If You Liked It Then You Should Have...

...Put A Ring On It.

Everyone in America is getting married. My sister is engaged. My cousin is engaged. In contrast, it seems as though no one in France has gotten married in decades. This place is full of those conjoined mammals which we like terming “couples.” First of all, the word ‘couple’ sounds like a coffee mug which morphed into a neo-siamese conjoined mug in the kiln. Creepy kiln mutant. These couples of whom we speak litter the streets of Paris. They are clutching each other in parks, grasping each other at the crosswalk, licking each other while waiting for the metro (I don’t want to talk about it). To my sheer delight, I recently learned that it is ILLEGAL, I repeat, illegal, to kiss on/in the French railway system. I will attempt my first citizen’s arrest as soon as physically possible. Results to follow. 

The other day, I rolled my eyes at a really cute couple. I think the man saw me. Awkward. If it happens again, I will try to play it off by pretending I got dust in my eye. Or a wooden plank. I proceeded to roll my eyes at two more couples that day. I don’t know what got into me. I must clarify. I’m not bitter. I love homo sapiens who make a pastime out of inhaling each other’s natural musks. It is a valiant practice. I condone it whole-heartedly. The root of my discontent in these aforesaid situations is, in fact, nudity. No, these people were not hand-holding in their skivvies on their way to work. Yet they were naked. To be precise, their fingers were naked. None (okay, 2%) of these couples are married. I have made a practice of scanning through the metro at the hands of the couples in my line of sight. So few of them have married fingers. This is the occurrence on the streets as well. There is a wonderful division of domestic roles between parents here in Paris, so every time I see a man holding a baby, I check his finger. Almost always empty. Same thing with the women and their strollers. Full stroller. Empty hand. The two times I have seen super adorable couples together with rings on their hands, and thought to myself “now aren’t they just perfect,” I inclined my ear towards them and heard the inevitable. The were speaking Spanish. More proof of my assumption about the marriage-as-an-antiquated-traditional-and-religious-institution-phobic French. I do work for five families in the city (I’m a child-care professional now), and when picking one of my kids up from her bilingual school, I see a wealth of gold and diamonds. American adults with rings. Big surprise. They’re foreign here in France. I find it frustrating that people here can commit to a bakery, an open air market, a brand of chocolate, a favorite bottle of wine, a florist, and a bookshop, but cannot sign a piece of paper that says they will continue to live with the person they love and already live with. Sub-letters do it every day. It’s not that difficult. If you want to grab handfuls of other people’s bodies in public places, please put a ring on it. That’s all.

Unamerican Activity

I am enrolled in a very odd institution. The University of Paris 8 Vincennes-St. Denis (lovingly referred to as Paris 8) has a very muddled and radical history. Birthed out of the student revolts of May 1968, Paris 8 became a university known for its untraditional pedagogical methods and lack of a grading system. They have evolved since the 1960’s and now, unfortunately, give grades to their students. A social stigma surrounds the institution on the whole. I was speaking to my friend’s host mother, who works at a university in Paris. Her review of Paris 8 was “it’s not very good...too leftist.” French elitism rears its ugly head when one mentions St. Denis, the suburb in which the school is situated. The outskirts of Paris are referred to as the banlieue, a generally derogatory term with the implications of the English term “ghetto.” In American political-correctness, one would say of Paris 8: “It’s so...DIVERSE. Mulitcultural and non-traditional.” I would estimate that a good 30% of the female student population wear hijabs in accordance with their Muslim faith, and probably another 35% of all students are of African descent. The ethnic diversity once again confirms the fact that not all Parisians are French. Apart from America, France has the highest population of immigrants in the world. When walking through the halls of Paris 8 (which looks a bit like a run-down and overgrown high school), one sees countless posters for the Union des Jeunes Communistes (you guessed it, the Young Communist Club). I daren’t breath the dirty “C-word” in the presence of my classmates....CAPITALISM! The bathrooms are also a strong indicator of the social climate. The featured graffiti include a swastika, a message against “religious racism,” a slogan about domesticating men, and the phrase “let the girl love a miscreant.” Hence, neo-Nazism, tolerance, militant feminism, and I won’t even pretend to know what the last one means. And while on the topic of bathrooms, I must mention that I don’t think they have had soap since the 1970’s. Dilemma. During class I chant my new mantra...Don’t put your dirty hands near your face. Don’t put your fingers in your mouth. 

Nevertheless, I am enjoying my classes, my professors, and my classmates. I like a good change of scenery every now and then. And a good bit of radicalism.

Legal Immigration

I am a bona fide immigrant. I’m legal until January. In France, immigration entails two prerequisites: confirmation that 1) you are not a petri-dish of tuberculosis, and 2) you will not produce offspring during your stay. Seeing that I am neither TB positive nor attempting procreation, it should be a rather simple process. The entire extravaganza occurred last Tuesday, when a group of disgruntled Americans queued up at 8 am in a line in the cold (yes, I was one of said American nationals). I had heard the horror stories of Ellis Island conditions, endless lines, angry French people, and unnecessary public nudity. Fortunately, I have been to the DMV a few times in my brief time here on Earth. Hence, I was not too flabbergasted. We waited in a few different holding rooms until we were called by name.  We must have gone and waited three or four times to be called into the next chamber, only to sit and wait some more. Some of my colleagues likened it to a concentration camp. I was assuming that the look the French doctor would give me when I tried to describe “Rapid Gastric Emptying” would be akin to a painful death. Facial expressions in France are no joke. They can be scary. The highlights of the visit included an eye exam, a chest x-ray, and a private meeting with a doctor. In my experience, I did not feel overly exposed, and emerged with an “EXCELLENT” photo of my lungs (which I have proceeded to post on my bulletin board out of pride), and when asked if I had ever had surgery (I only got as far as “fundoplication...fundoplication...je pense que c’est la même mot en français”). The good news is that I’m not as suspicious as I must seem, and I got a nice stamp in my passport. 

Norman Invasion

I’m a failed blogeuse. If I were getting paid for this whole consistency blog thing, I would get fired. Life has been busy and lovely, per Paris usual. I went to Normandy last weekend on a retreat with the American Church in Paris, and we focused on Sabbath rest in our times of community and with the speaker who lead us (whose book was forwarded by his FRIEND, Henri Nouwen...starstruck). He was 80, and when he saw me writing down my prayers (I’m an ADD pray-er) later, he thought I was writing a book. Such a cutie. WISE and cute. Unfortunately married. Anyways, it was so great getting to know some of those friends better, and to take time to be still and rest in God’s presence without feeling guilt about being unproductive. Learning to be at peace is a struggle, and I will have to continue working at it. It was such a restful weekend on the windy beach in Houlgate! My new project is to try to be a place of rest for others. I don’t want to stress the people around me the way that I stress myself. I have been thinking extensively about the difference between “l’abri” (shelter) and “à l’abri” (at peace/without worry). I want to be both.

Sidenote:

I also saw the American film Into the Wild (2007) over the weekend. I hadn’t seen it yet, and literally cried so hard that I had to sob into a pillow. Please go rent it right now if you haven’t seen it. It’s a beautiful portrait of independence, denile, stubborness, idealism, and revelation. The screenplay is also poetic. Just watch it.