Etiquette, Amongst Other Oddities

French etiquette confuses me. You would think it would be clear seeing that they invented the word, but alas, no. When you’re at the grocery store they don’t bag your groceries for you. It’s you at the end of the check-out scrambling not to crush your eggs with your can of peas, along with the last two people who paid for their goods. Odd. When there are strangers in my house, no one ever introduces them to me. I have given up on introducing myself unless in case of emergency, because introductions are apparently not important when you are a worthless foreign student. Additionally, one would never acknowledge someone else’s existence in public, (on the street, on the metro, etc.) but if you are in your apartment building you MUST smile and wish everyone a good day or good evening. I guess I have a different definition of “neighbor” than the French. I always considered humanity to be included, but I guess that doesn’t hold true here. The Parisians are only neighbors with those who share the same street address. Adults ride scooters here. Seriously, like Razor scooters from 2001, but with business suits. All the adults here are so small that it’s not weird (however, their size IS weird - it’s rare to find a man over 6 ft or a woman over 5’6’’), but the fact that they are riding scooters with ties does evoke a naughty American giggle every now and then. One of my friends who lives in a host family has to share his bathroom with the cat. I repeat: THE CAT USES THE TOILET. I still do not understand the mechanics of this phenomenon. Okay, I admit it’s creepy and sounds like a Ben Stiller movie, but don’t hate -- I love this cat. His name is Soleno, he is all white, and we are dear friends. He is a “tout petit chat.” The French love calling things “tout petit” (“all little” = tiny little), probably because everything here is “tiny little.” People, cars, cats, expresso, the overpriced food you order at a sidewalk cafe. It’s all tout petit and expensive! The last item of the day which I find hilarious is the use of the phrase “En fait” (= In fact). They say this ALL THE TIME! “En fait, I think it’s eight o’clock.” “En fait, I went to the Expressionism Expo today.” “En fait, there were a million people at the cinema last evening.” Everything is so factual. My favorite is when small children use this qualifier. Literally, four year olds saying “In fact...” I look at them and I’m all, “You don’t know anything for a fact; you’re four years old!” But they think they know. They will be so French when they grow up. 

The Lonely Ones

So some of the lovely women in my Bible Study and I are starting to get angry. Don’t get scared, it’s good angry. We have been talking about the prevalence of the sex industry here in Paris, and have been getting ready to do something about it. Last Sunday, we went on a prayer walk up at Metro Pigalle in Montmartre (on the street where you find the Moulin Rouge). The entire street is lined with sex shops, peep shows (I feel like that’s the least attractive title they could give it), strip clubs, etc. Rather nauseating. We were praying over the people involved in these situations: the women inside of the buildings, and the men who frequented them. It’s so tragic to see how consumeristic it has all become. Walking down the street, you literally see McDonald’s next to a porn movie theater. It continues to alternate between sex shops and food all the way down the street. Which begs the question: what is a need? Why is the sex industry sending the message that this is as normal and necessary as lunch? I kept finding myself getting angry at the men on the streets (and praying for them, seeing that ONLY getting angry would be counter-productive on a prayer walk...). There weren’t very many women around in this neighborhood, and you could just feel the seediness of the mens’ intentions. I additionally found it interesting that I am in this neighborhood all the time to meet people because I have friends who live right there, but I tend to look away. I feel like all good little blonde children were told to look away when things got inappropriate. So I did, and I still do. But walking through this neighborhood intentionally looking IN was quite informative, and allowed us to pray INTO the bondage that these people are feeling. Many of these people are in slavery, both literally and emotionally, and if we refuse to look, we are refusing to care. 

A Few Of My Favorite Things (Okay, I'm really in the mood to see the Sound of Music)

Almost every morning I walk by this lovely flower shop called Veronique Miss. I don’t know how it happens, but I always seem to be passing while one of the young ladies who works there is dragging out pots of heinously-priced and highly-aesthetic miniature arboretums and flora. They also put out a classy, iron parakeet cage fully equipped with a noisy, live bird. It sounds like an underdeveloped pterodactyl, and I can’t help wondering why they are trying to sell the poor dear at a flower shop. Nevertheless, it’s in these simple moments of little consequence when I realize how much I appreciate beauty around me. Another example, from the metro (where some of the best people-watching occurs): the other day I saw an elderly man helping his wife (rare, I know, but they were wearing rings) who evidently had some difficulty walking. Her illness may have been related to her back, seeing as she was crouched over, almost in half, and could not straighten her spine. Her husband’s patience and protection were incredible. It was as though he wanted nothing more than for her to be comfortable, despite the fact that she was apparently in agony. Looking at him as he took care of her and guided her off and on the metro and up the numerous stairs was another reminder of the beauty in creation around me. Flowers are lovely, and people can be even lovelier. 

Framerican/Arench

Last Saturday night, I got the opportunity to see one of my favorite musicians in concert here in Paris. I miraculously got tickets to the sold out Bon Iver show at 5:30 pm. They went on stage at 8:30. After one of the most incredible two hour intervals of my life, I began the trek back across town to fall blissfully into my bed (where I continue to get bug bites every night despite the fact that it’s November and not humid). While walking to my first metro transfer from the boonies, I heard a good amount of English being spoken around me. There were quite a few Brits, and a good number of Americans, too. Surrounded by my native language, I realized that it was the same as it always had been. Something felt different, nonetheless. It was me. I was different. Alone in crowds of people I should have been able to identify with, I felt surprisingly alienated. It’s odd when people look at you as they’re trying to figure out if you understand them or not. I realized that they probably thought I was French. There’s no certainty in nationality unless one opens his or her mouth. After living here for such a short amount of time, I am beginning to feel the formation of a distance between myself and my American upbringing. I still have those moments (every day) where I laugh and comment on how American I am (when I roll my eyes at people kissing, yell in libraries, laugh uncontrollably, or crave 20 oz. cups of coffee). I will never escape these good old-fashioned, americana tendencies. They are a part of me. It’s interesting to feel myself change into the new tendencies, as well. France is becoming a part of me.