Martin Carrot Soup

Last month, in one of my English tutoring sessions with my perfect French children, we were doing vocab exercises from a workbook, when I saw the name Rachel. I told her that that was my sister’s name. She reacted in joy, as she told me that Rachel was one of her favorite names, along with Rebecca (flattered; I surprisingly get quite a few compliments on it here in France. It’s like they have never heard it before!), Nicholas, and Jessica. She obviously goes to a bilingual school, because American names in France are a symbol of lower social standing. Par contre, VERY French names are bourgeois. Par exemple, Marie-Sophie and Pierre-Henri would live in the perfect apartment on Ile St. Louis (highest spit of real estate in the city--in the middle of the Seine right next to the island with Notre Dame). The more names you have, the swankier your social status. The name game conversation ended with Emma’s response that she dislikes the name Martin. She says it reminds her of Carrot Soup. I agree. Martin Carrot Soup. 

The Brass Section

So, during the first week of my internship (at an NGO which builds children’s homes for street children in developing countries), I needed to ask one of my colleagues if he had a paper clip. I knew the French word was some brass instrument, so I asked him for the “trompette.” He gave me an odd look, and was all, “Are you asking me if I play the trumpet?” Um, no. In fact, I just need one of those “trucs” which holds a pile of papers together. “OH, une trombone!” Trumpet, trombone; I knew they were all in the brass section!

Hungarian Breakfast Wisdom

My friend Lindsey and I met the nicest people in Budapest. We were particularly enamored by Janos, the man who hosted us in his apartment, He may be the most hospitable person I have ever met. He said, "I'm so glad you are here; I love my city." He also drew walking routes for us to take (with alternative routes, just in case), and gave us suggestions on where to find a local spot for dinner. On this jaunt of ours, which included the great capitals of Europe, the Berlin Wall, cathedrals, clock towers, and rivers, one of my clearest memories is what Janos said to us at the breakfast table. "It's hard to fall in love in a place where everyone drives cars." He has a good point there.

At the non-touristy cafe he directed us to, I had my first mute experience....and I thought I was becoming bilingual. I walked into the restroom before we headed out, and, evidently, I sauntered through one of the open doors into the men's room (furnished with a real, live Hungarian man). Upon seeing the urinals (and his bewildered face), I backed up realizing that we could not communicate with each other. I can only say "Good afternoon" and "Thank you" in Magyar, but neither of those terms seemed appropriate, in light of the facts that it was evening and that I was not grateful. I don't really know if my vocal chords grunted or if it my gesticulations grunted silently as I backed up. Theis was the first time in my life that I could not communicate with someone using language. I wanted to say "I'm sorry, I thought THIS open door was the women's room." But, alas, no. I grunted instead. I felt as though someone had burgled the Communications Department of my mind, not even leaving greetings or articles or adverbs. My jewel-box was empty.

Mouth Sour, Heart Sick

I was on my way to a great restaurant/art gallery/concert venue/artist collective with some friends a couple of weeks ago. On the way, we passed through one of the most populated junctions in a shady part of town. While transferring trains, we ascended the stairs past bloodied paper towels, rubber gloves, and needles. I’d never seen heroin paraphernalia before. I hardly knew what I had seen, just a blur of loneliness. The next day, I saw an older woman babbling and laughing to herself in the metro. She proceeded to spit half-chewed pecans out of her mouth and put them back into her pocket. She then pulled out another crust piece of pecan tart from her shabby coat. She was starving for many things. I felt my eyes watering beneath the florescent lights. When I got out at the next stop, I almost started to run. My mouth went sour. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to scream. I asked why. I felt powerless. In population statistics, they don’t take account of those dead among the living. There is no peace, even in a place that hasn’t seen war since Hitler died. God, hold their hearts in Your hand. 

Running Like Children

I resumed my tutoring jobs this semester. One of the families I work for is French, and the adorable and perfect daughters are 7 and 10 years old. I went to pick them up from their talented, artistic, French children lessons before taking them home to tutor English. I walk into the courtyard at the neighborhood activity center and see the oldest, who is bilingual in English. I greeted her with “bises,” as is custom (the first time I met her, she stood there oddly with her head tilted up in anticipation...little did I know that kids are supposed to greet adults with cheek kisses, too). She told me that she and her sister were playing a game of “cache-cache” (hide-and-go-seek) while they were waiting for me. I started walking around the planters with bushes in the center of the complex, calling her name. I saw the little one’s tiny form, and watched her hesitate as she recognized who was calling her in the dark. She then proceeded to call out my name and perform a running jump full-force into my arms, an act of acrobatic skill which she sealed by attacking my cheeks with kisses. I held her tightly. I can’t get this moment out of my mind. It’s hard to understand why adults don’t respond this way to others, when it is evidently part of our nature. We are inhibited, cold, jaded. If we could only be like children, running into each others arms with reckless abandon.

Extremely Paris and Incredibly Home

There are few places I would rather be right now than France, as it is one of the most enchanted, frustrating, and complicated places that I know. I daresay I missed the Parisians a bit. I frankly think they are super. Such fascinating specimens must not go unwatched. The city itself is a microcosm of certain beautiful and alternately terrible things; history, modernity, progress, prostitution, imperialism, racism, classism, romance, beauty, tradition, formality, elitism, culture, art, and some of the most radical and interesting philosophical thought to ever grace the planet Earth. It’s good to be challenged by a place that is so quintessentially worthwhile, and so socially conflicting. It allows you to guard closely in mind that all places are broken and full of natural splendor. Christian theologian Francis Schaeffer once spoke of “wretched beauties,” in relation to the redeemed followers of Jesus. Paris, and the Parisians themselves (as do all people) apply to this description of humanity.

The flight back (home) to Paris was long, but worth every second. After a lovely Christmas vacation in California with my family, I boarded the plane for my 15 hour return to France. Although I did not sleep (despite my efforts and artificial soporific aids - Tylenol PM), I did start and finish a quite good novel called Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. It will be a movie in a week or two back in the States, and I must say that I look forward to seeing it. Having spent a good long time away from fiction for no apparent reason, it was a lovely re-entry to the world of the modern fiction novel. Following a nine-year-old boy grappling with the death of his father in the horrors of September 11, the novelist weaves a tale of heritage, healing, and a mission to recover from the tragedy of loss and the ambivalence of life. Needless to say, I covered my face and issued warm tears into my gigantic, knit scarf for about half of the flight. Please go read it TODAY (you will be done by tomorrow...it’s that good!).

Christmas, Nostalgia, and Other Traditions

It’s Christmastime in Paris. It’s about 40 degrees, and there are festive lights all over the place. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here (no pilgrims, no indians), so it’s a jarring shift from Autumn to Christmas! The Champs-Elysees is all lit up, and there are Christmas markets selling hot mulled wine and chestnuts roasted on a (tiny) open fire. In fact, I was there for the “tree-lighting.” Of course, my point of reference for this phenomenon is the gigantic christmas trees with bulbs that get illuminated and serenaded at the outdoor shopping mall. It was a bit different here, with the streets completely filled, and modern, electrical swirls ascending naked deciduous trees. Slightly anticlimactic, but a famous French actress was there (Audrey Tatou - from Amelie), so it was quite the event. All of us Americans are getting ready to go home and be with our families for Christmas. I think that I would be a bit more nostalgic about leaving in 5 DAYS if I weren’t coming back. I had a dear friend who lives in Spain visiting in town this past weekend, and saying goodbye to her on Saturday night made me realize how much I’m going to miss the wonderful friends I’ve made here in Paris. Either way, I will probably cry for at least four hours of my 30 that I will spend traveling and sitting in the airport on layovers. But I will say that I can’t wait to be on my couch reading good books, watching White Christmas, and baking banana bread!

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. 

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. 

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!