La neige sur Paris

Paris can sometimes be a very magical place. The buildings are sometimes centuries old, so old in fact that the stone is still black from the soot of the industrial era and cole-burning chimneys. Famous authors, politicians, and actors have called this place home, only to be buried underneath Parisian ground. You can sometimes still feel their Paris of yesteryear as you walk through Les Halles (probably the oldest neighborhood in the center of Paris).  And for some reason, Paris holds a very real romance, more so than that of other cities I've been to. I don't know whether it's the wine, the language, or the Seine running through the city, but something in Paris inspires even the most prudish of American tourists to s'embrasser (sem-brah-say: kiss each other) out in the open in such an openly stated PDA that it makes even full-blooded Parisians blush.

I think, though, that this past Friday I saw one of the most magical elements of Paris take place: la neige sur Paris (lah nay-j: snowfall on Paris). For a mere 15 minutes of pure and silent awe, I watched from my bedroom window as a blizzard engulfed the city, leaving almost as soon as it arrived. I know I'm a coastal California girl and am therefore amazed by even a single snowflake because I've experienced so few of them (though, after spending a year in les Alpes snow has admittedly lost some of its luster), but even Parisians seem to be paralyzed with wonder by the first snowfall of the year in their glocally-celebrated town. Seeing the old stone buildings, sidewalks, and trees covered in Christmas lights beign lightly brushed with snow brings a whole new element of beauty to the French capitale (kap-ee-tahl: capital).

Of course, winter in Paris isn't all fun and games. From what I hear, snow may come and go in Paris but the cold hangs around forever. And it really gets cold here! The kind of chilly, biting, unforgiving cold that forces people to stay indoors and become depressed from lack of sunlight and feeling in their toes. Luckily, though, the French have come up with a few key ways of fighting off the winter blues: vin chaud (von show: mulled wine), twinkle lights along les Champs Elysées (lay shamp el-ee-zay: an iconic shopping district in Paris), and a truly devoted love affair to l'echarpe (luh-sharp: scarf). Christmastime in Paris, show me your worst!

McDo's

UPDATE:  The Onion knows what I'm talking about!

Thanksgiving has got to be one of my favorite days of the year. Pumpkin pie spice, cranberry sauce, and alcohol abound and there's no pressure to buy gifts for everyone. The major bummer about being in France is that I have to miss out on this holiday, because the French don't seem to know it exists. But I've already given up my Thanksgiving Day Parade, sweet potato casserole, and tarte de citrouille (tahr duh see-toh-eel: pumpkin pie). I'm not giving up on at least some sort of special meal with some other Americans here to celebrate food and American manslaughter. The problem is, how best to celebrate it? Pumpkin pie filling is unheard of, sweet potatoes are nowhere to be found, and no family in France is big enough to buy an entire turkey to roast.

Maybe the most appropriate way to celebrate my American heritage this year would be at McDo's (mak dohs: McDonalds), the one American cultural symbol that the French love to hate, and by “love” I mean “worship”. On any given day in Paris I pass by at least three McDo's, and they're always filled to capacity. It's a glowing symbol to Parisians and the French as a whole of what they think America stands for: guilty, salty, fatty pleasures that are bad for the skin and le coeur (luh coor: heart).

The menu at a French McDo's is a bit comical to say the least. Not only is there your typical McDo counter with your Filet-O-Fish and BicMac standard line-up, but there's also McDo Bistro – an elite branding of McDonald's that sells tarts, macaroons, watery milkshakes in flavors like pistachio and pear, and of course beer. Because what would American cuisine be without a nice cold one to wash all the grease down your throat with? Though I don't think I've ever seen alcohol in McDonald's in the States...I don't know what the hell's up with that. This just seems like a gloriously missed opportunity. Then again, I haven't been to American McDonald's in awhile. Someone get me up-to-date on this, please?

Sadly enough, I'm all too familiar with the McDo's menu because I've been taking advantage of their free wifi for the past month and a half. Braving long lines, enough fries to make my heart shriek in terror, and the all out embarrassing experience of actually having the cashiers recognize me, it's amazing just what I'll do to satisfy my Internet addiction. I even started to get mistaken for one of the many homeless alcoholics who use McDonald's for their “heures de bureau” (or du bwer-oh: office hours) to discuss conspiracy theories and gossip about their friends.

Believe me, the irony of being an American girl moving to Paris and then spending nearly everyday in McDonald's isn't lost on me. If I never walk into McDonald's again, it will be too soon. But I'm thankful for their free Internet and the fact that France's obsession with hamburgers means that there's always free Internet within walking distance in Paris. Even so, I think I'll be choosing a quaint French café over stereotypical American McDonald's food for my Thanksgiving meal this year, merci beaucoup.

Ma semaine de merde

 

Unfortunately, many life lessons have left me with no choice but to believe whole-heartedly in karma. And I must have a lot of bad karma that seems to take the form of total merde (meh-rd: shit), because this past week has been one big pile of feces after another, unfortunately sometimes quite literally.

I started teaching on October 1^st. A month and a half and 75 euros of my well-spent money on classroom materials later, and I've yet to see a paycheck. Anyone who's even spent a day in Paris will tell you that this ville (veel: city) ain't cheap. Trying to survive in this city with no paycheck while I still have rent, bills, and transportation to pay for is absolutely impossible.

It seems that the French have an innate ability to smell merde long before they ever walk in it. Grèves (greh-v: strikes) seem to be called on a weekly basis somewhere in France in opposition to the mere possibility of getting screwed over by the government. The rectorat (rek-tohr-ah) in charge of my pay seems to have built up an entire system devoted to ignoring people just like me, people who are simply trying to figure out why in the hell the government has chosen to merde all over them. Even the streets of France are every morning swept clean of the—more literal--merde left behind by their beloved petits chiens (peh-tee shee-yen: little dogs) by an incredibly ecologically wasteful but aesthetically efficient manner of washing down the sidewalks with industrial hoses to rid every last inch of the pavement from piles of dog crap.

But, just like the French, I've become well aware that because the karmic universe seems to have it out for me, where one pile of merde has been washed clean, along will most certainly come another. This was at least the case last Friday, when after spending a long, tiring day at work with still no news as to why I've yet to see a sous (soo: penny), I come back to my apartment building to find actual human diarrhea on every single step up the seven flights of stairs leading to my front door. My first reaction was absolute disgust, naturally, but I also have to admit that this was a very fitting end to my semaine de merde (seh-men duh meh-rd: week of shit). Or, at least, what I hope is the end. I'm trying to be very polite to everyone I run across in the métro (meh-trow: subway) just in case in the hopes of building up good karma points. Just one question, though: how many karma points does it take to get a paycheck?

Le café à la français

Up until a couple of months ago, I was what you would all a complete coffee accro (ak-row: addict). Seriously. I meant business. There was the morning pint with cream and sugar, followed by an afternoon pint of pick-me-up, and then the occasional evening 8-ouncer as my amen before a restless night's sleep. Then I realized that my petite tasse de café (puh-teet tass duh kaf-ay: little cup of coffee) every morning was turning my skin into a total mine field. Everywhere I looked there was another bouton (boo-t-ohn: zit) exploding in red and puss-infested glory. So I gave up the habit and have been in mourning over the decision ever since.

Well, France isn't helping with this matter at all. No one ever offered me coffee at work last year, but this year it seems all the institutrices (on-stee-toot-rees: teachers) at my schools won't settle until they pour a gallon of it down my throat, one perfect little espresso cup at a time. Every morning it's the same routine: “Vous ne buvez pas de café?” (voo nuh boo-veh pah duh kaf-ay: you don't drink coffee?) is the expected question now by at least two teachers at at least two different schools. To which I respond to astounded and judgmental looks « Non, pas non plus, malheureusement » (noh, paw nohn plu, mal-hoor-uhs-mehn: no, not anymore, unfortunately). Each work day I live a constant reminder of how much I miss my beloved cup of coffee and how everyone in France wants me to drink it. Apparently I'm the only person in this country who suffers from bad skin.

The thing is, I get it. I really do. With a café on every street corner and an entire dinner course devoted to the brew, the French and I are completely on the same page with respect to our reverence for the magic black hericot (er-ee-koh: bean). Coffee is, and always will be, fabulous in my eyes, even if my skin doesn't agree. I and the entire French république (ray-pub-leek: republic) understand how essential caffeine is to get through the day, especially when you spend your day teaching other people's children. But since I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking like a sixteen year-old, I've decided to enjoy my café vicariously through my French collègues (kol-egg: co-workers) while I cry into my morning cup of thé (tay: tea). Life. Isn't. Fair.