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?
Friday, October 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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.
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!"
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!"
Friday, October 15, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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!
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!
Monday, October 4, 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, October 2, 2010
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?
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?
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