Minuit à Paris

Paris is a magical city--yesterday, today, and toujours (too-joor: always), but especially yesterday.  I honestly figured  before moving here that I'd be spending my evenings rubbing elbows with Edith Piaf and F. Scott Fitzgerald--pre-fame--while we sipped absinthe and dined on escargot (s-kar-go: snails) before making a minuit (min-wee: midnight) stroll along the Seine.  

 So, you can imagine my utter shock at finding out that these famous chanteuses (shan-toos: female singers) and écrivains (ek-ree-von: writers) of the days of yore have long since died, leaving in their wake over priced croissants and watered down cocktails at the uber-touristy Latin Quarter joints.  Like the protagonist in Woody Allen's adorable newest film, I too wish for a older, more down-home and grungy Paris filled with the intellectual elite.  However, unlike Woody Allen's character, I would never be invited into the inner-circle of these geniuses.  I lack a certain je ne sais quoi (juh nuh say qwa: I don't know what)--or, you know, talent.

Unfortunately I still haven't stumbled across the magical time portal that brings me to the Paris of my choosing, but luckily there's still something magical about roaming the streets of Paris in the throes of nightfall even in the year 2011, imagining where it was that the people who made this city famous once puked their drunken guts out, passed-out, or simply engaged in other debauchery.  When the city is dark and the streets are more or less empty, it's easier to imagine this cultural capital in its heyday--whether that be la belle époque (lah bell ep-ok) or when Hemingway was practicing his alcoholism here.

 Sure, I may not be making history here like the many celebrities who have claimed Paris as their stomping ground, but it's enough for me to know that I've had the privilege of soaking up the leftovers.  Plus, David Sedaris (one of my personal favorite authors) lives here, and that means Paris must be in the process of a whole new age: that of the sassy, humorist writer with a penchant for being a lovable asshole. 

La famille

Sundays in France for the most part piss me off, not only because it means I have work the next day but also because most stores in France are closed, including many restaurants.  However, there is one Sunday ritual in France that I can't help but call mignon (mihn-yohn:cute) : that of the family Sunday stroll in le parc (luh pahr-k: the park).

The French tend to be very traditional as a culture, and the tradition I see them holding the most dear is that of la famille (lah fam-ee: the family).  Not only do old world child rearing standards hold firm in France (that of spanking children, corporal punishment in the classroom, and openly demeaning children on the street for spilling their ice cream), but the idea that family should stay close and spend lots of time ensemble (on-semb-luh: together) still has deep roots among the French.  This isn't to say that the French family is without it's obligatory dysfunction.  Oh non, au contraire (no, oh kon-trer: on the contrary):  French families are every bit as dysfunctional as the American ones, but at least in France they keep their fighting and backstabbing together under one roof or in a public park, where it belongs.

Sundays seem to be the day when the French famille puts their art of togetherness to the test.  It's the day when not only does the family hangout together during the afternoon in the park, but the entire extended family will often get together for a lunch or dinner.  And since it's still quite common for the college age Frenchie to live at home until some poor sap agrees to marry him, getting together for a meal isn't all too hard to do.  In a large country like the US, where families sometimes live a thousand miles apart from each other and getting the family together for some quality time usually just means sitting around the t.v. and watching American Idol while waiting for the pizza delivery guy, I have to say, it's refreshing seeing the families of France make a more concerted effort to stick together and openly argue about Dominique Strauss-Kahn and immigration while strolling along le Sein (luh sen: the famous river that runs through the middle of Paris), especially when this family includes a petit chien (puh-tee she-ehn: little dog) available for my patting pleasure.

Champagne

Yesterday my friends and I boarded a (I think Nazi-run) bright yellow tour bus and made our way to the northeastern corner of France blessed personally by God himself.

God decided to reach down his all-powerful pointer finger from the sky and say “I now dub these grapes as the most expensive grapes in the world, and they shall be called champagne grapes, and in a few thousand years the French people who shall inherit them –because the French are the most blessed and capable alcoholics of my creation--will charge $1,500,000 for a square hectare of land where these grapes grow and this will make Me, God, very happy. And yay, these grapes will rot in bottles for up to 50 years, and will make young married couples and rich people on their yachts very drunk and I will personally charge each person at least $50 a bottle to share in the joy of this, the most blessed of divine alcoholic nectar. And there will be much rejoicing. And I will be pleased. Amen to Me.”

And thus, the Champagne (shamp-on: champagne) region was born.  And God saw that it was good. 

Yes, this really happened. Just look it up. It's in there, right above the chapter about Lady Gaga.

The French take champagne very seriously, and even copyrighted the term “Champagne” so that only sparkling vin (von: wine) of this region can be called “champagne”-- all other sparkling wines of every other less magical place on Earth must be referred to as “using the champagne method”.  Champagne cellar tours start with very high budget promotionalpropaganda about how magical and divinely-inspired the fermentation of their grapes are, with Moët & Chandon (the creators of Dom Perignon) one-upping everyone else by having Scarlett Johannson herself narrate their five minute clip in her best smoky, post-coital seductive rendition of “drink me” possible.

The tours of the cellars take you 12 meters below ground into cold, dark, mold-invested cellars (but "expensive mold" the tour guide ensured us, "the mold they make Roquefort cheese with!"), where the labor and time-intensive details of champagne fabrication (re: rotting grapes in bottles) are explained—how the bottles have to be turned and held at varying 20 degree angles every day for three weeks.  Ensuite (on-sweet: then) depending on the quality, these bottles must be stored between 3 and 20 years before they're ready to be labeled and sold. All in all an educational experience, especially when it came time for the tasting, my favorite part.

In the days leading up to my much-anticipated tour of this, the most béni (behn-ee: divinely blessed) region of France, my excitement seemed best summed-up by the scene “The Night They Invented Champagne” from the Colette novella-inspired musical Gigi, which you can watch if you click the link below (YouTube embedding links are not working for me right now). I feel like singing this song every time I open a glass of bubbly, even though my bottles are usually Korbel and cost $10. Whatever, when it comes to alcohol my motto is: who cares where the alcohol was made when you're drunk?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMiCGOZVkgQ

Un clin d'oeil

If I could hand down one piece of advice, it would be to keep your yeux (you: eyes) wide open, because everything seems to change with a clin d'oeil (kleen d-ow: blink of an eye). The bleak grey ciel (see-yell: sky) of a Parisian winter suddenly turns into blossoming, muggy spring days and before I know it those blossoms have disappeared and l'été is only a month away. Beloved animals slip away from my life, friends disappear to corners of the globe to maybe never be seen again, and in a little over a month, my current life in Paris will be a distant memory.

Time has a stubborn way of continually moving forward, and for some reason this year is no exception. Yet I'm somehow always shocked—SHOCKED--when I find myself at the end of yet another year, trying to get myself into a bargain with Father Time to roll back the les horloges (layz or-loj: clocks) a bit, even offering to sell my soul for an extra few days of weekend, but Father Time is a stubborn old fool and never gives in.

So, here I am, at the end of another printemps (prawn-temp: spring). I've got to start packing my valises (val-eez: suitcases) and say my goodbyes to Paris. Sure, I still have a little over a month left, but if past experiences have taught me anything, it's that as soon as there's a clin d'oeil, it will all be over, but that's alright: it just means a new adventure in San Francisco is about to begin, and knowing that Andrew and my family will be waiting for me when I get home makes the impending goodbyes a little easier.

My Neasa

There is a great emptiness in my life.  On May 3rd, 2011 at around 8:40 pm California time, my Neasa was put to rest by her vet.  Since Neasa loved adventure and the outdoors, no one was able to see what exactly happened, but on Monday my Neasa struggled to get from her injured spot outside so that she could make it home, and waited in the bathroom with a badly damaged face for my dad to see and help her.  She was rushed to the vet purring but scared, and the vet first believed that she was going to make a full recovery but would have to lose her left eye.  But as the doctor started surgery he realized that a massive infection had built-up in Neasa's head, and that she wasn't going to make it.  She was then put to sleep, and is now being mourned by all who knew her.

Please read below if you would like to know more about my beloved Neasa.  I know that Neasa meant a lot to a great many people, and I would love it if you could share some of your favorite memories about her in the comments section, or if you didn't know Neasa, I would also love to hear stories about your own beloved cats.  Neasa adored cats, and I'd love to celebrate her life by sharing all the wonderful stories about the joy they give us.

Leith (in Turkish)

I had written this whole long-winded post about Türkiye (Turkish for Turkey), including everything from where Andrew and I stayed, to the food we ate, to the places we visited, but after reading over the post I found it didn't do the trip justice.  İstanbul is one of those rare gems that not only unites Europe with Asia and Africa (yes, the country sits on three continents!), but it also seems to embody the rare splendor of many a yesteryear, when the metropolis was the seat of an empire hellbent on exuding extravagance but now is a solemn reminder that empires crumble as easily as the concrete buildings used to decorate the now modern skyline.

Palaces and camiis (mosques) dating back over 1000 years are sill decoratively painted with extravagant gold leaf Byzantine devotions to the Virgin and furnished with delicate crystal chandeliers and the hand-woven Turkish carpets that the region has always been famous for.  Yet standing right alongside these shrines to former prestige are derelict apartment buildings with hollowed-out window frames and missing roofs, standing in perfect homage to what seems to be the outlook of Istanbul: build around history, and forget that you were once great .  There are so many ancient monuments, aqueducts, palaces, and hidden treasures beneath Istanbul's soil bringing reminder to a tumultuous past that it seems that the city dwellers have made a conscious decision to build over and around history with modern skyscrapers and nargile (hookah) bars with bright, twinkling lights, leaving history buried where, it seems, the Turks prefer it to be.

Every Istanbul morning starts with a 6am call to prayer from what must be over a million minare (minarets) throughout the city of over 16 million inhabitants.  Shopkeepers at every çarşı (bazaar) and fruit stand call out to every passing tourist, commanding them to take a look at their wares, which range from everything to hand-ground spices and finely woven cashmere eşarp (scarves) to cheap imported imitation Dior sunglasses.  In front of a centuries-old Roman fountain construction workers stand around sipping çay (tea) for the eighth time that afternoon, content to just people watch and gossip.  And there's plenty of people watching to be had.  The city is a maze of twisting streets and crumbling brick walls swallowed by a storm of both native Turks and Nike-clad tourists.  
 
It's easy to feel lost and overwhelmed, but admittedly--to me, at least--this overwhelming feeling is part of the city's charm.  For a few lira (Turkish money), the Turks are more than happy to share bits of their culture with you, be it an intimate hour-long bath, banana tea, one of their hundreds of different pistachio and honey pastry concoctions (delicious!!!), or simply the story behind the Turkish love of the game of tavla (backgammon).  Having mostly traveled within Europe and North America, everything in Turkey felt new and even being there for a week I felt as though Andrew and I barely made a dent in everything the city had to offer.  

Not only does Türkiye bridge continents, but it also has the heavy task of linking the past glory of forgotten empires with the present reality of a less glamorous economic situation, and modern-day Turks are left trying to choose an identity that fits in with a decidedly more homogenous Europe that Turkey just isn't.  Turkish days are dictated by prayer, spices roasted into every kebap, intimate bathing rituals, whole lives and legacies buried underneath it's eyesore of modern buildings.  The people of Turkey may be reserved, and quite honestly ambivalent about their country's past, but it's clear to me that there is a cultural identity among the Turks that is unique: some parts of their cold cultural exterior may be as drab and interchangeable as their charcoal gray houses, but a much more integral part of their country is as ornate and steadfast as their mosques and music and beautiful though tumultuous Bosphorus Strait, a confusing waterway with two currents running in different directions.

As I stood with Andrew at the bow of our day cruise ship on this Bosphorus during our last afternoon in Turkey, staring off into the Black Sea far away from the busy smog-filled streets of the city, it occurred to me that I could never sum up in just a few words what Istanbul is exactly.  Like the opposing currents running beneath me, so to did the city seem to be pulled.  On one hand the people in Istanbul seemed desperate to modernize every building to please a more streamlined and capitalist Western Europe, yet around every towering hotel and supermarket sits another monument, mosque, or stray kitten or dog that have long been a historical presence on these city streets.  How am I supposed to sum up such a striking dichotomy into a blog post? 

It's no mystery to me why Istanbul was the seat to such greatness, and why--who knows?--it may be again.  The hard part is distinguishing the genuine beauty among the rubble and knockoff designer handbags, because to be honest there's plenty of both.  But if you're patient enough to put up with being swindled from time to time, I can't recommend Turkey highly enough.

Anticipation

Anticipation (ann-tee-see-pah-see-ohn: anticipation) is something both Anglophones and Francophones share, both as a mot (moh: word) and a sentiment (sent-ee-mehn: sentiment).  Sometimes this anticipation can be a bad thing, like waiting for the court results from your latest traffic infraction, or anticipating just how many pages your credit card statement is going to be this month.  And sometimes, anticipation can be a welcome feeling, such as waiting for an exotic trip to Turkey with your boyfriend whom you haven't seen since January...just as a for instance.

I've had my fare share of dealing with anticipation in both the Franco and Anglo context these past six months.  Jour (jwar: day) after excruciating jour of anticipating my every financial move on my pitiful assistant's salary compounded with the anticipation of just how in the world I'm going to give English oral examinations to 200 primaire (pree-mer: elementary) students is definitely the less welcome form of the term.  Anticipating just how much of a tan I'm going to get by spending Saturday by the canal Saint-Martin on a sunny April afternoon, on the other hand, is definitely a much more appeasing use of the concept.  As is anticipating just how much bliss I'm going to experience spending an entire week roaming hand-in-hand with mon petit ami (mon puh-tee ahm-ee: boyfriend) in the moped and food-stand filled streets of Istanbul.  In fact, that's plaisir anticipé (pla-zeer an-tee-see-pay: anticipated pleasure) of the highest degree.

The crazy part of anticipation is that the emotion is really just a huge build-up to an unknown future.  Maybe those dreaded speeding tickets will be tossed out by the judge (hey, it can happen!).  Maybe that credit card bill isn't going to be six figures long--without the decimal point factored in...  Or maybe that suntan by the canal will turn into a third degree sunburn or the romantic Turkish vacation with a sexy Californian will turn into a scene from Midnight Express.  The fact of the matter is, no matter how much I anticipate the future, I'll never be able to know exactly what to expect, whether the future happens to be good, bad, or boringly mediocre.

I guess what keeps anticipation alive is the fact that half the fun of the future is imagining all the different scenarios that may result until the big moment anticipé (moh-mehn ahn-tee-see-pay: anticipated moment) finally arrives.  I just hope my students don't notice that I've already planned to be mentally checked-out the rest of the week while I'm busy day dreaming about souks and Muslim prayer calls.  After all, isn't airheadedness part of my Californian charm?

Les catacombes

Hundreds of years ago (ok, really up until fairly recently) Paris was a dirty, smelly, diseased metropolis over-crowded with the starving poor and the nobles who took sadistic pleasure in abusing them. So it's no wonder that fatal maladies (mal-uh-dee: diseases) like the plague were rampant and sex-crazed Parisians without the money to put a toit (twa: roof) over their heads were having orgies in cemeteries.

Anyway, the few health nuts and moral crusaders left in this historical city decided to petition their corrupt members of government to do away with the millions of bodies buried in Paris' cemeteries (bodies that were seeping disease into the water supply, I remind you), thus also hopefully doing away with wide-open fields of publicfornication, sending these vilains (veel-en: naughty) fornicators back into the city streets where they belonged.

And so, in what must have been one of the most morbid and strangest sights in Paris (and keep in mind this city was occupied by Nazi Germany as well as hordes of Black Eyed Peas fans, so that's pretty morbid!), piles of bones were dug up night after night and carried down the city streets following a procession of priests murmuring derniers sacrements (dern-yay sak-ray-mehn: last rites) in the hope that the city would not forever be haunted by the disturbed ghosts of over six million Parisians who had once been laid carefully to rest. These corps (kor: bodies) were then thrown in a quarry in the middle of the Parisian terre (tehr: earth), now heaped in unidentified stacks of artistic skulls, shin, and hipbone displays creating a tapestry of the art of death in the damp, cold recesses of Paris' underworld.

My friends and I decided to take a coup d'oeil (koo doy: peek) at this site for ourselves (open to tourists of course at a charge of 6 euros a head, pun intended). At first the site of all the bones and death and a whole history of Parisians now piled on top of one another left me awed, then feeling a bit queasy. But after weaving through the underground site bombarded by yet another column constructed entirely out of côtes (kot: ribs), my friends and I were left with nothing to do but make jokes about it.

Regardless of your own fears of death or lack thereof, les catacombes are definitely worth a peek if you ever find yourself in Paris. I dare you.

Printemps à Paris

Andrew so kindly reminded me that today was the official start of printemps à Paris (prawn-temp ah pear-ee: springtime in Paris), a fact that had completely escaped me due to the emotional winter fog that had been haunting me since all the leaves fell off the trees and the bitter cold and gray skies of Paris forced the entire city into hibernation.

The thing is, Paris is wonderful at anytime of year, but I just assume that Parisians, comme moi (kohm mwa: like myself) are really just faking it until the better weather returns.

Sun is rare, our winter wardrobes are looking run-down, and no matter how many fabulous things there are to see and do, no one ever really wants to leave the house when the thermometer only reads 3 degrees outside (that's roughly 43 degrees Fahrenheit for you Americans).


Printemps, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Today, while walking around Notre Dame and just generally enjoying the spring sunshine, I decided to do something I haven't done since November: I went to a bench and simply sat.

I can't explain the beauty of hearing the bells of Notre Dame chime it's parishioners to mass while French children kick balls back and forth to each other while mispronouncing Harry Potter's name in a way only French children could. Old couples who have probably been living in Paris since WWII scooted by hand-in-hand in front of me (the woman in high heels, bien sûr) discussing the latest films, while tourists snapped photos of the blossoms fragrantly blooming on every tree with the immense presence of la cathedrale (lah ka-tee-drahl: cathedral) as the backdrop.

Having the time to soak up what is really an incredibly common and cliched scene in Paris reminded why I love this city so much: because nine months out of the year, she is full of the poetry of day-to-day life in this capital of Europe. But for those three months out of the year known as hiver (ee-ver: winter)? Well, even the Parisian skyline herself gets sick of the gloom after awhile.

La folie

Watching Black Swan yesterday (and in case you were wondering, yes this photo is my rendition of the crazed Black Swan eyes...painted on with magic marker. Because I'm classy like that) and leaving the movie theater only ever-so-slightly disturbed got me thinking: I'm surrounded by la folie (lah foll-ee: the crazy) in Paris to such an extent that not even crazed ballerinas can faze me. In fact, that movie more just left me missing my ballerina days. I don't think this is a proper reaction to have to a psycho thriller, but honestly the characters in this film don't know from crazy. Someone should just walk up and down the streets of Paris for a day, filming the unhinged population here. The result would be riveting, I promise.

Take my voisine (vwa-zeen: neighbor), for example. A woman well into her late fifties or early sixties I'd say, she has been living in the room next-door to me for the past 25 years. Now, in case I forgot to mention it, I live in a glorified shoebox. There's barely room enough to fart let alone feel at home. Yet this woman has managed to live in this shoebox atop seven flights of stairs without an ascenseur (ass-ens-oor: elevator)--nor a shower, but I have actively chosen not to let my mind wander too long on this litle tidbit of information-- for the past quarter century. So, as you can guess, if this woman wasn't crazy before she moved in, sheer claustrophobia has assured her speedy nosedive into manic bliss in recent years, creating a nosy, loud mouth mad woman who has decided to live her life by one motto: Why ask for things nicely when you can scream? After spending countless nights trying to drown-out the sounds of this woman berating every single person living on my floor (including myself), I've come to the conclusion that I just simply have to accept that this woman is totally and completely mental. And avoid speaking to her at any cost.

Then I have one or two choice colleagues (who shall remain nameless) who have chosen to take it upon themselves to criticize my every move at work. Apparently this is simply a matter of cultural differences. As an American, I'm used to the occasional “'atta girl!” and “good jobs” whereas French children grow up getting feedback more along the lines of “why are you such an idiot?” and “you're nothing but a troublemaker”. This means that positive reinforcement, sadly, doesn't seem to exist beyond the age of five for Frenchies. I've chosen to label this particular cultural trait as la folie, while French people still seem to view shameless degradation as a necessary step towards developing a thick skin (and losing all sense of self worth in the process, I would imagine).

Of course, there are also the many colorful fous (foo: crazies) that always occupy any city or townscape, to which Paris is not immune. I haven't experienced this personally, but one of my friends was called a salope (sal-ohp: whore) by a 70 year-old Parisian woman because my friend wouldn't let the woman cut in line at the marché (marshay: grocery store). I'm sure my days of being berated by a folle (fohl: deranged) French grandmother are right around the corner. I can't wait.

Yes, bien sûr (bee-en soor: of course) Paris is filled with excitement, beauty, and pleasure. You could live here your entire life and never want for something to do (as long as you have money in your poche [poh-sh: pocket], that is!)...however, if you've seen Black Swan, then you've experienced just a glimpse what day-to-day life is like in Paris: creamy unparalleled beauty on the outside with a schizophrenic, paranoid, and hyper-competitive nutty inside. In fact, Paris seems to celebrate la folie as yet another intricate art that makes this city great. After all, a city just isn't a city without a little grunge factor, and the citizens of Paris definitely step-up to the plate where that's concerned. As is the case with any cosmopolitan city in the world, j'imagine (juh ee-maj-een: I imagine).

Instead of leaving it all to imagination, however, why not share your favorite "bitch be crazy!" story in the comments below? Because there's nothing I take more pleasure in than reading about people who have been in more awkward situations than myself.

Bon courage

I'm not sure when it first started, because sometimes it takes me farrrr too long to notice the most obvious things, but for the past few months I've become increasingly confused by all the maîtresses (may-tress: teachers) at my school adding "bon courage" (bone koor-aj: best of luck) to the end of their au revoirs (oh vwa: goodbyes) everytime I leave the room. Almost as an afterthought as I'm collecting my papers and heading out the door, I shout out my usual "Merci! Au revoir!" (mehr-see oh vwa: thank you! Goodbye!) to which the teacher responds "Merci! Bon courage!". Without fail. Every. Single. Class.



Maybe I'm just stingy with my feelings of goodwill, but for me good luck is only something I give out in dire situations, and if you want me to wish you the best of luck, well then you're really going to have to earn it. Taking an exam? Getting a root canal? Being audited by the IRS? Present me with these situations and I'll bon courage you all the way to next Tuesday.  But walking out of the classroom? Somehow that doesn't seem to merit a best of luck occasion.  But apparently I'm the only person in the Paris metropolitan area who shares this sentiment.



At first these teachers' adamant yet somehow lackadaisical bon courage's creeped me out. I felt like all my coworkers knew something I didn't, as if I were about to walk into a bomb raid completely unprepared, with only the luck wished upon me by people I barely even know as protection.  Or perhaps I've been looking so completely haggard and stressed out lately that they assumed I could just use all the day-to-day charitable luck I could get. Because, yes, in fact, I do need the best of their luck.  But I don't want them to know that.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that maybe these teachers are onto something. Paris does require a bit of luck, especially when you're a dirt-poor teacher/fille au pair (fee oh pear: nanny). Between battling the crowd on the métro, wiping snotty noses and being told by a five year-old I'm an evil person, I'm pretty much convinced only la chance (lah shans: luck) will get me out of my work life alive. Yet I've also come to realize that in a city like Paris, everyone--not just me--is riding on a whole lot of luck.

Let's face it: Paris is fabulous and if you're living here you're probably already an incredibly lucky soul anyway.  But, if you're not careful, this city will also eat away at your will to live.  Between paying five dollars for a baguette, being gouged out the eyes for rent every month, and having to deal with Parisians who aren't afraid to start a fight with you over the fact that you cut them off on the sidewalk, Paris definitely carries a mean-streak that seems to be a proud and everlasting mark of it's grittier, bohemian, pre-European Union roots.  Which explains why wishing a fellow Parisienne (pahr-eez-ee-en: Parisian woman) like myself bon courage at the end of the day isn't meant in pity (I hope!), but instead might simply be a kindhearted exchange between two people in the know: Paris will kick your ass but, if you've got a lot of courage, Paris might also make all of your wildest dreams come true.  In the meantime, we can all use the very best of any luck we can get.

Une pause

Rather than bore you with the details of my fabulous French vacation, in which I definitely didn't spend all of it working,  never once woke-up in cold sweats, and most definitely did not cry in front of my boss, I decided instead to post this video of a dog and baby playing.  Look at how cute they are!  Enjoy!

Les enfants

Yesterday, during one of my many vacances (vay-kans: vacations) afforded to me from being a teacher, I found myself in a minivan stock-piled with ski gear, diapers, and Valentine's Day candy (not to mention two toddlers and a kindergartner) headed up to les Alpes yet again in order to be in the presence of six enfants (onfont: children) all under the age of six and their parents while they ski, play, and inevitably cry, scream, and fight in the way only children can.

I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to escape to the mountains and away from my crazy neighbor, public toilets, and lesson planning.  But it seems that, even on vacation, I can't escape being inundated by kids.  French kids, to be more precise, who already speak French better than I do, dress more fashionably than I do, and can whip out insults at the tip of a hat better than I can due to their witty, unforgiving French gènes (jen: genes).  

After spending the past five months acting as a fille au pair (fee oh pear: nanny) to these children, I've come to call them les animaux ( layzan-ee-mo: animals) rather than les enfants, which the kids seem to find hilarious and love.  Probably because they all know that, as savage (sav-aj: wild) as they all act, they're closer to wild animals at this point than they are domesticated and civilized French members of human society.  Or perhaps they act so uncivilized because they are French...hmmmm...

Le métro

Before the sun rises, Paris is as quiet as a small countryside village, save for les camions des éboueurs (lay kam-ee-own dayz ehm-bo-or: the garbage trucks) that beep down the streets at 6:00 am.  The sky is dark and timeless, the air cold and uninviting.  I clank down my seven flights of stairs to solid Parisian ground, groaning at my own misfortune as I realize that no one else in the apartment building has turned on their lights.  They're still in bed, warm under down couettes (koo-ett: comfortors). 

The few people I see awake on the street at this hour suddenly become my comrades.  We're equally sleep-deprived and bitter, and this hour of the morning is ours.  Les chiens (lay shee-en: the dogs) braving the cold underneath their bare paws, le tabac (luh ta-bak: the cigarette and magazine store) shopkeeper just unlocking his doors, preparing for the morning paper and cigarette rush.  We are all quietly respectful of each other as we take in the one positive aspect of being awake so early: a hushed, calm Paris.

I begrudgingly stumble down even more concrete steps, twenty feet below ground, trying to avoid the urine-soaked pavement smell by holding my breath while I clutch my coat tightly around me, trying to brave the biting cold of the tiled walls and wind tunnels.  A screech comes near.  My meditative morning state is broken instantly.  Le métro (luh meht-row: the subway) has arrived, announcing the start of a true Parisian day.  Everyone inside the train car is half asleep, resting their heads against the smudged fiberglass windows or else mindlessly playing Angry Birds on their cell phones in order to avoid eye contact with the strangers sitting across from them.  Eventually an accordion-wielding musician hops on, beating out the chords to "Minor Swing" for a few minutes before pulling out a cup full of centimes (sent-eem: pennies) and asking for some change.

The train speeds along at 120 kilometers an hour, pounding on it's grease-deprived brakes with every stop dotted along line 9 in the direction of Montreuil, until finally I jump out at Gare Saint-Lazare, where the real morning battle begins.  Making my way up five floors of escalators, I push through masses of Parisian commuters, suitcases in-hand, all just as angry about the upcoming workday as I am, as the inevitable rushed woman in high heels runs by, desperate to catch her train.  The announcements over the haut-parleur (oat-par-loor: loudspeaker), explaining some new traffic jam, some delayed train, some strike, make for a less-than-peaceful morning as I struggle to hear Andrew on my cell phone.  I barely make it onto my 7:48 train as it slowly creeps away from Paris and into the suburbs, promising another day of lessons, photocopies, and adorably confusing Franglish conversations with my elementary school students.  This is my matin (matt-on: morning).  Welcome to it.

When rich, poor, tourists, and French nationalists all reside together, le métro is the one part of Paris we all have in common.  Unless you're a celebrity, everyone takes the métro.  You haven't truly experienced Paris without it.  It's loud, crowded, and a breeding ground for unwarranted groping, flirtation, and the occasional innocent argument between two passengers over their degree of racism.  But it's also, by far, the fastest, most convenient way to get around the city.  And in some ways, the métro is a stream-lined version of the city above it: old, cold, dirty, ruthless, but within just a few minutes you'll get to one of the most magical destinations on Earth.  And, in the meantime, you never know what surprises await you on the journey.

Sombre

A couple of vendredis (vehn-drah-dee: Fridays) ago I got stuck on the train while on my way to work on a bleak, cold, and overcast January morning.  All of the thousands of passengers on le train (luh tran: the train) were told that there had been a "technical problem" on the tracks, and that all the trains for the rest of the morning would becanceled.  Wondering just how a technical problem could cause a virtual breakdown of the Parisian railway out of Gare Saint-Lazare, it wasn't until the next week that les maitresses (lay may-tres: the teachers) at my school told me that someone had, in fact, thrown themselves onto the tracks.  Apparently--and very sadly--suicide by train is incredibly common during the sombre (som-bruh: somber) winter season.

While I don't understand (but instead feel incredibly sorry for) the desperation that suicidal people feel, I can to a much lesser extent appreciate the havoc that the cold, le noir (luh nwa: the dark), and the gloomy days of winter can play on the le cerveau (luh serv-oh: the brain).  The lack of warmth on my face, the fact that the sun starts setting during my lunch hour, and the diminishing bank account funds thanks to Christmas shopping splurges just in time to remind me that I have to file my taxes have all left me feeling a pit of solitude in my stomach and, at the risk of being overtly poetic, a pinch of cold bitterness in my soul.

Even in the most romantique (row-mahn-teek: romantic) city on Earth (or so the French keep on telling me), I can't help but wake-up every morning feeling a tinge of an emotional hangover from too much deep thinking while alone in my room at night.  No, in fact, especially in the most romantique city like Paris does one end up getting caught-up in the loneliness of winter.  In a city where everyone is supposed to be overwhelmed by beauty and love, the bare trees and nights alone in bed from December to March eventually make even the most fabulous French person feel like maybe there's something in life that's, somehow, lacking...  Lucky for me, my winter sadness doesn't leave me feeling desperate but anxious, and I end up listening to a lot of Billie Holiday and Nina Simone, certain that they're the only two women in the world who can vocalize my pain d'hiver (dee-ver: of winter).


I'm sure this sadness is just from lack of vitamin B in my veins, but it's amazing just how much janvier (jon-vee-ay: January) can remind a person how much is going wrong in their life, even when that life is full of wonderful opportunities, great friends and family, living out a dream in Paris and keeping busy all the time.  Usually it takes me until April to thaw myself out of this peril and into a happier state of mental reflection, coincidentally right around the time le soleil (luh so-lay) comes out of hiding and I can start wearing dresses again.  To all of you experiencing sunshine and 70 degree weather in California: I hate you.

Les Femmes

Growing up in the land of wearing sweatpants to class and flip-flops being acceptable footwear to wear to work, it always kind of shocks me when I see les femmes (lay fehm: the ladies) of Paris strutting their stuff in gray and black toned pencil skirts, scarves, and high-heels on a daily basis.

Don't get me wrong, I love  Parisian fashion (though the lack of color gets kind of boring after awhile).  I feel like I've finally arrived where I truly belong because I've always been a merciless addict of high heels myself.  While the issue is up for debate, I've never been a believer that dressing to accentuate a woman's curves necessarily reduces said woman into a sex object. And since the Parisian hommes (om: men) put just as much--if not more--care into how they look as the women here, Parisian fashion doesn't strike me right off as sexist or archaic, but yet just another way to conform (yes, sadly enough) but look good while doing it.

That being said, there's still a lot of overt sexism (not to mention racism, but that's for a different blog) to be witnessed on the streets of Paris, in the workplace, in the home, hell anywhere there's a woman to be found in France.  Men still openly and shamlessly flirt with women at work while the ring on their finger is a dead giveaway that they're assholes, ass grabbing on the subway is de rigeur (duh ree-gor: a normal occurance), and if the constant winks and oh-too-friendly bisous (bee-zoo: kisses) the bartender at "my café" at work gives me is any indication, women are expected to feel flattered by this unwelcome pattern of male attention and not say a word.

Still, like anywhere in the Western world, feminism has made strides toward equality for girls in France, as is shown by the following little diddy that I found pinned-up to the wall in the teacher's lounge at work, next to the headline "pour faire un rire" (por fer uhn reer: for a laugh): a copy of a page from a textbook for a 1960s home economics class for Catholic French girls.

Now, the original text is in French, and I'm translating everything on my own so the wording might seem a bit off here and there, but if you're interested and in the mood to roll your eyes a bit, I've highlighted the best parts from the piece below.  And to think, this was considered standard and necessary learning for women a mere 50 years ago!

"Authentic extract from a scholarly Catholic manual for the Domestic Economy for Women, published in 1960:

'Make sure dinner is ready

Prepare your dinner things in advance, the night prior if need be, so that a delicious meal awaits your husband when he comes home from work.  It's a way of letting him know that you have thought of him and you worry yourself with his needs.  Most men are hungry when they get home from work as soon as they get in the door and the idea of a good meal (particularly his favorite dish) is a necessary part of warming his heart.

Be Ready

Take 15 minutes to nap before your husband comes home so that you're well-rested and ready for his return.  Touch-up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh and attentive.  He spent a day in the company of men charged-up with the worries of work.  Be a joy to him and a bit more interesting than his previous company.  His hard day has a need of being enlivened and it's your duty to fulfill this need.


Pick-up the house

Make one last round about the house just before your husband gets home.  Tidy-up the books, games, papers, etc. and dust the tables.

During the coldest months of the year

You must light the fire in the chimney, after which it puts itself out.  Your husband will return home to a sentiment of having been awaited for in order relax and that will make you just as happy.  Making sure his every comfort is met will also give you immense personal satisfaction.


Reduce noise to a minimum

At the moment of his arrival, eleiminate all the noise of the washing machine, dryer or vacuum.  Try to encourage your children to be at their most calm.  Be happy to see him.  Welcome him with a warming smile and show him the sincerity in your desire to please him.


Listen to him

It might be that you have a dozen important things to tell him, but his arrival home is not the time to bring these up.  Let him speak first, remember that his topics of conversation are more important than yours.  Be of the sort where the evening pertains to him.


Never complain if he comes home late

Men leave for dinner or to go to other fun places without you.  When this happens, try to make your home a place of peace, order, and tranquility or else your husband will lose body and spirit.


Don't bother him with your complaints and problems

Don't complain if he is late coming home for dinner or if he stays out all night.  Consider this problem minor compared to what he has to deal with all day.   Make him comfortable when he does come home.  Propose that he relax in a comfortable chair or that he rest in bed.  Prepare him a hot or cold drink.  Suggest he take off his coat and oragnize his things for him.  Speak in a soothing, soft, pleasant voice.  Never ask him questions that put into question his judgement or integrity.  Remember that he is the master of the house and that above all, he exercises his role with justice and honesty.

As soon as he has finished his dinner, clear the table and do the dishes very quickly

If your husband proposes that he help you, decline his offer or else he risks feeling obliged to help you clear the table every night after a very long day of labor at work; he doesn't need anymore additional work.  Encourage your husband to take part in one of his favorite past-times and to concentrate on his center of interest and show your interest in everything he does without ever giving the impression of trespassing on his domaine.  If you have past-times yourself, make it so that you never mention them in front of him, because the interests of women are often very insignificant compared to those of men.


At the end of the evening

Tidy-up the house so that it's ready for the next morning and think of preparing breakfast in advance. Breakfast for your husband is essential if he must face the outside world in a positive way.  Once you've both retired to the bedroom, prepare yourself to get to bed as quickly as possible.


Regarding feminine hygiene

It's of great importance, though your tired husband might not have time to wait in line to use the bathroom.  So make sure to do your bathroom ritual quickly before going to bed.  Try to have an advantageous appearance without trying too hard.  If you wish to put on night cream or curlers before going to sleep, wait until your husband has fallen asleep, because it might shock him to see you in such an ugly state.



Concerning intimate relations with your husband


It's important that your remember your marriage vows and in particular your obligation to obey your husband.  If he predicts that he'll need to go to sleep right away, it's because he truly needs to.  In any case, be guided by the desires of your husband and never under any circumstance provoke or try to stimulate an intimate relation.


If your husband suggests sleeping together


Accepting with humility all while keeping up the spirit of pleasure of your husband is more important than keeping up the pleasure of a woman, and as he's approaching orgasm, a little gyrating on your part will encourage him and be satisfying enough to assure him that all pleasure possible on your part has been attained.

If your husband suggests something a bit strange in the bedroom

Show your obedience and resignation toward his suggestion, but indicate your lack of enthusiasm by keeping silent.  It is probable that your husband will sleep better; adjust your clothes, refresh yourself and apply your night cream and care for your hair.

You can then wake-up for another day

There is little time to get ready before he wakes up in the morning.  This time will permit you to get his cup of tea ready for him on the nightstand so it's there as soon as he wakes up in the morning.'"

...all I can say to this?  Oh, la nostalgie (lah nost-al-jee: nostalgia)!  And that, as much as pre-WWII culture fascinates me, I'm so lucky I was born after the release of The Feminine Mystique!

Time

Well, it's officially a new year, which means a whole new batch of 365 days in which I can procrastinate in, starting with my blog, apparently. And what better way to usher in 2011 than by celebrating it in front of what is known as one of the most reliable time pieces on the planet: Big Ben in London? There is no better way, I tell you!

Yes, as the completely spoiled person that I am, I was able to spend 2011 in London on the river Thames, just steps in front of the Houses of Parliament while throngs of drunk, puking hipsters and tourists from the world over danced in the streets while taking thousands of pictures of themselves having a fabulous time in fabulous London so they could post those pictures onto Facebook to make sure all their less fabulous friends are constantly reminded of just how jealous they should be. Andrew did one better, though: he posted video, which I've included above for your viewing pleasure. It's said that a picture is worth a thousand words, so a YouTube video must be worth the past two blog posts I missed and then some, right? 

The madness that is the New Year Celebration in London is very much reflective of the United Kingdom's worship of promptness and devotion to the Ticking Clock.  Too many songs have been written about the British obsession of time, and I'm reminded here of the aptly-named Pink Floyd song "Time", where they sing "Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time (...) Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way".  Oh so true, Pink Floyd, oh so true.  

Americans are pretty much the same as the British in this regard.  I secretly think Brits and Americans get so hyped up about the New Year because we are all secretly addicted to watching the clock tick by, seeing our lives flash before our eyes, feeling guilty by every project we know we're putting off (like my blog, for example), but New Year's Eve is the one time we actually sit around and watch the clock tick by WITH FRIENDS, celebrating this national obsession cum illness out in the open with glasses of champagne and kissing, which makes the activity much more stimulating.

The French, by all accounts I've heard, love New Year's because it's an excuse to drink, but the New Year celebrations in Paris are tame by London's standards because the French have a very different philosophy about time, which is called "relaxe un peu, merde!" (ree-lax uhn poo, meh-rd: chill the fuck out!).  I've come up with the French translation myself, so if anyone out there speaks enough French to come-up with something better, let me know!  

No French person I know would ever feel guilty about putting something off or feel rushed by the ticking of a clock, or even feel compelled to notice if a clock is actually working.  Instead, they seem to work more by their own internal French clocks, which conveniently afford them all the time they need.  So why get so excited about the stroke of midnight on one particular night in the year?  The French have spent their history avoiding deadlines, there's no reason to start stressing about the impending New Year now.

But I'm not French, as hard as I try: I'm still just as American as my drunkard Irish Catholic/Scottish/Mexican ancestors allow me to be.  So you'd think I'd realize while listening to the stroke of midnight during one of the craziest New Year's parties on the planet just how quickly time creeps up, yet still I manage to put things off. Now the holidays are over, my busy month has come to an end with the departure of Andrew back to the States, and suddenly it's come to my attention that we're three weeks into 2011 and I'm running three weeks behind. But since the French have a much more laid back attitude toward deadlines than the British and Americans do, I figure I must be, somehow, running right on schedule. So, Happy New Year, everyone! Over two weeks late, yet right on time.