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.

Père Lachaise

Even celebrities, like all us mere mortals, eventually fall to their demise and end up underground. Which means it turns out that the best place for celebrity sightings in Paris happens to be a graveyard: Père Lachaise (pear lah-shez), to be exact.

A cemetery in the 20^th arrondissement of Paris that claims Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and The Doors lead singer Jim Morrison as some of its most happening and popular residents, Père Lachaise will probably remain one of the most exclusive hotspots in Paris: you have to be dead just to get in. So I thought, what better way of commemorating the one day of the year that people dress-up and party as les morts vivants (lay mor veev-ahn : the living dead), ghosts, and celebrities alike by visiting the one place in Paris where ghosts and celebrities (and even the ghosts of celebrities) party in equal and eternal harmony?

My Halloween may have been spent grave-spotting the hipsters of heaven and hell, but my mind was elsewhere. Last weekend, I received some frightening news that startled me from my proverbial tombe (tome: grave): one of my closest friends from childhood is—happily—engaged. Several acquaintances from high school and college, according to Facebook, have tied the knot, but this is the first of my truly close friends from way-back-when to step-up into that next oh-so-adult phase of life, at least as far as setting an actual wedding date goes. And of course, I'm more than happy for her as she and her super-talented boyfriend make one of the most sickeningly cutest couples I've ever seen. Though somehow I can't help but feel a little blindsided by the fact that not only are my brothers happily busy building families of their own, but now it seems people my own age are getting into that stage of life where they're ready to admit they would rather spend the rest of their lives with someone rather than alone. I thought 35 was the new « adulte » (ah-doolt: adult), not 25. Or has Sex and the City been lying to me this whole time?

Since I'm busy living my fantasy of croissants and grave rubbings of the rich and famous in France, I've missed the very real reality of my niece's birth and will now miss not only the birth of my nephew, but the wedding of one of my meilleures amies (may-ure amee: best girlfriends) as well. And this even though we long ago pinky-swore we'd be each others bridesmaids back when we were running laps around the track in high school.

This reflective thought process has somehow lead to the unsettling reality of my own mortality. No matter how hard I try to stop it, I've been having haunting thoughts this past week about just how fragile my own life really is. As extatique (ek-stat-eek: ecstatic) as I am to be in Paris, I can't seem to shake the sudden awareness of how easily everything could be put to an end. Forgetting to look both ways before crossing the street, accidentally tripping down the stairs, overdosing on cocaine while partying in a hotel room (ok, maybe this last one is more Jim Morrison's fate)...these morbid thoughts that I've been more or less so good at avoiding for the past 25 years have suddenly started sucking the life-blood out of me. But it all culminated in one horrifying thought this afternoon, as I went to see one of the best views of Paris from my friend's 16^th floor appartement (ah-pahrt-eh-mehn: apartment) that overlooks the Parisian skyline. 

As I looked down from her balcony to admire the picture-perfect view of Paris, I had one of my very first terrifying fear-of-heights experiences. Just as quickly as I was captivated by the view of the Eiffel tower from 16 floors up, my mind became captivated by a different thought: what if I slipped and fell 16 floors down? This morbid cogitation left me more terrified than I've been in ages that not even seeing a bunch of five year-old zombies on le metro (luh meht-roh: the subway) on my way home could shake my feeling of vertigo.

I'm not sure if this sudden awareness about the fragility of life is just a coming-of-age process for twenty-somethings everywhere or if the ghosts of maids past are haunting me in my bedroom during my slumber, but this sudden new fear is not one I'm ready to accept. Hopefully my mind is just trying to get into the festive spirit by psyching me out for Halloween, but I can't help but feel like there's something I'm supposed to be learning out of all of this. Because just like every celebrity singer, writer, and everyman in Paris before me, eventually all good things come to an end, and all that's left is some dirt and a rock with a name chiseled on it.

While I'm more than aware how blessed my life is that I can enjoy the view of Paris on Halloween from 16 floors in the clouds, maybe it's time I really start thinking about who I want to enjoy the view with. Someone who would catch me long before I start to fall... After all, if history has taught me anything it's that high school friends always succumb to peer pressure, so if my high school friends have started to take the plunge, it probably won't be that long before I jump in after them. It's just that sometimes that can be the scariest fall of all, but certainly not life-threatening. N'est-ce pas (nes paw: right)?

Chambre de Bonne

Once upon a time, Paris was filled with the super rich, the rich, and the incredibly poor. The super rich had maids and lived in perfectly coiffed apartments overlooking perfectly manicured streets and gardens. The maids lived in the highest reaches of these beautiful apartment buildings, basically in glorified attics, also known as les chambres des bonnes (lay sham-bruh day bone: maids quarters). Since these maids were so busy cleaning up after the families of their employers, they rarely had time to start families of their own, meaning the that the fact that these rooms could only fit a single bed, a table, and some closet space posed no problem at all.

Fast forward a bit to present day. Paris is still filled with the super rich, but instead of maids (who are too bourgeois to have around all the time!), maids have been replaced by les filles au pair (lay fee oh pair: nannies) who keep track of the kids while dear old maman et papa (mom-ma ay pop-pa: mom and dad) are busy cooking, cleaning, and running all the errands the maid used to be in chage of. These nannies now occupy these rooms once reserved for girls who dressed habitually in black cotton dresses with French-cut white lace aprons...or something along those lines. And this is where I come in.

Finding myself in Paris with nowhere to sleep, eat, or while-away my hours after work, I was thrilled when I was offered a job as a babysitter for three young French kids in the 16th arrondissement (arr-ohn-dees-mehn: neighborhood). In exchange for my babysitting, I've been offered a chambre de bonne on the seventh floor of a typical upper-middle-class French apartment building. It's completely outfitted with a twin bed, a table, a stove top, fridge, shower, and closet. Which, considering I'm an unmarried female in my twenties, is all I need. My, my! These French families have thought of everything!

In fact, I've even started to romanticize the situation a bit. I can't help but think of who might have lived in this room before me, during the yesteryear of pre-war Paris. Thoughts of countless young French girls selflessly serving the upper-crust before they were sent home to quietly suffer from the plague come to mind. Way off? Maybe. But hey, it's France! These sorts of things did happen. 

Whatever romance my room may be lacking, the view from my window certainly makes up for it. A sprawling Parisian landscape that, when I poke my head out at just the right angle, even offers me a view of the top of le tour Eiffel (luh toor ey-fel: the Eiffel Tower) which, when it's dark out, actually glistens with twinkle lights every hour. It's nice to see this and be reminded that, hey, I may be broke, sick, and running out of clean clothes, but at least I'm broke, sick, and dirty in Paris, baby!

Le Rhume

It's a truth universally acknowledged that kids are dirty, even the French ones. Sure, they're cute, chubby, and jolly whenever they're not in middle of a temper tantrum, but their cuteness is wrapped inside a germ-infested package of snotty noses, a desire to touch every piece of shiny trash on the street, and an inability to wash their hands properly after using the bathroom. Thankfully I love children anyway. They're mostly non-judgmental compared to their older teenage counterparts, and often give me petits dessins (deh-see-nawj: drawings) and handmade jewelery as their way of saying “I think you're alright”. And then, you know what? I think they're alright too. I respond well to gifts.

Considering I teach almost 200 children everyday, ride the Parisian metro ( the very dirty but practical subway) to and from work, and have been subsisting on a McDo's (meek-dohz: McDonald's in French) and yogurt diet because I'm broke and McDonald's is the only place in my neighborhood with free wifi, I'm actually pretty surprised I lasted two weeks in Paris without getting sick. But Thursday morning, when I woke-up to my alarm at 5:30 in the morning to dress for work, I had that all-too-familiar “oh shit” feeling: I was getting a cold, and I could tell this one was going to—how you say—suck balls.

Let it be said that the French don't seem to handle having une maladie (oon mahl-ah-dee: an illness) very well. You should see the way they baby their children at the slightest mention of a stomach ache, and it seems that every time I show up to work some teacher or another is at home sick, recovering from what could only be terminal pneumonia from the way the French dramatize it. 

 

This all makes sense if you think about it, considering that not too long ago Paris was ridden with plagues, death, and the worst possible stench you could possibly imagine. However, I was under the impression that underground plumbing in France was installed long ago, doing away with the need to associate the common cold with death, but still this fear seems to have been passed down through the generations. The French won't hesitate to go to the doctor the moment their throat starts to itch, and in case le médecin (luh mehd-uh-sun: the doctor) is out on vacation, there's une pharmacie (oon farm-uh-see: a pharmacy) on every street corner selling every type of snake oil to cure whatever particularly ails you, whether that be your puss-encrusted pink eye or the cottage cheese pattern on your thighs.

After spending two and a half hours waiting for the train in the cold suburban air due to yet another grève (grehv: strike), I was feeling particularly crappy the next day and headed to the corner pharmacy myself to hopefully find some generic equivalent to DayQuil. Not so easy in France, where pharmacists tend to be treated with as much revere and respect as doctors--and porquoi pas (por-kwa pah: why not), I guess—though this means that all over-the-counter medicine is actually kept over the counter. In order to get so much as a multivitamin, you have to explain your each and every symptom to the pharmacist before she will prescribe what she deems appropriate and hand it over to you. 

 

This is the case even for something as simple as buying ibuprofen, as I experienced last year, when I explained to the man behind the counter, « I'd like some ibuprofen, please » to which he responded « Why? ». Confused, I explained « Because I have pain ». « You should take aspirin, it's better » he said, handing me a ten euro box of aspirin. To which I had to explain that I, in fact, had horrible menstrual cramps and ibuprofen is the only thing that works, and where's a box of tampons while we're at it? Eventually he gave in, but I've never willingly walked into a pharmacy ever since.

But this is a brand new year, in a brand new city in France, and my cold was making me feel particularly pathetic, so in my plugged-up nose, watery eye, sore throat and chills haze, I stood at the pharmacy counter down the street explaining to the nice, soft-spoken lady pharmacist in my broken French (translated here for your comfort and my humiliation): 

 

«Good day! I have a nose that is....I do not know how to say... » as I point to my nose trying my best to make snot motions with my hands. 

 

The pharmacist helps me out  « stuffed or runny? » she asks in French. 

I think for a minute and decide « yes, runny!», making runny snot motions with my hand now just as she did, realizing that I had never until this moment bothered to consider whether a stuffy nose was actually runny or vice versa, « and I have bad in my throat and eyes with some water. Is it that you have things for to hide the symptoms?»

« Yes, of course! Tell me, do you have chills? »

« But yes, I do! »

« Do you have a fever? »

I feel my forehead, wondering why I never bothered to ask myself the same question, « No, I do not believe so! »

« And how are your bowel movements? »

« Fine. Just fine . »

I look behind my shoulder and the customers waiting in line at the next cash register over are looking at me with sly grins on their face, partly thrilled to be witnesses to my humiliation and partly intrigued by my over-eager French phrases that would make even a two year-old cringe.

The pharmacist strolls over and takes down the French equivalent of DayQuil and some cough drops. She explains to me that I'm to take the DayQuil—called Actifed in France—once every four hours, on a full stomach, and then the night pill at night, when it's dark and before I go to sleep. Then she explains the cough drops to me, saying « These you suck on, to make your throat losen up and feel better. They're sweet and they taste good. ». At five euros a box, I didn't care how good they tasted. I'm an American, not an idiot, and I'd rather spend my five euros on something more worthwhile, like a bottle of wine, than 12 honey-flavored cough drops. I know when I'm being gypped.

I tell her I'll just take the Actifed. She gives me a look with raised eyebrows, then says « as you like ». I pay, say my most polite merci (mer-see: thank you) and leave at a casual strolling pace, vowing never again to forget the name for French DayQuil, as that entire fiasco could have been avoided.

Two days later, and I still feel like crap but thanks to that lovely pharmacist's keen powers of deduction, she was able to properly surmise that I, in fact, have le rhum (luh room: a cold). Maybe if I had just bought the damn cough drops, I'd be cured by now.