Someone asked me recently why I did not try to make my blog more successful.
In retrospect, how or why I was not offended by this seemingly offensive inquiry is rather astonishing. Really, I hadn't time to be irked because my innner social scientist was focused on the fact that the question itself presupposes that "successful" has a universally accepted definition. An arguable fact, in my opinion.
But I see the point. At least, in our culture, "success" is often equated with that which is both lucrative and universally appealling. Given such a definition, my blog is quite the raging failure. However, I never expected to either make money nor reach a vast number of people by merely spouting my own ideas willy-nilly on a public space.
Wouldn't such an expectation make me delusional? Or would it just make me a really successful reality TV star? Well, six of one... as the saying goes.
The point of my blog is simply for me to have a space to write. It is a way to keep me accountable to myself and a way to share some of the nonsense that marinates in my mind with my few friends and family who actually read this thing. But I am not exactly teaching anyone anything or offering concise snippets in the bite-size quantities that statistics report are necessary for "successful" blog and website articles. So one might wonder: "What is the point?"
I suppose that question is not a bad one. But for so many of the writing assignments I complete, I have to condense prose to its barest bones. Often, I have to strip away a lot of what I love about writing because, in our "time-is-money" society, people do not have time to read all the fluff.
I don't particularly blame them. After all, I am a circuitous writer who favors flowery language rife with descriptive adjectives and complicated vocabularly words. Hemingway would have hated me (Though I would have had a bit of beef with his whole male macho deal too, so touche, Ernie). I recognize that my style is not appealling to many and is downright repellant for those looking to quickly scan web content, grab a sound bite of information, and be on their way to another site.
In a fast-food nation, I offer the three martini lunch version of blog entries.
Though let me just say that if you did have three martinis while you read, I guarantee you would find that my entries make much more sense than you soberly suspected. And they would be funnier too.
My point: how I fit in the blogosphere is a good question. But then again, so is how I fit into life in general. My ducks are still not in a row, as deviant as ever, if you will. Maybe someday I'll write 300-500 word entries with bullets and boxes and be as scannable as the average person's 30-second of blog reading time allows. Maybe I'll have a focused topic such as rating the cupcake frosting at bakeries across the United States, or reviewing celebrity memoirs.
Until I decide which hole in which to pigeon myself, I am afraid you are stuck with my meandering musings on whatever tickles my fancy--or irks my socks off--on any given day.
Now I realize why that initial remark/insult did not ruffle my feathers: success is subjective. And I just feel lucky to have a place to write what I like, when I like. That sounds pretty successful to me.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Cars Coming Out My Ears
Recent personal epiphany: Apparently, I care about cars.
Never before in my life did I believe that the type of car I drove would be of personal significance or consequence. Evidence to that end: my father bought me a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1997. Implicitly, the Olds was neither cool nor particularly attractive; my friends called it the "rental car" because it was a Floridian-retirement-community shade of bright teal. Despite its lack of physical appeal, the functionality was excellent and I felt incredibly safe driving it. My supposition is that my subconscious decided at that point that a car was merely vehicle for transport, and not a statement about who I am, what my beliefs are, or how much money I have.
Such an admission might make one wonder if I was really born and raised in consumer-driven America. Shame on me for being so naive!
Post Oldsmobile, I have had a three other cars--very practical vehicles such as a second-hand Volvo wagon and a Subaru Outback. But since I am neither a soccer mom nor a lesbian (someone told me that Subarus are the offical cars of lesbians. I sort of thought they were the offical car of Vermonters, but I guess that is six of one, half dozen of the other). Perhaps the first inkling of actual interest in what would be taking me from point A to point B was revealed when we moved to Charleston in 2007 and I decided on a Mini. Was I cognizant of the possible statements such a selection made? I did not think I was, but who knows? At the time, I attributed my selection to the facts that I found it very easy to drive, even easier to park, and rather adorable in general. The only beef regarding my Mini was that my husband found it supremely lame.
But now that I am car-free, I have a new and profound understanding of the problems intrinsic with the paradox of choice. The myriad options, combined with my acute awareness of what a car says about the person behond the wheel, makes this task of finding a new vehicle rather challenging. Maybe that sounds insecure or weird (unsurprising as I can be either insecure or weird at various intervals on most days of the week), but the fact remains that first impressions do matter. And just like how I dress proffers a message about who I am (for example, I would not go out of my house bra-less and sweat-suit clad--except for the occasional late night dog walk--and nor would I ever go out in an Armani suit or mink coat), I also feel my car should be a reflection of who I am.
Considering that stance, it has been quite revolutionary to discover that I must be having some sort of crisis of self because not only do I not have a particular model or make in mind, nor do I have a specific era, function, or even color in mind either. Thus far, I have looked at and seriously considered a number of options. My front-runners have been a 2008 blue Jeep Wrangler, a 1965 red Mustang, a 2007 black Cadillac CTS, a silver 1986 Alfa Romeo spider, and a 1999 black British-import mini (don't worry: my husband is on board with this Mini as it is the old model).
The kibosh was put on the first four listed for the following reasons: I am neither a surfer nor an avid off-roader, I am not a flashy adrenaline junkie, I am not a subtly wealthy, cashmere sweater-set wearing woman in her 70's, and I am not cool.
I hope my borderline-inexcusable stereotyping will be excused.
The old school Mini is still a contender despite that fact that someone recently told me that a Mini says: "Look at me; I'm cute!" The thought that I would be proclaiming such a self-satisfied little message to the world at large disgusted me, until I realized that such is actually my MO in life in general. Personal revelations can be quite humbling.
After further consideration, I actually think that the old Mini says: "Sure, I am a little bit cutesy, but more importantly, I have been around the block and yet I still happily buzz through life. Plus, I am a just a might bit cool, a tiny shade retro, and a smidgeon classic too." And, if that message is sorely misinterpreted, then the fact that the car is British will impart to people that I appreciate a good sense of sarcastic, sardonic humor.
I think I may have a winner.
But that could change in 3-5 minutes.
Really, this whole car selection process has provided a lot of insight as to why my resume implies I suffer from serious and serial vocational ADD: if I cannot even settle on a car, how can one expect me to settle on a career? Amazing how telling one aspect of life can be about another isn't it?
Never before in my life did I believe that the type of car I drove would be of personal significance or consequence. Evidence to that end: my father bought me a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme in 1997. Implicitly, the Olds was neither cool nor particularly attractive; my friends called it the "rental car" because it was a Floridian-retirement-community shade of bright teal. Despite its lack of physical appeal, the functionality was excellent and I felt incredibly safe driving it. My supposition is that my subconscious decided at that point that a car was merely vehicle for transport, and not a statement about who I am, what my beliefs are, or how much money I have.
Such an admission might make one wonder if I was really born and raised in consumer-driven America. Shame on me for being so naive!
Post Oldsmobile, I have had a three other cars--very practical vehicles such as a second-hand Volvo wagon and a Subaru Outback. But since I am neither a soccer mom nor a lesbian (someone told me that Subarus are the offical cars of lesbians. I sort of thought they were the offical car of Vermonters, but I guess that is six of one, half dozen of the other). Perhaps the first inkling of actual interest in what would be taking me from point A to point B was revealed when we moved to Charleston in 2007 and I decided on a Mini. Was I cognizant of the possible statements such a selection made? I did not think I was, but who knows? At the time, I attributed my selection to the facts that I found it very easy to drive, even easier to park, and rather adorable in general. The only beef regarding my Mini was that my husband found it supremely lame.
But now that I am car-free, I have a new and profound understanding of the problems intrinsic with the paradox of choice. The myriad options, combined with my acute awareness of what a car says about the person behond the wheel, makes this task of finding a new vehicle rather challenging. Maybe that sounds insecure or weird (unsurprising as I can be either insecure or weird at various intervals on most days of the week), but the fact remains that first impressions do matter. And just like how I dress proffers a message about who I am (for example, I would not go out of my house bra-less and sweat-suit clad--except for the occasional late night dog walk--and nor would I ever go out in an Armani suit or mink coat), I also feel my car should be a reflection of who I am.
Considering that stance, it has been quite revolutionary to discover that I must be having some sort of crisis of self because not only do I not have a particular model or make in mind, nor do I have a specific era, function, or even color in mind either. Thus far, I have looked at and seriously considered a number of options. My front-runners have been a 2008 blue Jeep Wrangler, a 1965 red Mustang, a 2007 black Cadillac CTS, a silver 1986 Alfa Romeo spider, and a 1999 black British-import mini (don't worry: my husband is on board with this Mini as it is the old model).
The kibosh was put on the first four listed for the following reasons: I am neither a surfer nor an avid off-roader, I am not a flashy adrenaline junkie, I am not a subtly wealthy, cashmere sweater-set wearing woman in her 70's, and I am not cool.
I hope my borderline-inexcusable stereotyping will be excused.
The old school Mini is still a contender despite that fact that someone recently told me that a Mini says: "Look at me; I'm cute!" The thought that I would be proclaiming such a self-satisfied little message to the world at large disgusted me, until I realized that such is actually my MO in life in general. Personal revelations can be quite humbling.
After further consideration, I actually think that the old Mini says: "Sure, I am a little bit cutesy, but more importantly, I have been around the block and yet I still happily buzz through life. Plus, I am a just a might bit cool, a tiny shade retro, and a smidgeon classic too." And, if that message is sorely misinterpreted, then the fact that the car is British will impart to people that I appreciate a good sense of sarcastic, sardonic humor.
I think I may have a winner.
But that could change in 3-5 minutes.
Really, this whole car selection process has provided a lot of insight as to why my resume implies I suffer from serious and serial vocational ADD: if I cannot even settle on a car, how can one expect me to settle on a career? Amazing how telling one aspect of life can be about another isn't it?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Inspiration: Not MIA
Someone asked me the other day if I have not been posting on my blog because I missed Paris so much and had nothing inspiring to say about the United States.
This comment is, in retrospect, a bit insulting--not only to the United States as a whole, but to me as a writer. While I love the romance and theoretical notion that Paris is where every writer MUST be in order to create melifluous prose on a regular basis, I am not actually only inspired by Paris. The cafe culture certainly ameliorates any efforts to put pen to paper (or finger to key). That much is not just a Hemingway myth, as I found it to be marvelously true. But a writer can write anywhere. I think.
I hope.
And I do definitely miss France; I miss the food, I miss the anonymity, I miss the feeling that the world was at my fingertips and that everyday was an intercultural lesson in and of itself.
But I live in Charleston, and this city is equally impressive and amazing. For one thing, the food is incredible here as well--not only the world-class restaurants that seem to draw James Beard accolades like moths to a flame--but also the commitment to local produce and seasonal ingredients. Charleston is a lot like Europe in those regards actually. The great news for the pastry afficionado in me is that Macaroons bakery makes a mighty fine, authentically French, croisssant. You can imagine how thrilled I am that the people around here definitely share my affinity for butter. And I just ate at a new resto this past weekend where the french fries outdid anything I consumed in Europe. Yes, Belgium I am talking to you. Please try les frites at The MacIntosh: scrummy beyond beyond. So it is hard to say I miss Parisian food when the culinary delights here are definitely up to par--bien sur!
Additionally, my intercultural needs are being met: as a native New Englander habitating in South Carolina, my life is actually rife with such opportunities. And at least here I can speak English whilst having gross misunderstandings about cultural codes with my neighbors. Rather, I can speak some semblance of English, depending on how deep the Southern drawl of my conversational counterpart.
Of course I miss Paris. But it was my preoccupation with other writing projects that rendered me "blog-less" for the past month, not the fact that I was uninspired by no longer having the city of light as my backyard. Charleston inspires me every day; I am excited to jump back in to life here. And, as the sun actually shines here, I believe I am going to enjoy being back in this city of light immensely.
This comment is, in retrospect, a bit insulting--not only to the United States as a whole, but to me as a writer. While I love the romance and theoretical notion that Paris is where every writer MUST be in order to create melifluous prose on a regular basis, I am not actually only inspired by Paris. The cafe culture certainly ameliorates any efforts to put pen to paper (or finger to key). That much is not just a Hemingway myth, as I found it to be marvelously true. But a writer can write anywhere. I think.
I hope.
And I do definitely miss France; I miss the food, I miss the anonymity, I miss the feeling that the world was at my fingertips and that everyday was an intercultural lesson in and of itself.
But I live in Charleston, and this city is equally impressive and amazing. For one thing, the food is incredible here as well--not only the world-class restaurants that seem to draw James Beard accolades like moths to a flame--but also the commitment to local produce and seasonal ingredients. Charleston is a lot like Europe in those regards actually. The great news for the pastry afficionado in me is that Macaroons bakery makes a mighty fine, authentically French, croisssant. You can imagine how thrilled I am that the people around here definitely share my affinity for butter. And I just ate at a new resto this past weekend where the french fries outdid anything I consumed in Europe. Yes, Belgium I am talking to you. Please try les frites at The MacIntosh: scrummy beyond beyond. So it is hard to say I miss Parisian food when the culinary delights here are definitely up to par--bien sur!
Additionally, my intercultural needs are being met: as a native New Englander habitating in South Carolina, my life is actually rife with such opportunities. And at least here I can speak English whilst having gross misunderstandings about cultural codes with my neighbors. Rather, I can speak some semblance of English, depending on how deep the Southern drawl of my conversational counterpart.
Of course I miss Paris. But it was my preoccupation with other writing projects that rendered me "blog-less" for the past month, not the fact that I was uninspired by no longer having the city of light as my backyard. Charleston inspires me every day; I am excited to jump back in to life here. And, as the sun actually shines here, I believe I am going to enjoy being back in this city of light immensely.
Monday, August 29, 2011
On-line Outdates
Applying to jobs on-line is a dismal business. I am so disenchanted with the process that I rarely actually apply to anything I find posted in cyberspace. My reasons against doing so are varied, but there are two front-runners I have personally identified which indicate that finding viable employment via the "click/send" method is suspect.
The first con is ironically in direct opposition to the premise of the internet as I understand it, and it is that on-line postings are often quite outdated. One of the appealing aspects of the world wide web is that much of the content available on the internet is impressively available in a "real-time unfolding" manner. An obvious, and possibly controversial example, is that when friends post "status updates" I trust these snippets to be as current as three to five minutes ago, and likely not more than a day old when (and if) I read them. With on-line job postings, the freshness factor is decidedly dubious, and many listings seem to be as stale as last months baguette (not last months loaf of Pepperidge Farm, mind you, because unlike a fresh baguette, that pile of preservatives seemingly has a shelf life of years).
I have applied to a total of three jobs on-line. This seemingly paltry effort is actually not because I lack motivation or desire, but rather because I am selective. And by "selective" I mean I would like to garner employment that I actually enjoy and find to be a mutually beneficial situation. I know: picky, picky me. Of the three, two of them promptly responded to me (which was super nice, gracious, and sort of unexpected) within about two hours. One told me that they were in the process of interviewing finalists and that the application window had been already closed. Apparently, my stellar resume did not inspire them to re-open the proverbial window, but I won't overanalyze that issue lest I lose self-esteem at a time when having it in spades is crucial. A representative from the second job to which I applied reported that the position had been filled, and it sounded like the person who landed the gig was already enrolled in a 401K plan. The third job I only just applied to this morning, so the jury is still out.
Aside from the fact that I feel somewhat foolish sending applications to outdated postings, the second reason I dislike applying to job's on-line is because, much like with my marginal SAT scores, I just do not think people gain a full appreciation for me as a person and employee based on a sheet of paper. My resume and cover letters are fine, but what can anyone ever really tell about another person based on a quasi-formulaic list of euphemisms and creatively-used adjectives? The process is akin to dating; you do not know how well you will click with someone until you are face to face. And, just like dating, the people who are written off based on factual criteria may just be the person of your dreams.
I know this analogy to be true, because I used to be a professional matchmaker (as you might remember), so I am a bit of a subject matter expert. There is a lid for every pot, people.
What I really need to do is network, but long distance networking is sort of difficult, so that will have to wait until next week when I am back in the lowcountry. In the meantime, I would like to officially declare that I despise Monster.com because they grossly misunderstand who I am as a person and what intrinsically motivates me on a professional level: I will not be a sales representative for indeterminate items and no, you cannot lure me in just by promising me outlandish sums of money.
I told you I was picky.
The first con is ironically in direct opposition to the premise of the internet as I understand it, and it is that on-line postings are often quite outdated. One of the appealing aspects of the world wide web is that much of the content available on the internet is impressively available in a "real-time unfolding" manner. An obvious, and possibly controversial example, is that when friends post "status updates" I trust these snippets to be as current as three to five minutes ago, and likely not more than a day old when (and if) I read them. With on-line job postings, the freshness factor is decidedly dubious, and many listings seem to be as stale as last months baguette (not last months loaf of Pepperidge Farm, mind you, because unlike a fresh baguette, that pile of preservatives seemingly has a shelf life of years).
I have applied to a total of three jobs on-line. This seemingly paltry effort is actually not because I lack motivation or desire, but rather because I am selective. And by "selective" I mean I would like to garner employment that I actually enjoy and find to be a mutually beneficial situation. I know: picky, picky me. Of the three, two of them promptly responded to me (which was super nice, gracious, and sort of unexpected) within about two hours. One told me that they were in the process of interviewing finalists and that the application window had been already closed. Apparently, my stellar resume did not inspire them to re-open the proverbial window, but I won't overanalyze that issue lest I lose self-esteem at a time when having it in spades is crucial. A representative from the second job to which I applied reported that the position had been filled, and it sounded like the person who landed the gig was already enrolled in a 401K plan. The third job I only just applied to this morning, so the jury is still out.
Aside from the fact that I feel somewhat foolish sending applications to outdated postings, the second reason I dislike applying to job's on-line is because, much like with my marginal SAT scores, I just do not think people gain a full appreciation for me as a person and employee based on a sheet of paper. My resume and cover letters are fine, but what can anyone ever really tell about another person based on a quasi-formulaic list of euphemisms and creatively-used adjectives? The process is akin to dating; you do not know how well you will click with someone until you are face to face. And, just like dating, the people who are written off based on factual criteria may just be the person of your dreams.
I know this analogy to be true, because I used to be a professional matchmaker (as you might remember), so I am a bit of a subject matter expert. There is a lid for every pot, people.
What I really need to do is network, but long distance networking is sort of difficult, so that will have to wait until next week when I am back in the lowcountry. In the meantime, I would like to officially declare that I despise Monster.com because they grossly misunderstand who I am as a person and what intrinsically motivates me on a professional level: I will not be a sales representative for indeterminate items and no, you cannot lure me in just by promising me outlandish sums of money.
I told you I was picky.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
My Limbo has Become Literal
So now I have been back from Paris for about three weeks, and I remain is a serious state of confusion as to what my next professional step in life will be. It is possible that my ducks have never been less in a row than right now.
That said, the one good thing I have going for me is that the name of my blog remains astonishingly apt. So it is nice that there is one thing about which I need not worry.
Just to give some sense of my personal chaos: my husband is in Texas, and has been for the past two months because work took him to Houston. We do not live in Texas, nor will we ever live in Texas, so this separation is not the norm and is not fun. I am still in Cape Cod, though I no longer live in Massachusetts, so this too is not the norm. Technically, we "live" in Charleston, but our house in South Carolina is rented out and will remain rented out for another several months, so we don't really live there at all at the moment.
In case you are failing to read between the lines, or to read at all, I am basically a homeless person whose life and belongings are scattered amongst three states. I also currently have no steady job and no car. In fact, I do not even have a bicycle as I loaned it to the renters. I think I still have friends, but the jury is out on that one since I have yet to get a new portable phone since returning to the states and thus have been out of touch with the majority of mes amies.
My dogs seem to be cool with all of this, so that situation along with my blog title, is the second thing I currently have going for me.
My friend Dave told me yesterday that what I have right now is a wonderful amount of flexibility. Dave, by the way, is prone to euphemisms.
Really I am very much in limbo. And that situation itself is another of life's great ironies because my mother and I actually had to evacuate her house on Cape Cod due to the flooding brought on by Hurricane Irene. So we are now staying in a hotel uptown where I actually won the limbo contest in 7th grade at a friends Bat Mitzvah. Seriously, at this very hotel--I passed the "ballroom" where that crowning life achievement occurred yesterday on my way to the fitness room. Life laughs at you sometimes, doesn't it?
On the brighter side of things, I have been able to work on my book(s), and having the time and space to do so is a great thing. And another writing venture just turned up as well; I have now been enlisted to work on a project with my great friend who is an underwear specialist.
So I may be homeless, but at least I am not predictable.
That said, the one good thing I have going for me is that the name of my blog remains astonishingly apt. So it is nice that there is one thing about which I need not worry.
Just to give some sense of my personal chaos: my husband is in Texas, and has been for the past two months because work took him to Houston. We do not live in Texas, nor will we ever live in Texas, so this separation is not the norm and is not fun. I am still in Cape Cod, though I no longer live in Massachusetts, so this too is not the norm. Technically, we "live" in Charleston, but our house in South Carolina is rented out and will remain rented out for another several months, so we don't really live there at all at the moment.
In case you are failing to read between the lines, or to read at all, I am basically a homeless person whose life and belongings are scattered amongst three states. I also currently have no steady job and no car. In fact, I do not even have a bicycle as I loaned it to the renters. I think I still have friends, but the jury is out on that one since I have yet to get a new portable phone since returning to the states and thus have been out of touch with the majority of mes amies.
My dogs seem to be cool with all of this, so that situation along with my blog title, is the second thing I currently have going for me.
My friend Dave told me yesterday that what I have right now is a wonderful amount of flexibility. Dave, by the way, is prone to euphemisms.
Really I am very much in limbo. And that situation itself is another of life's great ironies because my mother and I actually had to evacuate her house on Cape Cod due to the flooding brought on by Hurricane Irene. So we are now staying in a hotel uptown where I actually won the limbo contest in 7th grade at a friends Bat Mitzvah. Seriously, at this very hotel--I passed the "ballroom" where that crowning life achievement occurred yesterday on my way to the fitness room. Life laughs at you sometimes, doesn't it?
On the brighter side of things, I have been able to work on my book(s), and having the time and space to do so is a great thing. And another writing venture just turned up as well; I have now been enlisted to work on a project with my great friend who is an underwear specialist.
So I may be homeless, but at least I am not predictable.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Paris...and then what?
I no longer live in Paris and I am therefore wondering if my general blog-worthiness has been reduced. Reading about the daily observations of an Americaine living in America seems pretty banal.
Especially since the American in question has been staying at her mom's house in Cape Cod for the past two weeks, with limited exposure to the cultural offerings of the world at large. Not to suggest that Cape Cod is lacking in any way; it is both diversely artsy and aesthetically captivating. But my relative isolation is rooted in the fact that, at the moment, I have no car, no phone, and no decent bread in the vicinity on which to comment at length. As I generally like to garner material from interactions with others, you can see why I am now in a bit of a tight spot. My dogs and I have actually had some pretty lively tete-a-tetes, but that seems like a subjective interpretation of a topic with limited mass-appeal.
What I have going for me is the fact that I am currently unemployed. This seemingly unfortunate status may actually prove to be our mutual and proverbial goldmine because it screams of possibility. I could perchance start following some professonal path merely for the purpose of increasing the entertainment value of this blog. That POA probably sounds a bit ambitious ("ambitious" here being a euphemism for "ludicrous"), but I want you to know that I am dedicated to making dubious life decisions for the sake of garnering new material. Also, my resume says nothing if it does not say: "I have professional ADD". So whatever career path I next select will be in good company in the sense that it will be as nonsensical as all previous endeavors.
One of the personally irritating things about my past professional pursuits is that the majority of them are not really things I could viably go back to. Despite having tried about 15 different careers, I have no solid skill-set that could act as "Plan B" if times ever became tough. You know how people say things like: "Well, if my new handbag line does not work out, I can always go back to accounting" or "If I cannot make a go of this new bean-bag chair business, I can always go back to being a lawyer"? Well, I do not have one of those sentences.
We can just touch upon a smattering of my former positions to elucidate the point, and it seems self-flagellatingly appropriate to start with the one that no one ever thought I could do in the first place. That said, I cannot go back to being a woodworker. For one thing, I was never particularly talented at working with that particular material. For another, being knocked to the ground by a large 2-foot wide and 2-inch thick board, which flew off the blade of a table saw (maybe, probably, definitely due to my own mistake) made it pretty clear to me that the likelihood of my staying in that line of work and keeping all my extremities intact was low. I like my fingers, so we can permanently cross that one off the list of potentials.
I loved being a features writer and restaurant critic for a magazine, but going back to the position would be unfortunately futile since the magazine in question has now folded. I really liked my job as a matchmaker, but people always seemed to misinterpret the position and thought it was unseemly (it wasn't, for the record). I cannot very well go back to being a lifeguard since my crawl is abysmal, the only thing separating my skin from that of an albino is a smattering of freckles--and there is the not-unimportant factor that I am not a teenager. Going back to planning weddings is out of the question since I find the vast majority of brides insufferable, and returning to my post as a travel agent seems relatively useless and redundant given the prevalence of sophisticated apps and sites.
We almost have a light at the end of this tunnel of alarmingly non-useful career-decisions considering that going back to being an innkeeper is actually appealling to me on a personal level--especially since I am now decent at making homemade croissants and brioche, and could thus return to the field as an improved entity. However, such would be impossible on a practical level since the pay is paltry at best. Wish I could be more Oprah-esque about following my passion, but a girl needs to be able to put dog food on the table after all. Teaching English to French University students was pretty fun, especially since the job doubled as an opportunity to hone a stand-up comedian act, but such would be a difficult gig to find in a country where hardly anyone speaks French. Non?
Of the fields in which I have dabbled where potential exists: PR or Non-profit consulting are certainly options, but the difficulty with privacy issues within both careers might make them difficut to exploit on this blog. I am thinking of how we can all benefit, you see.
Regarding all of these positions and the reasons I have proffered as to why they are unsuitable/impossible for me: I would just like to offer a tardy and superfluous "no offense", if I have already offended you.
I sort of wish I was at the end of the laundry list that comprises the "Professional Experience" section of my resume, so I will just imagine such to be the case and cut us off here. Paris is sure a tough act to follow, and I know I have my work set out for me. That said, I have a hunch that the "Miscellaneous" page on Craigslist job postings might yield some promising possibilities for how I can best embark on another questionable vocational voyage. Will keep you posted.
Especially since the American in question has been staying at her mom's house in Cape Cod for the past two weeks, with limited exposure to the cultural offerings of the world at large. Not to suggest that Cape Cod is lacking in any way; it is both diversely artsy and aesthetically captivating. But my relative isolation is rooted in the fact that, at the moment, I have no car, no phone, and no decent bread in the vicinity on which to comment at length. As I generally like to garner material from interactions with others, you can see why I am now in a bit of a tight spot. My dogs and I have actually had some pretty lively tete-a-tetes, but that seems like a subjective interpretation of a topic with limited mass-appeal.
What I have going for me is the fact that I am currently unemployed. This seemingly unfortunate status may actually prove to be our mutual and proverbial goldmine because it screams of possibility. I could perchance start following some professonal path merely for the purpose of increasing the entertainment value of this blog. That POA probably sounds a bit ambitious ("ambitious" here being a euphemism for "ludicrous"), but I want you to know that I am dedicated to making dubious life decisions for the sake of garnering new material. Also, my resume says nothing if it does not say: "I have professional ADD". So whatever career path I next select will be in good company in the sense that it will be as nonsensical as all previous endeavors.
One of the personally irritating things about my past professional pursuits is that the majority of them are not really things I could viably go back to. Despite having tried about 15 different careers, I have no solid skill-set that could act as "Plan B" if times ever became tough. You know how people say things like: "Well, if my new handbag line does not work out, I can always go back to accounting" or "If I cannot make a go of this new bean-bag chair business, I can always go back to being a lawyer"? Well, I do not have one of those sentences.
We can just touch upon a smattering of my former positions to elucidate the point, and it seems self-flagellatingly appropriate to start with the one that no one ever thought I could do in the first place. That said, I cannot go back to being a woodworker. For one thing, I was never particularly talented at working with that particular material. For another, being knocked to the ground by a large 2-foot wide and 2-inch thick board, which flew off the blade of a table saw (maybe, probably, definitely due to my own mistake) made it pretty clear to me that the likelihood of my staying in that line of work and keeping all my extremities intact was low. I like my fingers, so we can permanently cross that one off the list of potentials.
I loved being a features writer and restaurant critic for a magazine, but going back to the position would be unfortunately futile since the magazine in question has now folded. I really liked my job as a matchmaker, but people always seemed to misinterpret the position and thought it was unseemly (it wasn't, for the record). I cannot very well go back to being a lifeguard since my crawl is abysmal, the only thing separating my skin from that of an albino is a smattering of freckles--and there is the not-unimportant factor that I am not a teenager. Going back to planning weddings is out of the question since I find the vast majority of brides insufferable, and returning to my post as a travel agent seems relatively useless and redundant given the prevalence of sophisticated apps and sites.
We almost have a light at the end of this tunnel of alarmingly non-useful career-decisions considering that going back to being an innkeeper is actually appealling to me on a personal level--especially since I am now decent at making homemade croissants and brioche, and could thus return to the field as an improved entity. However, such would be impossible on a practical level since the pay is paltry at best. Wish I could be more Oprah-esque about following my passion, but a girl needs to be able to put dog food on the table after all. Teaching English to French University students was pretty fun, especially since the job doubled as an opportunity to hone a stand-up comedian act, but such would be a difficult gig to find in a country where hardly anyone speaks French. Non?
Of the fields in which I have dabbled where potential exists: PR or Non-profit consulting are certainly options, but the difficulty with privacy issues within both careers might make them difficut to exploit on this blog. I am thinking of how we can all benefit, you see.
Regarding all of these positions and the reasons I have proffered as to why they are unsuitable/impossible for me: I would just like to offer a tardy and superfluous "no offense", if I have already offended you.
I sort of wish I was at the end of the laundry list that comprises the "Professional Experience" section of my resume, so I will just imagine such to be the case and cut us off here. Paris is sure a tough act to follow, and I know I have my work set out for me. That said, I have a hunch that the "Miscellaneous" page on Craigslist job postings might yield some promising possibilities for how I can best embark on another questionable vocational voyage. Will keep you posted.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tallying up the Pros and Cons
A guy sitting next to me on the metro today was clipping his fingernails.
If I were a slick liar, I would never have shared that sentence with you since it obviously sounds completely fabricated.
Unfortunately, it was the sad truth of my mid-day metro ride. I have actually seen people do grosser things while on the metro (you can imagine the sort of human emissions to which I am alluding), but at least I could assume those people were very drunk, very sick, or very insane.
The nail-clipper's egregious behavior could not be excused so easily--he seemed to be sober, in good health, and competently functional as far as I could discern.
Well, I will tell you something, France: he was not a good guy for me to run into today. Since my year in Paris is now drawing to a close, many of my thoughts are devoted to the things I will miss about this city and this country. As is inevitable when compiling such lists, my mind also wanders to the antithesis. Thus, I have also been considering the components about living here which I will decidedly NOT miss, the aspects where America is the one who shines.
Pre-metro ride, I had eaten an especially delectable pastry made of croissant dough, slathered in pastry cream, and topped with fresh roasted figs. I thought: GOSH dang it, such a mouth treasure would be hard to come by in the states; how I will miss you, Paris! Then I walked out into the freezing cold, rainy, gray weather and thought: Well chalk one up for team U.S.A., because I defy the sun not to shine in Boston or Charleston for weeks at a time during the month of JULY.
Then I passed the clicheed-yet-true-to-reality numerous cafes where people were sipping cafes, perriers, and dainty glasses of wine, and I thought: Oh, well, you have me there, Paris. I love to just sit and look. Sit, and drink, and read, and look. Nothing better than just soaking up life and having a good think without being worried about being shooed away or harassed by waiters needing tips from actual consuming customers. But then I was practically trampled by the people shoving their way onto my metro car as I tried to exit it (you know the drill--I have written about that deplorable habit in full detail), and I thought: Oh, to be around American people who have manners again will be so nice!
In case you were not keeping score: the game was tied at this point.
So then I hopped/aggressively shoved myself onto the second metro car and sat down and peacefully read for a few stops. Then HE got on and sat next to me. At first he seemed innocuous and inconsequential--ideal qualities for stranger traveling mates to embody. Then, just when the car had become really crowded, the un-hygienic public personal hygiene activity started taking place.
And America wins by default in today's round of "Which Country is Better?"
I am not saying that this inappropriate behavior was indicative of Parisians, or of behavior exhibited by the French. In fact, I am not even certain this fellow/troglodyte was French. But the affair did cloud my judgment and made me think: Oh, goodness, to be back in America, where people know better!
Also, I am excited to go "home" because then I can stop worrying that MY every activity is being scrutinized and branded as behavior indicative of my countryfolk. Like if I drink my water or wine too quickly: "Oh, you Americans! Always glug, glug, glug." Or if I smile at the baker and she glowers at me for being such an imbecile as to be smiling without a reason...smiling like a vacuous lil' American! Or when I make a silly error in simple conversation en Francais and then instantly panic that I am lending credence to stereotypes of American ethnocentrism. Or when I go to the gym in my gym clothes and worry that I am perpetuating the idea that all Americans are slobs who wear sweats 24/7.
It is exhausting being an unoffical, unappointed, and ineffectual ambassador for my country.
But I do wonder how many times I have done something mindless, silly, or just plain stupid and had someone walk away from me, making a gross generalization like: "Oh, those Americans! What nitwits!" based solely on my isolated behavior.
Kind of like when you exit a metro and think: "Ugh, you un-hygienic Frenchies. Keep it in your W.C., s'il vous plait."
Stay tuned for the next go-round in this exciting match.
If I were a slick liar, I would never have shared that sentence with you since it obviously sounds completely fabricated.
Unfortunately, it was the sad truth of my mid-day metro ride. I have actually seen people do grosser things while on the metro (you can imagine the sort of human emissions to which I am alluding), but at least I could assume those people were very drunk, very sick, or very insane.
The nail-clipper's egregious behavior could not be excused so easily--he seemed to be sober, in good health, and competently functional as far as I could discern.
Well, I will tell you something, France: he was not a good guy for me to run into today. Since my year in Paris is now drawing to a close, many of my thoughts are devoted to the things I will miss about this city and this country. As is inevitable when compiling such lists, my mind also wanders to the antithesis. Thus, I have also been considering the components about living here which I will decidedly NOT miss, the aspects where America is the one who shines.
Pre-metro ride, I had eaten an especially delectable pastry made of croissant dough, slathered in pastry cream, and topped with fresh roasted figs. I thought: GOSH dang it, such a mouth treasure would be hard to come by in the states; how I will miss you, Paris! Then I walked out into the freezing cold, rainy, gray weather and thought: Well chalk one up for team U.S.A., because I defy the sun not to shine in Boston or Charleston for weeks at a time during the month of JULY.
Then I passed the clicheed-yet-true-to-reality numerous cafes where people were sipping cafes, perriers, and dainty glasses of wine, and I thought: Oh, well, you have me there, Paris. I love to just sit and look. Sit, and drink, and read, and look. Nothing better than just soaking up life and having a good think without being worried about being shooed away or harassed by waiters needing tips from actual consuming customers. But then I was practically trampled by the people shoving their way onto my metro car as I tried to exit it (you know the drill--I have written about that deplorable habit in full detail), and I thought: Oh, to be around American people who have manners again will be so nice!
In case you were not keeping score: the game was tied at this point.
So then I hopped/aggressively shoved myself onto the second metro car and sat down and peacefully read for a few stops. Then HE got on and sat next to me. At first he seemed innocuous and inconsequential--ideal qualities for stranger traveling mates to embody. Then, just when the car had become really crowded, the un-hygienic public personal hygiene activity started taking place.
And America wins by default in today's round of "Which Country is Better?"
I am not saying that this inappropriate behavior was indicative of Parisians, or of behavior exhibited by the French. In fact, I am not even certain this fellow/troglodyte was French. But the affair did cloud my judgment and made me think: Oh, goodness, to be back in America, where people know better!
Also, I am excited to go "home" because then I can stop worrying that MY every activity is being scrutinized and branded as behavior indicative of my countryfolk. Like if I drink my water or wine too quickly: "Oh, you Americans! Always glug, glug, glug." Or if I smile at the baker and she glowers at me for being such an imbecile as to be smiling without a reason...smiling like a vacuous lil' American! Or when I make a silly error in simple conversation en Francais and then instantly panic that I am lending credence to stereotypes of American ethnocentrism. Or when I go to the gym in my gym clothes and worry that I am perpetuating the idea that all Americans are slobs who wear sweats 24/7.
It is exhausting being an unoffical, unappointed, and ineffectual ambassador for my country.
But I do wonder how many times I have done something mindless, silly, or just plain stupid and had someone walk away from me, making a gross generalization like: "Oh, those Americans! What nitwits!" based solely on my isolated behavior.
Kind of like when you exit a metro and think: "Ugh, you un-hygienic Frenchies. Keep it in your W.C., s'il vous plait."
Stay tuned for the next go-round in this exciting match.
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Other Side of the Traveling Coin
As a follow-up to my last super insightful and riveting entry; there is another side to the "how to best visit Paris" coin that is worth considering. Isn't there always?
In my last entry I opined on why people with limited time in this city might want to discard the "dream" of living like a local, and instead just soak up Paris as a tourist; to live it up in the way that you can live it up when you have only limited time somewhere. Because, unless you are conducting some sort of research project, there is really no need to spend the three or four or seven precious days you may have in the city of light really living like this average local: scrambling around the crowded metro, drinking instant coffee from a kitchen kettle as opposed to waffling the morning away at a chic cafe, arguing with bureacratic figures about the various impenetrable bureacratic processes, and eating at non-famous local establishments where no one wears a tux (though they likely have plenty of atttude).
HOWEVER, while I clearly do endorse and encourage the splashing out of visitors, here is the flip side to consider: if you have been here many times, or if you are able to have an extended stay here--say two weeks or more--then I absolutely would invite you to spend some time living more like a locale.
Because to really "get" Paris, you do have to wade in the trenches a little. You do have to take the metro. Even when it is crowded and smelly, and some guy with an accordian wants to set up shop millimeters away from your left, and soon to be partially deaf, ear. You must shop at the local markets on market day (which are different for every arrondissment but usually two per week per arrondissement), and you must therefore endure a little self-esteem crushing from the vendeurs as you attempt to order tomatoes.You will want to eat at your local bistro. Even if the food is not the absolute best to be had, and even if the service is deplorable--for at least six months if possible.
Because eventually, you will not blink an eye or wrinkle your nose when you are crammed into the smelly, crowded metro and an accordian is jammed up to your shoulder. You will find such inconveniences are worth it because it is only through the metro that you can buzz through Paris as quickly and adroitly as any resident. You will acquire an ease, an attitude, and an understanding that are simply not to be garnered through taxi-traveling. Eventually, you will adopt a sassy and indignant tone right back at the vendeur who is insulting your accent, or repeatedly igrnoring you in favor of waiting on locals/native French speakers. Once you do so, you might find him eyeing you with a bit of respect, waiting on you a little sooner the next time around and maybe throwing in a few beautiful ripe cherries with your tomatoes and aubergines. And eventually your local server who has been pouting at and borderline abusing you for months will one day ask you how you are doing and will maybe bring you a complimentary coupe de champagne.
And when any of those moments happen, it really is an amazing thing, an aha feeling. To borrow from the venerable Mr. Hemingway, your fitting in happens very gradually, then quite suddenly. Et voila! One day you are able to successfully function and feel like a real local. My golly goodness, wowzer. How to best describe it all? We can borrow from the decidedly un-venerable Mr. Sheen: winning!
Of course, rapport takes time and and, at times, sacrifice. But wait in line at the boulangerie with the impossibly long line, take 20 minutes to hear what the woman at the fromagerie has to say about cheeses that are in season, go out of your way to hit up the place with the best baguette around. Walk through the gardens, see a movie at an independent film house and browse in a tiny, stuffed-to-the-gills book shop (Paris has a good deal more of both than many other cities). Stay at a European hotel, even if they have no a/c, no room service, and a shower stall the size of a grade-school cubby.You might not have time to do these things on a short vacation, but if you are have the opportinuty for an extended stay, then take the time, make the effort. It will be worth it, because your overall experience will be richer, will be more "authentic"...and at the very least, the croissant will be better.
I know this "other side" can be a tough card to throw out: if I only have three days in a city, I often just want to take taxis, to maximize every moment. I do not always want to take chances on hotels or restos that may or may not prove fruitful. But, if I have longer to spend somewhere, then I do try to see some of the heart of a city, and I feel confident that Paris is a city with so much heart, so much more than the glitzy, glamourous sheen that coats its outer layers. So dig deeper, if you can, and I know you will be happy you did. Or, and at the risk of redundancy: at least the pastries you unearth will be TDF.
In my last entry I opined on why people with limited time in this city might want to discard the "dream" of living like a local, and instead just soak up Paris as a tourist; to live it up in the way that you can live it up when you have only limited time somewhere. Because, unless you are conducting some sort of research project, there is really no need to spend the three or four or seven precious days you may have in the city of light really living like this average local: scrambling around the crowded metro, drinking instant coffee from a kitchen kettle as opposed to waffling the morning away at a chic cafe, arguing with bureacratic figures about the various impenetrable bureacratic processes, and eating at non-famous local establishments where no one wears a tux (though they likely have plenty of atttude).
HOWEVER, while I clearly do endorse and encourage the splashing out of visitors, here is the flip side to consider: if you have been here many times, or if you are able to have an extended stay here--say two weeks or more--then I absolutely would invite you to spend some time living more like a locale.
Because to really "get" Paris, you do have to wade in the trenches a little. You do have to take the metro. Even when it is crowded and smelly, and some guy with an accordian wants to set up shop millimeters away from your left, and soon to be partially deaf, ear. You must shop at the local markets on market day (which are different for every arrondissment but usually two per week per arrondissement), and you must therefore endure a little self-esteem crushing from the vendeurs as you attempt to order tomatoes.You will want to eat at your local bistro. Even if the food is not the absolute best to be had, and even if the service is deplorable--for at least six months if possible.
Because eventually, you will not blink an eye or wrinkle your nose when you are crammed into the smelly, crowded metro and an accordian is jammed up to your shoulder. You will find such inconveniences are worth it because it is only through the metro that you can buzz through Paris as quickly and adroitly as any resident. You will acquire an ease, an attitude, and an understanding that are simply not to be garnered through taxi-traveling. Eventually, you will adopt a sassy and indignant tone right back at the vendeur who is insulting your accent, or repeatedly igrnoring you in favor of waiting on locals/native French speakers. Once you do so, you might find him eyeing you with a bit of respect, waiting on you a little sooner the next time around and maybe throwing in a few beautiful ripe cherries with your tomatoes and aubergines. And eventually your local server who has been pouting at and borderline abusing you for months will one day ask you how you are doing and will maybe bring you a complimentary coupe de champagne.
And when any of those moments happen, it really is an amazing thing, an aha feeling. To borrow from the venerable Mr. Hemingway, your fitting in happens very gradually, then quite suddenly. Et voila! One day you are able to successfully function and feel like a real local. My golly goodness, wowzer. How to best describe it all? We can borrow from the decidedly un-venerable Mr. Sheen: winning!
Of course, rapport takes time and and, at times, sacrifice. But wait in line at the boulangerie with the impossibly long line, take 20 minutes to hear what the woman at the fromagerie has to say about cheeses that are in season, go out of your way to hit up the place with the best baguette around. Walk through the gardens, see a movie at an independent film house and browse in a tiny, stuffed-to-the-gills book shop (Paris has a good deal more of both than many other cities). Stay at a European hotel, even if they have no a/c, no room service, and a shower stall the size of a grade-school cubby.You might not have time to do these things on a short vacation, but if you are have the opportinuty for an extended stay, then take the time, make the effort. It will be worth it, because your overall experience will be richer, will be more "authentic"...and at the very least, the croissant will be better.
I know this "other side" can be a tough card to throw out: if I only have three days in a city, I often just want to take taxis, to maximize every moment. I do not always want to take chances on hotels or restos that may or may not prove fruitful. But, if I have longer to spend somewhere, then I do try to see some of the heart of a city, and I feel confident that Paris is a city with so much heart, so much more than the glitzy, glamourous sheen that coats its outer layers. So dig deeper, if you can, and I know you will be happy you did. Or, and at the risk of redundancy: at least the pastries you unearth will be TDF.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Paris Through Your Own Eyes
When people come over to visit me/us in Paris, they often say things like: "I want to see what YOUR life in Paris is like! I want to live like a Parisian through you!"
I completely understand the sentiment and the implication behind it; knowing a "resident" means there exists increased opportunity to really "live like a local" in a foreign environment. There is a certain cache and appeal to being "in" on what the natives do or know. It seems often that people return from travels boasting about finding "little out of the way" places, restaurants "full of locals", and ways they managed to "avoid all the tourist traps".
These sorts of post-vacation tales are a precious source of pride and a way to prove that you really made the most of your experience, that you really know how to travel. And I think this behaviour is a quite reasonable and healthy approach to travelling. At least I hope so, as I have totally been one of those people--on more than one ocasion.
So I can appreciate my friends and acquaintances looking to me/us as a faster means of attaining that, often elusive, vacation-insider-knowledge.
But, the thing is: no one can actually wants to, nor even practically can, live like a local if they have only a few days in Paris. And seriously: no one actually REALLY wants to live my day-to-day life in Paris if they will be here for only a limited time.
Because whatever romantic notions visitors have of my life a Paris, it is really not as spectacularly romantic as it may sound. Proof?
On a typical day, I get up, I eat some combination of yogurt/cereal/fruit and I make coffee. I drink said coffee while checking email and/or doing some writing. Then I shower, dress, prepare a face to meet the faces I will meet, and usually walk around for a bit (that part they might enjoy as the sites are often incroyables). I then spend a typical afternoon doing some grocery shopping and often taking care of some aspect of an inevitable bureacratic problem that has surfaced as a result of my being an American in Paris. So an hour or two is devoted to trying to make headway on whatever the problem du jour happens to be and usually only leaving such an interaction with nothing to show for it except further proof as to my non-fluency in the French language. In my newly humbled state, I then do some more work, reading, or walking in the late afternoon, often go to the gym, and finally return to my apartment to make dinner. After eating, I do some more reading, perhaps some watching of YouTube videos, and maybe a little Skyping with my mom.
Umm, yeah. Paris is SO glamourous isn't it?
Granted, a couple of days a week, the routine is broken up by a visit to a museum, monument, or exhibition. I'll have lunch or dinner out at least that often as well. And when I do all this walking about it could be in such amazing places as the Jardin du Luxembourg or along the Seine, and I always have the option to grocery shop at wonderful little fromageries, boulangeries and boucheries...not to mention the fact that a scrump-dilly-umptious little croissant is always waiting for me around any corner. So there are those noteable perks. I will give you that.
But what I assume people ACTUALLY want to do when they express their desire to "live my life in Paris" is to get away from their mundane "regular" life in the United States. Through me, I imagine they would like to validate the hope and belief that life need not be banal. Having a contemporary who is really "living the dream" in the form of a fabulous Euro-life in one of the most incredible cities in the world is a wonderful thing to think about. And to go and join him or her or them in that exotic and exquisite life for a few days would be really magnifique--proof that life can be continually exciting.
I certainly don't blame them for thinking such things. But nor can I offer them solid proof that living as an ex-pat in Paris is all that they have cracked it up to be in their minds in terms of romance, riches, and restos. Not to completely spoil that pretty little thought or anything.
It is also been my revelation that what they really mean when they say they want to "see it through my eyes" is that they want me to show them around (which I am more than happy to do) so they do not have to worry about either language or navigational issues and can thus be assured of seeing all the "greatest" sites and eating at all the "best" places without taking the time and effort that is usually involved in the planning of a visit to a foreign place. And because I am presumably "in the know" we can do all this sight-seeing and eating without ever being suckered into the dreaded, and rather prevalent, tourist traps.
And, again, I hardly blame them. It is quite a good deal for the vacationer if such works out as planned. I have certainly reaped the benefits of visiting cities where I know people and the experience is usually infinitely better than trying to feel out a city on my own.
Plus, my job is easy; I love to show off Paris and she does show quite nicely, after all. But the Paris I am showing off is not necessarily the Paris I live on a day-to-day basis. If someone is only here for a few days or a week, they should dine at the more venerable restos, walk down the most glamourous shopping streets, easily skip from impressive monument to more impressive monument. They definitely should try to see the latest greatest exhibitions and generally soak up la creme de la creme in this gorgeous city.
Paris wows people really well. And you should definitely take advantage of the time you have here to be sufficiently wowed.
If I could live the high life in Paris every day, trust me, I would! But living that sort of Parisian life--while manageable for a week or a long-weekend--is not exactly sustainable if your bank account is significantly less sizeable than, say, Donald Trump's. Fortunately, I have found ways to live very well in Paris on not a lot of money. But if you are a visitor, then I say to heck with it. Forget living through my eyes: be a tourist, live it up, and enjoy every second of it.
As I said, I am more than happy to show you around, but I will try to show you the best of what is around, and that might mean that you need to forget about "living through me" and just allow yourself to be amazed for a few days while you really enjoy what the Paris of your dreams is all about. I may not be able to afford all the activities I recommend (we do have a lot of visitors and there is only so many times one can go to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz or enjoy a champagne brunch next to the Louvre on half a weeks wages), and I may only window shop while you really shop, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. You need to see the dazzle of this city and let's face it: my kitchen kettle is not going to wow you. And you really need not Skype with my mom, lovely as she is.
I completely understand the sentiment and the implication behind it; knowing a "resident" means there exists increased opportunity to really "live like a local" in a foreign environment. There is a certain cache and appeal to being "in" on what the natives do or know. It seems often that people return from travels boasting about finding "little out of the way" places, restaurants "full of locals", and ways they managed to "avoid all the tourist traps".
These sorts of post-vacation tales are a precious source of pride and a way to prove that you really made the most of your experience, that you really know how to travel. And I think this behaviour is a quite reasonable and healthy approach to travelling. At least I hope so, as I have totally been one of those people--on more than one ocasion.
So I can appreciate my friends and acquaintances looking to me/us as a faster means of attaining that, often elusive, vacation-insider-knowledge.
But, the thing is: no one can actually wants to, nor even practically can, live like a local if they have only a few days in Paris. And seriously: no one actually REALLY wants to live my day-to-day life in Paris if they will be here for only a limited time.
Because whatever romantic notions visitors have of my life a Paris, it is really not as spectacularly romantic as it may sound. Proof?
On a typical day, I get up, I eat some combination of yogurt/cereal/fruit and I make coffee. I drink said coffee while checking email and/or doing some writing. Then I shower, dress, prepare a face to meet the faces I will meet, and usually walk around for a bit (that part they might enjoy as the sites are often incroyables). I then spend a typical afternoon doing some grocery shopping and often taking care of some aspect of an inevitable bureacratic problem that has surfaced as a result of my being an American in Paris. So an hour or two is devoted to trying to make headway on whatever the problem du jour happens to be and usually only leaving such an interaction with nothing to show for it except further proof as to my non-fluency in the French language. In my newly humbled state, I then do some more work, reading, or walking in the late afternoon, often go to the gym, and finally return to my apartment to make dinner. After eating, I do some more reading, perhaps some watching of YouTube videos, and maybe a little Skyping with my mom.
Umm, yeah. Paris is SO glamourous isn't it?
Granted, a couple of days a week, the routine is broken up by a visit to a museum, monument, or exhibition. I'll have lunch or dinner out at least that often as well. And when I do all this walking about it could be in such amazing places as the Jardin du Luxembourg or along the Seine, and I always have the option to grocery shop at wonderful little fromageries, boulangeries and boucheries...not to mention the fact that a scrump-dilly-umptious little croissant is always waiting for me around any corner. So there are those noteable perks. I will give you that.
But what I assume people ACTUALLY want to do when they express their desire to "live my life in Paris" is to get away from their mundane "regular" life in the United States. Through me, I imagine they would like to validate the hope and belief that life need not be banal. Having a contemporary who is really "living the dream" in the form of a fabulous Euro-life in one of the most incredible cities in the world is a wonderful thing to think about. And to go and join him or her or them in that exotic and exquisite life for a few days would be really magnifique--proof that life can be continually exciting.
I certainly don't blame them for thinking such things. But nor can I offer them solid proof that living as an ex-pat in Paris is all that they have cracked it up to be in their minds in terms of romance, riches, and restos. Not to completely spoil that pretty little thought or anything.
It is also been my revelation that what they really mean when they say they want to "see it through my eyes" is that they want me to show them around (which I am more than happy to do) so they do not have to worry about either language or navigational issues and can thus be assured of seeing all the "greatest" sites and eating at all the "best" places without taking the time and effort that is usually involved in the planning of a visit to a foreign place. And because I am presumably "in the know" we can do all this sight-seeing and eating without ever being suckered into the dreaded, and rather prevalent, tourist traps.
And, again, I hardly blame them. It is quite a good deal for the vacationer if such works out as planned. I have certainly reaped the benefits of visiting cities where I know people and the experience is usually infinitely better than trying to feel out a city on my own.
Plus, my job is easy; I love to show off Paris and she does show quite nicely, after all. But the Paris I am showing off is not necessarily the Paris I live on a day-to-day basis. If someone is only here for a few days or a week, they should dine at the more venerable restos, walk down the most glamourous shopping streets, easily skip from impressive monument to more impressive monument. They definitely should try to see the latest greatest exhibitions and generally soak up la creme de la creme in this gorgeous city.
Paris wows people really well. And you should definitely take advantage of the time you have here to be sufficiently wowed.
If I could live the high life in Paris every day, trust me, I would! But living that sort of Parisian life--while manageable for a week or a long-weekend--is not exactly sustainable if your bank account is significantly less sizeable than, say, Donald Trump's. Fortunately, I have found ways to live very well in Paris on not a lot of money. But if you are a visitor, then I say to heck with it. Forget living through my eyes: be a tourist, live it up, and enjoy every second of it.
As I said, I am more than happy to show you around, but I will try to show you the best of what is around, and that might mean that you need to forget about "living through me" and just allow yourself to be amazed for a few days while you really enjoy what the Paris of your dreams is all about. I may not be able to afford all the activities I recommend (we do have a lot of visitors and there is only so many times one can go to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz or enjoy a champagne brunch next to the Louvre on half a weeks wages), and I may only window shop while you really shop, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. You need to see the dazzle of this city and let's face it: my kitchen kettle is not going to wow you. And you really need not Skype with my mom, lovely as she is.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Movie Recommendation for Cultural Understanding
The other day, I was exiting the metro (Parisian subway) behind an elderly man. He was probably around 80 or so, and while he was not using a cane, he was clearly not altogether steady on his feet. As soon as the doors opened on our train car, the crowd of people on the platform immediately started to board--as is always the case.
Mind you, I wish I could say "the crowd of people waiting on the platform parted to let us off before starting to board". But such a description would have been misleading as there is no "waiting" whatsoever involved once the train has pulled up.
For inexplicable reasons, no one in Paris waits for the people who are already ON the train to disembark before they all start shoving into the metro car. And if you are one of those rare species of people who opts to exercise a modicum of politeness by waiting for the people on the train to first get off, then you will most decidedly not be rewarded for you Emily Post exhibitionism. Instead, you will likely be shoved from behind as the someones standing in back of you will not tolerate an ounce of hesitancy.
For a city comprised of people who will regularly stand in line for 30-plus minutes at the fromagerie, and then, once at the head of the line, just leisurely chat with the vendeur for another 30 minutes--all to buy a morsel or two of cheese--the whole: "I have to get on NOW" attitude of the metro is a strange juxatpostion indeed.
And, I know; it makes no practical sense. Beyond the obvious rudeness of the scenario, it is simply an inefficient system. Shoving, jostling, and trampling people is a time-consuming business, and the whole enterprise would obviously swim along at a faster clip if a little give and take were incorporated.
But this elderly man, he of the unsteady feet, made a pretty admirable move as soon as the doors opened. He held out both his arms directly in front of him and basically shouted: Arretez! to the crowd that was about to mow him over because they could not wait 15 seconds before boarding the train.
Well, maybe the move was not totally admirable. It may have been an issue of fundamental physical self-preservation.
Because it is really a scary exercise in human survival. Don't I know it: this metro business (coupled with my love of eating copious amounts of chocolate) is a main reason why I am happy I go to the gym on a regular basis. Public transportation Darwinism, I am telling you: best be prepared.
So after the unprecedented traffic-cop move by the senior, the crowd was noticably OFFENDED. I would have guessed I would see some sheepish expressions, some lightbulbs of self-realization showing on the faces of the crowd, and quite a few physical movements of the "backing off" variety.
Nope. Not so. The hordes trampled forward, not to be deterred by the elderly one iota. Some started snickering, some simply ignored him or offered a little outraged "pffft" in his direction, and a few openly glared at him as though he was committing an offensive crime.
Does this scenario seem "off" to you? I mean, only in Paris, right?
So yesterday, I was invited to a lovely lunch at our friends' house who live just outside of Paris. They are French, and we often share a laugh, or seventeen, at every visit while we remark on the discrepancies of French versus American cultural behaviors and expectations. The girl and I often read the same books, like the same movies, etc. Recently we both happened to watch Two Days in Paris with Julie Delpy and Adam Goldberg. Before I had a chance to tell her I had seen it, she said something like, "Oh, you have to see this movie! It so perfectly captures some of the differences between French and American culture."
I loved that she brought it up because while I was watching the movie, I was frequently thinking about her, how much she would enjoy the film, and how we would both laugh at all the ways Americans misinterpret or are confused by French cultural "norms"...and vice versa.
I know that the metro situation is not indicative of French people on the whole (at all), and it might just be a "city" thing. Perhaps the same thing would go down in an NYC subway. But I see "happs" like that every day in Paris, and I thus inevitably compare them to my own cultural expectations and assumptions. As you know, if you read this blog at all.
And the movie is really a tremendous and humorous look at the ways we take things for granted and the ways we look at another culture and think: "What the heck is happening here?!?! Why is everyone here NUTS???"
So see it. It won't save you from being trampled by a crowd of impatient Parisian metro travelers, but it might shed some light on Parisian tendencies and/or make you think a bit more objectively about American habits. If nothing else, it will definitely offer a more aesthetically pleasing backdrop (the city of light) than I can on this here picture-less blog. Happy viewing!
Mind you, I wish I could say "the crowd of people waiting on the platform parted to let us off before starting to board". But such a description would have been misleading as there is no "waiting" whatsoever involved once the train has pulled up.
For inexplicable reasons, no one in Paris waits for the people who are already ON the train to disembark before they all start shoving into the metro car. And if you are one of those rare species of people who opts to exercise a modicum of politeness by waiting for the people on the train to first get off, then you will most decidedly not be rewarded for you Emily Post exhibitionism. Instead, you will likely be shoved from behind as the someones standing in back of you will not tolerate an ounce of hesitancy.
For a city comprised of people who will regularly stand in line for 30-plus minutes at the fromagerie, and then, once at the head of the line, just leisurely chat with the vendeur for another 30 minutes--all to buy a morsel or two of cheese--the whole: "I have to get on NOW" attitude of the metro is a strange juxatpostion indeed.
And, I know; it makes no practical sense. Beyond the obvious rudeness of the scenario, it is simply an inefficient system. Shoving, jostling, and trampling people is a time-consuming business, and the whole enterprise would obviously swim along at a faster clip if a little give and take were incorporated.
But this elderly man, he of the unsteady feet, made a pretty admirable move as soon as the doors opened. He held out both his arms directly in front of him and basically shouted: Arretez! to the crowd that was about to mow him over because they could not wait 15 seconds before boarding the train.
Well, maybe the move was not totally admirable. It may have been an issue of fundamental physical self-preservation.
Because it is really a scary exercise in human survival. Don't I know it: this metro business (coupled with my love of eating copious amounts of chocolate) is a main reason why I am happy I go to the gym on a regular basis. Public transportation Darwinism, I am telling you: best be prepared.
So after the unprecedented traffic-cop move by the senior, the crowd was noticably OFFENDED. I would have guessed I would see some sheepish expressions, some lightbulbs of self-realization showing on the faces of the crowd, and quite a few physical movements of the "backing off" variety.
Nope. Not so. The hordes trampled forward, not to be deterred by the elderly one iota. Some started snickering, some simply ignored him or offered a little outraged "pffft" in his direction, and a few openly glared at him as though he was committing an offensive crime.
Does this scenario seem "off" to you? I mean, only in Paris, right?
So yesterday, I was invited to a lovely lunch at our friends' house who live just outside of Paris. They are French, and we often share a laugh, or seventeen, at every visit while we remark on the discrepancies of French versus American cultural behaviors and expectations. The girl and I often read the same books, like the same movies, etc. Recently we both happened to watch Two Days in Paris with Julie Delpy and Adam Goldberg. Before I had a chance to tell her I had seen it, she said something like, "Oh, you have to see this movie! It so perfectly captures some of the differences between French and American culture."
I loved that she brought it up because while I was watching the movie, I was frequently thinking about her, how much she would enjoy the film, and how we would both laugh at all the ways Americans misinterpret or are confused by French cultural "norms"...and vice versa.
I know that the metro situation is not indicative of French people on the whole (at all), and it might just be a "city" thing. Perhaps the same thing would go down in an NYC subway. But I see "happs" like that every day in Paris, and I thus inevitably compare them to my own cultural expectations and assumptions. As you know, if you read this blog at all.
And the movie is really a tremendous and humorous look at the ways we take things for granted and the ways we look at another culture and think: "What the heck is happening here?!?! Why is everyone here NUTS???"
So see it. It won't save you from being trampled by a crowd of impatient Parisian metro travelers, but it might shed some light on Parisian tendencies and/or make you think a bit more objectively about American habits. If nothing else, it will definitely offer a more aesthetically pleasing backdrop (the city of light) than I can on this here picture-less blog. Happy viewing!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Gym Nudity
So I thought I might solve my shower-drain-clogging problem by simply showering at the gym from here on out. That way my shower, which is currently draining splendidly, can just remain in its peak condition until I move out next month. Thus, no more ickaboo drain cleaning for this bird.
I realize that "solve the problem" is a less accurate descriptive choice than would be "avoid the problem".
The plan also had a second bonus attached to it: by showering at the gym, I would actually be "fitting in" much better in terms of an aspect of French life. You might remember from an earlier posting, but no one actually arrives or departs from my gym wearing work-out clothes. Well, no one except for me.
Instead, they show up in heels and lipstick, scarves and skinny jeans, with their hair all done up. Or with their hair all un-done up, but only in that way that was totally "done to be un-done" and probably took six hours to arrange. The men are also reluctant to come in dressed to work-out--they all arrive wearing their suits with the pants that are slightly too snug and tapered in a way that American men would never stand for, or wearing their street clothes/quasi-dischoteque-wear into the workout establishment.
Post-workout, everyone showers and re-dons their pre-workout get-ups. Even if it is like 9 pm on a Tuesday and they are likely only going home to once again remove the heels and lipstick and scarves and too-tight, too-tapered pants. The ruling mantra of gym goers is as follows: heaven forbid anyone on the street--or the metro conductor--sees me in workout wear. The horror!
So I have been an anomaly, as you may know, in that I actually do show up and leave the gym in a shocking array of garments known as gym attire. Brave soul that I am. And I am sorry, fellow Americans, for adding to the stereotype that prevails over here that many Americans are slobs and wear sweatsuits and t-shirts everywhere. Other than working out, I seriously dress as best I can here, so I am doing my part to help us all out, and thus I figure I am allowed a litte slack. Plus, I NEVER wear t-shirts with crass/chessy/stupid slogans and I would rather eat mold than wear velour track-suit pants with bedazzled words across the derriere. So don't worry, I am not embarassing us too much.
The major problem involved in executing this new shower idea is that I am a rather modest American. My time living in Europe has led me to believe that comfortability with nudity is a culturally-conditioned phenomenon. Thus, as a "typical" American gal, I REALLY dislike the abundance of nakedness that occurs in the locker room at my Parisian gym. I understand that one needs to un-dress and re-dress oneself pre-and post-shower, and therefore a flash of flesh here and there is inevitable. But all the brazen walking around, the blow drying of hair, the repainting of toes, and the watching daily soap operas (there is a TV in the locker room that plays some sort of Frenchie daytime drama type show ALL the time--I know not why--question for another day) which takes place au natural in the locker room is a bit off-putting.
I am not terribly self-conscious about my body, but nor do I think I should be subjecting others to seeing me, from every vantage point, just because I decide to perform a number of other tasks prior to donning some undergarments. Really, can you just answer your cell phone, after you throw on a t-shirt? Maybe I am a prude American, but it has never been my inclination to stalk around stark.
Well: stark-raving mad, maybe. Stark-raving nude, no.
But once I decided on implementing my new shower-cleaning-avoidance plan, I thought I could brave the sitch--or at least try it out. So I brought my towel and shampoo and whatnot to the gym with me the other day. I walked in, wearing my normal day clothes, carting around my gym bag that weighed about 60 pounds due to the sneakers, the water, the clothing, the toiletries, the makeup, etc. Honestly people who take this approach need not even work out, as it is enough of a bicep-builder to just lug all that paraphernalia around.
After my work out I was getting ready to try out the new shower plan when a woman in my locker aisle started speaking to me in rapid-fire French. I looked up at her, and though it could be surmised that such was a forgone conclusion, she was (of course) buck nake-o. Evidently she had some sort of allergic reaction to the soap or the water or the walls or something in the shower stall and her skin was turning sort of pinkish as a result of this mystery problem.
As she chatted me up, she started pinching areas of her flesh to demonstrate where the offense had been the most intense (I thought this course of action bizarre since such was presumably only serving to further aggravate the irritation. Am I wrong?). As she blabbered on in her outrage at the egregious transgression by shower-stall, she kept walking towards me. Eventually, she was practically standing on top of me; I think her unspoken assumption was that the more she talked and the closer she came the more likely it would be that we could wage a war on the hive-inducing shower stall together.
Now, NORMALLY, I would have walked away tout suite, and never allowed the converation to progress (regress?) as far as it did. But I was using the scenario, initially, as an exercise in my becoming more comfortable with the locker-room nudity. Also, I was sort of interested in the fact that I was able to actually understand most of what she was saying, and I thus remained engaged because I had a fleeting thought that being "in" with the locker room crowd might provide me with more opps to practice my fluency.
But then I realized that I do not like being publicly naked, and I do not like talking to naked people. It suddenly seemed pretty clear that I just do not want to deal with the "perks" of this new lifestyle as a gym showerer. So I guess I will remain a prude, gym-clothes wearing American "weirdo" with a clog-prone shower drain. Whatever, there are some areas in life where "progression" is not all it is cracked up to be.
And at least my shower does not induce hives. So I have that going for me.
I realize that "solve the problem" is a less accurate descriptive choice than would be "avoid the problem".
The plan also had a second bonus attached to it: by showering at the gym, I would actually be "fitting in" much better in terms of an aspect of French life. You might remember from an earlier posting, but no one actually arrives or departs from my gym wearing work-out clothes. Well, no one except for me.
Instead, they show up in heels and lipstick, scarves and skinny jeans, with their hair all done up. Or with their hair all un-done up, but only in that way that was totally "done to be un-done" and probably took six hours to arrange. The men are also reluctant to come in dressed to work-out--they all arrive wearing their suits with the pants that are slightly too snug and tapered in a way that American men would never stand for, or wearing their street clothes/quasi-dischoteque-wear into the workout establishment.
Post-workout, everyone showers and re-dons their pre-workout get-ups. Even if it is like 9 pm on a Tuesday and they are likely only going home to once again remove the heels and lipstick and scarves and too-tight, too-tapered pants. The ruling mantra of gym goers is as follows: heaven forbid anyone on the street--or the metro conductor--sees me in workout wear. The horror!
So I have been an anomaly, as you may know, in that I actually do show up and leave the gym in a shocking array of garments known as gym attire. Brave soul that I am. And I am sorry, fellow Americans, for adding to the stereotype that prevails over here that many Americans are slobs and wear sweatsuits and t-shirts everywhere. Other than working out, I seriously dress as best I can here, so I am doing my part to help us all out, and thus I figure I am allowed a litte slack. Plus, I NEVER wear t-shirts with crass/chessy/stupid slogans and I would rather eat mold than wear velour track-suit pants with bedazzled words across the derriere. So don't worry, I am not embarassing us too much.
The major problem involved in executing this new shower idea is that I am a rather modest American. My time living in Europe has led me to believe that comfortability with nudity is a culturally-conditioned phenomenon. Thus, as a "typical" American gal, I REALLY dislike the abundance of nakedness that occurs in the locker room at my Parisian gym. I understand that one needs to un-dress and re-dress oneself pre-and post-shower, and therefore a flash of flesh here and there is inevitable. But all the brazen walking around, the blow drying of hair, the repainting of toes, and the watching daily soap operas (there is a TV in the locker room that plays some sort of Frenchie daytime drama type show ALL the time--I know not why--question for another day) which takes place au natural in the locker room is a bit off-putting.
I am not terribly self-conscious about my body, but nor do I think I should be subjecting others to seeing me, from every vantage point, just because I decide to perform a number of other tasks prior to donning some undergarments. Really, can you just answer your cell phone, after you throw on a t-shirt? Maybe I am a prude American, but it has never been my inclination to stalk around stark.
Well: stark-raving mad, maybe. Stark-raving nude, no.
But once I decided on implementing my new shower-cleaning-avoidance plan, I thought I could brave the sitch--or at least try it out. So I brought my towel and shampoo and whatnot to the gym with me the other day. I walked in, wearing my normal day clothes, carting around my gym bag that weighed about 60 pounds due to the sneakers, the water, the clothing, the toiletries, the makeup, etc. Honestly people who take this approach need not even work out, as it is enough of a bicep-builder to just lug all that paraphernalia around.
After my work out I was getting ready to try out the new shower plan when a woman in my locker aisle started speaking to me in rapid-fire French. I looked up at her, and though it could be surmised that such was a forgone conclusion, she was (of course) buck nake-o. Evidently she had some sort of allergic reaction to the soap or the water or the walls or something in the shower stall and her skin was turning sort of pinkish as a result of this mystery problem.
As she chatted me up, she started pinching areas of her flesh to demonstrate where the offense had been the most intense (I thought this course of action bizarre since such was presumably only serving to further aggravate the irritation. Am I wrong?). As she blabbered on in her outrage at the egregious transgression by shower-stall, she kept walking towards me. Eventually, she was practically standing on top of me; I think her unspoken assumption was that the more she talked and the closer she came the more likely it would be that we could wage a war on the hive-inducing shower stall together.
Now, NORMALLY, I would have walked away tout suite, and never allowed the converation to progress (regress?) as far as it did. But I was using the scenario, initially, as an exercise in my becoming more comfortable with the locker-room nudity. Also, I was sort of interested in the fact that I was able to actually understand most of what she was saying, and I thus remained engaged because I had a fleeting thought that being "in" with the locker room crowd might provide me with more opps to practice my fluency.
But then I realized that I do not like being publicly naked, and I do not like talking to naked people. It suddenly seemed pretty clear that I just do not want to deal with the "perks" of this new lifestyle as a gym showerer. So I guess I will remain a prude, gym-clothes wearing American "weirdo" with a clog-prone shower drain. Whatever, there are some areas in life where "progression" is not all it is cracked up to be.
And at least my shower does not induce hives. So I have that going for me.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Solo-Operator
My husband left France a few weeks ago to return to the states for work. His absence has resulted in a slew of unpleasant self-revelations regarding my ineptitude as a solo operator. I really thought, delusional though it now seems, that I was quite an independent, self-sufficient human being. While I love my husband beyond measure--and I also love the friendship, partnership, and co-conspiratorship our relationship provides--I had thought all of those things to simply be complementary bonuses to my already "whole" being.
Not so much. As it turns out, without him I can barely function as a member of society.
This year has been marked by such humbling revelations.
A small example: about two weeks after he left, I realized that the shower in our apartment was completely clogging up--to the point where I would be standing in a pool of non-draining water within just a couple of minutes of my washing-up process. The shower itself is about 2 feet by 2 feet which sounds claustrophobically small and ridiculous because it is both of those things. But there is evidently some construction/design clause for all bathrooms in France which erroneously was written under the belief that anyone who enters a shower stall is suddenly reduced to midget proportions, thus showers must all be smaller than the average high-school locker. Do the French think that water shrinks people? Not sure how it came to fruition, and even less clear on how most people are even ABLE to shower in those tiny lil' cabinets. I am not a large person. AND I do yoga. And it is darn difficult for me--my elbows are perpetually bruised. My poor brother, who has sort of ridiculously huge feet, really had a pickle of a time when he visited.
ANWAY...Given the minute size of the cubicle in which I clean myself, it takes less than five minutes for the entire basin to fill up to the brim. Since I do not want the bottom to overflow onto the floor and then possibly cause permanent water damage and/or leak into the apartment below, I shower in about three minutes. Now my elbows are really bruised: speed is the enemy of precision, people.
Not wanting to bother my husband with this household issue since he has plenty on his mind with his new work project, I initially asked a girlfriend of mine here what she thought I ought to do. She was wondefully supportive (as she always is), and told me that she too suffered from that very problem. So I asked her what she did and she suggested pouring a bunch of Drano (or the Frenchie equivalent) down the pipes and voila! problem solved. Or at least alleviated somewhat.
Or at least for about a week or two, at which point she just repeats the process again. And so on.
Before leaping into this plumbing venture, I told my husband about my "Mrs. Fix It" plans--just to get his stamp of approval. He paused for sort of a long time before saying: "Well, yes. You could do that," in a slow voice that suggested it was not at all what he would do. So I asked him what I should really do.
So he says: "Well, if you really want to fix the problem, then you have to pull the entire drain out. There are three parts, so just detach them from one another and de-clog and clean each part. It will be pretty gross though, so wear gloves. There are some under the sink in the kitchen."
We hung up and I went to work. I would be lying if I told you that while I was pulling on the plastic gloves I did not glance longingly at the Drano on the counter.
Well, oh my golly gee yuckaboo. That was the GRODIEST task ever. Whatever was clogged in those three pieces of drain was the narstiest gunk of all time. And here I thought I was quite a clean person. Add another item to the list of self-delusions!
Post yuck-bucket festival 2011, I called my husband back to tell him what transpired. At some point during my exciting play-by-play, I proclaimed something like: "Ugh!! Of course the plumbing issue happens AFTER you leave."
You know because I obviously would not have been the one dealing with it if he were here. What is wrong with me?
Realizing I sounded like a jerk, I tried self-correction of a more generous sort: "But at least YOU did not have to deal with it! Isn't it weird though, that the drain was fine all year and then as soon as you go--boom! It's all backed up?"
He paused for a long time. Too long of a time.
Then he goes, "Maggie, the shower has not backed up because I have been cleaning that shower drain every week for the past year."
WHATTTTTTTTT?
Why the poor guy has not filed for divorce is beyond me. If you saw the grodie gunktastic goo, you would also agree he had solid grounds for desertion.
Then it struck me that that there are so many ways he makes our life smoother. The internet acts up and I am utterly ineffectual. Trying to navigate trains/buses in new territory takes me about six times as long as it takes him (and I make about 12 times more errors). The woman at the grocery store even asked where he was and since she likes no one on the planet, I have to imagine that her inquiry was less about her interest in his whereabouts and more based in her concern that I ought not to be let loose on the world without the supervision he provides. So I may "speak" French, but he is the really brains and brawn (and beauty for that matter) behind the operation that is our life in France. Or anywhere for that matter. Humbling indeed.
On this blog, I share so much about the trials and tribulations involved with living an "ex-pat" life in Paris. Imagine what sort of disasters would have befallen me without the help of a trusted and competent partner? I shudder to think. Though YOU may have been gypped; things could have gotten very entertaining for you the spectator. Everyone loves a train wreck, just look at how pop-tastic that Jersey Shore crew is.
But being independent is also a great thing. Or trying to be independent, maybe is a more accurate assessment of my current state. It is such an important part of life to learn how to depend on yourself, or to re-learn how to do so. And it is empowering in the same way that conquering a new language or a new culture can be. So, just like I am enjoying the social experiment that is life in France, I am also enjoying these less culturally-centric self-discoveries. While also wondering how I ever escaped being sent to remedial school.
Next time I'll tell you about how I ALMOST completely and utterly solved the problem of the shower forever. ALL BY MYSELF! It is an intriguing tale that involves naked French peeps. Now I have your attention, don't I?
Not so much. As it turns out, without him I can barely function as a member of society.
This year has been marked by such humbling revelations.
A small example: about two weeks after he left, I realized that the shower in our apartment was completely clogging up--to the point where I would be standing in a pool of non-draining water within just a couple of minutes of my washing-up process. The shower itself is about 2 feet by 2 feet which sounds claustrophobically small and ridiculous because it is both of those things. But there is evidently some construction/design clause for all bathrooms in France which erroneously was written under the belief that anyone who enters a shower stall is suddenly reduced to midget proportions, thus showers must all be smaller than the average high-school locker. Do the French think that water shrinks people? Not sure how it came to fruition, and even less clear on how most people are even ABLE to shower in those tiny lil' cabinets. I am not a large person. AND I do yoga. And it is darn difficult for me--my elbows are perpetually bruised. My poor brother, who has sort of ridiculously huge feet, really had a pickle of a time when he visited.
ANWAY...Given the minute size of the cubicle in which I clean myself, it takes less than five minutes for the entire basin to fill up to the brim. Since I do not want the bottom to overflow onto the floor and then possibly cause permanent water damage and/or leak into the apartment below, I shower in about three minutes. Now my elbows are really bruised: speed is the enemy of precision, people.
Not wanting to bother my husband with this household issue since he has plenty on his mind with his new work project, I initially asked a girlfriend of mine here what she thought I ought to do. She was wondefully supportive (as she always is), and told me that she too suffered from that very problem. So I asked her what she did and she suggested pouring a bunch of Drano (or the Frenchie equivalent) down the pipes and voila! problem solved. Or at least alleviated somewhat.
Or at least for about a week or two, at which point she just repeats the process again. And so on.
Before leaping into this plumbing venture, I told my husband about my "Mrs. Fix It" plans--just to get his stamp of approval. He paused for sort of a long time before saying: "Well, yes. You could do that," in a slow voice that suggested it was not at all what he would do. So I asked him what I should really do.
So he says: "Well, if you really want to fix the problem, then you have to pull the entire drain out. There are three parts, so just detach them from one another and de-clog and clean each part. It will be pretty gross though, so wear gloves. There are some under the sink in the kitchen."
We hung up and I went to work. I would be lying if I told you that while I was pulling on the plastic gloves I did not glance longingly at the Drano on the counter.
Well, oh my golly gee yuckaboo. That was the GRODIEST task ever. Whatever was clogged in those three pieces of drain was the narstiest gunk of all time. And here I thought I was quite a clean person. Add another item to the list of self-delusions!
Post yuck-bucket festival 2011, I called my husband back to tell him what transpired. At some point during my exciting play-by-play, I proclaimed something like: "Ugh!! Of course the plumbing issue happens AFTER you leave."
You know because I obviously would not have been the one dealing with it if he were here. What is wrong with me?
Realizing I sounded like a jerk, I tried self-correction of a more generous sort: "But at least YOU did not have to deal with it! Isn't it weird though, that the drain was fine all year and then as soon as you go--boom! It's all backed up?"
He paused for a long time. Too long of a time.
Then he goes, "Maggie, the shower has not backed up because I have been cleaning that shower drain every week for the past year."
WHATTTTTTTTT?
Why the poor guy has not filed for divorce is beyond me. If you saw the grodie gunktastic goo, you would also agree he had solid grounds for desertion.
Then it struck me that that there are so many ways he makes our life smoother. The internet acts up and I am utterly ineffectual. Trying to navigate trains/buses in new territory takes me about six times as long as it takes him (and I make about 12 times more errors). The woman at the grocery store even asked where he was and since she likes no one on the planet, I have to imagine that her inquiry was less about her interest in his whereabouts and more based in her concern that I ought not to be let loose on the world without the supervision he provides. So I may "speak" French, but he is the really brains and brawn (and beauty for that matter) behind the operation that is our life in France. Or anywhere for that matter. Humbling indeed.
On this blog, I share so much about the trials and tribulations involved with living an "ex-pat" life in Paris. Imagine what sort of disasters would have befallen me without the help of a trusted and competent partner? I shudder to think. Though YOU may have been gypped; things could have gotten very entertaining for you the spectator. Everyone loves a train wreck, just look at how pop-tastic that Jersey Shore crew is.
But being independent is also a great thing. Or trying to be independent, maybe is a more accurate assessment of my current state. It is such an important part of life to learn how to depend on yourself, or to re-learn how to do so. And it is empowering in the same way that conquering a new language or a new culture can be. So, just like I am enjoying the social experiment that is life in France, I am also enjoying these less culturally-centric self-discoveries. While also wondering how I ever escaped being sent to remedial school.
Next time I'll tell you about how I ALMOST completely and utterly solved the problem of the shower forever. ALL BY MYSELF! It is an intriguing tale that involves naked French peeps. Now I have your attention, don't I?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Adventures in Normandy
You may remember from a previous post, but in early spring, while some of our dear friends were visiting us from the states, we visited Utah and Omaha Beaches, the American cemetary and the amazing WWII museum in Caen. All of these sites are located in the northeastern pays of France known as Normandy. While that experience was incredibly moving and eye-opening, it also afforded a glimpse at some tremendous landscapes, and I had therefore been eager to return to the vicinity.
Thus, I just returned from a five-day trip through parts of Normandy. Normandy, you may wish to note, is not an area that is especially easy to explore via public transportation. The one day I spent eight hours riding four different trains, two buses, and one taxi to make a trip that ought to have taken about two and half hours in a car can attest to that fact. However, this stringing together of public transportation/wasting hours of time waiting in train stations was the best option for someone like me.
And by "someone like me", I mean someone who does not know how to drive a standard transmissioned car (renting an automatic is about three times more expensive and thus, on principle alone, ridiculous) and who also unfailingly believes that when the GPS lady says, in her crisp and precise language, to bear right in 300 meters, I am sure what she really means is that I must turn right immediately. Even if there is no right to be had.
Cut to me panicking, frantically trying to figure out how to turn the hazard lights on, usually only succeeding in making the windshield wipers go full tilt, sweating, and crying because the "stupid GPS lady" made me lost.
In any case, all this public transport may have resulted in my over-meeting my yearly quota for vending machine coffee and in my having to share a bench (or six) too many with local riff-raff, but at least I saved myself quite a bit of both stress and gas money (all that getting lost/being lead astray by the GPS lady can really drain the tank). And--bonus alert--I also saved Europcar from having to replace a transmission on one of their rental Renaults. Well, hello silver lining!
So this time around in Normandy, I went to Honfleur, the coastal town that is known by some as the "birthplace of impressionism", with a good friend of mine. I then travelled on to St. Malo and Le Mont St. Michel solo. Honfleur is an adorable little harbor town, and we did what I imagine most people do whilst there: ate seafood, drank wine, walked around the harbor and the surrounding hills, and relaxed.
Oh, and I took a bunch of photographs of cows. Mostly because they were there, but also because they seemed to enjoy posing.
Despite its reputation, there are no impressionist museums in Honfleur, nor many art galleries of any sort, nor anyone sitting around painting the harbor. If you were hoping I would follow up the mentioning of the town's venerable nickname with proof as to its deservedness, I am sorry to disappoint you.
We ate an especially delicious meal one night at a place called "Le P'tit Mareyeur," which is not situated on the overly touristy, over-priced old harbor, but is only about two minutes away. The menu boasts that the staff is not just a bunch of 25 year olds and that it is a serious, family-run, business. I see nothing wrong with 25-year-old servers, especially since I was one, but I see their point. The food was extraordinary--we both had seafood--exquisitely presented, and accompanied by a delicious Sancerre that was crisp and fruity and fantastic. I could go into the details of our dishes, but I have so much confidence that you would absolutely adore your meal, that I will just send you there with no hesitation.
That is, if you happen to be planning a trip to Honfleur; if you are only spending a weekend in Paris, it would be stupidly out of the way to go there for dinner. But if you do happen to be planning a visit to Normandy, I would definitely recommend you stop in this sweet little place for a day or two, and try that particular resto for a meal.
Moving on...during the solo portion of my trip, three major things transpired. One involves an egg, one involves manipulation by bus, and one involves a humanistic tragedy. The latter two are somewhat linked.
I will preface the details to the aforementioned by stating that St. Malo is an incredible place. It is a walled city, located on the coast, essentially on the line between the Normandy and Brittany regions of France. It is so charming you almost cannot stand it. I could stand it, and you could too for that matter, but it is fun to be extreme at times. The beaches just outside the city walls are gorgeous---the color of the water is a very light aquamarine. If you go there, you might want to eat a crepe, a regional pastry treat called a ker-y-pom, and most definitely indulge in some seafood.
Now about my three events.
#1: The egg. I ate breakfast at my hotel only because it was POURING rain outside and wandering the streets in search of food under such climatically disastrous conditions seemed a self-masochistic choice. Yes, even more so than spending 12 euro on a hotel breakfast that, at best, could be described as "fine." So at this "fine" breakfast, they had this egg tree sitting on the table, next to the toaster, a large panier of bread, and a basket of jams. There were eggs all perched into this little tree, and I assumed that they were hard-boiled.
The fact that there was a vat of bubbling water on that same table did not really strike me as odd, mostly because barely anything strikes me as odd these days. I did make a mental note that a cauldron of openly boiling water would never fly at a United States breakfast bar. Umm, can anyone say lawsuit?
As it happens, the purpose of the boiling water was not purely decorative. I found this factoid out when I sat back at my table and cracked my egg on the side of the plate only to find out that it was not hard-boiled at all. It was just raw. Yup, raw.
There I sat, with a raw egg all over my table.
There was a table of three French ladies sitting in front of me and they all sort of turned and ogled me. They made disgusted faces and glared at me as though I had a communicable disease and was happily sneezing all over their food. It was really comforting, that Frenchie support.
I think that this sort of scenario would actually have been really funny had I not been alone. Alone it was mortifying. Especially when the waitress came by my table, stared at the eggy mess, and immediately turned around to clear an already entirely cleared table.
Such a boost to self-esteem, that "fine" breakfast was.
#2: Manipulation by bus. Post-eggy breakfast disaster, I took a bus to see Le Mont St. Michel, a famous abby that was first established in the 8th century, and is a symbol of fortitude and natural beauty. It has been a site for religous pilgrimages for almost as long as it has existed and has been listed as a UNESCO world heritage site since the 1970's. Anyway, it is pretty famous, so you might want to look it up and be wowed by the pictures.
There are two buses per day that travel from St. Malo to Le Mont St. Michel. One leaves at 9.30 in the morning and the other at 9.50. Both get you to the Mont around 11. In the afternoon, one return bus picks you up at 3.50 and the other at 4 pm.
I have no idea why these buses are so close together in terms of their time tables, but the world is not a sensical place, so whatever. And, in case your math is a bit slow: no matter how you shake the dice, if you are traveling by bus, then you are required to stay at Le Mont for five hours.
Five hours is too much time when it takes less than 1.5 hours to thoroughly tour the abbey, and 30 minutes to fully circumnavigate the ramparts. Add in lunch, and the whole affair takes 3.5 hours. MAX.
What does one do for the remaining 1.5 hours? Well if one is me, then one spends the majority of the time squeezing down the streets, being jostled between the various Japanese tour groups and German tourists, drinking botttled water that costs as much as a down payment on a house, and marveling at all the overpriced crap-tastic jumk in all the souvenir shops. And then one becomes a bit incensed thinking about the marketing ploy into which one was so blatantly ensnared: that bus KNEW I would have time to "kill". Thus, the whole enterprise is engineered to snag tourist dollars by essentially forcing us poor bus travelers to buy chotchkes since we have nothing else to do with our time besides trying to avoid being stabbed in the toe by German walking sticks. Manipulation by bus: there you have it.
#3 Humanistic Tragedy: So Le Mont St. Michel is beyond beautiful in photos and in theory. Really captivating, majestic, ethereal. But then the reality of it is a parking lot with hundreds of HUGE tour buses, so many shops selling all overpriced junk, restaurants serving food that ranges from fried ick to decent fare, and all those PEOPLE. Good golly. It could have been amazing, instead it was a humanistic tragedy.
I did see some cows on the bus ride back though. You know me: always a silver lining.
Thus, I just returned from a five-day trip through parts of Normandy. Normandy, you may wish to note, is not an area that is especially easy to explore via public transportation. The one day I spent eight hours riding four different trains, two buses, and one taxi to make a trip that ought to have taken about two and half hours in a car can attest to that fact. However, this stringing together of public transportation/wasting hours of time waiting in train stations was the best option for someone like me.
And by "someone like me", I mean someone who does not know how to drive a standard transmissioned car (renting an automatic is about three times more expensive and thus, on principle alone, ridiculous) and who also unfailingly believes that when the GPS lady says, in her crisp and precise language, to bear right in 300 meters, I am sure what she really means is that I must turn right immediately. Even if there is no right to be had.
Cut to me panicking, frantically trying to figure out how to turn the hazard lights on, usually only succeeding in making the windshield wipers go full tilt, sweating, and crying because the "stupid GPS lady" made me lost.
In any case, all this public transport may have resulted in my over-meeting my yearly quota for vending machine coffee and in my having to share a bench (or six) too many with local riff-raff, but at least I saved myself quite a bit of both stress and gas money (all that getting lost/being lead astray by the GPS lady can really drain the tank). And--bonus alert--I also saved Europcar from having to replace a transmission on one of their rental Renaults. Well, hello silver lining!
So this time around in Normandy, I went to Honfleur, the coastal town that is known by some as the "birthplace of impressionism", with a good friend of mine. I then travelled on to St. Malo and Le Mont St. Michel solo. Honfleur is an adorable little harbor town, and we did what I imagine most people do whilst there: ate seafood, drank wine, walked around the harbor and the surrounding hills, and relaxed.
Oh, and I took a bunch of photographs of cows. Mostly because they were there, but also because they seemed to enjoy posing.
Despite its reputation, there are no impressionist museums in Honfleur, nor many art galleries of any sort, nor anyone sitting around painting the harbor. If you were hoping I would follow up the mentioning of the town's venerable nickname with proof as to its deservedness, I am sorry to disappoint you.
We ate an especially delicious meal one night at a place called "Le P'tit Mareyeur," which is not situated on the overly touristy, over-priced old harbor, but is only about two minutes away. The menu boasts that the staff is not just a bunch of 25 year olds and that it is a serious, family-run, business. I see nothing wrong with 25-year-old servers, especially since I was one, but I see their point. The food was extraordinary--we both had seafood--exquisitely presented, and accompanied by a delicious Sancerre that was crisp and fruity and fantastic. I could go into the details of our dishes, but I have so much confidence that you would absolutely adore your meal, that I will just send you there with no hesitation.
That is, if you happen to be planning a trip to Honfleur; if you are only spending a weekend in Paris, it would be stupidly out of the way to go there for dinner. But if you do happen to be planning a visit to Normandy, I would definitely recommend you stop in this sweet little place for a day or two, and try that particular resto for a meal.
Moving on...during the solo portion of my trip, three major things transpired. One involves an egg, one involves manipulation by bus, and one involves a humanistic tragedy. The latter two are somewhat linked.
I will preface the details to the aforementioned by stating that St. Malo is an incredible place. It is a walled city, located on the coast, essentially on the line between the Normandy and Brittany regions of France. It is so charming you almost cannot stand it. I could stand it, and you could too for that matter, but it is fun to be extreme at times. The beaches just outside the city walls are gorgeous---the color of the water is a very light aquamarine. If you go there, you might want to eat a crepe, a regional pastry treat called a ker-y-pom, and most definitely indulge in some seafood.
Now about my three events.
#1: The egg. I ate breakfast at my hotel only because it was POURING rain outside and wandering the streets in search of food under such climatically disastrous conditions seemed a self-masochistic choice. Yes, even more so than spending 12 euro on a hotel breakfast that, at best, could be described as "fine." So at this "fine" breakfast, they had this egg tree sitting on the table, next to the toaster, a large panier of bread, and a basket of jams. There were eggs all perched into this little tree, and I assumed that they were hard-boiled.
The fact that there was a vat of bubbling water on that same table did not really strike me as odd, mostly because barely anything strikes me as odd these days. I did make a mental note that a cauldron of openly boiling water would never fly at a United States breakfast bar. Umm, can anyone say lawsuit?
As it happens, the purpose of the boiling water was not purely decorative. I found this factoid out when I sat back at my table and cracked my egg on the side of the plate only to find out that it was not hard-boiled at all. It was just raw. Yup, raw.
There I sat, with a raw egg all over my table.
There was a table of three French ladies sitting in front of me and they all sort of turned and ogled me. They made disgusted faces and glared at me as though I had a communicable disease and was happily sneezing all over their food. It was really comforting, that Frenchie support.
I think that this sort of scenario would actually have been really funny had I not been alone. Alone it was mortifying. Especially when the waitress came by my table, stared at the eggy mess, and immediately turned around to clear an already entirely cleared table.
Such a boost to self-esteem, that "fine" breakfast was.
#2: Manipulation by bus. Post-eggy breakfast disaster, I took a bus to see Le Mont St. Michel, a famous abby that was first established in the 8th century, and is a symbol of fortitude and natural beauty. It has been a site for religous pilgrimages for almost as long as it has existed and has been listed as a UNESCO world heritage site since the 1970's. Anyway, it is pretty famous, so you might want to look it up and be wowed by the pictures.
There are two buses per day that travel from St. Malo to Le Mont St. Michel. One leaves at 9.30 in the morning and the other at 9.50. Both get you to the Mont around 11. In the afternoon, one return bus picks you up at 3.50 and the other at 4 pm.
I have no idea why these buses are so close together in terms of their time tables, but the world is not a sensical place, so whatever. And, in case your math is a bit slow: no matter how you shake the dice, if you are traveling by bus, then you are required to stay at Le Mont for five hours.
Five hours is too much time when it takes less than 1.5 hours to thoroughly tour the abbey, and 30 minutes to fully circumnavigate the ramparts. Add in lunch, and the whole affair takes 3.5 hours. MAX.
What does one do for the remaining 1.5 hours? Well if one is me, then one spends the majority of the time squeezing down the streets, being jostled between the various Japanese tour groups and German tourists, drinking botttled water that costs as much as a down payment on a house, and marveling at all the overpriced crap-tastic jumk in all the souvenir shops. And then one becomes a bit incensed thinking about the marketing ploy into which one was so blatantly ensnared: that bus KNEW I would have time to "kill". Thus, the whole enterprise is engineered to snag tourist dollars by essentially forcing us poor bus travelers to buy chotchkes since we have nothing else to do with our time besides trying to avoid being stabbed in the toe by German walking sticks. Manipulation by bus: there you have it.
#3 Humanistic Tragedy: So Le Mont St. Michel is beyond beautiful in photos and in theory. Really captivating, majestic, ethereal. But then the reality of it is a parking lot with hundreds of HUGE tour buses, so many shops selling all overpriced junk, restaurants serving food that ranges from fried ick to decent fare, and all those PEOPLE. Good golly. It could have been amazing, instead it was a humanistic tragedy.
I did see some cows on the bus ride back though. You know me: always a silver lining.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Target Demographics
When we attended that horse show in Chantilly (see blog "Chantilly Chateau"), I forgot to mention something interesting I noticed about the audience. My observation: every single person watching the show with us was either an elementary school student (or a school chaperone/teacher) or was over the age of 75.
An unexpected by-product to this situation is that my fellow audience members actually served to foster a certain amount of self-esteem. I felt better about myself because it quickly became evident that I was in possession of quite the exemplary attention-span compared to essentially everyone else sitting in the amphitheater. That is to say, I did not restlessly squirm and fidget in my chair, nor did I feel the need to frequently stage-whisper to my neighbor, nor did I fall fast asleep and start snoring.
Also, I found this company reassuring. Why? Well, a recent realization I have had is that my French has "improved" to the point where I can understand what people are saying almost entirely. The caveat to this, seemingly admirable, improvment in my comprehension is that it applies only IF the person speaking is either under the age of 8 or else over the age of 70.
The vocabulary, volume, and repetition of phrases used by the younger set is perfect for me to catch on to what is being discussed/shouted/squealed, etc. And the slower, louder, often more formal vernacular favored by the older set is also extremely amenable to my skill level.
Since discovering where my French communication skills now shine, I have made somewhat of an effort to enjoy this revelation. Such a feat is actualy more difficult than it sounds, given that I have maybe five friends in France and I speak English with all of them (I know--really challenging myself with full immersion over here). But fortuitously, in the last two weeks, I have bumped into the elderly couple who live on the second floor of our building a few times in the hallway/stairwell. A few months ago, such chance encounters would have had me mumbling: "bonjour" as I raced up the stairs in an effort to avoid any small talk, and thereby almost assuredly embarrasing myself with my own ineptitude.
Well, no longer, my friends! The more recent meetings have been thrilling; a chance to practice! So with my newfound confidence, I have tried to engage my elders in conversation. And I thought things were going sort of well, that we were even on a "we exchange pleasantries in the hallway" basis.
But I clearly assumed too much regarding our affiliation because I saw the woman on the street the other day, about 20 minutes after I had tried talking to her in the hallway, and she completely ignored me. I am choosing to believe that she either did not see me (which is sort of a hard sell, given that we were on the same side of an empty sidewalk in broad daylight) or else that there is some social code in Paris where you are not supposed to acknowledge your neighbor outside your building.
You know, like how psychiatrists can not address a patient outside of the office?
Is it just me, or is that analogy surprisingly apt?
Anyway, as far as "communication" with children; circumstances have made it quite easy for me to just eavesdrop, since the weather is now nice here and the little buggers are positively everywhere.Thus, I can just walk through the park near our apartment and I hear all kinds of children arguing/discussing/shouting. It is a nice break from hanging about in the stairwells of my building, hoping to "bump into" my elderly neighbors, to just go linger around for long periods of time in the nearby parks in order to practice my comprehension levels.
Were I engaging in this sort of behavior in the U.S., I likely would have been arrested by now. But thank goodness this is Paris and it is thus darn hard to get into trouble for being a creepy quasi-child-stalking park loiterer. Or a public pervert, for that matter. Not that I am one of those, but believe me, they are around. A story for another day, perhaps.
In terms of my progression plans: I am hoping to move up to ten-year-old dialogue soon. I think I am almost ready. Then, of course I plan to skip teenagers altogether because, no matter what their language or nationality, I am quite certain no one outside of their immediate peergroup has any idea what they are saying about 80% of the time. Besides, you know how I feel about teenagers.
Anyway, the sweltering, face-melting, weather seems to have broken for the day over here. Best be off to the park to practice--after spending 30-40 minutes lingering in the stairwell, of course.
An unexpected by-product to this situation is that my fellow audience members actually served to foster a certain amount of self-esteem. I felt better about myself because it quickly became evident that I was in possession of quite the exemplary attention-span compared to essentially everyone else sitting in the amphitheater. That is to say, I did not restlessly squirm and fidget in my chair, nor did I feel the need to frequently stage-whisper to my neighbor, nor did I fall fast asleep and start snoring.
Also, I found this company reassuring. Why? Well, a recent realization I have had is that my French has "improved" to the point where I can understand what people are saying almost entirely. The caveat to this, seemingly admirable, improvment in my comprehension is that it applies only IF the person speaking is either under the age of 8 or else over the age of 70.
The vocabulary, volume, and repetition of phrases used by the younger set is perfect for me to catch on to what is being discussed/shouted/squealed, etc. And the slower, louder, often more formal vernacular favored by the older set is also extremely amenable to my skill level.
Since discovering where my French communication skills now shine, I have made somewhat of an effort to enjoy this revelation. Such a feat is actualy more difficult than it sounds, given that I have maybe five friends in France and I speak English with all of them (I know--really challenging myself with full immersion over here). But fortuitously, in the last two weeks, I have bumped into the elderly couple who live on the second floor of our building a few times in the hallway/stairwell. A few months ago, such chance encounters would have had me mumbling: "bonjour" as I raced up the stairs in an effort to avoid any small talk, and thereby almost assuredly embarrasing myself with my own ineptitude.
Well, no longer, my friends! The more recent meetings have been thrilling; a chance to practice! So with my newfound confidence, I have tried to engage my elders in conversation. And I thought things were going sort of well, that we were even on a "we exchange pleasantries in the hallway" basis.
But I clearly assumed too much regarding our affiliation because I saw the woman on the street the other day, about 20 minutes after I had tried talking to her in the hallway, and she completely ignored me. I am choosing to believe that she either did not see me (which is sort of a hard sell, given that we were on the same side of an empty sidewalk in broad daylight) or else that there is some social code in Paris where you are not supposed to acknowledge your neighbor outside your building.
You know, like how psychiatrists can not address a patient outside of the office?
Is it just me, or is that analogy surprisingly apt?
Anyway, as far as "communication" with children; circumstances have made it quite easy for me to just eavesdrop, since the weather is now nice here and the little buggers are positively everywhere.Thus, I can just walk through the park near our apartment and I hear all kinds of children arguing/discussing/shouting. It is a nice break from hanging about in the stairwells of my building, hoping to "bump into" my elderly neighbors, to just go linger around for long periods of time in the nearby parks in order to practice my comprehension levels.
Were I engaging in this sort of behavior in the U.S., I likely would have been arrested by now. But thank goodness this is Paris and it is thus darn hard to get into trouble for being a creepy quasi-child-stalking park loiterer. Or a public pervert, for that matter. Not that I am one of those, but believe me, they are around. A story for another day, perhaps.
In terms of my progression plans: I am hoping to move up to ten-year-old dialogue soon. I think I am almost ready. Then, of course I plan to skip teenagers altogether because, no matter what their language or nationality, I am quite certain no one outside of their immediate peergroup has any idea what they are saying about 80% of the time. Besides, you know how I feel about teenagers.
Anyway, the sweltering, face-melting, weather seems to have broken for the day over here. Best be off to the park to practice--after spending 30-40 minutes lingering in the stairwell, of course.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Chateau Chantilly
My husband and I went to visit Chantilly (which is often mispronounced--it is "shan-tee-yee") recently. Chantilly is a chateau/palace/castle about 45 minutes outside Paris, which I believe was originally built in the 16th century and looks as though it is floating on a pond. It is a gorgeous place with a drawbridge, turrets, and the reflection of the water onto the external walls gives the place an ethereal aura. In addition to the beautiful effect of the exterior, Chantilly also allegedly houses an impressive art collection--with paintings by Raphael, Delacroix, and Titian--and offers a glimpse of the palace's apartments as they looked in the early 19th century.
You might wonder how I KNOW that it is beautiful from the exterior, yet only have ALLEGED information as to the interior.
Well I will tell you why:
Upon arriving at the gare/train station in Chantilly, we walked about 30 minutes or so to reach the chateau. There is supposedly a bus that runs between the station and the chateau, but we could not figure it out. I am not embarassed by that fact since if this year in France has taught me anything at all, it is that I cannot figure out much of life in general. And it was no great matter to miss the bus anyway since the walk was lovely; through a wooded path, then across an open field with a gorgeous (and quite famous) horse stable/riding ring. We even detoured into the little town center, and had a typical French lunch.
I brand the lunch "typically" French for three reasons. One, we ate quiche and chevre chaud. Two, we received ridiculously inconsistent and incomprehensible customer service. Three, the couple at the table next to us, who were basically sitting on top of us in this "typical" bistro, were enjoying each other's mouths far more than they were enjoying their food. But whatever, the food was good.
So when we finally arrived at the gates of the chateau, we find the billeterie/ticket office to be closed. Baffled by this turn of events, since the sign on the door clearly stated the opening hours--and we were well within them--I asked the guard what was going on.
The ensueing scenario is borderline predictable, but I will tell you anyway: He looked/glared at me for about 20 seconds longer than necessary before giving me a rather surly little "PFFFT" and responding to my French question in slow, deliberate English: "Castle is closed. A visit is not possible today." And he immediately turned around for no particular reason that I could discern other than to emphasize that he was through with me.
Being a persistent little bugger (and not wanting to think we wasted the day sitting on public transportation and watching a live cinemax movie at lunch only to not see the main attraction), I asked him if there was anyone who could explain to me the reason for the closing and/or if I could talk to someone. I asked this question not merely to be a thorn in his side, but because right as we were being turned away, there were still many people entering the grounds. Being the quasi-detective that I am, I ascertained that SOME people were allowed in. He just responded: "Special event today. You can try to talk to the people over there" This information was finished with another body spin away from yours truly.
So I spoke to the people "over there": a team of ladies in a little hut who were engaged in the serious business of gossiping and smoking cigarettes while pretending to organize what looked like brochures. One of the women (reluctantly) told me that there was a special fireworks display that evening and thus the chateau was closed. Okay.
I then said, "We did not see a notice on your website today. When are you opened then?" She responded: "Oh, we are open every day except for Tuesday, all year, all the time."
Me: "Every day except Tuesday, all year, all the time...except today?" (It was a Friday).
Her: "Yes, exactly. Except today, tomorrow, and some other times. But all the time from 10-6."
What?
Then it starts pouring rain and because it had been brilliantly sunny up until we were turned away from the chateau (symbolism, much?) we had no raincoats or umbrellas. Shame on me, I know to have no umbrella on my person in "sunny" Paris.
So we walk through half the field/mudslide and see that there is a show happening at the stables. It seemed fortuitous that the show was starting in two minutes, so we bought tickets and went.
Well, it was really a lovely show. Housed in a gorgeous amphitheater turned riding ring where they give demonstrations about dressage, horse training, and riding techniques. The highlight was the finale, when they brought out a team of animals, including an Eeyore clone, an exquisite beige pony with fluffy white hair, a wiley little donkey, and a miniature horse with the shortest legs imaginable named lil' Pedro or something adorable like that. They ran around and performed tricks and it was charming and hilarious.
Given the impromptu horse show, the "failed" trip to Chantilly was worth it in the end. And today I am actually going to take a second stab at gaining entrance to the chateau. It is not a Tuesday, there is no special announcement on the website or anywhere else that I can find, and I am going with a French person who has verified that the chateau will be open today.
All that considered, I figure I have about a 60% chance of actually seeing the interior without incident and an 80-85% chance of enduring some absurd customer service. If the latter comes to fruition, I will of course, fill you in accordingly.
In the meantime, I will give lil' Pedro your best.
You might wonder how I KNOW that it is beautiful from the exterior, yet only have ALLEGED information as to the interior.
Well I will tell you why:
Upon arriving at the gare/train station in Chantilly, we walked about 30 minutes or so to reach the chateau. There is supposedly a bus that runs between the station and the chateau, but we could not figure it out. I am not embarassed by that fact since if this year in France has taught me anything at all, it is that I cannot figure out much of life in general. And it was no great matter to miss the bus anyway since the walk was lovely; through a wooded path, then across an open field with a gorgeous (and quite famous) horse stable/riding ring. We even detoured into the little town center, and had a typical French lunch.
I brand the lunch "typically" French for three reasons. One, we ate quiche and chevre chaud. Two, we received ridiculously inconsistent and incomprehensible customer service. Three, the couple at the table next to us, who were basically sitting on top of us in this "typical" bistro, were enjoying each other's mouths far more than they were enjoying their food. But whatever, the food was good.
So when we finally arrived at the gates of the chateau, we find the billeterie/ticket office to be closed. Baffled by this turn of events, since the sign on the door clearly stated the opening hours--and we were well within them--I asked the guard what was going on.
The ensueing scenario is borderline predictable, but I will tell you anyway: He looked/glared at me for about 20 seconds longer than necessary before giving me a rather surly little "PFFFT" and responding to my French question in slow, deliberate English: "Castle is closed. A visit is not possible today." And he immediately turned around for no particular reason that I could discern other than to emphasize that he was through with me.
Being a persistent little bugger (and not wanting to think we wasted the day sitting on public transportation and watching a live cinemax movie at lunch only to not see the main attraction), I asked him if there was anyone who could explain to me the reason for the closing and/or if I could talk to someone. I asked this question not merely to be a thorn in his side, but because right as we were being turned away, there were still many people entering the grounds. Being the quasi-detective that I am, I ascertained that SOME people were allowed in. He just responded: "Special event today. You can try to talk to the people over there" This information was finished with another body spin away from yours truly.
So I spoke to the people "over there": a team of ladies in a little hut who were engaged in the serious business of gossiping and smoking cigarettes while pretending to organize what looked like brochures. One of the women (reluctantly) told me that there was a special fireworks display that evening and thus the chateau was closed. Okay.
I then said, "We did not see a notice on your website today. When are you opened then?" She responded: "Oh, we are open every day except for Tuesday, all year, all the time."
Me: "Every day except Tuesday, all year, all the time...except today?" (It was a Friday).
Her: "Yes, exactly. Except today, tomorrow, and some other times. But all the time from 10-6."
What?
Then it starts pouring rain and because it had been brilliantly sunny up until we were turned away from the chateau (symbolism, much?) we had no raincoats or umbrellas. Shame on me, I know to have no umbrella on my person in "sunny" Paris.
So we walk through half the field/mudslide and see that there is a show happening at the stables. It seemed fortuitous that the show was starting in two minutes, so we bought tickets and went.
Well, it was really a lovely show. Housed in a gorgeous amphitheater turned riding ring where they give demonstrations about dressage, horse training, and riding techniques. The highlight was the finale, when they brought out a team of animals, including an Eeyore clone, an exquisite beige pony with fluffy white hair, a wiley little donkey, and a miniature horse with the shortest legs imaginable named lil' Pedro or something adorable like that. They ran around and performed tricks and it was charming and hilarious.
Given the impromptu horse show, the "failed" trip to Chantilly was worth it in the end. And today I am actually going to take a second stab at gaining entrance to the chateau. It is not a Tuesday, there is no special announcement on the website or anywhere else that I can find, and I am going with a French person who has verified that the chateau will be open today.
All that considered, I figure I have about a 60% chance of actually seeing the interior without incident and an 80-85% chance of enduring some absurd customer service. If the latter comes to fruition, I will of course, fill you in accordingly.
In the meantime, I will give lil' Pedro your best.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
EuroDisney
We went to EuroDisney the other day.
As it happens, a question I have been asked several times since moving to Paris is whether or not I have visited this venerable amusement park. Of course, many questions about my life in France have been repeated--in various forms--by friends, family members, and acquaintances. It is inevitable, I suppose, that my compatriots would persistently ask me if the French are really super rude, if the food is really universally amazing, and if everyone chain-smokes while wearing perfectly tied scarfs, sporting perfectly coiffed hair, and displaying a perfectly slim figure. Of course these questions come up with some frequency given the culturally-held opinions about France in general, and Paris in particular.
As it happens, a question I have been asked several times since moving to Paris is whether or not I have visited this venerable amusement park. Of course, many questions about my life in France have been repeated--in various forms--by friends, family members, and acquaintances. It is inevitable, I suppose, that my compatriots would persistently ask me if the French are really super rude, if the food is really universally amazing, and if everyone chain-smokes while wearing perfectly tied scarfs, sporting perfectly coiffed hair, and displaying a perfectly slim figure. Of course these questions come up with some frequency given the culturally-held opinions about France in general, and Paris in particular.
Perhaps you realized as much, but my use of the term "culturally-held opinions"=euphemism for "stereotypes."
What is different about the "Have you been to EuroDisney?" question is that it always seems to be asked in the exact same manner. To offer context, when people ask: "Have you been to the top of the Eiffel Tower?" or "Do Parisians really loathe Americans?" the questions are posed with a variety of emotional inflection attached to them. The tone might imply that the interrogator is fascinated, bored, indifferent, or terrified by the prospect.
But when I entertain the "Have you been to EuroDisney?" question, the asker always poses the question in the same manner: he or she asks as if he or she is making a joke...even when it is obvious that he or she is really quite serious. No one wants to seriously ask me if I have been to EuroDisney, I would guess, because with all the "real" culture to be absorbed in Paris, it might seem rather plebian to waste a moment on such an "American" outing.
And I get that totally. I imagine that I would also say, "Oh, so have you been to EuroDisney?" and follow the question with some nervous laughter, trying to pawn it off as though I do not care at all about EuroDisney, and was just making a funny comment in the vein of: "EuroDisney!? How absurd, huh?" Yet my face would betray me as I eagerly waited to se if the person responding could suss out the fact that I am really dying to know about EuroDisney because I am an adult-child weirdo Disney lover.
Which I obviously am.
And I am certainly not alone on that front either, as it appears that the Germans are quite entirely on board with Walt's magic as well. Danke shon very much.
In the spirit of this blog, I will be utterly candid with you with regards to my thoughts/impressions/feelings on EuroDisney.
I freakin' love it.
And I have been twice, so this assessment is not merely the result of a first-timer's flush at having experienced lands marked by fantasy, adventure, frontier, and discovery.
Generally speaking, I am not an amusement park lover. The whole "I do not cotton to unsupervised teenagers" credo that marks my life (see earlier blog entries) certainly plays a part in my disdain for places which draw such creatures like moths to a flame. Yet EuroDisney is different.
For one thing, the place is extremely clean. For another, and unlike its state-side counterparts, the size of the park outside Paris is totally manageable and not anxiety-inducing in terms of the overwhelmingness factor. Thirdly, the people within the walls of the park are all celebrating America, quite the rarity in France, and I enjoyed being able to be publicly proud of my heritage for an afternoon.
Do not get me wrong, there is still a vibe of gross consumer consumption and commercialization that infiltrates the park, but such is on a MUCH smaller scale to the American Disney's.
And there are aspects of EuroDisney that are hilariously European too--which add to the place's charm. For one thing, the customer service is, as ever, baffling. Example: we waited in line to ride the "Blanche Neige" ride (the Snow White ride was my favorite as a child for reasons I neither understand nor have yet to fully examine, but given that my last name is now "White" maybe I knew from an early age that Snow and I were sisters of sorts). We stood in line for about 20 minutes--which was just about as long as any line in which we had to wait if you can believe it. Then we arrived at the front, loaded up into our "Happy" trolley and anxiously awaited the beginning of a marvelous fantastic journey.
But we sat, inert, for about five minutes before we were suddenly ordered to vacate the cart by a woman dressed in a peasant outfit. I do not know who she was supposed to be, but I would have felt better about accepting her orders had she been the wicked stepmother in the mirror. Anyway, she takes our cart load of people (six of us) and drags us to the side, reporting to us that that ride is now broken and that we will have to come back later. We ask why they are not telling all the people still waiting in line about the glitch in the works. She says that it might only be a few minutes, and the people in line might want to wait. So we say, "Okay, then we can wait too, and just stand at the head of the line?" (You know the spot we already earned by already waiting for this ride). Nope. We are ordered to come back later. This back and forth goes on for a few minutes until we finally take our leave, feeling the magic evaporate in a peasant-dressed poof.
The whole situation was so bizarre that we wound up immediately leaving Fantasyland and going to Discoveryland--where we received both a dose of whiplash on Space Mountain (which was super fun!) and confirmation that Michael Jackson was always a little "off" by watching the Captain EO show.
Well, if that did not get us right back into the spririt of things!
Another funny quirk about EuroDisney is that the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom ride, which is touted as being a main attraction--basically the raison d'etre for Adventureland--was closed. No explanations, no forewarnings, we just walked right up to it and saw that it was indefinitely closed. Had this been America, you know a partial refund would have been DEMANDED by the patrons, and that many a lawsuit would have come about due to this travesty of false advertisment.
But this was Eurodisney and so people sort of "PFFFFTed" and said : "Oh it's closed, too bad" and wandered off in their beautifully-tied scarves, making rude comments about Americans and puffing away on their Gauloises. Or maybe (read: actually) they just walked over to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride and enjoyed that one instead.
Well, I just love the magical world of EuroDisney. Thus, I invite you to ask with confidence next time you wonder if a Parisian-dweller has visited the park. Better yet, go for yourself...and, if you do, please report back to me about the Blanche-Neige ride.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Detective Work
You may have already discerned that one of the themes of my time in Paris has unexpectedly centered around some rather informal detective work. I, acting as detective, am constantly trying to figure out the rhyme or reason to Parisian customer service trends. It has gotten to the point that no interaction, no matter how seemingly trivial, escapes my scrutiny. It used to be that I could go buy, say, some milk, and then immediately forget what the entire transaction entailed.
Who would have thought that I would bemoan the loss of an ignorant existence? Raise your hand if you smell a hypocrite.
In any case, my current life as a self-appointed and non-professional intercultural detective does not afford me the luxury of taking ostensibly simple transactions such as milk-buying for granted. Now buying milk is an action that immediately becomes entangled within the social experiment that is my daily life in France.
This past Saturday afternoon, my husband and I embarked on a sort of hefty shopping trip. Normally, Saturday shopping excursions are a bit more extensive than the ones during the week, simply because the produce stand, the fromagerie, and the wine cave are all closed on Sundays and Mondays. Plus the "normal" grocery store, where we buy staples like coffee, cream, butter, mustard, and copious quantities of Lindt chocolate bars (I am going through a chocolate phase) has limited hours on Sundays.
Using the phrase, "limited hours" makes it sound like it is still a viable option to do some shopping on a Sunday. That implication is actually quite misleading. Technically, it is possible, but only if you are willing to wait in lines rivaling that of a U.S. shopping mall on Black Friday. Which I am not.
On this particular outing, we enjoyed three good interactions with salespeople. THREE! Are you kidding me? No one told us our money was "too old" to be accepted, no one announced to a room at large that he or she had no idea what we were saying and thus forced us to repeat a simple request five times in front of (possibly judgmental) fellow-shoppers. No one even gave an exaggerated and irritated "PFFFFT"! when we did not offer exact change.
Miracles do happen, people.
After this anomaly of an afternoon, my husband suggested we avoid speaking to French people altogether for a week or two afterwards in order to bask in the glorious afterglow that emerged after not inadvertantly offending Parisian vendeurs whilst attempting to purchase tomatoes.
Though an arguably good thought on my husband's part, we were actually invited to a French/American couple's house for lunch the following day, so we were unable to carry out the proposed idea. It would have been a little awkward to not address the French man--at whose house we were eating--for an entire afternoon.
Although maybe not so strange considering we ate lunch at a restaurant just outside Paris today and the waiter did his best not to address us the entire time we were there. So maybe this experiment within an experiment would have gone off with nary a hitch. But we'll never know now.
In light of my boasting about our recent interactions with Parisan shopkeepers, you may think I am getting too big for my britches over here in France. I understand the feeling that I just ascribed to you, and I can assuage your (possibly non-existent) worries toute suite. As it happens, my ego has actually been in constant check for the past few weeks. I can explain why in two words:
French lessons.
I recently resumed taking (formal) French lessons. I imagine that there is a limit as to how much public humiliation and demoralization one person can endure and thus the salespeople who demonstrated unprecedented friendliness this past weekend must have somehow identified me as someone already being well-pummeled by their country-folk through outlets other than food purchasing. The existence of this invisible radar system certainly explains why they were nice to us this past weekend. And there you go: one mystery of my life solved just like that.
Told you I was something of a detective.
Who would have thought that I would bemoan the loss of an ignorant existence? Raise your hand if you smell a hypocrite.
In any case, my current life as a self-appointed and non-professional intercultural detective does not afford me the luxury of taking ostensibly simple transactions such as milk-buying for granted. Now buying milk is an action that immediately becomes entangled within the social experiment that is my daily life in France.
This past Saturday afternoon, my husband and I embarked on a sort of hefty shopping trip. Normally, Saturday shopping excursions are a bit more extensive than the ones during the week, simply because the produce stand, the fromagerie, and the wine cave are all closed on Sundays and Mondays. Plus the "normal" grocery store, where we buy staples like coffee, cream, butter, mustard, and copious quantities of Lindt chocolate bars (I am going through a chocolate phase) has limited hours on Sundays.
Using the phrase, "limited hours" makes it sound like it is still a viable option to do some shopping on a Sunday. That implication is actually quite misleading. Technically, it is possible, but only if you are willing to wait in lines rivaling that of a U.S. shopping mall on Black Friday. Which I am not.
On this particular outing, we enjoyed three good interactions with salespeople. THREE! Are you kidding me? No one told us our money was "too old" to be accepted, no one announced to a room at large that he or she had no idea what we were saying and thus forced us to repeat a simple request five times in front of (possibly judgmental) fellow-shoppers. No one even gave an exaggerated and irritated "PFFFFT"! when we did not offer exact change.
Miracles do happen, people.
After this anomaly of an afternoon, my husband suggested we avoid speaking to French people altogether for a week or two afterwards in order to bask in the glorious afterglow that emerged after not inadvertantly offending Parisian vendeurs whilst attempting to purchase tomatoes.
Though an arguably good thought on my husband's part, we were actually invited to a French/American couple's house for lunch the following day, so we were unable to carry out the proposed idea. It would have been a little awkward to not address the French man--at whose house we were eating--for an entire afternoon.
Although maybe not so strange considering we ate lunch at a restaurant just outside Paris today and the waiter did his best not to address us the entire time we were there. So maybe this experiment within an experiment would have gone off with nary a hitch. But we'll never know now.
In light of my boasting about our recent interactions with Parisan shopkeepers, you may think I am getting too big for my britches over here in France. I understand the feeling that I just ascribed to you, and I can assuage your (possibly non-existent) worries toute suite. As it happens, my ego has actually been in constant check for the past few weeks. I can explain why in two words:
French lessons.
I recently resumed taking (formal) French lessons. I imagine that there is a limit as to how much public humiliation and demoralization one person can endure and thus the salespeople who demonstrated unprecedented friendliness this past weekend must have somehow identified me as someone already being well-pummeled by their country-folk through outlets other than food purchasing. The existence of this invisible radar system certainly explains why they were nice to us this past weekend. And there you go: one mystery of my life solved just like that.
Told you I was something of a detective.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Italy=Heaven
We recently spent two and half weeks driving through Italy.
Put another way: we recently spent two and a half weeks in heaven.
Not that I even have a definitive stance on what "heaven" may or may not mean to me, but since we are talking about a country where catholocism reigns, I think the analogy is apt. And if one possibility for "heaven" is to imagine it as being synonomous with delicious food, stunning landscapes, extremely friendly people, and way too much limoncello, then the analogy works quite swimmingly.
So I love Italy, and I have thus been enthusiastically singing its praises for the ten or so days since we have been back in France. Hence, the following question has been posed by a few people, in varying forms: how does your opinion on/love affair with Italy compare with your feelings about Paris?
I think I detect, when this question is posed, the tiniest insinuation that I may have fickle tendencies when assigning geographical "favorites". Since I have admitted as much on this here blog, I suppose the insinuation is warranted. That said, I feel confident asserting that Italy is my favorite European country.
For the moment.
Of course I continue to be obsessed with France in general, and Paris in particular. I adore Paris' sense of propriety, its committment to aesthetics, its abundance of cultural offerings, its superior butter. Yet a juxtaposition was a lovely thing to experience. Thus the chaotically cheerful energy of Italy really drew me in. It may have helped that every morsel of food or drink I ingested was beyond beyond, as they say. And it is also somewhat flattering to have men complimenting you all day long--even if they do so in a slightly creepy manner and even though they are utterly undiscriminatory with regards to their appreciation of females and thus there is no real feeling of "specialness" that is ever imparted. It is still nice to be acknowledged with a (leering) smile and have a door held open for you--as opposed to being shoved out of a metro car as though you are an inanimate nuisance.
But I mean we all have different ways of being "friendly", I suppose.
In Italy in general, I just felt very welcomed and at home in the entire country. By contrast, in France I find I often feel like a houseguest in one of those homes that is less home and more museum. Have you ever gone to someone's house and find that you are afraid to use the hand towels in the bathroom because you might mess up the decor? That is how I frequently feel in France: like a "normal" gesture on my part will actually turn out to be some sort of aggregious insult and I will subsequently be forever shunned by the country at large due to the inadvertent error I may at any moment accidentally commit.
At least my feet are becoming more flexible. You know, because I am constantly on my toes.
In case you are wondering what we actually did in Italy: we flew to Milan, rented a car and drove to Lake Como. From there, we basically ate our way south for 17 days. We stayed in Pescallo, a tiny village near Bellagio on Lake Como, then went on to Venice, then Corniglia in the Cinque Terre, through Tuscany and Umbria, over to Spoleto, down through Naples to the Amalfi Coast, and then back up to Rome to stay with friends before flying out of FCO.
I recommend you borrowing our itinerary if you like, but it seems pretentious and not in the spirit of this blog to list out our trip in a step-by-step way. There is so much to see in Italy, and while I feel our vacation was the best ever, part of what made it so amazing were the last-minute discoveries and what we experienced when we strayed from our "plan." Thus, you could follow what we did, but then you might miss out on what would make your Italian trip the best ever for you. Because, you know, we are different people after all. But if you are interested in actual towns we saw, restaurants at which we ate, or places where we stayed, I could email you some names. And some might make it into subsequent blog entries too, so stay tuned.
Whose on their toes now, huh?
Or you could just buy "Rick Steves Italy" because his "Italy in 21 Days" plan basically served as my prototype when planning our Italian adventure.
Not that I lack imagination, and not that we actually stuck with his program on many accounts, but I must say his guidance in terms of fantastic local restos and in terms of providing us with fabulous summaries and background information on a myriad of sights really enriched our experience. I like that guys Italy book, I must say.
I also like limoncello, and our friends in Rome taught us how to make it. I am tickled (pickled?) at the prospect of having a dinner party back in the states and ending the evening with homemade limoncello (sorry Dr. Gray, no tequila that night). As an added perk to that party, I can guarantee our guests that the towels in our powder room are user-friendly.
Put another way: we recently spent two and a half weeks in heaven.
Not that I even have a definitive stance on what "heaven" may or may not mean to me, but since we are talking about a country where catholocism reigns, I think the analogy is apt. And if one possibility for "heaven" is to imagine it as being synonomous with delicious food, stunning landscapes, extremely friendly people, and way too much limoncello, then the analogy works quite swimmingly.
So I love Italy, and I have thus been enthusiastically singing its praises for the ten or so days since we have been back in France. Hence, the following question has been posed by a few people, in varying forms: how does your opinion on/love affair with Italy compare with your feelings about Paris?
I think I detect, when this question is posed, the tiniest insinuation that I may have fickle tendencies when assigning geographical "favorites". Since I have admitted as much on this here blog, I suppose the insinuation is warranted. That said, I feel confident asserting that Italy is my favorite European country.
For the moment.
Of course I continue to be obsessed with France in general, and Paris in particular. I adore Paris' sense of propriety, its committment to aesthetics, its abundance of cultural offerings, its superior butter. Yet a juxtaposition was a lovely thing to experience. Thus the chaotically cheerful energy of Italy really drew me in. It may have helped that every morsel of food or drink I ingested was beyond beyond, as they say. And it is also somewhat flattering to have men complimenting you all day long--even if they do so in a slightly creepy manner and even though they are utterly undiscriminatory with regards to their appreciation of females and thus there is no real feeling of "specialness" that is ever imparted. It is still nice to be acknowledged with a (leering) smile and have a door held open for you--as opposed to being shoved out of a metro car as though you are an inanimate nuisance.
But I mean we all have different ways of being "friendly", I suppose.
In Italy in general, I just felt very welcomed and at home in the entire country. By contrast, in France I find I often feel like a houseguest in one of those homes that is less home and more museum. Have you ever gone to someone's house and find that you are afraid to use the hand towels in the bathroom because you might mess up the decor? That is how I frequently feel in France: like a "normal" gesture on my part will actually turn out to be some sort of aggregious insult and I will subsequently be forever shunned by the country at large due to the inadvertent error I may at any moment accidentally commit.
At least my feet are becoming more flexible. You know, because I am constantly on my toes.
In case you are wondering what we actually did in Italy: we flew to Milan, rented a car and drove to Lake Como. From there, we basically ate our way south for 17 days. We stayed in Pescallo, a tiny village near Bellagio on Lake Como, then went on to Venice, then Corniglia in the Cinque Terre, through Tuscany and Umbria, over to Spoleto, down through Naples to the Amalfi Coast, and then back up to Rome to stay with friends before flying out of FCO.
I recommend you borrowing our itinerary if you like, but it seems pretentious and not in the spirit of this blog to list out our trip in a step-by-step way. There is so much to see in Italy, and while I feel our vacation was the best ever, part of what made it so amazing were the last-minute discoveries and what we experienced when we strayed from our "plan." Thus, you could follow what we did, but then you might miss out on what would make your Italian trip the best ever for you. Because, you know, we are different people after all. But if you are interested in actual towns we saw, restaurants at which we ate, or places where we stayed, I could email you some names. And some might make it into subsequent blog entries too, so stay tuned.
Whose on their toes now, huh?
Or you could just buy "Rick Steves Italy" because his "Italy in 21 Days" plan basically served as my prototype when planning our Italian adventure.
Not that I lack imagination, and not that we actually stuck with his program on many accounts, but I must say his guidance in terms of fantastic local restos and in terms of providing us with fabulous summaries and background information on a myriad of sights really enriched our experience. I like that guys Italy book, I must say.
I also like limoncello, and our friends in Rome taught us how to make it. I am tickled (pickled?) at the prospect of having a dinner party back in the states and ending the evening with homemade limoncello (sorry Dr. Gray, no tequila that night). As an added perk to that party, I can guarantee our guests that the towels in our powder room are user-friendly.
Aesthetics Gone too Far?
The other day I was buying produce at the vegetable stand, and I handed the woman at the cash register a 10 euro note by way of payment. Normally, this woman glares and huffs if you are unable to conjure up exact change, so along with the 10, I also gave her 43 centimes (my bill came to 7,43). All things considered, I thought the interaction was shaping up to be another positive event on what had already proved quite the successful outing.
Well, I thought too soon.
As it happened, I had enjoyed some very pleasant conversing and purchasing preceding this produce adventure--with both the man at the wine store and the woman at the Italian trateur. These two anomalys of French friendliness had served to instill me with a false sense of confidence. I assumed that a positive experience at the produce stand was a sure thing, as it would result in a trifecta of loveliness (don't good things always come in threes?).
That assumption was my first mistake. Never get cocky when dealing with the French. They can sniff out your confidence the way they can sniff out a ripe cantaloupe, and will subsequently, swiftly, and sufficiently punish you for it.
The produce woman limply held the ten euro note between her two fingers and glared at me for what in the United States would be an uncomfortable period of time, but what is in France quite the "norm." I had no idea why she was staring at me, but as I have never known her to be either overly friendly or pleased by my presence, my first thought was not that I had committed any sort of error. Silly, silly, Maggie. will you never learn?
So then she starts waving the 10 around in front of my face, loudly asserting that it was too old to be of any use to her. I will concede that the money had seen better days, but it was neither torn nor defaced in any way, so I assumed that it was still a viable player in the commerce game. Thus, my second mistake has been identified.
Because I was feeling somewhat emboldened by the successful interactions I had already enjoyed that morning, I decided to take a French stance with this grumpy gal. I drew my facial muscles into a scowl of possibly intimidating proportions, "pfffffttt"ed with apblomb, and told her that it was not my fault that I had bad money.
Now here is where things became interesting (still humilating, mind you, but with a new cultural twist). She suddenly looked at me with something marginally bordering on respect and exclaimed that of course it was not my fault! She actually became more incensed at the fact that the money was still in circulation while she simultaneously became my ally. Now we were in it together: I was the victim of this bad money that she could not accept and she was going to vocally attest that my rights as a human being in France were being aggregiously compromised.
One emphatic "pffffft" from me and she and I were suddenly in cahoots against the French government as her outrage at allowing this decrepit 10 euro note to still exist escalated. The manager was then called over and he weighed in on the matter as well. His role within this impromptu forum was to reaffirm the unacceptability of the note, to add some of his own defamatory remarks about the French government, and to offer the advice that I needed to march to the bank tout suite and demand a replacement bill.
It seems of some importance to relay that there was a line of 4-5 people behind me as all of this was being discussed.
The woman then consulted her watch and added that I just might have time to make it to the bank before they closed for the weekend (it was like noon at the time, but so it goes in Paris on a Friday).
The only "good" aspect concerning the whole affair was that I actually did have another 10 euro note in my wallet, and it was decidedly more crisp. Had I drawn out my carte bleue to pay at that point I would have had to endure another lecture about the impossibility of taking a credit card for a purchase of under 15 euro--or whatever the rule du jour happened to be.
I handed her the newer, acceptable, money and scurried out. I would like to add, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but never once did I say: "I am sorry." I believe this elevated me in her eyes, and it certainly made me feel good about my newfound ability to resist becoming an automatic doormat for customer service people in Paris.
So then yesterday I happened into a bakery I had never before patroned to buy a dessert for dinner. My friend and I were lured in by the delectable-looking treats--which were impeccably displayed--in the window. Not that this information matters, but I decided on a caramel macaroon filled with a pastry cream and dotted with raspberries. The woman asked if I wanted it to go, to which I replied yes. She then spent a solid five minutes wrapping it up in a wax paper traingle (as they usually do) and then went above and beyond to fashion me a long white ribbon "handle" that enabled me to carry my paper prism without inflicting any damage to the dessert. My friend commented that she would like to receive such a beautiful presentation even if there was nothing inside of it (actually I think she said "even if there was just a pair of underwear inside of it," but that comment will not make sense to anyone who had not been privy to our conversations earlier in the afternoon).
Anyway, I understand the Parisian proclivity towards aesthetics, but it seemed a tad over the top to have to have good-looking money. But then as I happily walked home from the bakery yesterday, an impeccable white triangle dangling from my wrist and a curly white ribbon trailing behind me, I realized that there is something to be said for thoroughness. The French like things to look good, so who am I to complain about how far they may take it? I will just try to acquire the freshest looking euros I can and enjoy perfect prepared and packaged pastries and that will be that.
Well, I thought too soon.
As it happened, I had enjoyed some very pleasant conversing and purchasing preceding this produce adventure--with both the man at the wine store and the woman at the Italian trateur. These two anomalys of French friendliness had served to instill me with a false sense of confidence. I assumed that a positive experience at the produce stand was a sure thing, as it would result in a trifecta of loveliness (don't good things always come in threes?).
That assumption was my first mistake. Never get cocky when dealing with the French. They can sniff out your confidence the way they can sniff out a ripe cantaloupe, and will subsequently, swiftly, and sufficiently punish you for it.
The produce woman limply held the ten euro note between her two fingers and glared at me for what in the United States would be an uncomfortable period of time, but what is in France quite the "norm." I had no idea why she was staring at me, but as I have never known her to be either overly friendly or pleased by my presence, my first thought was not that I had committed any sort of error. Silly, silly, Maggie. will you never learn?
So then she starts waving the 10 around in front of my face, loudly asserting that it was too old to be of any use to her. I will concede that the money had seen better days, but it was neither torn nor defaced in any way, so I assumed that it was still a viable player in the commerce game. Thus, my second mistake has been identified.
Because I was feeling somewhat emboldened by the successful interactions I had already enjoyed that morning, I decided to take a French stance with this grumpy gal. I drew my facial muscles into a scowl of possibly intimidating proportions, "pfffffttt"ed with apblomb, and told her that it was not my fault that I had bad money.
Now here is where things became interesting (still humilating, mind you, but with a new cultural twist). She suddenly looked at me with something marginally bordering on respect and exclaimed that of course it was not my fault! She actually became more incensed at the fact that the money was still in circulation while she simultaneously became my ally. Now we were in it together: I was the victim of this bad money that she could not accept and she was going to vocally attest that my rights as a human being in France were being aggregiously compromised.
One emphatic "pffffft" from me and she and I were suddenly in cahoots against the French government as her outrage at allowing this decrepit 10 euro note to still exist escalated. The manager was then called over and he weighed in on the matter as well. His role within this impromptu forum was to reaffirm the unacceptability of the note, to add some of his own defamatory remarks about the French government, and to offer the advice that I needed to march to the bank tout suite and demand a replacement bill.
It seems of some importance to relay that there was a line of 4-5 people behind me as all of this was being discussed.
The woman then consulted her watch and added that I just might have time to make it to the bank before they closed for the weekend (it was like noon at the time, but so it goes in Paris on a Friday).
The only "good" aspect concerning the whole affair was that I actually did have another 10 euro note in my wallet, and it was decidedly more crisp. Had I drawn out my carte bleue to pay at that point I would have had to endure another lecture about the impossibility of taking a credit card for a purchase of under 15 euro--or whatever the rule du jour happened to be.
I handed her the newer, acceptable, money and scurried out. I would like to add, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but never once did I say: "I am sorry." I believe this elevated me in her eyes, and it certainly made me feel good about my newfound ability to resist becoming an automatic doormat for customer service people in Paris.
So then yesterday I happened into a bakery I had never before patroned to buy a dessert for dinner. My friend and I were lured in by the delectable-looking treats--which were impeccably displayed--in the window. Not that this information matters, but I decided on a caramel macaroon filled with a pastry cream and dotted with raspberries. The woman asked if I wanted it to go, to which I replied yes. She then spent a solid five minutes wrapping it up in a wax paper traingle (as they usually do) and then went above and beyond to fashion me a long white ribbon "handle" that enabled me to carry my paper prism without inflicting any damage to the dessert. My friend commented that she would like to receive such a beautiful presentation even if there was nothing inside of it (actually I think she said "even if there was just a pair of underwear inside of it," but that comment will not make sense to anyone who had not been privy to our conversations earlier in the afternoon).
Anyway, I understand the Parisian proclivity towards aesthetics, but it seemed a tad over the top to have to have good-looking money. But then as I happily walked home from the bakery yesterday, an impeccable white triangle dangling from my wrist and a curly white ribbon trailing behind me, I realized that there is something to be said for thoroughness. The French like things to look good, so who am I to complain about how far they may take it? I will just try to acquire the freshest looking euros I can and enjoy perfect prepared and packaged pastries and that will be that.
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