Cultural Differences

My husband and I unexpectedly, and briefly, returned to the states for a few days last week.

The culture shock was unbelievable.

Just kidding. I did not pull a Madonna and only speak in a foreign accent and denounce all things American since I am now a tres sophisticated Europe-dweller. In fact, my English came back to me quite readily. I suspect this was the case because English is the language I primarily speak in France anyway.

However, the trip home offered some interesting juxtaposition in terms of some cultural differences that I would never have noticed prior my becoming an ex-pat. Since many people in the U.S. had questions for us, I thought I would compile a brief list here.

Disclaimer: since you all know my primary life concerns involve food, it makes sense that a few of the things I noticed involve dining. But not everything on the little list has to do with food. That said, here are some interesting things I noted:

1. The approach to service in the U.S. is vastly different from that in France, and this discrepancy is particularly apparent in restaurants. Cognitively, the disparity in serving style makes perfect sense as it boils down to that tried and true bottom line reason for most human behavior: money. What I mean is that servers, waiters, etc in the U.S. heavily rely on tips to generate their income since the hourly rate for waitressing is a couple of pay notches lower than what you might make if you cleaned hamster cages (I speak from much waitressing experience here). In France, the waiters are paid reasonable wages, and tips, while never refused, are also rarely expected. They are also always considerably lower than the 15-20% American servers expect to glean from each table.

So...waiters in France do not need to kiss your derriere to be guaranteed a paycheck. And they don't. In the U.S., we are used to waiters falling all over themselves to ensure the service is impeccable and we leave not only wanting to empty the contents of our wallets for their sake, but also contemplating including them on next year's holiday card. Our egos like this song and dance, though our bank accounts have less afffinity for it. In France, the waiter could give a toss if you like him or her. They will not shower you with affection or try to engage in small-talk. They will be accurate and somewhat efficient, and you will eat delicious food. If you need more coddling, then you will be disappointed.

2. Also on the service end, in France, it is the customer who greets the proprietor, no matter the sort of business. If you enter a place of business (a shop, a bakery, a grocery store, etc.), and you do not loudly and cheerfully say hello to anyone and everyone who is in the establishment, then your service will be decidedly grumpy and sub-par. This is a very important unspoken rule in France. In the U.S., it is the opposite case as the proprietor always first greets the customer. So it was a tad strange when I walked into our Cape Cod neighorhood deli/mini grocery store and loudly announced, "Hello, and how is everyone today!" to everyone in there. It was met with silence and it was awkward.

3. If you are a wine-by-the-glass type, which I happen to be, then you might want to note that the wine pours are wildly different. In France you receive a glass of wine, almost filled to the top of a humble, even tiny, wine glass. In the U.S., the trend seems to be to dole out large portions of wine in tumblers the size of a human head. Though the large goblet is filledto just under the half-way point, there must be approximately half a bottle of wine sloshing around in there.

In France, no one would ever offer you a second glass, even if your first was drained by the end of the entree (which means "appetizer" in French) part of the meal. They would anticipate that you would have coffee at the end of the meal, and maybe an aperatif before the meal, but having more than a single glass of wine during a meal would earn you a raised eyebrow or two. Not so in the U.S., where they hover around you as you eat and offer to refill the trough of wine when it is two-thirds down.

Of course, as noted in item #1, the U.S. waiters are looking for a hefty tip. Maybe ensuring their customers are sufficiently pickled helps their cause. It's a thought, anyway.

4. Everyone from my dental hygienist to my relatives wanted to know the answer to some version of the following question: "Are the French really mean?" I do not mean to sound rude, but this is a ridiculous question. If you think about it, can you ever say that an entire nation could be categorized in a single manner? It's like someone visiting the Playboy Mansion in Los Angelos and then asking if everyone in America has fake boobs.

So no, just as all French people are not innately stylish, neither are they all mean.

My supposition is that the confusion arises from a cultural difference in affect. Americans are smiley and friendly. The French are not smiley (of course they might have less to show off on that end as they are not as obsessed with gleaming white teeth as Americans are--here is an aspect where I am thrilled to be American, by the way). The natural manner in France is brusque, frank, and somewhat serious. There is an air of "I deserve to be first," coming from just about everyone in Paris. But it is not mean, or even selfish, it is just how everyone is because it is how everyone has been taught to be.

People do not kill you with unnecessary kindness over here, but neither do they spend all day sneering, scoffing, or spitting at foreigners. In fact, they treat foreigners the same way they treat their fellow country folk, it just feels worse to us Americans because we are used to being embraced by others in an open and friendly (albeit sometimes phony) manner. The truth is that so many people in France have been extremely kind to us. And a few have been extremely rude. Note that I could say the same for every city in which I have ever lived or visited extensively (Boston, Charleston, New York City, London, Sydney, Vail, Los Angelos, San Francisco, Chicago...you get my drift).

5. People in the U.S. chew gum in a grotesque manner. I noticed this habit a bit before, but it became glaringly obvious on this more recent trip back to the states. Being a big gum-chewer myself, I have long been conscious of not being an active, loud, or obvious chomper. People in France chew gum but it is in a more subtle, quiet manner. While I sat in Logan airport waiting to board our delayed plane, it was almost comical how many people of different ages, sizes, and looks were all chowing down on gum in a manner that suggested a cow chewing cud. Men and women, some in sweats, some in designer duds. Girls and boys, teenagers and elderly folks, all chewing gum as if their life depended on it, mouth agape and with audible sound-effects. It was really distasteful. Please consider this one the next time you pop a piece of Wrigley's; I think America lags behind here.

6. On the other hand, people in the U.S. generally have better manners. Yes phatic conversation (of the "How are you? or "Can you believe this weather?" sort) can be irritating and may be seen as "fake" but at least you feel welcome. And people in the U.S. hold open doors for the person behind or in front of them. They smile when they say hello. The men allow the women to enter or exit first. These are rituals I feel are important and civilized and they do not seem to be a big part of the French culture. Go U.S.! You are very polite, and I thank you for being so.

7. There is no doubt that the French really know their food. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. People asked me a lot about why the food is so amazing in France, and I do not have a concise or simple answer although I definitely endorse the belief. I ate well in the states, but everything seemed to have a tad too much going on. Too many different flavors, too many different sauces. When we returned to our apartment in Paris after our stateside sojourn, we were starving. As such, I popped over to the boulangerie around the corner and grabbed us a couple of baguettes with ham, cheese, and butter. My lord, the lunch was heaven. So simple yet so scrumptious. Sorry, U.S., but France has one over on us there. Big time.

So that does it for my little list. I will undoubtedly have more to add later. You might like to know that while in the U.S., my husband was appreciative of listening to people's conversations and knowing what they were saying. Well, until we were seated on the plane near a family who was traveling to Key West and who were LOUDLY discussing all kinds of riveting topics--from the need for the usage of a toilet to how close the McDonalds in the Charlotte airport would be to their departing terminal. These two topics filled about an hour and a half of air time, if you can believe it. Maybe the French are discussing equally banal and insipid things, but at least I only catch every 5th or 6th work, so I will take people gabbering on in a foreign language anyday. That said, I do NOT miss overhearing conversations I can understand, and thank you, Key West-bound family for making that crystal clear.

Although, I have to say that being in the U.S. did do something for my ego. I felt quasi-hilarious because people actually met my attempts at humor with laughter as opposed to blank and confused stares which are what I frequently ellicit over here. Maybe they were being typically "polite" or "phony" Americans, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

So the good, the bad, and the in-between. We can be sure to have it all---no matter where we live. C'est la vie.

Cheating

I caught one of my students cheating on an exam the other day.

It was not one of those blatant crib sheet moves, where the carefuly printed answers were written on a miniscule piece of paper left behind on the classroom floor for me to discover minutes after the test concluded. You know, like in the movie School Ties. Nor did I suss out the cheater by noting large amounts of suspiciously neat cursive on the bottom of a shoe, or on the inner part of a forearm. In fact, I have no actual concrete proof that the incident occurred.

Except for the fact that I have my own two eyes. And I will tell you what those saucer-like buggers saw: a cheater.

Yet, I oddly found myself in a weird intercultural pickle with regards to what transpired. Strangely enough, even an issue with a clear "right" or "wrong" attached to it has become more complicated now due to the simple fact that I am not in America and therefore I am either confused by or else second-guessing virtually all of my interactions with the "natives."

So you already know the one big point that is dragging me down: I have no actual proof in the way of a cheat sheet, and I (stupidly?) neglected to install a surveillance camera on my classroom of 19 year-olds as they wandered in with their backpacks and pencil cases to sit for the exam. Why would I? Well, for one thing I wouldn't have been able to; technological saavy is not my forte. And for another thing, tomfoolery was not on my agenda for the day.

You know, like it usually is--somewhere between eating breakfast and eating dinner, I usually schedule a little "tomfoolery" time.

But back to the situation at hand: further sullying the case for the prosecution is that the student in question bold-faced denied the situation. I approached her not once, but twice, to tell her that if her eyes could not stay on her own paper that I would take it away and give her a zero. The second time I went up to her, I adopted an incredibly foreboding tone and added the words, in slow emphatic English: "This is your last chance."

It was pretty dramatic, actually. Not as dramatic as the rose ceremonies at the end of The Bachelor, but almost.

Just to rewind a bit: what initially raised the proverbial red flag for me as to the goings-on was actually not my mediocre observational skills. Surprise, surprise. Rather, my revelation was rooted in social dynamics. The girl/"alleged" cheater was sitting between two girls she never sits next to in class. And her two neighbors were amongst the strongest students in the class.

People in their late teens and twenties do not spend an entire semester sitting with the same friends and then, voila!, on the last day, suddenly have a new "bestie." Nope, such a scenario was not in keeping with what I have witnessed with regards to late-adolescent social behavior. So that can be considered "Point 1."

I then proceeded to watch the girl blatantly copy answers from both her neighbors. One of them, God bless her, actually moved her arm so that the little operator could no longer see her paper. The other may have been in cahoots with her, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt as she does not seem the type to cheat. But what do I know? I thought the same thing about Tiger Woods.

Anway, you may be wondering why I gave her two chances. Well here is where the intercultural monster again rears his ugly little head in the life and times of Maggie White. When I first approached her and told her she needed to keep her eyes on her own paper, she stared at me in that manner which only emanates from emboldened youth, and said something along the lines of, "What are you talking about?" This response, utterly devoid of guilt or reproach, was compounded by that air which only emanates from the French, that air that seems to say, "You are a speck of dirt on my white blouse, you are the fly that has landed in my chablis, you are the scum on the sole of my shoe."

So I became confused as my mind registered her words and expression and I felt a sudden urge to apologize for interruppting her test.

What was wrong with me? I had seen her cheat, and yet, just as when someone bumps me aggressively on the metro or when the person in the grocery store glares at me after cutting me in line, I somehow feel I need to express my regret for my non-existant shameful behavior. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Has living in France turned me into a doormat?

And then, not five minutes later, there the little prevaricator goes again! If she had stood up and mooned the room it may have been a tad more discreet than the blatant bamboozling she was pulling as she copied her neighbor's work with slow precision. I somehow managed to clear the cloud of intercultural confusion that had enveloped me and I marched back up to her.

This time, when she "Pfffft"'d me with a big old shrug and a look that said, "Your problem if you think I am cheating, but please leave me alone NOW." I told her, in all my dramatic glory that this was her "last chance."

I then let her complete the test anyway, silently cursing myself all the while for allowing this great miscarriage of justice to flourish under my inept tutelage. When she handed in the test, she gave me a cheerful "Bye!" and I was so shocked by her brazen attitude that I returned the salutation.

The moral of the situation is that if you act like you can get away with something it seems that you actually can get away with it. Temporarily, anyway. Because, I will you this: karma is not a mythical entity designed to coerce people into behaving the "right" way. It is the real deal, mes amis.

Because, as it turns out, I do not even have to correct her paper--a task I was (obviously) not looking forward to agonizing over. The fact is that her attendance record is such that she recieves an automatic zero in the class. Et voila, problem solved.

So here is the golden nugget for the day: don't cheat. Because even if you are able to manipulate your culturally confused teacher temporarily, in the end you will not win. In the meantime, I am going to work on cultivating my gumption because it seems I am suffering from a serious case of intercultural wimpiness. Wish me bonne chance!

Butt Confetti

Yesterday, a French guy purposefully dumped a bunch of cigarette butts on my head. And us Americans say the French aren't friendly.

You might think I am being paranoid by using the word "purposefully" to describe this undeserved (and unhygenic) butt confetti shower, but I assure you, I am not. As I was walking up the street on which we live, I noticed a guy who was curb-side, having a rather loud conversation with a guy who was in the window above. Obviously, the scene initially delighted me: who doesn't want to witness a public verbal spar in broad daylight?

So the window man/soon-to-be-revealed hooligan was holding an article of clothing and gesturing to curb guy. I thought maybe they were having some sort of lover's quarrel where the guy in the building was perhaps delivering some kind of "I've had it with you" diatribe and thus chucking the belongings of his former lover out his window in an indignant and dramatic spectacle. Or, you know, some similar version of the script I have lifted from a Levi's ad.

Anyway, they continued with their banter until I was just below the window and then the guy above me threw the article of clothing (it was a pair of pants, but that is really neither here nor there) to his accomplice. In the process of this exchange, a shower of about one-hundred cigs fluttered upon me, and a couple nested in my hair.

The two miscreants were thrilled with the result. I was less so. For one thing, I don't have awesome hair. Having cigarette butts in my coif makes it infinitely less appealing, and this was therefore a highly irritating turn of events given that I am working with sub-par goods to begin with.

However, now comes the reason for which I am sharing this rather tawdry tale: my reaction. It was tres francais. At least, I did not turn around with a perplexed expression and question why they were behaving so so rudely, as Maggie-in-America may have done (with a finger wag to boot). Nor did I automatically apologize, as Maggie-the-American-in-France-who-is-petrified-of-making-the-wrong-move-and-thus-giving-Americans-in-general-a-bad-name would have done. Instead, I turned to glare at both of them, scowling like they were despicable pond scum, and delivered a rather emphatic, "Pfffffft."

Oh it was dramatic, all right.

Later, my husband and I were eating in a creperie with our friend Nathaniel, who was visiting for the weekend. We all ordered our food, the boys orderd Cider, and I ordered a glass of wine. The waitress came back with the cider and said something in a really hurried and harried manner that ended with the information that it would be "five to ten minutes" before she could bring the glass of wine. This seemed reasonable, as she did appear to be really busy and whatever it was that she said en Francais eluded me. It could have been utterly viable or it could have been: "Listen, foreigners, I could give a toss about your wine, so sit tight and I will get it when I feel good and ready."

Turns out, it may have been closer to the latter. For a minute or two later, Nathaniel said, "Maggie, I think I know why she said your wine would be a few minutes."

"Oh yeah, why?"

"Because she is standing outside the door having a butt break." And sure, enough, there she is, puffing away like time has stopped.

Well, Franco-Maggie says: "pffffft" (in a slightly less scowly manner than earlier). But c'est la vie, because maybe she needed a break.

I will tell you what the moral of my weekend was though: the butts sure were not giving me a break.

Marche de Noel

Since arriving in Paris, we have asked numerous people to lend us their opinion on "must-do" activities we might potentially add to our ever-expanding list. The list, though actually nameless, could ostensibly be called: "Seemingly Endless List of Must-Do Activities While in Europe." Or something equally clever and imaginative.

There is no exact science as to what makes the cut and is, indeed, added to this epic list. We employ a rather non-specific formula where we tally how appealing the idea seems to be to one or both of us, the cost versus perceived value (the old ROI), the relative ease with which we could accomplish the given activity, and, of course, how cool we deem the person who told us about the notion in question to be.

Because, as a rule, I do not take advice (solicited or not) from people whom I do not believe to be tres super cool. And, frankly, nor should you.

Just kidding--what do you think I am, a hypocrite? I am hardly burgeoning with coolness over here. I blog about unruly ducks, for pete's sake.

Anyway, several "trustworthy" sources indicated that visiting the Christmas Markets/ Marche de Noel in Strasbourg, France was a non-negotiable "must" during our stay in Europe. So, being the sheep we obvioulsy are, we booked the tickets.

We actually also did a fair amount of internet research and Strasbourg quickly revealed itself to be a place we wanted to visit--with or without the "famous" Christmas markets. So going there for these "amazing" markets obviously seemed like a rather worthwhile twofer. In terms of our list, the ROI on that guy seemed pretty solid.

You might want to know why we decided we wanted to visit Strasbourg, home of the oldest Christmas Markets in France? Well, for one thing, the city is essentially on the France-German border, and my husband was somewhat interested in having a bit of a "warm-up" for when we visit Germany later this winter. For another thing, I was highly intrigued by how the whole gastronomic situation might work out, given the geography of the city.

If you have not already ascertained as much: I am obsessed with food.

But even if you are not consumed by thoughts of consumption, you might still wonder how the whole Geman-French food fusion thing would play out. I mean how could you not? Fois gras with a side of saurkraut? An esgargot app and a main course of schnitzel, preceded by a kir, washed down with a beer and followed with a plate of camembert and roquefort and topped off with a hearty portion of apfelstrudel?

Mon dieu!

As it turned out, the menus were not so much German-French as they were German or French. The decor of the eating establishments seemed to be quite on the German side of things (lots of open space in the rather brightly lit restaurants, benches rather than tiny tables and chairs, servers wearing liederhosen/dirndl-esque ensembles). This turn of events seemed unfortunate to me, but I am admittedly biased to all things French.

Also, there were some restaurants that seemed to be experimenting with the fusion route, and were perhaps not doing so successfully. I cannot say for certain as we avoided these places since they did not appear to have oodles of patrons. So--big shocker--we ate French food. No complaints here, as anyone who knows me a smidgen knows that I prefer a savory crepe and a glass of Sancerre to a wienerschnitzel and a stein of Krombacher anyday of the week.

As for the Marche de Noel...well, Friday night it was a positively glorious experience. The city was decorated to the nines with Christmas trees, twinkling lights and holiday motifs. As we walked around the markets, looking at Christmas ornaments and drinking our vin chaud (hot wine), the air smelled of gingerbread and cloves. Snow was falling and it truly felt as though we were in a movie. Fa-la-la-la-la...

Just to cut the nausea you are undoubtedly feeling by my Christmas cheesiness, I will also tell you that it was colder than blue Jesus and frostbite seemed imminent during the whole affair.

And, the next morning, Christmas Delight turned into Christmas crowds. We felt a bit confused as we were jolted from our reverie that was the magical winter wonderland of the prior evening to come face to face with scads of determined shoppers (many of whom were eating grotesque quantities of food as they sloshed about), who were letting anyone and everyone who glimpsed their manic faces know that they came to play.

Oh, holiday cheer: there you are! And I thought you only existed in the malls of America.

Sorry, I cannot resist indulging my inner cynic. That said, Strasbourg was, on the whole, absolutely lovely. Go there, tout suite. And don't listen to closely to my disillusioned feelings from Saturday; I was probably just hung-over from the Christmas clove wine.

Ole!

Obviously, Thanksgiving is an American holiday. Also obviously, we now live in Europe. A fact less obvious: we went to Spain to celebrate turkey day.

I mean the choice is not that odd. After all, it is conceivable that when the pilgrims and the Native Americans sat down to feast in 1621, they looked around and, after giving thanks for the bounty before them, wondered where on earth the paella was.

Well, that is at least as conceivable as the fact that an amicable dinner even occurred between the two groups (in my, admittedly cynical, opinion). And, really, Madrid is as good a place as any to celebrate Thanksgiving. A lifelong tradition of turkey dinner, pumpkin pie, and TV football gave way to a jug of sangria and a flamenco show. Why not?


Life certainly is a mutable entity, isn't it?

I don't speak Spanish, so my vocabulary was limited to "Hola" "Adios" "Ciao" et "Yo no hablo espagnol." I kept trying to tell people that I was sorry that I could not speak Spanish but as they responded with a look that seemed to say, "I am offended by your words," thus I do not think I had the phrasing and/or pronunciation down correctly. In fact, I had asked someone I spoke to in a store there to help me with how to say the aforementioned and it could have been that I was purposefully misinformed as a sort of juvenile practical joke. Maybe I was taught to say, "You are big dumb jerk" instead of "I am sorry, I cannot speak your language."


If I had any technological aptitude I might have been tempted to use the translate "app" on my IPOD, but that is about 12 years away from being something that I feel I could grasp. I am just beginning to understand the Apple IIgs.

Where in the world is Carmen San Diego anyway?

Anyway, I may have inadvertently offended the Spanish and perpetuated the stereotype that Americans are rude and ignorant. It seems I owe all my American blog readers an apology for that: Sorry, readers. And yes, I extend that sentiment to all three of you.

So Spain was fun. The Flamenco show was a hoot in that it was an exemplary example of juxtapostion. The costumes were flamboyant and the dance seemed light-hearted and merry at times, and then the person stomping and whipping and flinging and undulating suddenly took on a visage that suggested that he or she was reading from the pages of a tragic novel. War and Peace, maybe. Obviously, I could not follow the emotional journey of the dancer as it confused me to no end.

However, I loved those twirly skirts and spent a good part of the show trying to picture myself wearing a similar get-up at some juncture. My hunch, in retrospect, is that it is one of those outfits that is really context-centric. Luckily, the theater was approximately 112 degrees so my husband steered me outside immediately post-show...an important fact to note because it did not permit me sufficient time to drop 100 euros on a Flamenco outfit that would definitely not be appropriate to wear anywhere I would ever go. Ever.

The Prado Museum was AMAZING. Manageable in size, and I think this feature is important. At least living in Paris, I have to say that the Louvre scares me because of its gargantuanity. (I made that word up. But the Louvre is so big it exceeds description using "normal" English vocabulary words and thus I breached protocol out of necessity). The permanent collection is incredible (Durer, Botticelli, Raphael, Goya, Goya, and more Goya), and we were lucky enough to see a special Renoir exhibit.

The Renoir exhibit was comprised primarily of the collection of a Mr. Clarke whose art is housed normally in Williamstown, Massachusetts. I have been to Williamstown several times, and I am from Massachusetts. Good thing, then, that I decided to spend Thanksgiving 2010 in Spain and see the Bay State's treasures in Madrid.

Oh irony, there you are again!

We ate some yummo cheese and ham fritters, had some delicious pastry, but we did not eat anything TOO spectacular. All in all, we decided that the food in Paris may have spoiled us forever. C'est la vie. However, I will say that the Sangria was fabulous and we toasted my husband with a small pitcher of it on his birthday. Fruit and wine--looks innocent, is actually quite potent.

In fact, I think that if the legend of the Thansgiving dinner between the Native Americans and the Pilgrims had included generous portions of Sangria, then an amicable dinner would be more conceivable--to this bird anyway.

Adios amigos.

Fears

We all have things we are afraid of in life. For example, my friend Christopher, is frightened of spiders. I have witnessed my normally-impervious-to-all-fear brother become rather shrill in the presence of bats. My husband is afraid of large-winged insects and ABBA songs.

It seems my catalogue of fears is a bit thicker than the usual one or two items. While I am sure the following list is not exhaustive, I am afraid of heights, crowded elevators, rodents, groups of loitering adolescents, chicken salad, and the people who work the market stalls in France.

This last item is a relatively new addition.

In Paris, each arrondissement has outdoor markets that are set up on the sidewalks once or twice a week. In each stall, a vendor displays his/her offerings, and the array of wares for sale ranges from fur coats to fresh fish to hosiery to cheese to Bollywood DVDs. It is a veritibale amalgam of goods, and a "one-stop shop" in the truest sense of the term; you can scoop up some delicious olives right after you buy leather gloves right before you sample an omelette. And le cerise on top is that all can be had at a reasonable price.

It is a lovely tradition. People wheel around their grocery carts and barter over the price of socks as other people have their boeuf and lardons chopped up on the spot by the butcher for tonight's dinner. I love wandering through and looking at the variety of foods, the habits of the shoppers, and marveling at this experience that is so different from anything in the states. It all makes me feel sort of wistful and nostalgic, although I have no idea why or for what, really.

Maybe the whole affair just makes me wish for a return to simpler times. You know the ones I never experienced, making nostalgia seem both inappropriate and hypocritical. But who doesn't love indulging in a Laura Ingalls Wilder moment here and there?

Anyway, all would be hunky-dory with regards to Maggie and the market, there is only one minor snafu with the situation: the whole shabang also gives me a minor anxiety attack. These vendors are "turn 'em and burn 'em" in a way, and they have little patience for a timid Minnie-mouse-voiced foreigner who cannot properly pronounce the name of the frommage she would like and has absolutely no idea how many grammes of hariciots verts are appropriate for deux personnes.

No one is unkind, I am not saying that at all. It is just a situation where these vendors are trying to make a profit during the few hours the market exists and they need people to make their decisions chop, chop, tout suite and move on.

I am not the chop,chop, tout suite type, particularly when it comes to making decisions on food, and especially when I am feeling undue pressure because I have suddenly forgotten how to say eggplant in French (aubergine, but I remembered after that fact). I become really nervous, and instead of walking away with the tomatoes, eggplant, and mushrooms I set out for at the vegetable stand one day, I wound up with tomatoes, a kiwi, and 2 bunches of endive.

Something overtakes me in the moment, I feel immense pressure and I just start pointing at things. It is not graceful, not productive, and somewhat demoralizing.

No offense to the kiwi.

My point is that I am working on my fears. Proof: I climbed a bell tower a couple of weeks ago with my husband in Bordeaux. Frankly, it seemed rather unsteady, yet up I went. The fact that it has been standing without incident for four centuries, is beside the point in my opinion. The real victory was that I did not cry--whether or not I almost cried is also beside the point, thank you very much. So I am tackling the height thing with a little method I like to call "baby steps."

And, this morning, I went to the market and I bought tomatoes, green beans, and apples--exactly what I set out for. Yes, I did have a crimson-faced moment and may have developed a temporary stutter when asking for the beans and subsequently being shouted at that my words were incomprehenisible, but I persevered. I then went to the frommage stand and managed to not only purchase the cheese I wanted, but to engage in a dialogue with the frommager that lasted about deux minutes and even ended with us both smiling. Success!

Of course I ran away from the fish stand when I became nervous trying to figure out how to order something and said nervousness reached over-load as I watched the fishman bark at the customer in front of me. Rather than risk tears and mini-meltdown, I headed home, chop, chop, tout suite.

So no fish for me, and the market-fear still exists, but I feel optimistic that it can be conquered. At least it feels more in the realm of possibility than playing "Dancing Queen" in our apartment anytime soon, and that says something.

The Group Tour: Friend or Foe?

We visited Bordeaux last weekend, which is a really beautiful city on the coast in the south west of France. because we do not have a car and we have not yet worked up the courage to rent one in France, we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. The vineyards, where the grapes are harvested to create the famed Bordeaux wines are, obviously, not located in the city center. We had read about the vast fields, small charming villages and gorgeous chateaux (castles) that comprise the wine country in the surrounding vicinity. Without a car and not wanting to spend an exorbitant (and, at the moment, imaginary) sum of money on a private tour, we opted for a group tour via bus.

A word on group tours: I hate them.

A second word on group tours: My husband feels less affinity for them than do I.

Yet, in our particular case, such a course of action seemed to be the only viable way to accomplish our mission of seeing wine country.

Our tour was called "Bordeaux: Secrets of Great Wines." A small digression: you may remember that last month we took a cooking class called "Chef's Secrets," and I would just like to clear up the fact that we are not people who are soley interested in broadening our cultural horizons through the acquisition of "secrets"; these two events are merely a coincidence (for those of you who believe in the word, anyway). Back to Bordeaux: it was a full day affair, this secret-revealing tour, and was delivered in both French and English.

It actually proved to be an exemplary French lesson for me, so I really feel the value was top-notch.

In the morning we visited one of the original wine merchant's homes, and learned the history and evolution of the Bordeaux wine industry. We then kicked things off with a couple of tastings in this home at 11 am. It was possibly the earliest that I have ever imbibed alcohol, unless you count the "champagne"/apple juice concoction I drank with my roomates the morning we finished our final undergraduate college classes. That was a bad idea, by the way.

As far as the continutation of the tour, in the late morning we were given a walking history lesson on Bordeaux, which was amazingly informative. After the walk, we had lunch ensemble at a wine and cheese cave in the city center. The cheese had its own room. It was sort of like a greenhouse, but for cheese. The smell was rather potent in that little frommage hot-house, and the array of cheeses was impressive. There were probably 75 varieties of cheese from which we could sample. The only trouble with the arrangement was that it was impossible to remember the names of all the cheeses so there is little chance of being able to locate them again. The lunch also included a hot goat cheese "soup" as a starter, roasted duck in red wine and crispy potatoes as the main course, followed by the cheese exponanza. We wrapped things up with an apple cake and the requisite cafe.

One word on lunch: Yummers.

After lunch/Cheese-Gorge 2010, we boarded the bus and visited the Medoc region of Bordeaux wine country. The scenery was incredible. Breathtaking, actually. All the vines were changing colors and the vast fields awash in different hues led up to impressive chateaux. We must have seeen 15 castles on the drive. We had two more tastings, one at an "old school" vineyard which seemed fresh out of a fairy-tale, yet boasted surprisingly up-to-date technology. In fact, they developed their own grape sortring machine and are the only vineyard in the region to have such an apparatus. We also visited a super modern-type vineyard, and sampled wine straight from an oak barrell that has yet to be bottled for consumers.

All the wine was aged in French Oak barrels, by the way. They were very clear about American Oak being sub par. Those French, they never miss an opportunity to flaunt their superiority over us miscreant Americans.

All in all, it was a lovely day.

However, group tours remain low on my list. I recognize that they often provide information and accessibility that would be otherwise unavailable, and I am always wholly impressed when a guide is passionate and engaging, as ours on this excursion truly was. So, educationally, tours have their high points. It is the whole being-sandwiched-amidst-a-group-of-people-wearing-cameras-around-their-necks-and-looking-for-lasting-friendships-while-laughing-at-the-guide's-corny-jokes that turns me off. I used to think I disliked them due to my own social anxiety. Then I transitioned from that stance and wondered if my distaste stemmed from the fact that I can be overly judgemental and somewhat anti-social.

But I think it is a little simpler than that: I just don't like forced fun and/or forced intimacy. Fake, smiley, small chat with strangers? Ugh, who needs it.

How very French of me, n'est-ce pas?

Integration: Mission Possible?

Integration is an interesting question. As in, is it possible when one is not “native”? The jury is certainly out for me as I have only been here two months. But I have been wondering if it is ever really possible at all?

While I never had the expectation of moving here and feeling fully at ease in every situation, there certainly have been some situations that I presumed to be cross cultural "norms," and then they have surprised me with regards to how they have differed from that to which I was accustomed (from buying groceries to setting up a bank account—see previous posts for more information ). There are just many discrepancies that keep popping up over here that I never really considered.

For one thing, I always thought that friendliness was a good quality. Turns out it that in France it largely is not. The French, though warm and welcoming in their own way, do not have any tolerance for smiles on the streets and/or for phatic conversation (i.e.: “Hello, how are you?” “How was your weekend?,” etc.). My impression is that they don’t have room in their lives for non-meaningful interactions. And, I mean, they have a point.

Although, and in defense of my own learned way of being, there is also something to be said for a smile from a passer-by on the street, or a quick “How are you?” with your boss or a colleague. At the very least, such interactions enable you to connect with people on some level, and to perhaps open the door for a more meaningful friendship to develop over time.

While not an avid fan of “fluff” chatter, I have realized that the fluff is what I have long relied on to set a foundation for further interactions (I recognize that “fluff “is difficult to perceive as suitable foundation material. Use your imagination, please). I mean how else do you make friends, establish work contacts, or even talk to anyone, if you can’t smile and say “How are you?” without seeming like a bubble-headed noodle brain?

You see the kinds of challenges I am facing here? Life is not all croissants and wine over here, people.

I also, ignorantly and erroneously, thought sarcasm was a universal language. Nope, I definitely scored a resounding: “wrong answer” on that one. When I try to make jokes, people look at me like I am either crazy or have just deeply offended them. Or, on a particularly special day: both.

I know I am not Tina Fey or anything, but I can usually at least participate (albeit with mixed results) in a bit of dry-wit banter. Not here, I can’t.

The language and communication style here, especially as it translates to someone learning the language, tends towards the literal. Mind you, this may be my interpretation, and it may be erroneous, but it has fit the bill thus far. The blank, confused stares I ellicit in conversation on an hourly basis are proof of my conviction. By contrast, my communication style has always tended towards the figurative, and often the abstract. So that along with five euro will get me a nice cup of coffee around here. But, c'est tout.

It is just an interesting/humbling/frightening social experiment to take two of the most basic characteristics that define your personality and have them be wiped off the board of translatable or acceptable attributes.

Because the only way I have ever made friends is through friendliness and shared humor. Without the two as options, one might wonder how new relationships could be possible.

At least, that is what this one is wondering.

So this circuitous thought process is what brings me back to the idea of integration. I have met people here--mainly through friends of friends and work. We can go out to eat with new people or couples and we can have a good time. But can we forge lasting relationships with people who are native French? I hope so, yet I wonder who they are really meeting, in a way.

Not to get too abstract, but who am I if I am not connected to smiles and humor? It is a rhetorical question, as I haven't the slightest idea, really. So, if we do meet people here, I wonder if they will be meeting us under false pretenses, of sorts. Because the question then becomes: if we do manage a lasting friendship, will these people come to see us in the states and wonder what happened to us? Will I even be able to regain my former language of analogies and exaggeration peppered with sarcasm and cynicism? Am I having a premature and public identity crisis right now?

Sorry.

Anyway, just some food for thought. So is integration really possible? The jury is definitely still out.

Gym Attire

It is no secret that many Americans are obsessed with gyms, working out, and being fit. Because I have often found myself at the front of the line to ingest whatever the media is doling out, I have certainly bought into the whole fitness phenomenon as being an "essential" aspect of human survival in this day and age of type 2 diabetes and clogged arteries. In fact, when considering my best friends, I very well might count my elliptical trainer back home as one of them.

So, since I am highly attuned to American fitness trends (further credence to my status as an "expert" comes from the fact that my brother was a personal trainer, a model for Reebok, and he appeared in Men's Health magazine several times--see, I have "insider" knowledge), I tend to notice workout gear and habits.

Even before this trip, I have long been fascinated by what people in Europe wear to work out. My interest was spawned the day I walked through the Englisher Garten in Munich and saw two men running in pressed khaki pants with their leather belts still on. And they are hardly the only people I have observed sweating it out in "normal" clothes. At least, it is not unusual to see someone jogging in France wearing loafers and a collared shirt. Yesterday, my husband and I passed a runner in the park wearing a black pea coat and ballet flats. She actually had workout pants on, but ballet flats? Someone better tell her ankles that they are in for a rude awakening very soon.

Because, as you now know, I am an elliptical-addict (don't tell my bestie back in the states that I am cheating on her here with a different machine), and because I like butter more than I like most things in the world, I decided that joining a gym while I am in France would be in my best interest. The woman who signed me up at my new Frenchie gym was lovely.

She was wearing a black, gym-like, top, and she had her hair swept away from her face in a ponytail; very "gym-like". She also wore three-inch heels and black leggings, the kind with the slashes up each leg that begin mid-calf and go all the way up the hip, that seem to be quite en vogue here. Not that this blog is R-rated or anything, but I am unsure she had the correct underpinnings on. Or any pinnings of the under variety.

Aside from the sort of "half-workout-half-hooker" look of the sales rep, there were other people wearing what I would categorize as "non-gym" attire. For example, one guy was wearing a button-down shirt on the recumbent bike. What?

People also drink tea and coffee at my gym. This socializing area of beverage consumption is, for all intents and purposes, located in the cardio area. So someone will be sweating it out on the rowing machine and then he will stop, sort of blot his forehead, and walk twenty feet to meet a chum for an espresso.

These sorts of shenanigans would never go down in an American gym. Cappucino next to the treadmills? For shame!

What I do (selfishly) like is that people are not really heavy into exertion at this gym either--at least not what I was used to at good old U.S. gyms where the guy next to me on the elliptical always seemed to be trying to outdo me (or was that in my "non-competitive" imagination?). Other than for a very select few people, most seem to be strolling through their cardio they way they might window shop on a lazy Sunday.

I tell you, my ego is feeling mighty fine. Level 4 on the elliptical and I feel practically olympic-bound over here.

I cannot wait to bring my brother to this gym--I feel like people might take a gander at his biceps and start asking for his autograph. I guess I will just sip an espresso in my disco-wear as I watch it all go down.

Somethings are Always a Faux Pas

Living in a foreign country is obviously a really interesting intercultural experiment. It is not just that the language, the food, the style, and the habits of people differ from what is my "norm," but there are also so many other ways my being "different" permeates my life here.

For example, yesterday, I went to the grocery store. My husband and I go to this store fairly regularly so we sort of “know” the employees, and there happened to be a new cashier there. After he rang up my purchases, I handed him my money. Whilst doing so, he sort of grabbed my hand and held it for a few seconds.

Ummm, right. So my “normal”/Maggie-in-America reaction would have been to glare at him in admonishment, yank my hand away, and possibly give him a good old-fashioned finger-wagging. I mean hand-holding in this setting is just wholly inappropriate.

Maggie-in-France, however, is a gal I am just getting to know. She just sort of stared at the situation until it ended. Flashing through my head while this was happening: “I do not want to be a rude American, and with my every move I am representing my country, so pulling away would be wrong,” “Maybe this is a normal French thing, like the kissing?” “He is new, maybe this was SOP at his old grocery store cashier job?”and finally, “Why is this creep-o holding my hand, for Pete’s sake?”

In some ways, I feel as though I have turned off my instinctual reactions because I have been trying to be so open-minded and vigilant about embracing my new environs. This approach, obviously, has its benefits, but it also has its drawbacks. I mean, there is no need to be holding hands with stranger cashiers. Ever, anywhere, anyplace.

Life lesson #612. And that one, my friends, was a freebie.

I think it is all about finding the balance between embracing the new and not forgetting the old.

Balance, the squirrely little guy, he seems to pop up everywhere in life and he sure is hard to keep a hold on.

Cooking Class=Life Lesson

We went to a cooking demonstration at the Cordon Bleu the other night. The Cordon Bleu, in case you are not an avid and borderline fanatical fan of Julia Child's, is where the grand dame of the kitchen learned to cook. It is also quite the famed institution, so being within the doors was exciting in and of itself.

I felt like a better cook simply by being in the proximity of the kitchens were professional chefs have been trained. Kind of like how I feel smarter whenever I walk around Harvard Square. Well, smarter and curious as to how many different facial piercings a single person can have.

So the class was called "Chef's Secrets." The biggest "secret" this budding chef learned was how long one should actually allow food to cook. This fact admittedly sounds sort of ridiculous, but it was a little surprising to me. At least, I have spent many a Sunday morning (and a Sunday afternoon and evening for that matter) watching Rachel Ray, or Giada (and her cleavage) whip something up on the food network in approximately five minutes. I realize the food network has a lot of chef personalities to fit into its daily schedule, but somewhow the message I absorbed was that if I could not create a gourmet meal in under an hour I was somehow a failure.

Well, now I can toss that idea out the window, tout suite.

Because this chef really illustrated the benefits of taking significantly more time to cook a meal. Like hours.

For example, he told us that when cooking potatoes it is important to cook them in hot salted water (with the skin on, by the way, to preserve the flavor and not allow the potatoes to absorb a bunch of water and wind up tasting like a sponge instead of a potato), but that you should never boil the water. What? Don't boil potatoes? My Irish roots had me feeling extremely conflicted upon hearing this information.

We also learned that meat (any meat) can be seared at a high heat to give it an attractive color, but that the meat should actually be cooked through at a low heat for a very long time. I think the entire bacteria-phobic United States is concerned upon reading that snippet of cooking counsel.

Anyway, the demonstration was great, not only because it had me thinking more about food and cooking (two things to which I happen to really enjoy devoting a lot of my brain power), but because it started me thinking on life in general. I am always in a rush to do something.

I suppose being a Type A American makes that information perfectly obvious. But the thing is that I am not sure why I am rushing all the time. Like what am I rushing to do? And if I am rushing through the steps that comprise my life, am I missing actually living my life?

Whew...went from potatoes to deep philosophy in a matter of seconds there. Told you I rush around.

My point is that the cooking class inspired me regarding not just my approach to cooking, but also with regards to how I might approach life in general. There is no reason why I cannot slow down, take more time to do things, everything maybe, and just relax a little. Being in France is a perfect excuse to try to do just that.

Although being anywhere is really a perfect excuse to do just that. Why rush? I mean not only will you feel calmer and less harried if you slow down, but you will also eat better potatoes.

So that is my new goal: to slow down. Who's with me?

Train Strikes

I didn't go to work this past Thursday. That sounds sort of racy and intrigueing, but my absence was not due to illness, rebelliousness, or even laziness. I didn't go to work because the municipal workers in France have all been on strike and the trains have consequently been all goofed up.

And by using the words "goofed up," I am being rather mild in my description.

Because the "normal" train schedule, which is prominently posted at my local RER station, never runs true to times (irony, there you are again!), I always give myself one to one and a half hours of "flex time" on my commute to work. This overly-cautious methodology has served me well over the past six weeks, and I had yet to be even marginally un-early for my classes.

Until Thursday.

My first class starts at 2pm on Thursdays. I left my apartment before noon. The trip, uninterrupted and without any delays, takes about 50-60 minutes. So two hours and fifteen minutes seems more than adequate. One would think.

Not on strike day, people. Not on strike day.

The "schedule" suggested a train would come at 12:07 and take me to my usual destination. On this particular day, a train was allegedly arriving at 12:40 and was not going to be going to my usual destination. In fact, there were no trains scheduled for the entire day that would bring me close to the campus. The 12:40 train was to be a "short" train and terminate two stations before my usual stop. In the optimistic haze that still surrounded me that early in the day, I figured I could work with that and would just find another train or a bus to take me to my destination.

Oh, the naivity!

I had suspicions from the get-go about this 12:40 train. To begin with, according to the screen, it was scheduled to leave from the opposite platform--meaning it would purportedly be going AWAY from the destination I had in mind.

Despite my inner voice telling me that something was off, I boarded the train anyway. Instincts? Who needs them? Apparently not me. But I did take some proactive measures. To squelch my initial concerns, I had asked two separate people about the destination of the train. They both gave me the "typical" French look which seems to say: "You are a moron and are wasting my time," before confirming my information about the train's alleged destination.

By way of justification, I thought that due to the limited train schedule because of the strike, that they must have worked out some sort of anti-collision schedule. But it still seemed bizarre. Yet these other people seemed convinced. So, in true "pay-it-forward" fashion, I confirmed for two other people that the 12:40 train was, indeed, headed to the said destination.

These latter two people may or may not have spent that evening constructing voo-doo dolls in my likeness.

Because I evidently believe there is safety in numbers and/or follow the credo that one ought to not look like an imbecile unless there are others buying lots on the land of idiots at the same time, I felt comforted that all five of us boarded the train assuming we "knew" where it was headed. A bunch of others came along too, but I was primarily concerned with my team of imagined comrades.

When the train terminated, not at the posted destination (surprise, surprise!), an angry mob of Parisians surrounded the train personnel to complain. The particular target, a man, was utterly unfazed. He managed to pull off that typical French look (again, "you are all morons and wasting my time"), even with 25 Parisians yelling at him. Well 24, as I am not Parisian. Nor was I yelling for that matter. Not that I was not also peeved, and the fever of the crowd was rather contagious, but I have enough trouble formulating simple sentences en francais. Expressing anger is a little advanced for me right now.

I then hitched myself to a smartly-dress woman who also wanted to go to Versailles, and who had an air about her that she was going to make things happen. Taking no for an answer did not seem to be her mantra. I kind of trailed along behind her as she (we) was then instructed to take a bus. I waited 30 minutes for this bus and then it seemed to be driving into oblivion.

Ironically, the music on the bus was Queens: "We are the Champions."

Somehow I feel like "Another One Bites the Dust" would have been more approrpriate, but whatever.

I was let off when the bus terminated (yup, everything was terminating all over France with no pre-warnings of any kind) and instructed to take a different train. That train would be leaving in...an hour and 40 minutes.

Okay, so, brilliant me, I think I can take a train back to Paris and catch another line out to the University. Yes, I sure can. And that train was to be leaving in...an hour and a half.

Life was not all doom and gloom though. For one thing, I have to say that the train personnel at this station in the middle of nowhere could not have been nicer. They were all sort of small, smiley, and welcoming. I felt a bit like Dorothy in Oz with the munchkins.

I even experienced a bit of delirium in the form of a giggle fit when I realized how in the merde I was with regards to never making it to work. As I dissolved into giggles, the train guys joined in. I have no idea what they were laughing at but we all enjoyed a jovial and giddy bonding moment. It was like a Hallmark commercial.

Sort of.

As I weighed the pros and cons of taking the train that would make me really late versus taking the train that would also make me really late, I listened to some French guy rant about strikes for ten minutes. He was really, really angry, and may have been crazy. I would have walked away after 30 seconds, but it proved to be a rather useful impromptu French lesson. A lot of vocab from the local papers was being used, and I found that helpful.

When one of the late-late trains was cancelled, and the decison had, voila!, been made for me, I realized I really had to use the restroom. I was then escorted to the bathroom by one of the train guys. Along the way he stopped and had two somewhat lengthy conversations with other people and it was slightly awkward because I thought perhaps he had forgotten about me. But, 15 minutes later, we arrived in a cafe where he demanded that the proprietor let me use the bathroom. It may have been that he thought I was mentally challenged (giggle fit+garbled French does not convey high leveles of intelligence). But still, very nice. I just love those train personnel in that town!

In conclusion: I never made it to work. But I did spend 6 and half hours in train stations.

And now...the strikes go on! In fact, yesterday I was dropped off at yet another foreign locale due to train termination, and three people asked me for directions. You might congratulate me on my ability to mesh, and think that maybe I am look quite French these days. I am more inclined to think that the train strikes have me so utterly infazed me at this point that I seem to be the only one who is not about to pop a blood vessel, and therefore people think I must know what is going on. I don't know. But I know that I don't know. And that is the difference.

Now my biggest problem is whether or not the strikes will affect our trip to Rome this weekend. Even the munchkins might not be able to alleviate the sadness that will ensure if we miss that trip. But, we have no control. Strikes=c'est la vie.

French Help

I had been thinking that my French, while far from perfect, was reasonably adequate. Turns out, it is not.

Proof of this fact came the other night when we went out to eat. The waiter, as he or she usually does, asked if we wanted menus in French or English. As I usually do, I requested French. This small ritual often sets us off on better terms with the servers we encounter. Not always, mind you, but usually. And, personally, this realm of French conversing usually feels fairly comfortable to me. I seem to be able to speak the language of "food" no matter my environs.

Well, I really overestimated myself. Ego, I am telling you: gets you nowhere fast. I made a spectacular disaster of food selections. As in, www.badfrench.com/youorderedwhat?why?

To start things off, I ordered my husband an octopus salad. He, for the record, is not a squid consumer. Does not even like fried calamari, so you can see I was really off the mark. I recognized "basil" "pesto" and "vegetables" out of the description. Since he had requested a simple salad to start, I figured that was right on target. Whoops. So then I ordered myself a different salad. Within this description, I recognized "salad," "mango," and "fig." A salad of mango and fig? Sounds scrumptious.

Except it had large hunks of very rare duck on it. Like duck so rare it ostensibly could have still been quacking.

I realize that many people find rare duck delicious. A lot of those people live in France. But many people from all kinds of backgrounds like rare duck. I am not one of those people.

I am not a vegetarian, and I think I can be pretty adventurous with food. However, I have my limits and rare poultry lies distinctly outside the perimeters of what I deem edible.

Fortunately, I like octopus and my husband likes rare duck. Crisis averted. I did considerably better with the ordering of the main courses (beef and tuna) and of course I ordered dessert perfectly (never one to mess up where my main priorities lie). Still, this whole situation suggested to me that my integration needs to be expedited.

So I found a tutor. His name is Pierre and I am meeting him today.

Wish me "bon chance!"

Exercise and Torture

Since our move to Paris six weeks ago, I have managed to do some pretty unbelievable things.

I mean besides eat Herculaen amounts of butter, bread, and cheese.

For instance, I have participated in two "exercise" classes that have ostensibly involved absolutely no exercise whatsoever (as I am accustomed to it anyway). Additionally, I have had two massages that were entirely non-relaxing. They were, in fact, quite painful.

Regarding the exercise: there is an American Church in Paris and they have a huge and newly renovated gymansium attached to it (this seemed slightly strange to me, though I am admittedly not a church-goer and maybe this is de rigeur. Do you go shoot hoops after confession? I might have missed this part of church). They offer all sorts of classes at this church, and many are in the gym. I found a flyer for something called "Adult Gymnastics" and I was pretty excited. I used to be a competitive gymnast, and the idea of somersaulting around sounded pretty fun to me. Especially because the class was to be given in French, and I could learn as I tumbled. Oh, I just love multi-tasking!

I called the phone number listed and had a Franglish conversation with the most lovely woman about whether or not I could try the class. She did say that many of the particiupants were not "really young," but that hardly seemed to be a deterrant as I was not looking to turn cartwheels with teenagers.

You know how I feel about teenagers.

So I show up to the class and let me say, first of all, that the group could not have been nicer or more welcoming to me. Every single stereotype about French people being rude to Americans was tossed out the window, for these were some really kind people.

I will also say that, save for one woman who was about 10-12 years older than me, I was the youngest participant by 25-45 years. This information is not to suggest that people of any age cannot be spry and athletic. Of course there are many people far older than me who are in much better shape. It was just fairly obvious from the get-go that "gymnastics," as I knew it, would not be occurring with this bunch.

The class consisted of a LOT of breathing, some mild stretching, and a few grapevine like sashays across the floor. This grapevine business proved to be the climax of physical exertion, and we promptly went back to breathing and stretching by way of cooling down.

It was not a bad way to pass an hour, actually. However, I was really looking for some vigorous exercise. Or at least something that would elevate my heart rate.

When I was leaving, I was asked by several of the women if I would be back. I politely said "probably" (you try saying no to a group of the most welcoming faces you have encountered in a foreign counry--it is none too easy).

As I made my way to the door, I was assured by one woman that the next class would be REALLY different, because it would be taught by another instructor. My ears perked up; maybe it would entail actual exercise? I must have looked elated because she was nodding away, saying, "Yes, it would be really different." She paused and added in a very somber tone: "But don't worry, it is still very hard!"

If it were free, I may have gone back simply for the socializing aspect of the enterprise. But considering that I do not want to actually turn into a pat of butter, I knew I had to find something else. So I had to eventually buck up and say no.

My next foray into the physical realm was to try a yoga class in my arrondissement. I selected an "Intermediate" class and went over to the studio, excited to really exert myself.

It must be that people who participate in group "exercise" in France are really friendly. Because, there were three of us in the class, and again, the other two women students and the male instructor were among the smiliest people living in Paris.

In terms of exercise, it is becoming obvious that I need to manage my expectations. It was an hour and fifteen minutes, and we had six shivasanas (the time in Yoga where you lie down and meditate), and a lot of breathing with our eyes closed. We did three sun salutations and vinyasas and then went back to lying on the floor.

Again, it was hardly a bad way to pass the time, but I think I burned more calories in my sleep last night.

As far as the massages: I am not being strictly indulgent, actually. Although, let's face it, I have no problem being indulgent. But I have acquired some sort of upper back/neck issue since being here. When I found a Chinese massage parlor approximately 100 feet from my building, I thought it was a "sign" that I needed to try it out.

Never mind that I live in a major metropolis and there are businesses of every kind, all within a five-minute radius of my door. I prefer to say this was definitely a sign. Just ask my brother (he is big into signs).

I went in there and was immediately offered slippers and tea. Candles burned all aound and three women came up and started petting me and asking me how I was.

I have not felt so loved and pampered any time in recent memory.

Anyway, the main-boss type woman convinced me that one massage would not be enough and I needed more. Since each massage is 40 Euro, I tried to beg off on the sales pitch, even though there were framed photographs of this woman all over the "waiting room" with important looking people, so I figured she had some modicum of credibility. Eventually she offered me a deal: 6 massages for 100 Euro.

Now, I don't know about you and your book, but in my book I call that a bargain.

What I did not know was that "massage" was wildly euphemistic. What actually happens is I am kneaded to the point of crying out in pain as a small Asian woman/GI Jane straddles me and argues in Chinese with the woman performing torture on the client/victim one curtained cubicle over.

The actual massage is infinitely less soothing than the whole tea and slippers welcoming ritual.

On the upside, all that painful kneading had me sweating buckets, and my heart going full guns, so maybe it is canceling out the need for proper exercise.

My next foray is to take a dance class. Will keep you posted on how that goes.

Farmer Maggie?

We went to Aix-en-Provence this past weekend and it was so nice. And by "nice" I do not mean "Nice," although the two cities are not too far apart.

We took the TGV (fast train) from Paris, and it only took three hours. Somehow, we managed to finnagle seats on the upper floor of the train, so our view of the French countryside was really amazing. Even more amazing, perhaps, was the fact that choice seating is possible to secure even when transport is purchased on-line and no additional/ridiculous fees were paid for "select" seating. But what was most amazing was the fact that there are so many towns on the way to Provence that look to have a population of about thirty.

Well, thirty people, anyway. They also seemed to have 300 chickens, 65 cows, 40 horses, and 106 sheep. Those are estimates, by the way.

I just want to know what people DO in towns like those. They all seem to have a church, so at least their Sunday morning whereabouts are accounted for. They must have a "market day" where they all bring their various wares to a central location and make the appropriate trades so that they can all eat for the week. So there is another morning that is explained. But what about the rest of the week? Besides the requisite farming, cooking, and cleaning, I mean. Because all that toil and trouble probably alots for a 60-plus hour work week.

As I gazed out the TGV window, I started thinking about how appealing the simplicity of such a life could ostensibly be. It would be so refreshing to be removed from the modern world of constant contact. It is just not altogether necessary for there to be 17 technological avenues for people to utilise to contact one another, always with the expectation that everyone is perpetually available. I find it exhausting, this being connected all the time. And the barter system is such a GOOD system, no?

I mean how much stress could be alleviated if we all showed up on market day and made trades of our wares rather than headed to the local grocery store to dole out the Benjamins for over-priced cantaloupe and cheese that has been in pressure-sealed packaging since the Reagan administration? Why can't things just be simple and straightforward, like life on the farm?

Not to be too naive. I know that human beings, being human beings, are prone and subject to stressors no matter where they are and what their life might entail. And I imagine that droughts, floods, a tractor breaking down, or a herd of rebellious goats could all be pretty angst-filled scenarios.

And, the thing is that even though I was having a good time imagining my life on the farm, the truth is that I could never actually do it. My biggest obstacle to this life of mythical simplicity and cheese-bartering is not that I do not have the slightest idea about farming (though I don't). Nor is it the fact that I am rather selectively lazy and I feel such an attitude would not go over too well on a farm where there is work to be done.

My biggest obstacle to this life is the fact that I am not all that interesting of a person.

I imagine that after the long day of working on the land, tending to the animals, cooking, and cleaning, there is probably a little bit of down time each evening for dinner, conversing, and general socializing. This is where my problem comes in. If I spent all day with a coop of chickens and a couple of cows, I would have absolutely nothing to talk about. I need human interaction in order to drum up conversational material. Sure, I have some witty repartee stored away in the archives, but such resources would run dry after two days on the farm. And voila, I would be the mute, boring farmer.

This is what I worry about when I think of survival in a remote town of 30 people.

In my defense, I am a writer, and I need things to write about. Rather, I need people to write about. No offence to sheep, but their daily schedules do not seem to include the varied emotional snafus about which I enjoy writing.

Some people seem to have really rich, imaginative inner worlds, and they could be conversationally solvent even if living on a lily pad in the middle of a scummy pond for five years. I am not one of those people. Take J.K. Rowling, for example. Granted, she is a genius, but how on earth did she dream up all that wizard business? She could be on the farm, milking cows all day and probably conjure up thrilling tales about leprechauns and wood nymphs. Me? Not so much.

I need human interaction. I need "real" encounters with real people, in order to be able to function as a writer.

Of course, I promptly take those "real" events and distort and exaggerate them sufficiently so that I can share the deets with the 12 followers I have on this here blog.

I am a city girl. I like the city, I like the options, I like the variety. Most of all, I like all the weirdos roaming around because observing and interacting with them makes me feel better about my own special brand of weirdness.

So anyway, in Aix, we visited Paul Cezanne's atelier. Aix, by the way, is the birthplace of Cezanne and is where he lived, died, and spent most of his life. Therefore, there is quite a lot of information, honoring, and publicizing of Cezanne around the city.

His atelier, up in the hills of Provence, was completely adorable. It was a lofty studio, with looming windows and was surrounded by beautiful, if a bit unkempt, gardens. The materials he used for his still life works were all set up in there, and it felt terrifically artsy, simple, and sunny (lots of windows, as I said). There was even a row of the human skulls he liked to paint all lined up, giving that comforting homey feeling to the whole place.

Skulls, aside, I had a resurgance of that feeling I was having on the train. I decided that I could live up in the woods in such an atelier. It would be like a French Thoreau sort of thing.

Sort of.

We left the atelier, and walked back into tres posh Aix and found a cafe. We ordered some divine Sancerre and sat nibbling on olives as we drooled over the plates of others and contemplated what to order. I felt as though I was in heaven, in this outdoor cafe in Aix, and then it struck me that this whole farming thing was not going to work out. For one thing, who would make the wine?

So, whether I am boring or not no longer seems to be an issue. Glory days! However, my life in a remote village is now on hold. I like eating out way too much.

Homesick

Being in Paris, my husband has been feeling a bit homesick. A reasonable emotion to be sure, although the precise source of this ailment is maybe not what one would initially surmise.

He misses football, American style.

And, because our computer does not easily streamline programs from the United States, he was forced to watch a game recently in this really annoying "real-time" manner where the screen would freeze for 2-3 seconds every 5-7 seconds. It was like trying to talk to someone who pauses half-way through every other word and who takes 30 second breaks in the middle of each sentence. Manageable, I guess, but also really frustrating and not a little disorienting.

Being resourceful little buggers, we decided on a solution: we would be to go to a bar in St. Michel where they play American sports all the time. Perhaps you can ascertain from the description that such a place could double as this non-sport lover's personal heck.

But I wanted to go because my husband wanted to go and, generous as I am, I figured that if he could travel half-way across the world to live in a foreign country with me for a year, then I could walk half-way across town to be in a different sort of "foreign" land with him for an afternoon.

Even without being a sports fan, I can see that the odds are in my favor here.

So we go to this American football bar, and the whole enterprise quickly reveals itself as a conglomeration of Canadian, British, American and Australian elements. It is essentially an English-speaking mutt in sports bar form. And (just to keep the animal reference theme going), it was also revealing itself to be somewhat of social experiment on a par with a zoo.

Kind of like when a zoo transplants a bunch of wild animals from, say, the Serenghetti, and then simulates a "natural environment" somewhere that bears essentially no similarities to their actual natural environment, so they can carry on being "wild" while actually living in a fishbowl. Oh irony, I just find you everywhere!

The sports bar, it seemed, was a simulated "natural habitat" for English-speaking sports fans. The irony here, of course, is that in the U.S. my husband and I would not be at a sports bar with Irish, English, Australian, and Canadian people watching American football. It is not that I am suggesting that America is not diverse, it is just that each of those country's has really individual proclivities when it comes to sports they favor. I mean do you know any English guy who loves American football? Didn't think so.

So, while we sat in "I speak English and therefore I must have things in commion with everyone who speaks English" land, something REALLY bizarre took place. More so than the fact that at the bar next to us a couple were obviously on their first date and the guy tried to impress the disdainful looking French gal with a plate of buffalo wings (ummm, call me crazy, but not sure that relationship is off to a great start--who wants to talk to someone they barely know who has buffalo wing juice all over their face? Ew). But the weird thing for us was that my husband found himself making congenial conversation with the most unlikely of creatures. My husband, who has a devout affinity for the New England Patriots, was talking amicably to a New York fan.

It was be like putting bears and jaguars in the same pen, and having it miraculously work out. Or something like that.

Here is what I learned (besides the fact that simulation is not an exact science--and I bet the cheetahs at the San Diego zoo would agree with you on that one): when you feel like you are a fish out of water, your horizons widen considerably as to what might make you feel "at home" again.

In the U.S., gravy fries and pints of Victoria Bitter would hardly give us that "mom's home cooking" feeling. And making casual convo with a NY Jets fan would not be my husband's past-time of choice. But here we are in France, and that is what happens, and it seemed to make my husband feel more "at home" in France.

So, in sum: I have found that no matter what country I am in, I do not fit in at sports bars. More importantly, homesicknesses is an inevitable aspect of life abroad, and it is one which can have a variety of sources, and a variety of "cures." Finally, since I have now seen with my own two eyes that it is possible for my husband to tolerate NY sports fans, I also now have absolute faith in those videos on YouTube where an elephant befriends a dog, or a deer and a squirrell cuddle-up on a sofa. I always hoped they were true, and now I believe it; harmony can happen!

Je ne suis pas desolee!

I had heard, from a couple of different (and equally reliable, in my opinion) sources that the French are not big on apologies. And when I say "not big on" what I really mean is that they do not issue them. Like ever.

So, if you are planning a visit to France and are trying to prepare by learning a few key phrases, I would now invite you to free up some valuable brain space by eliminating "Je suis desolee" and replacing it with something more important like: "Ou sont les toiletettes?" or something really crucial such as: "Je voudrais une tarte au chocolat."

It is not that the French are rude. Although I will not stand on this soapbox and argue that stance to the death if pressed. But, moreover, it is just that they view apologizing of any kind to be a sign of weakness.

The whole situation is sort of like a game, and whomever apologizes first loses serious hand in the interpersonal exchange. Even if you are the one in the "right," and any jury would unequivocably deem your innocence, if you apologize then you have hung yourself. Moreover, with the apology you have just offered a carte blanche to your conversational partner, inviting him or her to treat you like dirt. After all, you have just shown you are weak, and weak in France is pas bon. Intercultural discoveries are a plenty overhere!

By contrast, in America, we love to apologize almost as much as we love to wear brand new sneakers when visiting foreign countries. Even if the other person is the one to have committed the gaff, or made an obvious error, in America it is de rigeur for both parties to apologize profusely.

In the U.S., when people bump me in the streets and practically have me eating pavement, I am still the first one to exclaim: "Oh, I am so sorry."

This aspect of my personality has bothered me in recent years. Like what am I anyway, a human doormat? But now, with a source of juxtaposition, I see it is more a cultural tendency than a subconsious or latent belief that I ought to be stepped on by the world at large.

Phew, because it was starting to seem like my rock-solid self-esteem had some characteristics that were unexplicable outliers.

But back to the French. So they have a really amazing ability to blatantly commit an error and then to promptly look around in outrage at the world in general in order to suggest that they were just wronged in a major way that had zero to do with them.

For example, my dear freind Ashleigh acted out a little scene for me. She placed a wine glass about 5 inches from the edge of a table, a reasonable distance that said to me: "This wine glass is securely in the 'not too close to the edge of the table' region." She then pretended to swish by the table, with a bag in her hand, and knock the glass on off the table, ostensibly spilling wine everywhere.

She asked what I would do if I had just knocked the glass off the table, and I told her that I would (obviously) profusely apologize, and run off to find the host or hostess. I would also probably cry if the incident had actually taken place--particularly if it had been red wine. I mean ugh. How embarassing.

So she then tells me that a French person would glare around the room, find the person closest to the glass, assert that he or she left the glass too close to the edge of the table, shrug emphatically as if to say, "Not my problem that the world is chalk full of morons," and walk off, leaving the red bordeaux to soak deeply and irreversibly in to the host's lovely carpet.

Honestly, if someone tried such a stunt at a dinner party in the U.S., it would go over like a sack of lead filled balloons.

While I appreciated Ashleigh's demonstration (by the way, she did not actually tip a full wine glass off the table when she pantomimed the scene--it would have been utterly unneccessary), I sort of thought she might be exaggerating a touch.

Well no, she actually wasn't. Unlike me, Ashleigh is not a huge exaggerator.

So the other day, I was walking in the rain in Paris. I was approaching a man with an umbrella and, as I also had an umbrella, I was a little apprehensive that the upcoming "you dodge to the left and I dodge to the right" game would not go smoothly. This is a game I frequently mess up and an umbrella spoke to the head is not the best feeling, let me tell you that much.

I needn't have worried, the man suddenly slipped on the slick surface of the road (I mentioned it was raining) and slid a good foot before regaining his balance.

It was a rather impressive feat, actually, as yours truly certainly would have ended up with a nice serving of concrete as that evening's aperatif.

When he regained his blance, he was practically nose to nose with me and had jabbed me slightly with his umbrella. I was about to ask him, in muddled French, if he was all right. (Notice my progress that I was not about to profusely apologize for nothing whatsoever--a leopard can change!) He glared at me, glared OUTRAGED at the pavement and said to me, "Ugh! That street is too slippery!"

A second glare of potent irritation at his new enemy, the street itself, and off he went. It was as though the street rose up and bit him ferociously on the bottom. And did he apologize for jabbing me with his umbrella: "Mais, non!"

So there you have it: in France, je ne suis pas desolee!

Fashion Police?

I was sort of concerned, upon moving to the "fashion capital of the world," that I would feel inferior, style-wise, to the gloms of glamourous people pouting, pushing, and puffing their way through Parisian streets.

It has been sort of comforting to note that not everyone in Paris dresses like they have just completed a photoshoot for Vogue. For example, there seems to be a sect of young adults who are enjoying some sort of inexplicable eighties revival. They wear brightly colored eyeliner, lace leggings, and leg warmers in neon colors. The people donning these throwback looks to Madonna's True Blue tour are actually attractive young people who are somehow able to keep a straight face.

Anyway, as I have been observing the trends, it has been nice to know that even Parisians can commit the occasional (at least to my relatively untrained eye) faux pas.

Although, I will say, the the de-mythification of Paris as the pinnacle of style has its limits; I was slightly upset to see that my personal fashion nemesis appears to have permeated the fashionable bubble that encases Paris.

For the other day, I counted three, yes three, people wearing Disney-themed sweatshirts.

Before you get on me for criticizing the wardrobe choices favored by toddlers, you may be interested to know that all three offenders were adults. Like, over thirty.

A word on sweatshirts: I take issue with people walking around in what appears to be sleepwear. And oft-rumpled sleepwear at that. I firmly adhere to the belief that "sweat clothes"/pajama or workout type outfits, ought to be restricted to the parameters of your own home or to the fitness facility you frequent.

So while many, many selections I view on others are perplexing (see eighties revival description above), the only one that really gives me pause is the sweatshirt.

For clarification: I am talking about the elastic waist-banded crewneck in what I suspect is a poly-blend. Hoodies, incidentally, are totally fine. Who doesn't love a hoodie? (Well, the exception on hoodies is the astounding number of French adults who wear "Abercrombie and Fitch New York" hoodies. Do they know they are promoting pubescent erotica, of the cologne-soaked variety?)

When a standard issue sweatshirt features Mickey or Minnie Mouse and /or has such added "features" as sequins, rhinestones, or frills, then I become borderline offended. Grown human beings really cannot seriously wear Disney-themed clothing.

To back up my stance, this is what I have learned about French fashion: you can wear whatever you want, you just have to look extremely confident and sort of angry while doing so. The latter is actually considerably harder to pull off than dressing well. Let us be honest and admit that no one looks extremely confident or remotely angry when Mickey is bobbing around on their belly. So, despite the tenacity of the garment, deductive reasoning suggests that sweatshirts are pas bon.

I vote that they join acid-wash in the fashion graveyard so that I may never see another one in Paris and my faith in French haute couture can be properly restored, Mickey-less forever more.

Who is with me?

Oh bureaucracy, how fun you are!

I am finding that it takes quite a while to get things done in Paris. I realize that whenever you are a foreigner in new environs and you do not speak the native language with fluidity and confidence then yes, it of course takes more time than usual to get even seemingly “simple” tasks accomplished.

Fortunately for a food-obsessed being such as myself, this turn of events is not particularly debilitating where it concerns ordering a sandwich, selecting a breakfast pastry, or buying a piece of cheese. I thank the high heavens that the language of food seems to have some universal threads at its base.

However, where this frustration really hits a high note is when it comes to things like opening a bank account, setting up an internet account, or buying a portable phone.

Frankly, it is just not simple to set these basic human rights up when you are a foreigner in France. This is the case even when you are a foreigner who speaks marginally decent French, have asked around about procedures, conducted some research on your own as to how you could “expect” things to go, and have arrived at each and every appointment with a bulging folder of the listed possible “required” documentation that you might be asked to present.

For example, I was told by several seasoned frenchies that I ought to go set up a bank account ASAP upon arriving in France. Without a local bank account, the list of things that you will be unable to accomplish is alarmingly lengthy; it involves everything from being able buy a mobile phone to being able to rent an apartment to being able to drink a cappuccino (not really, but sometimes it feels as though that is the case). Also, without the French bank account, it would not be possible for me to get paid from my new job, so there was significant personal incentive from the get-go to have this thing up and running STAT.

So, on my second day in Paris, I go to the bank armed with a copy of my work contract, a copy of my lease for an apartment, my passport, my visa, and a signed and notarized letter from my bank in America. I also was prepared to part with one of my limbs, if that turned out to be a requirement.

The bank was empty in terms of clientele. As in totally, completely, empty. It was around 10:30 am on a Tuesday, so I figured things would go great guns from there. (Banks are closed on Sundays and Mondays, and only open for part of the day on Saturday. Additionally, people tend to leave for lunch for an hour or two in the middle of the day and they may or may not decide to close early or tell you that they cannot help you if it is near closing time. Like within an hour or so of closing time.) So the woman at the front desk was charming and fabulously cheery, and was very complimentary of how prepared I seemed. She then told me she could make me an appointment for Thursday.

Let me repeat that it was Tuesday, the bank was empty and she had just verified that I had all the necessary documentation with me already.

I suggested perhaps sometime that very day. Or maybe Wednesday?

She, chipper as ever, again repeated that Thursday was the day!

Come Thursday, it was an approximately 4 hour affair. We may have signed away the rights to our own minds, I am not really sure as I was able to grasp about 60% of what transpired. Afterwards we were told we needed to wait for our bank cards for 10 days, but we were given account verification.

We took our account verification to the internet place. They were delighted at our fat folder of documentation. After an hour, we were all signed up and ready—or so we thought. She said someone would call on Friday.

Us: “Oh great, so someone will call on Friday and come that day to hook up the internet.”

Her (with a look of shock): “NO, no NOOOOOOO! Someone will call on Friday to set up an appointment for sometime in the next two weeks.”

So what were we doing there, exactly, at that very moment? This is where fluency would be really handy.

And then we went through this whole procedure where I was able to pick out a new portable phone. We talked about the phone, examined the phone, and discussed the plan on the phone.

The kicker is that I was then told we could not actually have the phone until our bank cards arrived. I repeated that we had shown bank account verification, but our cards might not arrive for 10 days.

Her: “Yes! Thank you! As soon as your card arrives, come back, we will change your plan from internet to internet and phone and you can have a phone.”

Uhh, okay.

So then the letter arrives from the bank, like clockwork, on day nine: oh the joy!! A slight sinking sensation ensues when we see that the letter does not contain our actual cards. But, on a happier note, it does say: “Come pick up your bank cards, they are available this afternoon!” Great. Will do.

Back to the chipper woman at the bank: “Hi, we are here to pick up our bank cards.” And we show the letter.

Chipper woman: “You will not be able to pick them up until Wednesday. First another letter will arrive verifying your address, and you must sign it and then come back. Probably we will send that letter tomorrow and then you will receive it next Wednesday.” It was Thursday, so that meant another week.

Just to be sure, I tried to break down the details a bit: “Okay, but we received these letters saying that the cards were here and we could come pick them up this afternoon. There was no mention of the a letter to follow that we would have to sign verifying addresses.”

CW: “Yes, the cards are here! But we need the letter, so go home and wait until you receive it and then come back. Probably next Wednesday. Thank you!!”

WHAT?

So we wait until Wednesday. No letter. As if you did not guess that would be the case.

We go back to the bank on Thursday and I explain that the letter has not yet arrived, and what should we do?

CW: “No letter?” Her chipper demeanor was suddenly marred by suspicion. She seriously seemed to think I was lying.

I started to wonder if I was lying, and if I did sign some letter and had somehow forgotten. But I stood my ground: “No letter.”

CW: “Oh, okay, then it is at the post office. Thank you!! Good bye!”

Me: “Wait, I do not understand? What post office?” No one had EVER mentioned anything about a post office.

CW: “The one closest to you. Thank you!! Good bye!"

So we run around to two post offices where the people are notably irritated that we do not have the official number of this official (and possibly mythical) letter. CW did not mention that we would need to provide an official number when seeking out this letter. Finally a woman who looks like she is willing to put about as much effort into the hunt for this letter as I would put into searching the world for a talking cat, finds the letter.

Euphorically, we sign the cards attached to it, hand them to the postal worker and run out with the treasured letter.

By the way, this letter says nothing about protocol, procedure or otherwise. In sum it says nothing period. The contents are basically as follows: “Dear Customer 4,112, Thank you for your business, We are happy to have you on board and will help you in every way possible with all your banking needs. Blah, blah, blah. Love, The bank.”

We go back to Chipper Woman, who is still, persistently and undauntingly, perky.

Us: “We found the letter! We signed the cards! Can we pick up our bank cards?”

CW: “Oh, good. Now we wait until the post office sends your signature cards here and then we can give you your cards. Probably the middle of next week. Thank you!! Good bye”

What?

So we have no bank cards and no portable phone, and you try living in these modern times without having access to money or a mobile. In effect, it DOES feel like I sacrificed a limb to that incomprehensible bank. The irony, I am telling you.

Sometimes I wonder if I am being punkd.

Bienvenue...to yet another vocational twist

Well, I now live in Paris. This is a fact that I am still having trouble wrapping my head around, despite some very strong evidence that it is, indeed an actuality. For example, fashionable people have been regularly and inexplicably glaring at me as they shove by me with nary a “pardon”, I see the Eiffel Tower on my walk to work, I observe dogs prancing around like they own the world, and I smell delicious bread products emanating from bakeries on virtually every street. Life is tres Parisien, indeed, and yet it still feels like a dream of sorts.

However, I am admittedly having an easier time grasping my move to Paris than I am with the fact that I am now a college professor. I am not specifically trained to be a college professor, in case you were wondering. As in, I have no degree, or certificate, or “Dr.” before my name that would indicate my capabilities as a professor for the university level.

But if I have learned any professional secrets from my long and questionably distinguished list of past vocational pursuits, it is that very company, conglomeration, and country (in my current case) obviously abides by different sets of protocols and standards when it comes to filling positions. And, since I was hired as a teacher here in Paris, I have to believe that those who have hired me, at least, believe my qualifications to be adequate for the position.

Frankly, there is something even more bizarre for me than either the fact that I now live in Paris, or the fact that I am a university professor: it is the fact that my students are all science students. We are talking chemistry, biology, math, and something called “infotique,” for which I was really having trouble nailing down a definition, until I was finally told that it is the equivalent of data-processing.

“Data-processing” is truly a subject which I have never, and undoubtedly never will, actually grasp on any level. No matter what language in which it might be explained.

Just to give you a sense of my level of comfortability with the other aforementioned science subjects: my grade in “Chem for Citizens” in college is still a thorn in my side with regards to how detrimental it was to my overall undergraduate GPA. The results of the class would indicate that I am fit to be neither a chemist, nor a citizen—the latter revelation being a touch disheartening.

As for biology: I experienced that special embarrassment that is crying in class in front of your peers in 4th grade when we had to dissect frogs. My second foray into biology was in high school, and I remember nothing of that experience except that the class met around lunchtime and it was an excruciating exercise in not having my stomach audibly growl each and every class. My final biologic experience was a course in college where we made sauerkraut and the professor inexplicably brought his guitar to class and strummed “Love the One Your With” to the entire class.

In terms of math, I have no idea how or why anyone could or would major in “Math.” I honestly do not fathom how one could pass an entire day doing equations, and I am basically a Flinstone whose alacrity with technological advancements is deplorable and would make any self-respecting 5th -grader roll his or her eyes in disbelief at my general ineptness in modern day technological pursuits. In fact, I only very recently purchased an IPOD, and I do not have any idea of what my IPOD is capable of actually doing, save playing music. Essentially, I use it in the exact same manner that I used my walkman in 8th grade—minus the cassette tapes.

So there you have it. Not only do I not speak the same language as my students, but I do not speak the same LANGUAGE as my students. They speak French-Science. I speak English-Literature. I specialize in emoting, feelings, and over-analyzing. They are concentrating in numbers, calculations, and experiments. My not speaking French very well actually pales in comparison to the fact that I could never hope to learn even the basics of the language of science.

Yet, thus far, things are actually going quite well. My classes are sort of a strange monologue where I make jokes and bluther about trying to explain the nuances of the English language, and they look at me with boredom, confusion, and/or shock.

These are looks I am accustomed to garnering from each and every audience I have ever addressed, so things are quite par for the course when you think about it.

But sometimes they smile, they laugh, or their faces light up with recognition or triumph. I find that I really care that they care; I want to make them smile, to make them loosen up, or just to make them show a sign of life, which in some cases seems to require a Herculean effort.

As I fumble through everyday life in Paris, I am all too aware of the embarrassment, confusion, and fear involved with trying to negotiate even the simplest interactions when a language barrier sits between me and my end-goal. It is sort of like being a dog with one of those electric fence collars. I see where I want to get to, but the journey itself will either jolt me back to my starting point, or require a rather painful passageway to the other side. Either way, the electric shock treatment is inevitable.

My point is that I get that it is hard to learn another language. Even if I will never understand science (or maybe even French in a complete sense), I want to be able to communicate on some level with my students. As such, I am really happy to be teaching them English (or “teaching” them English. Or providing comic relief. Or contributing to further apprehensions about Americans in general—whatever it may be at any given time). At the risk of being unbearably cheesy, communication is so vital to life; how exciting to be adding to individuals’ arsenals to do so.

At the very least, and as it seems with much of my life, the whole enterprise of me as a teacher to science students is somewhat hilarious from afar. I would pay money to watch someone navigate/flounder through the position.

Well, voila people. Since I cannot sit around with a tub of buttered Jiffy Pop and watch my professional life take yet another perplexing turn, you will have the ability to do so—or at least read about it. Enjoy.