An American in Paris

Caroline, (my apartment-mate/land lady for those who are not familiar) spent the entire weekend chain smoking in her room, fooling around with paint thinner, and eventually repainting her armoire... May I add, no windows where opened in the process.

This must explain the following:

I come home from class, Caroline is sitting at her desk, phone in hand, cursing.

 I ask what is wrong.

She says, extremely exasperated, "I lost my cell phone! It was probably stolen because I cant find it ANYWHERE, and I keep calling it to see if anyone has found it."

She swears again, then adds, "What the fuck is that damn buzzing noise, I've been hearing it all day long!"

I tell her to call her cell phone again, and within 10 seconds of searching, I find the phone in her room, under a pile of book, set on vibrate....

Moral of the story: always play with chemicals and smoke in a well-ventilated area.

Some Pigeons caused a ruckus outside my window...at 6 this morning, I awoke to squaking and various other Pigeon noises.

 

I hate Pigeons. But mostly I hate the ones that had a fight on my window sill.

 

The French are right to eat them.

 

 

1. You want to order an omelet for breakfast, with a side order of bacon.
2. You order café crème after noon time. You ask for café au lait instead of café crème.
3. Upon the waiter asking you what you would like to drink with your meal, you ask for Coca Cola.
4. You wonder, and then get angry, as to why your Coca Cola is served with two small ice cubes.
5. You think you’re getting ripped off when you realize that the same drink costs about 15% more if you drink it outside on the terrace rather than inside the café.
6. You ask for the non-smoking section.
7. Upon realizing there is no non-smoking section, you attempt to guilt you neighbor into not smoking by making faces and waving the smoke out of your face.
8. You don’t order wine with your meal.
9. You order your steak well done
10. You eat your French fries with ketchup.
11. You eat your steak with steak sauce or ketchup.
12. You order a croissant at a café after noon time
13. You want to eat your lunch at 2:30pm and your dinner at 7pm.
14. You feel extremely classy, if not over dressed, as you enter the restaurant for dinner donning your best pair of Dockers pleated Bermuda Shorts and a fresh pair of Nikes.
15. You ask for “dressing on the side.”
16. You attempt to alter the cooking methods while ordering your dish. “Is it possible to have the Fries broiled, not fried?”
17. You request a side order of something that is suppose to complement another dish.
18. You put butter on your bread.
19. You ask for artificial sweetener and cream for your espresso coffee.
20. You order a dry white with red meat.
21. You order a dry white with salmon and feel proud of your taste of wines.
22. You expect the portions served to be at least as big as those at the Cheese Cake factory.
23. You think they’re discriminating against you when they tell you they’re out of a special menu item.
24. You think Foie Gras is disgusting.
25. You frown at escargots.
26. Steak Tartar is Evil
27. You dont know who Alain Ducass is.
28. You struggle with the utensil used to eat the escargot, then give up and use the tines of your dinner fork.
29. You hold the fork in your left hand and your knife in your right while you cut your steak into pieces; then you switch and put your fork in your right hand instead of keeping it in your left throughout the entire meal.
30. You attempt to order the salad course before the main meal.
31. You call the main meal the entrée.
32. You search for the bread plate and hesitate to place your bread directly on the table.
33. Desserts are evil and are to never be ordered.
34. It takes you less than an hour to finish your meal.
35. You leave a tip that’s more than 10%.

General Observations:

 

I realize that the bureaucratic process has been a long running theme in most of my entries so I have compiled a list of other sociological observations that I consider to be perfect vignettes and insights for understanding this remarkably different culture.

 

In a subconscious way, since the Gauls are ethnically the same, it’s easier to superimpose one’s cultural expectations without realizing that although most of the population looks like you physically, their ways differ considerably. I don’t mean to be racist in any way, but I really do believe I have a point. If an American (Caucasian) travels to Japan, it becomes extremely salient that he is ethnically different among the majority of Japanese. Automatically he lowers his expectations of cultural identification; in other words he expects his “Americanisms” to be irrelevant to the Japanese experience.

 

Americans in Paris, I have noticed, essentially forget that they are in France. Since the population here is largely reminiscent of that in the States, they retain the same expectations of people and their manners, assuming that the French will act like Americans in similar situations.

 

Insert anacdote here:)

 

Yesterday, as all of Paris was about to stop for the daily 2 hour lunch break (not including Sunday, when its all day), I was waiting in line to buy a sandwich (Gasp!! I know, I ate a sandwich) There was an American behind me and he must have heard about 6 people order their sandwiches. So lets imagine the scenario:

 

1. Observing carefully the method of other people placing their orders, the American valiantly tries and somewhat butchers, yet, humbly attempts to pronounce some sandwich names like “Poulet” (chicken), “Jambon” (ham), “Le Parisian”, the American politely requests his sandwich.
2. Says, “Bonjour” or “Pardon” or any other simple phrases located in the back of the tourist guidebook, he orders the sandwich.
3. He points, and says, “I want that one.” to the bewildered French waitress, who to his expectations must posses perfect knowledge of English. (Because this is France after all…)

 

Answer is C. The guy grunted, yes, grunted “I want that one” jabbing his greasy finger into the freshly wiped vitrine. And then, the best part was that he was annoyed that the French waitress didn’t comprehend what the hell he said.

 

I don’t know if the man makes his environment or the environment makes the man, but still, here are some observations:

 

Does anyone remember that show “Cheers”? For the Russians and/or non-T.V watchers among us, it was a show in the 1980’s that took place in a bar. The main theme of all of this was, that there was a bar “where everyone knew your name” and it the story line revolved around the local patrons.

 

To Americans, that’s mostly fantasy. It’s interesting though, that Starbucks plays on this psychological need to belong by decorating their stores with a very homey atmosphere including soft jazz music and comfortable arm chairs. Nevertheless, when is the last time someone knew your name when you ordered your latte, or what kind of drink you like, or remarked that they haven’t seen you around in a while and brought you a piece of chocolate to go with your espresso?

 

Yes, mes amis, I’m not lying, this is possible… And the waiters aren’t even expecting a tip. Patronage is extremely important in France, given that every corner has a boulangerie or a café offering mostly the same products. From an economic standpoint, this is where the rather ignored “human” component makes a vast difference in the π-max equation. The businesses here do not operate on simple profit maximization techniques of constant const cutting. The elements that bring a customer back are not cheap prices and large volumes of products, they are the relationships that are carefully and oh-so-subtlety cultivated with each customer. To the point of I would feel guilty going to another café in my quartier besides Nord-Sud. The same for the poissonerie (fish monger), boulangerie, and fruit stand.

 

For example, the fruit guy knowing my fondness for ripe pears never fails to present perfect specimens. Often, after I have already paid, he takes two clementines or a persimmon and coyly asks if they are mine, whether I have forgotten them and then promptly places them into my bag of pears. He tells me to come by on the days he’s expecting particularly nice Pink Lady apples or tells me that the pineapples from Cote d’Ivoire (Former French colony on East cost of Africa) aren’t particularly sweet this time around.

 

The café I go to, the Nord-Sud is a particularly interesting place. It’s open from 7am to 1am, 7 days a week and constantly packed at all hours. There has not been a time when I haven’t seen one of the owners personally greet his veteran customer with kisses on the cheek and a stashed away copy of Le Monde (French newspaper)

 

The waiters have been there as long as the owners, it seems. They always know who I am and confirm my order with me for a café crème as soon as I walk through the door. One guy never fails in giving me a chocolate covered almond and practicing some English words.

 

When Yoni was visiting this past time, he was even able to get a sandwich at 11:10 in the morning. Let me tell you, in all of France, you may be dying from hunger, crawling on your hands and knees into a café, asking for a sandwich, and if its not lunch time, God help you. We were met with obvious protestation as the waiter glanced at his watch and grimaced in my direction, as I explained that Yoni had been on an transatlantic flight for the past 7 hours, and a sandwich at 11:10am isn’t too too much to ask.

 

 

Anyways, theres much much more to tell, but I got to go experience La Vie Parisian, after all so A bien tot!

 

Wait, as a side note:

 

Speaking of La Vie Parisian, I went to see the Willy Ronis exhibit at the Hotel De Ville

(Paris City Hall) which was remarkable (and free)

 

Willy Ronis photographed  "la vie quotidienne", or the daily life of Parisian. 

Through the decades, he captured such iconic moments of live, what it means to be French, and the relationships the inhabitants have with their city. In Ronis's pictures we often have this sense of a moment caught in motion, a dynamic that enlivens them.

Check out these links for some of his works:

 

Images

General information about exhibit (in french)

 

 

 

 

I was watching this TV Program I like to watch on Thursday nights in France called, “Envoye Speciale”, or “Special Delivery”.

 Click here for link.

This is a TV news magazine which shows 3 documentary reports on unrelated subjects, and tonight among the featured was a documentary on child slave trafficking between various African countries. These kids are sold for about 15 Euros ($20) into slave labor from the age of 5 and they are expected to work countless hours in absolute abject conditions.

 

These aren’t even child labor issues in big corporations such as Nike, but African children working for other Africans as maids (if they’re lucky) or physical laborers. They get whipped. I saw the scars, welts, blisters, their tattered clothing, and their pleading eyes. One of the producers decided to help “buy back” a nine-year old child and return him to his mother who lives in a rural village. Upon seeing her son, the mother cries, not because she is relived to see her son after months of not knowing of his condition, but because he will no longer be earning the 3 Euros/month she uses to feed the rest of the family. She even offers her breast-feeding baby to the producer instead…

 

It’s so sad it makes your stomach turn but you can’t bear to look away. Sad because I feel helpless, greedy, gluttonous, and spoiled all at the same time. The reality remains that there is very little I can do to help or alleviate the pain of these children. I have this glorious fantasy of arriving there, taking one little girl, giving her money and food, taking another to a doctor, freeing the little boy from his boss. But the money and food cannot last forever and it will be even more painful for them as they see their peers suffer more than they. Since this society produces almost nothing and there is no birth control, these kids are commodities and a method of survival. As soon as they are capable of any type of work, they are sold.

 

It may sound cliché, but it’s good that humans are capable of feeling empathy and compassion at random moments. Like you’re ready to escape all reality, jump on a plane and make life better for these people; but that’s were it ends. And that’s exactly what makes me sick. Maybe in a couple of hours, I’ll distract myself with checking email, reading a book, or making tea. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow preoccupied with all of my bullshit and never remember the anguish of these people until another one of these documentaries pop up. And I watch. And I experience the same. And I’ll sit and shed a tear, and then forget.

 

Forgive me for sounding Buddhist, but I really do believe that we all will suffer our own way, its not a question of why but a question of when and how.

I have to admit that I’ve been neglecting this blog longer than I should have. Yet the reason makes sense to me since my life here is becoming “my life here”. In other words, one does not always notice the passing of time nor the beauty that surrounds them on a regular basis. I’ve written about this phenomenon in prior entries, but I suppose that it’s becoming more and more sub conscious. But, enough excuses and on with the stories!

 

I’ve been keeping a little notebook in my bag for the purpose of writing down interesting things that occur as I go about my day. Types of entries are usually interesting stores I notice, cafes I’d like to visit, where the prettiest pastries are so I can to drool over them; and such…however, I’ve also accumulated quite a lot of what I like to call, “Good Walks”. I have a way to amuse myself now by getting off at random metro stops and meandering through the quartiers. Today (check out the corresponding album) I took the metro to Place de Concord, meandered through the Jardin de Tuileries and up the Champs Elysees. Quickly repelled by the hoards of tourists, I took a left to the Grand Palais. At this moment, its having a fantastic exhibit of Turn of the Century Vienna: Kokoshka, Egon Schiele, Moser, and Klimt (http://www.rmn.fr/galeriesnationalesdugrandpalais/)

 

Past the Palais, I headed strait for the Pont Alexandre III, to Les Invalides, to St. Germaine de Pres via Rue Babylone. I guess it’s pointless to name drop, but whenever y’all get here, you’ll be doing a lot of walking with me.

 

The night before, I was leafing through a Paris guide book and discovered that I have indeed seen most of all the spots mentioned and most of the time, I didn’t even realize it was in fact “the” spot as I passed it.