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.

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.

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!

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.

1 U.S. dollar = 0.77411364 Euros

God Save the Queen.

London, baby!

Got to London on Saturday and have been absolutely loving everything about this place... Knew it would be good from the moment I got off the train and was positive when I ate my delicious beer battered cod with chips soaked in vinegar. From beautiful Big Ben to hearing English, beautiful beautiful English, I'm having the best time. I'm being very touristy, but I really don't mind. It's so much more fun this way.

Had a special moment at the Cabinet War Rooms today while listening to an original speech given by Churchill. I'm just crazy about him. It was so moving to hear his voice and see his room. 

Then I spent the afternoon exploring and falling in love with Covent Garden. A robot man street performer kissed my hand today, I had a delightful hot chocolate with my long lost cousin Natasa and then went to Piccadilly for steak with Mimi. One successful day.

I am French now.

Yesterday a colleague I know and like kissed me hello. She is a wonderful woman who has really made me feel welcome. Today, I was the first to come into the staffroom (I'm not really a lingerer so this is usually the case). Three people kissed me hello. Two of whom I do not know. They are all really nice, though, and I guess this means they are accepting me as one of their own.

Also, I finished my shower today before the hot water had turned lukewarm had turned freezing. This either means that I am Super Woman and can now do all things at the speed of light or that I am not really completely clean. When in France...

Back in the freezing staffroom. I think there is some sort of meeting going on. Every so often everyone speaks at the same time and all that I can make out of it is çaaaa çaaa çe ça çe ççççççç (basically a lot of ssss noises).


I really need to shave my legs.

Things are looking up...

In the staff room again, hating French keyboards. But things are getting better. I'm finding my place here, but I'm pretty much certain that I can never live in a country that is not the US for too long (read: longer than a year or two). The main reason is probably the bathrooms. Bathrooms in this country are ridiculous. They are simply converted closets that now serve as restrooms. But, other than my intense need for a very very long burning hot shower, I'm finding my panic receding. I'm starting to enjoy myself, and I'm honestly laughing at some of the things that happen here.

Last week I fell down the stairs. A more accurate description might be that I slid painfully down half a flight of stairs. These stairs are definitely a death trap. Sarah, my October roommate and new best friend (tomorrow is our 2 week anniversary--we've taken to celebrating this event), warned me that the stairs were a death trap. Her apartment is in a "historical" building. This means that the first flight of stairs slant sideways, reminiscent of Pisa's archiecture. The next flight not only slant, but are also curved and rounded. Those who know how very graceful I am know that I, of course, assified myself on these stairs. As soon as I either locate or get a new USB cord, I will add pictures of these ridiculous stairs.

I now hold the railing for dear life.

Space and the lack thereof...

I think I might have been accepted by the other teachers here as a colleague rather than a student who lost her way and somehow ended up in the staffroom. Since a number of the students are also 22 years old, I understand why my presence might be misunderstood.

Today one of the teachers (disclaimer: a teacher whose name I do not know) kissed me hello. She spoke to me in English to put me at ease and then leaned in to kiss me hello, which of course was totally weird to me. So, I awkwardly returned the kiss. Outside of my Greek self, I have no idea how to kiss people hello. Especially not in the workplace.

I'm currently writing in Starbucks because the internet (which is wonderful and free) at McDonald's was not working. It costs 4 whole euros for only one hour of internet here. And now an obnoxious French person just came to my tiny table and placed her giant mug of hot coffee right by my computer. Now, my table is by no means the only available table. I quickly snapped up my computer and put it in my lap. Argh.

My Ancestors, the Puritans

I can see them now. As they step off the stinky, cramped ships... and see America for the very first time.  They must have thought to themselves, "Holy crap! Look at all this SPACE!!"  

As Americans, everything of ours needs to be bigger and better.  And you know what?  Good. I used to think the Mini Cooper was my favorite car.  But maybe I'll get a Hummer when I come home.  Don't get me wrong... There isn't any scenario in which I could actually afford a Hummer, and they really are just awful for the environment. But, hey. I could totally live in a Hummer. And a Hummer even takes you places.  If the trunk was a bathroom... done deal.  Hummers are way bigger than French apartments. So, vroom vroom.  I came to France a liberal hippy dippy, and I'm afraid I'll be returning home a hardcore, big fat obnoxious American.  Maybe I'll look into a bandana that is also an American flag.  I think that would fit my current state of mind.  And maybe a rifle.  Especially as the French seem to be under this impression that we're these violent gun-slinging gangsters.

My first day at my school I learned that one of the major components of the English curriculum (which is, by the way, taught in French. Really.) is "Guns and Violence." This is, of course, in reference to our fabulous country. I found it difficult to explain that not only do I not have a gun, but I don't really know anyone else who does either. 

Anyway, I'm missing home, AKA my gangster's paradise. Peace.