.
I'm coming to discover that much of Paris is like this. There are all sorts of hidden pleasures behind the doors.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Milk and Milk's Favorite Cookie
I've been too scared to buy milk here. It's not refrigerated. Seriously. They have stacks and stacks of "milk." This, obviously, totally freaks me out. I've been buying chocolate soy milk to eat with my cereal, "Wheatabix."
Now, for my American friends reading my blog, Wheatabix is a British cereal that I discovered when I stayed in London with Mimi.
(Side Note: Here is the little poem Mimi taught me about Wheatabix:
"The queen pulled down her nicks*
She licked her bum
And said, 'Yum, yum!
It tastes like Wheatabix!'")
Wheatabix looks repulsive. It's about a gagillion layers of fiber or something. Totally boring and kind of gross. There is an exception, though. Drenched in chocolate soy milk, it is absolutely DELICIOUS. Also, it's a miracle food. It keeps you full for hours and hours. Really amazing. Especially since I prefer not to eat at school (The reason for this is, of course, that I have never in my life been able to wake up early enough to make myself lunch in the mornings [no matter how late my classes are], and you try finding ziplock bags here in Paree. Buying lunch near school is OK, except that the only boulangerie puts sliced eggs in absolutely all their sandwiches [there are actually only two types of sandwich available: thon (tuna) and poulet (chicken)], and sometimes I just don't want eggs [or tons of non-Hellman's mayo] in my sandwich.)
Now, my dilemma was this: I brought back double stuffed Oreos from home. I clearly could not eat the Oreos sans milk. I mean, I guess I technically could do that. But who would really want milk's favorite cookie without milk?
So, I braved my grocery store, Monoprix, and scavenged for refrigerated milk. Miracles do happen! I found some! Baking soda and chickpeas are mythical things in this grocery store, but, luckily, I found some milk! It was obviously not skim milk, but beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. I happily put it into my chic old lady shopping cart and rolled it through the teeny tiny aisles (an American shopping cart from a real super market would never fit through any aisle in France's markets), and I brought it to the teeny tiny register.
Yesterday, I enjoyed a cup of milk and too many delicious Oreo cookies. Mmmmm.
*Abbreviation for knickers.
Now, for my American friends reading my blog, Wheatabix is a British cereal that I discovered when I stayed in London with Mimi.
(Side Note: Here is the little poem Mimi taught me about Wheatabix:
"The queen pulled down her nicks*
She licked her bum
And said, 'Yum, yum!
It tastes like Wheatabix!'")
Wheatabix looks repulsive. It's about a gagillion layers of fiber or something. Totally boring and kind of gross. There is an exception, though. Drenched in chocolate soy milk, it is absolutely DELICIOUS. Also, it's a miracle food. It keeps you full for hours and hours. Really amazing. Especially since I prefer not to eat at school (The reason for this is, of course, that I have never in my life been able to wake up early enough to make myself lunch in the mornings [no matter how late my classes are], and you try finding ziplock bags here in Paree. Buying lunch near school is OK, except that the only boulangerie puts sliced eggs in absolutely all their sandwiches [there are actually only two types of sandwich available: thon (tuna) and poulet (chicken)], and sometimes I just don't want eggs [or tons of non-Hellman's mayo] in my sandwich.)
Now, my dilemma was this: I brought back double stuffed Oreos from home. I clearly could not eat the Oreos sans milk. I mean, I guess I technically could do that. But who would really want milk's favorite cookie without milk?
So, I braved my grocery store, Monoprix, and scavenged for refrigerated milk. Miracles do happen! I found some! Baking soda and chickpeas are mythical things in this grocery store, but, luckily, I found some milk! It was obviously not skim milk, but beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. I happily put it into my chic old lady shopping cart and rolled it through the teeny tiny aisles (an American shopping cart from a real super market would never fit through any aisle in France's markets), and I brought it to the teeny tiny register.
Yesterday, I enjoyed a cup of milk and too many delicious Oreo cookies. Mmmmm.
*Abbreviation for knickers.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Santa Claus and Sadomasochism
I did not get to go home for Thanksgiving.
On top of this depressing fact, I teach most of my classes on Thursdays. Of course, I spent Thanksgiving day talking about holidays (explaining to my British-taught students that "holidays" in the US are, in fact, not vacations. I didn't even bother to try and explain about holy days and the like). We talked about our favorite holidays, family traditions, foods we eat, our plans for the coming holidays and vacation.
In this discussion, I learned a few things. One is that "Music Day" is considered a sort of holiday, and that I have a few students who really love it. There's a parade in Paris, and people play music all over the place that day. While almost all of my students claim Christmas as their favorite holiday, very few actually decorated anything or even had especially big family dinners. They told me about the Bûche de Noël, a traditional Christmas cake in the shape of a log. I suppose this is something along the lines of the yule log, but in delicious cake form. Mmmmm. So far, I was on board with the French holiday traditions. Delicious cake. Check!
We went on to discuss some of our favorite aspects of the holidays when we finally got to the Christmas story. Recalling David Sedaris's hilarious "Six to Eight Black Men," I absolutely couldn't resist asking these kids what they did the night before Christmas. I talked about Santa Claus, and they told me about "Père Noël," AKA "Father Christmas." I could handle this. We talked about chimneys and presents and the North Pole. And then...
And then they told me about "Père Fouettard." Oh, Père Fouettard...
This, of course, would be "Father Whipper." In France, if you're bad, you don't get coal in your stocking. No, you get whipped.
Fitting, I think.
On top of this depressing fact, I teach most of my classes on Thursdays. Of course, I spent Thanksgiving day talking about holidays (explaining to my British-taught students that "holidays" in the US are, in fact, not vacations. I didn't even bother to try and explain about holy days and the like). We talked about our favorite holidays, family traditions, foods we eat, our plans for the coming holidays and vacation.
In this discussion, I learned a few things. One is that "Music Day" is considered a sort of holiday, and that I have a few students who really love it. There's a parade in Paris, and people play music all over the place that day. While almost all of my students claim Christmas as their favorite holiday, very few actually decorated anything or even had especially big family dinners. They told me about the Bûche de Noël, a traditional Christmas cake in the shape of a log. I suppose this is something along the lines of the yule log, but in delicious cake form. Mmmmm. So far, I was on board with the French holiday traditions. Delicious cake. Check!
We went on to discuss some of our favorite aspects of the holidays when we finally got to the Christmas story. Recalling David Sedaris's hilarious "Six to Eight Black Men," I absolutely couldn't resist asking these kids what they did the night before Christmas. I talked about Santa Claus, and they told me about "Père Noël," AKA "Father Christmas." I could handle this. We talked about chimneys and presents and the North Pole. And then...
And then they told me about "Père Fouettard." Oh, Père Fouettard...
This, of course, would be "Father Whipper." In France, if you're bad, you don't get coal in your stocking. No, you get whipped.
Fitting, I think.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Dehumanizing Effects of a French Medical Exam
In order to procure a "carte de sejour" (this comes after the visa and allows me to work and live here for several months), anyone outside the EU must have a medical exam. The primary point of this exam is the chest x-ray. They do this because they want to ensure that we don't bring TB into the country.
This makes sense, right? Sure. Except for the fact that I've already been here for two months. Had I brought tuberculosis with me, believe me, it would now be too late. This exam is supposedly a preventative measure. Shouldn't we have done this exam at home then and brought the proof with us? One would think.
I can make my peace with the x-ray, but the rest of the exam was fairly humiliating. When we first entered we were given a stack of papers out of a folder with our name and info on it. Then we went through to a nurse man who asked some questions and verified that we were who we said we were. He gave me my papers. Luckily, I actually went through them all and rechecked what he was supposed to have checked. I was listed as a man on the paper. I went back to the nurse man and told him, "Pardonnez moi, mais... je suis une femme."
Of course, he looked blankly back at me. Why was I telling him that I am a woman? I then dumbly pointed to my stack of papers and showed him the error. He later jokingly called me monsieur. Ha.
After this, I sat with several others until we were called into another area where we would go through the initial parts of our "exam." This was another reception-esque area, except for the fact that on the one side of the desk in the center there were bathroom stalls and the opposite side had sinks. This part of the exam would have been absolutely the worst thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned, but I was fortunate. I was not one of the people told to give a urine sample. I felt so so awful for them, though. There could not have been less privacy. While the rest of us were being weighed and measured like cattle, these people had just part of a door separating them from us while they peed into a cup. In order to wash their hands, they had to cross the reception desk to get to the sinks. While the rest of us were measured, there were open urine samples sitting on the side of the desk.
For once, I really don't think that I'm the one being OCD. This is absolutely revolting and completely unhygienic.
After some more waiting (and gagging on my part) I was called into the eye exam. When she consulted my medical chart, the doctor there told me that I have weight issues because I'm American, and that they see this kind of thing all the time. Now, this pissed me off. After they've shown clips from Bowling for Columbine and Supersize Me at the school where I teach, I'm just the tiniest bit disgusted with the sweeping generalizations imposed on my country.
So I explained to her that my family is Greek and they live in America with me and that they are not fat. A lot of my extended family who lives in Greece is fat. Maybe my grandpa, who was fat, passed down a fat gene to me and to some of my other cousins.
After more waiting, I had my chest x-ray (3 different technicians came into the room while I was changing into the hospital gown/robe thing to take my stack of papers). That went on without incident. After some more waiting, I had a "consultation" with another doctor. At my real doctor's this summer, we discovered I have White Coat Syndrome. My heart rate is always artificially high at doctors' offices. It's not really something I can control, but I feel better knowing it. Of course, my discomfiture with the entire horrid situation only exacerbated this.
I could tell that the doctor had seen my weight and judged me. He spent the whole time pushing these "healthy eating" pamphlets at me. I explained that I'd actually consulted a nutritionist before leaving home and was told that Americans don't know about that. Gee. Someone who studied this as their main job must be clueless if she's American. I took them, annoyed. He took my blood pressure 5 times on my left arm and twice on my right. I couldn't tell if he was just incompetent and couldn't figure it out or what the problem was.
At the end, the doctor gave me my chest x-ray, proving I am not a biological threat. He gave me those nutriton pamphlets. And he gave me condoms ("These prevent STDs." Thanks for the heads up. But I guess they don't really have sex ed or health classes here, so that's fair). All in all, I left with a stack of papers and stuff that brings me one step closer to getting another document, proving I'm allowed to be here.
Unfortunately, I was not allowed to take my dignity with me on my way out.
This makes sense, right? Sure. Except for the fact that I've already been here for two months. Had I brought tuberculosis with me, believe me, it would now be too late. This exam is supposedly a preventative measure. Shouldn't we have done this exam at home then and brought the proof with us? One would think.
I can make my peace with the x-ray, but the rest of the exam was fairly humiliating. When we first entered we were given a stack of papers out of a folder with our name and info on it. Then we went through to a nurse man who asked some questions and verified that we were who we said we were. He gave me my papers. Luckily, I actually went through them all and rechecked what he was supposed to have checked. I was listed as a man on the paper. I went back to the nurse man and told him, "Pardonnez moi, mais... je suis une femme."
Of course, he looked blankly back at me. Why was I telling him that I am a woman? I then dumbly pointed to my stack of papers and showed him the error. He later jokingly called me monsieur. Ha.
After this, I sat with several others until we were called into another area where we would go through the initial parts of our "exam." This was another reception-esque area, except for the fact that on the one side of the desk in the center there were bathroom stalls and the opposite side had sinks. This part of the exam would have been absolutely the worst thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned, but I was fortunate. I was not one of the people told to give a urine sample. I felt so so awful for them, though. There could not have been less privacy. While the rest of us were being weighed and measured like cattle, these people had just part of a door separating them from us while they peed into a cup. In order to wash their hands, they had to cross the reception desk to get to the sinks. While the rest of us were measured, there were open urine samples sitting on the side of the desk.
For once, I really don't think that I'm the one being OCD. This is absolutely revolting and completely unhygienic.
After some more waiting (and gagging on my part) I was called into the eye exam. When she consulted my medical chart, the doctor there told me that I have weight issues because I'm American, and that they see this kind of thing all the time. Now, this pissed me off. After they've shown clips from Bowling for Columbine and Supersize Me at the school where I teach, I'm just the tiniest bit disgusted with the sweeping generalizations imposed on my country.
So I explained to her that my family is Greek and they live in America with me and that they are not fat. A lot of my extended family who lives in Greece is fat. Maybe my grandpa, who was fat, passed down a fat gene to me and to some of my other cousins.
After more waiting, I had my chest x-ray (3 different technicians came into the room while I was changing into the hospital gown/robe thing to take my stack of papers). That went on without incident. After some more waiting, I had a "consultation" with another doctor. At my real doctor's this summer, we discovered I have White Coat Syndrome. My heart rate is always artificially high at doctors' offices. It's not really something I can control, but I feel better knowing it. Of course, my discomfiture with the entire horrid situation only exacerbated this.
I could tell that the doctor had seen my weight and judged me. He spent the whole time pushing these "healthy eating" pamphlets at me. I explained that I'd actually consulted a nutritionist before leaving home and was told that Americans don't know about that. Gee. Someone who studied this as their main job must be clueless if she's American. I took them, annoyed. He took my blood pressure 5 times on my left arm and twice on my right. I couldn't tell if he was just incompetent and couldn't figure it out or what the problem was.
At the end, the doctor gave me my chest x-ray, proving I am not a biological threat. He gave me those nutriton pamphlets. And he gave me condoms ("These prevent STDs." Thanks for the heads up. But I guess they don't really have sex ed or health classes here, so that's fair). All in all, I left with a stack of papers and stuff that brings me one step closer to getting another document, proving I'm allowed to be here.
Unfortunately, I was not allowed to take my dignity with me on my way out.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I finally made it home.
Today I found the mall.
I went to pick up my "carte bancaire" (ATM card--which, BTW, has a 300 euro withdrawal limit per week. Thank God I'm not making any money.) at la Defense today. This is a place just outside of Paris, but it's on the line 1 metro, which means it's super easy to get to from my apartment because my metro stop has lines 1, 5, and 8. I feel so wonderfully connected.
Sarah had told me that there was a mall in this area, and I've really wanted a yoga mat. I decided to check it out--especially because I would have no idea where to find a yoga mat in any store I've seen in Paris. I figured that whatever mall-like place existed here would be my best bet. And wow. I left my earbuds in, listening to my music, but, more importantly, blocking out all external noises so that for the moment I could believe. And I did. It was the most at home I've felt here. It was so...normal. Being in a mall was just so natural. I even found a yoga mat!
I went to pick up my "carte bancaire" (ATM card--which, BTW, has a 300 euro withdrawal limit per week. Thank God I'm not making any money.) at la Defense today. This is a place just outside of Paris, but it's on the line 1 metro, which means it's super easy to get to from my apartment because my metro stop has lines 1, 5, and 8. I feel so wonderfully connected.
Sarah had told me that there was a mall in this area, and I've really wanted a yoga mat. I decided to check it out--especially because I would have no idea where to find a yoga mat in any store I've seen in Paris. I figured that whatever mall-like place existed here would be my best bet. And wow. I left my earbuds in, listening to my music, but, more importantly, blocking out all external noises so that for the moment I could believe. And I did. It was the most at home I've felt here. It was so...normal. Being in a mall was just so natural. I even found a yoga mat!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Proud to be an American
Never have I stood taller or felt as proud to be an American as this election night. I still can't believe it's true. I've hoarded several newspapers with Obama on the cover. The frenchies just love him. My students, when I asked them what they knew about the US and elections and all that jazz, responded consistently o-ba-MA (please imagine the accent). When I got excited and asked them what they liked about him... well... that one was a bit tougher for them. ¨He eez young...¨ ¨He eez blAck.¨ Either way, they're loving this, and I'm loving being American.
I feel so proud I'm almost smug, as though my absentee ballot makes me very special. It's pretty cool though. Now all I need is for the dollar to make its way to equal, and then--dare I say it?--surpass the euro! Obama's got a lot on his plate, but that would be appreciated.
I feel so proud I'm almost smug, as though my absentee ballot makes me very special. It's pretty cool though. Now all I need is for the dollar to make its way to equal, and then--dare I say it?--surpass the euro! Obama's got a lot on his plate, but that would be appreciated.
1 U.S. dollar = 0.77411364 Euros
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
