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.