Hugs, not Pugs

I miss hugs like you wouldn’t believe. They are not part of the culture here; hence, I have been quite hugless recently. We “faire les bises” each time we greet anyone, but no quantity of air kisses will ever suffice for a good old-fashioned hug. A couple of nights ago, I reached the height of my desperation. I tried to hug pillows. But to no avail. Two made for an unrealistically small hug, and a third pillow created an excessively large hug. I settled with hugging two and a half pillows. Then I realized that I was in my bed hugging pillows. Pillows, I now realize after performing my deranged experiment, do not reciprocate. This realization could be interpreted by some as the actual height of my desperation. I would say that this is the moment when I lost faith in humanity, but it would be more accurate to say that this is the moment when I lost faith in bolstered cushions. Nevertheless, hugs are not French in the least. Please take the French language as an example. There is no word for “a hug.” I kid you not. To “embrasse” someone is to kiss, not to embrace. They have a phrase which translates to “to hold/squeeze someone in your arms,” but that does not contain the essence of the English word at all. The “hold/squeeze” part sounds either creepily intimate or creepily violent. Either way, the French do not understand the love language of (platonic) physical touch (there is plenty of touching and many public displays of affection, mind you). To continue my analysis of semantics, I must mention that petting dogs is an odd occurrence, as well. If you ask someone to “pet” their dog, you must demand, in French, to “caresse” their domesticated canine. This is both highly laughable and, again, highly creepy. In sum, I must say that it is best not to discuss physical touch in French. You will probably come off as a pedophile or some other mentally-warped pervert. I think I will ask some of my American friends for hugs tonight. There will be less confusion than there would be in asking someone French. And I won’t be accidentally “embrassed” or “caressed” in the process.

Cultured Shock

This past weekend I tried to get cultured. Everyone keeps telling us to be cultured, so I guess it was a homework assignment. “Amusez-vous bien! Vous êtes à Paris!” they tell us. So I decided to “amuse myself well.” I began on Thursday morning with a guided visit to a former Nazi extermination camp with a group from BU. Mont-Valérian is located just outside of the city in a peaceful, green town which creates a highly ironic contrast to the function that it held during the second World War. The victims of the camp were French resistants who were tied up and shot one by one for defending France against tyranny. We were able to read their letters before their executions, and see the chapel where they were held before being led off into the clearing in the woods. One prisoner wrote that he felt no hate towards those who were going to shoot him. His last words to his family were “Immense joy. God is good.”

On Friday, I went to an “Expo” (the hip, cultured French term for exhibition) of Edvard Munch at the George Pompidou. I have not seen too much of his work other than his most famous piece, “The Scream,” so I was eager to learn more. He paints with such feeling, hence the fact that he was an expressionist. His style was so controversial during his period that the Nazis considered it to be entartete kunst, or degenerate art, even though he was not a Jewish painter. First off, the views from the top of a see-through building are spectacular. Secondly, the expo was well-curated and captured the tortured and expressive nature of the artist (obviously). 

I then went to an African Film Festival and saw a short film from Tunisia and a long feature from Niger. They were spoken in Arabic and Hausa, and subtitled in French. On Saturday, I experienced the joys of a open air market (far more chaotic than it sounds - men yelling in French with Arabic accents and trying to get you to sample their avocados and fresh dates...yes, fresh dates exist, even though I thought the fruit only existed in its driest form). 

I also saw a “spectacle” of Le Petit Prince. The children’s story appeared in an abridged narration with a fantastic soundtrack of classical music, lights, fire, and, of course, pyrotechnics. The fireworks literally made every Fourth of July show that I have ever seen look like an appetizer. It was so beautiful that I’m sure there would be a fire/disturbance law against it in the US. 

After a lovely day at church on Sunday (we meet at 10:30 am for breakfast and coffee, have a service, and eat lunch together until 3 or 4 pm), I saw three more features from the African Film Festival. One was a documentary from Benin, another was a short film from Mali, and the third was a Moroccan film, which almost killed me. It won the highest prize in African cinema this year. The title translates into Pegasus, and it is the confusing, frightening, and highly-overwhelming story of a young girl who is raised as a boy and abused by her father. The plot doesn’t become clear until the end, and most of the plot could have been a hallucination/dream to begin with. Hence, mental somersaults to keep up with the story, read the subtitles in French, and enjoy the cadence of the Arabic speech. I was so exhausted at the end. I literally started to laugh and cry at once probably four times during the credits (not happy laugh, but the “I’m so confused that I can’t express my sorrow/anger” laugh). So good. 

We topped it off with dinner at a Mediterranean, Jewish restuarant in the cute Jewish/gay neighborhood which is a blessing on Sundays, because that is the only place where anything is open. Although France is highly secularist, they do not work on Sundays, hence, one must rely on kosher bakeries in neighborhoods where one must dodge hordes of French bulldogs. Becoming cultured is exhausting and highly enjoyable.

Paris, World

Paris is an international city. After the US, France is known for having the highest number of immigrants of any other country. French is not the only Parisian language.

Example 1: 

I was reading at Starbucks during the weekend, battling to finish a book early for class, when I was asked if I was being bothered. A man from the table which was basically connected to mine said something very quickly in French, and, after I stuttered in the process of understanding and responding, he asked where I was from. As it turns out, he and his three friends (three of them are students in their twenties) are not as French as I thought they were. One was French-raised Croatian, one German, one Franco-American born in Pasadena, and one Russian. They all spoke French. They all spoke English. We all had a lovely chat for an hour. The man who inquired as to whether or not I was being bothered speaks eight languages.

Example 2:

Last night some of my friends (French and American) got together in Montmartre. Between the eight of us, we could speak English, French, Arabic, Berber, another Algerian dialect whose name I cannot remember, Turkish, ASL, Spanish, Hausa, and Zarma. 

I love people. I love languages. I love Paris.

La Famille

François Xavier was born and raised in the 15e arrondissement of Paris. Catherine was from a small town outside of Orléans. She moved to Paris during her childhood. She walked to her high school past François’ apartment building. It was her senior year. He was seven years older, and had already graduated from college. Standing at the window, François saw Catherine, and thought to himself “I like that.” They met later through mutual friends. They married, and moved down the street from Catherine’s building on Avenue de Breteuil. They have been together for 42 years. They have four sons. They host college students who are studying abroad. They are playing with two of their nine grandchildren in the other room. 

The Other Kissing Disease

I have bad in the throat. That’s what they say in France when one has a sore throat. I have one. I would venture to say that I have VERY bad in the throat. Many of my friends in the BU program have been feeling a bit ill, so, of course, it’s become a sort of bubonic plague. We are like small schoolchildren spreading the dreaded...GERMS. I would say that it’s because we are polite. We must faire les bisous all the time. It’s only polite. Any time you greet someone you know or bid them farewell, you must do the obligatory kisses on each cheek (two kisses in Paris - it varies depending on the region). Thus, I am convinced that we are spreading the “disease of politesse.” Our gentility is making us ill. On the subject of politeness, I have learned that in a cafe, they are not ignoring you, but giving you space. Exhibit A: You order a coffee, and an hour later, they have not brought you your check. You begin to wonder...Was it something I said? My accent, perhaps? Do I look too American? Must I buy something else? The answer is no. In France, it is not polite to bring the check too quickly. It is their way of saying “At your leisure. If you would like to sip your coffee and read the newspaper or your novel until the cows come home, you are more than welcome to occupy that space. You have paid for it, and it is yours until you choose to abandon it.” They will not rush you out, and their seeming ignorance of your existence is not personal, but polite. If you want your check, just signal the waiter. I am a fan of this notion. However, I am also a fan of the notion that if I’m running off to see a performance at 8, I want my food and check immediately, and before 7:45! Merci beaucoup!

Beast Feast

This weekend some of us went to a fantastic open air market and bought some goods to cook a scrumptious lunch. Our Norwegian friend insisted on purchasing whole fish from the poissonerie. She attested that she knew how to cook whole fish. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t know what to know what to do with a whole fish unless its vacationing owner left me a full direction manual with pop-up illustrations. Upon arrival to one of our houses with a panoramic view of the city, I quickly assigned myself the position of “vegetable cutter.” Meanwhile, my fearless comrades punctured and decapitated three white-fleshed fish. I don’t know how they did it. I was the kid in the back of the room in Biology during the frog dissection. The vegetarians and I got to do an “alternative assignment” in which we traded in scalpels for colored pencils and designed 2-D models of the tiny beasts which our classmates were poisoning and dismembering. I always opt for art in lieu of a reptile holocaust. Never mind my history with sea urchins and water-dwellers, the meal was cooked, and it turned out deliciously. Never underestimate a Scandinavian’s conviction to be courageous. The result is quite flavorful. That lunch was a memorable beast feast. 

Chez Moi

I have been bitten by the French bug. No really, I think it was a mosquito. The other night I slept with my window open and awoke at 4 am to something buzzing. This is quite remarkable seeing that I sleep with a pillow over my head. I found four bites. They itch, I scratch. Outside of the window, you can see the other windows of the neighboring apartment complex. You can hear everything. In the morning, children scream, painters work on the same room for the third day in a row, and classical music leaps across from window to window. When I sneeze, my neighbors hear the echo. There’s a netting-like cover over the access to the sky. I assume that it keeps birds out. I’m a bit perturbed that it doesn’t keep the insects out. One of my neighbors has a chicken hanging Christmas Carol-style in the window. I think it’s fake. I hope it’s fake. They also have a disco ball that emits pink light. Meeting them would probably change my life. When I’m at home, I have to wear a pair of slippers that aren’t mine so I don’t get splinters from the old wood floor. They are probably a size 6. I’m a size 10. They are so small that they  insist on going pidgeon-toed. I am also too tall for my bed. I’m not really that tall at all. I have come to France and become a pigeon-toed giant. 

La Voix de Charles Baudelaire

I'm newly obsessed with this poem. I have to memorize it for a class. Here a good English translation:

The Voice

The back of my crib was against the library,
That gloomy Babel, where novels, science, fabliaux,
Everything, Latin ashes and Greek dust,
Were mingled. I was no taller than a folio.
Two voices used to speak to me. One, sly and firm,
Would say: "The Earth's a cake full of sweetness;
I can (and then there'd be no end to your pleasure!)
Give you an appetite of equal size."
And the other: "Come travel in dreams
Beyond the possible, beyond the known!"
And it would sing like the wind on the strand,
That wailing ghost, one knows not whence it comes,
That caresses the ear and withal frightens it.
I answered you: "Yes! gentle voice!" It's from that time
That dates what may be called alas! my wound
And my fatality. Behind the scenes
Of life's vastness, in the abyss' darkest corner
I see distinctly bizarre worlds,
And ecstatic victim of my own clairvoyance,
I drag along with me, serpents that bite my shoes.

And it's since that time that, like the prophets,
I love so tenderly the desert and the sea;
That I laugh at funerals and weep at festivals
And find a pleasant taste in the most bitter wine;
That very often I take facts for lies
And that, my eyes raised heavenward, I fall in holes.
But the Voice consoles me and it says: "Keep your dreams;
Wise men do not have such beautiful ones as fools!"

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

Stereotype-Breakers!

Set aside your stereotypes. Parisians are just like Americans. Well, not exactly. Parisians are the New Yorkers of America who wear black in every season and eat a baguette every day. Parisians have their game face on when walking on the street. Just like New Yorkers. In Paris, it’s an issue of safety (and their internal nonchalance...to be explained when I understand it). You see the same phenomenon in New York City. People are less likely to smile at strangers on the street than people in the Midwest. They’re not mean. But they live in a different context. I saw a man the on the metro the other day carrying a bouquet of roses. Surprise of surprises...a Parisian man reminded me that manners do exist. Stereotype-breaker! A friend and I got lost in the 13e on Sunday (shops closed). A woman who had been going about her own business and had just finished running for exercise stopped and asked us if we needed help, proceeded to check our map, had trouble finding it, and finally prevailed over the ambiguity of a circular intersection with 8 street names extending from the center. I would like to think that I am polite; however, if I could not have found the obscure rue, I would have just apologized and continued to pant my way home. Granted, I probably would not have been able to form coherent sentences after running without sounding like a sputtering air vent. But no, this parisienne gave her time away with a smile. Stereotype-breaker! And she’s not the only one. On my first day of classes, I embarked for school, and proceeded to get lost...immediately. Yes, I know, embarrassing. And typical. I asked a man who was walking his bike for the directions, and he proceeded to take out his iPhone and map it for me. What a gem. Stereotype-breaker! These people are so friendly when you attempt to understand them. Any shopkeeper will give you a big smile if you speak to them in foreigner’s French. They know you are trying. You are learning. You care. They, evidently, care, too. 

It's not JUST sophisticated

France is funny. Nobody talks on the metro. Nor do they have their ears hooked up to technological gear in order to create a personal soundtrack. I think the French are more comfortable with silence than we are. And with staring. There are more grocery stores than trash cans. People don’t pick up after their dogs; however, there are signs everywhere reading “I love my neighborhood, I pick up.” On the subject of canines, I must comment that Paris must be the Yorkshire Terrier capital of the world. Everyone and their best friend’s cousin has a Yorkie. Today I saw a Dauschund/Schnauzer mix and I can’t remember if I spoke to it out loud or not. I hope not. Old women are everywhere. I’ve never seen so many pairs of orthopedic heels in my life. So French. Did I say old? Oops. Today I learned that we don’t say “old” in French. We say “more aged.” A few days ago it was quite warm, and I was convinced that the strong odor was me...not so. Paris smells ripe in crowded areas. It’s the strong aroma of Frenchness. They wear it as a beacon of nationalism. Antiperspirant is illegal in France. No, really, I’m serious. The French can single us well-deodorized foreigners out with their olfactory senses. They all look so well put-together. Everyone. The straight men are often even more chic than the women. It’s a bizarre phenomenon. They have melons here that are just like cantaloupe. But it’s not called cantaloupe...no, no, it’s not. It’s French. My host parents smoke at 10 pm. I open my window so I can sleep without contracting malignant disease, and I inhale the six courses that the neighbors just ate. Good thing it smells delicious and French. I had a cheese the other day so strong that I think it’s still in my bloodstream. I think I could probably be arrested for it’s pungency if I were in the States. Internal Possession of Pungent Cheeses. What a liability. Luckily, strong cheese is more than welcome here. France is a funny place. 

The Debut

Hurricanes are burdensome. Paris is liberating. After days of delays and jaunts in Florida and New York, I have finally arrived in my lovely new home. The sky is blue, the architecture is breathtaking, and EVERYONE speaks French. Even the children, who I envy greatly, speak fluently. 

The group flight arriving late into Charles de Gaulle endured a smooth flight, and were immediately shuttled to one of our new campuses, the BU Paris Center, near the Eiffel Tower. A crash course orientation ensued, and we were sent to our homestays and dorms. My family was on vacation with their grandchildren at their home on the coast, naturally. So a good friend of my host mom babysat me for the weekend and taught me the ropes. My apartment is beautiful, as is my bedroom, and I have THREE bathrooms, all for different functions (One with sink, shower, toilet, etc.). It is quite comfortable. Josée, my babysitter, is the sweetest lady, and helped me more than I can express. After arriving at home,  she took me on a tour of the quartier past the Ecole Militaire and the Eiffel Tower. She convinced me that if I walked I would stay awake. My exhaustion, of course, convinced me otherwise. She bought me groceries and made me a delicious dinner before I fell into bed at 7 pm. Surprisingly, the most difficult part of my day was figuring out how to lock and unlock my front door. It is a delicate game of pull and push with a hundred year old plank of wood. Once I turn it to the unlocked position, it is impossible to remove the key. Hence, I have solicited unsuspecting neighbors with my best “I’m a bewildered American student” face. They, of course, oblige, comment that the door is très difficile, and prevail over the ancient French lock.

On Friday morning, we had another orientation session, during which we learned more details of the program. The day went well, and concluded with dinner and adventures near Jardin de Luxembourg. 

Saturday included the lovely tour of the gardens of Versailles. I am proud to say that I am more comfortable taking the metro and RER (commuter train) in Paris than I am in Boston. Bizarre, but true. I have visited the palace before, but never seen the gardens, which were expansive to say the least. The grounds included personal houses for mistresses, as well as a vineyard, farms full of livestock, and a pumpkin patch (no, there is no Halloween in France). There was a Disneyland-like hamlet/village which Marie Antoinette constructed for herself, and I couldn’t help thinking about how sad it is that someone so privileged would have to create a world of fantasy to escape the pain of her reality. I have encountered this sense of isolation in different places around the city, but of course, it chooses to masquerade as independence. Something I plan to discover...are the French lonely or independent? I will report back when I know.