Yesterday morning, while my husband and I were drinking coffee, there was a knock on our door. Since the two main entrance doors to our building are both only "openable" with door codes, the situation immediately acquired an air of mystery. Presumably, the knocker could be one of only a handful of people: someone living within our building, our landlord, a delivery man, or a friend with the code. None of the options seemed especially likely.
In fact, I was able to squash all of those possibilities almost immediately. First, we do not speak to anyone in our building, other than to have the rare awkward exchange in the hallway, or the occasional attempt at a "hello" in the Franprix supermarche across the street--both of which are often ignored. Then there is the fact that we only have 5 friends in France, with two of whom we had spent the prior day, so they would hardly be ringing us up. That left three possible friends, and it was half-way through a Monday morning, so the likelihood of a "pop-in" was quite low. To continue extinguishing the possibilities: our landlord has only come by once, and that was to bring a highly suspect "plumber" to "fix" a leaky water heater--and he planned this meeting days in advance (he had to, as this "plumber" was allegedly in serious demand). Finally, the only time we have had a delivery in the past six months, it turned out to be for someone on a different floor--a slightly disappointing situation since the package was a lovely floral arrangement that I would have quite liked to keep.
So now we can end this period of wild suspense once and for all: the answer was "E," none of the above.
Our callers turned out to be two guys who elbowed there way past an easily-elbowable me under the guise that there was some sort of gas situation requiring their immediate expertise. My French is limited, but hearing the words "gas" and "immediately" reduced me to quite the push-over.
Standing in the way of a gas problem was mostly concerning to me because, with my paltry French, I frankly have no idea how on earth I would be able to explain burning the building down. We don't tend to cover vocabulary related to accidental arson or random gas explosions in my French class.
Once inside the apartment, one guy immediately set out sweeping our never-before-used fireplace (this fear of accidental arson did not start yesterday, after all) and talking about our respirateur problems and sante issues. His friend (colleague?) then came in and, upon learning that I spoke some French, proceeded to deliver a 3-minute schpeal of their "required" services in rapid fire French.
Of course, I only realized in retrospect that Johnny #2 was offering nothing but a sales pitch. While he was speaking, I was too busy trying to understand every 15th word to actually and accurately guage what was happening.
But here is a good lesson: no matter what your culture, a swarmy sales pitch is a swarmy sales pitch. It took us about 10 times longer than it should have to figure out, but at least a lesson was learned in the end.
My husband and I stared at these guys for several minutes, unsure of how to proceed. There was some talk in the speech about how we are responsible for this apartment, and the insurance is up to us, and if something happens we will have to pay, etc. We were a bit alarmed. That feeling, combined with the cultural barriers left us in this sort of half-frozen, half-panicked state. As we watched #1 sweep our chimney and #2 ruffle through papers they both continued to throw around phrases like "obligatory contract" "insurance liability" "vital for your health" "necessary for safety" and "a law in Frace," ostensibly to intimidate us. Which obviously worked quite well since they were both in our apartment and drawing up papers as we stood there like imbeciles.
But what did we know?
So the next thing we know #1 has gone to retrieve his tools and this break in the fuss seemed to activate my brain, so I finally asked about the cost. We were told that if we called their company (likely story, if they worked for/with a company, wouldn't they be wearing a badge or a uniform with their name sewn on the lapel? You are suspect, people.) we would be charged 120 euro. But since they came to the building and we were lucky enough to answer the door, we only had to pay 80 euro.
I would just like to say here that the use of the word "lucky" in that last sentence was subjective.
My husband, admittedly the more level-headed and reasonable of the two of us, proved to be better in the crisis than me, even though he cannot speak French. I wish I could say I was surprised. Anway, he suddenly put a halt to the chimney sweeping/contract bullying and informed our vistors that we did not actually have to pay anything. Basically, he called them out out by saying, in his calm and reasonable manner, a version of the words any salesmen dreads. To paraphrase, it was something like: "What the fudgsicle is going on here, boys?"
He then told the clowns that we had no cash on us. They said that was fine, they could take a check. Well, lucky us (this time seriously), as we opted not to have personal checks with our French account.
Suddenly the mood turned a bit glum on the part of the chimney sweeping/gas checking/ sales pitching/ apartment-entry forcing team.
So let's see. In the U.S. I would NEVER allow two random men into my house. Yet here I was unsure. I was caught off guard in that way that I am often am in France--like is this behavior "typical" in France? Am I being tres American by not understanding what is happening? As I only understood about 50% of what was being said, I did not even know if their protocol was explained--it could have been. They were smiling and the chimney sweep even told his co-hort that I spoke decent French. Flattery will get you anywhere when you are dealing with insecure foreigners who are fearful that the sante of an entire building of French folk lies in their normally powerless hands.
The moral of the story is that some situations are not contingent on culture; a salesman is a salesman and no salesman should push his way into your apartment trying to scare the bejesus out of you. I do not think I am alone in that feeling. But it is just amazing how often, in France, I only see a situation for what it really is, after the fact. It is exhausting trying to assimilate, trying to understand, trying to "get" it. So much so, that my natural instincts/radar have become muted by all the other components on which I am focusing.
Next time someone knocks on our door, I seriously hope it is a delivery man with a nice floral arrangement that is actually meant for us. Frankly, I would even welcome the "plumber" again.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
And Yet More Communication Issues
For the past six months, ever since I arrived in Paris, communication has obviously been a personally prevalent topic. As you may already know from reading this blog, living abroad has added whole new dimensions to the concept as a whole.
Aside from the well-documented struggles I have experienced--and will doubtless continue to experience--with cross-language conversations, the communication in my life that should be, for all intents and purposes "easy," has also been marked by some unexpected struggles over the past few months.
When I bought a "portable" phone and signed on with a mobile provider in Paris, I opted for a plan that allows unlimited local texts and very limited local calls. It seemed that two hours of "call time" per month would suffice because I did not start out with many friends in France. I figured that when and if the masses of Frenchies clamouring for my friendship started rolling in, texting would be the preferable means of communication anyway; I find I am sharper through the written word.
Well that and I have a lot of trouble discerning the French language through le telephone; such a scenario becomes a literal version of that game "telephone" that always produced wildly muddled interpretations of mundane sentences (although I used to suspect there was a clown or two in on the game who purposefully messed up the chain of communication just to inject a dose of revelry--sort of appreciated as the game was, let's face it, not that fun). Incidentally, I am still not certain if I did make the right decision with my phone plan selection, as my hunch has never been tested. The truth is that the aforementioned busload of French friends I had planned to meet and enjoy has somehow still not pulled up to my door stoop.
Must be a lot of traffic in the banlieues.
But more to the point: It was tempting to pay more in order to have international service available to me, but since I do not currently have a trunk of gold coins in my closet, such a luxury was a tad out of the budge. I was not overly concerned; since leaving adolescence and my super cool Swatch phone behind, I have actually become a bit phone-phobic (another fear that set in late in life, along with my fear of heights, cats, and unsupervised teenagers). Thus, not having a plethora of people available at a moment's notice seemed like a refreshing change of pace.
Let me divert here and interject a personal pet peeve: it incenses me when people complain about others who do not pick up their mobile phones every time it rings. Unlike the vast majority of American youth, I do not happen to advocate answering the phone while in a restroom, a movie theater, or waiting in a deli line. When people complain, "That is what a cell phone is FOR, to always be able to be reached!" I want to give them an Indian sunburn right then and there. No, people, in my mind, having a cell phone is certainly not so that I can be perpetually available to you.
It is actually so that I can screen your call, listen to your voicemail message, and respond accordingly--crossing my fingers that I will also be screened and can therefore just leave you a voicemail.
Back on terra firma (i.e. off that soap box I just cannot seem to resist), I am finding that not being able to talk on the phone like a "normal" person in Paris, has its challenges.
For example, I gave up calling my mom from phone booths in European internet cafes because the combined smell of human sweat and curry that seems to cling to the walls in those places is actually a bit distracting/revolting. So there was that. And then my predicament is further exaccerbated by the fact that I really dislike Skyping.
I sound like I am difficult to please don't I?
Umm, yeah. Have you MET me? I am the person who needs her butter to taste a certain way in her croissants. So, yes, difficult I am . Though I prefer "particular," as it sounds a tad softer and more sophisticated.
But Skyping is disorienting because I am always looking at myself in that little box and critiqueing my appearance. I would feel embarassed because such an admission sounds rather narcissistic but I think it is sort of implied already that I am a tad narcissistic. I mean who else has a blog devoted to tales and scenes from her own life if not a narcissist?
But Skyping became almost bearable when I figured out how to turn that self-video box off, but then I still did not like how the picture would periodically freeze and the person would go on talking while being frozen in some unflattering manner, like with their eyes half closed and their mouth agape. It is like when the voice-overs on TV shows do not match the movement of the characters' mouths. Ugh, that is annoying. And saying goodbye on Skype is always a hard challenge to navigate too. Like do you blow air-kisses, or pretend to hug as you might bid adieu in person? Saying a simple "bye," as you would on the phone always elicits this weird back and forth of "Okay bye," "Now, okay, bye," "All right, bye," until one person has to somewhat aggressively annouce that he or she is definitively cutting off the contact tout suite: "I am ending this call now!"
I was finally almost satisfied with a system of calling via Skype but without the camera aspect. This arrangement is tolerable, the drawback being that I am constantly on speaker phone. Who likes speaker phone? And the quality is not very reliable with these calls either. Half the time, I am convinced that someone is trying to order pizzas as I am attempting to hear my mother tell me about her crazy neighbors. Or yesterday, I was talking to my brother and, due to the high-pitched static that kept popping up, he was convinced that my husband was on the line too, laughing hysterically. Never mind that fact that my husband was in bed, behind a closed door from where I was speaking/shouting into my computer screen. And the fact that the sound was more like a giggly 8 year-old girl than that of an adult man laughing, but my brother has never had the best hearing.
And regarding that conversation with my brother, he made some comment about how I was funny. It sounded to me like he was suggesting something was a bit "off" about me (as in: "This yogurt is passed the expiration date, does it smell funny?"), and I immediately jumped all over him, demanding to know why he thought I was a weirdo. He was understandably confused by my (over)reaction, and by the time he had explained that he really thought I was funny (like as in someone who makes good jokes) I think he was wishing he could change that "funny" label to "paranoid nutter."
For the most part we had a great conversation. About 50% of it was my brother telling me stories about his life and laughing so hard before he could reach the punchline, that we both ended up laughing without really knowing what we were laughing at. I love that sort of thing. But such a true "connection" has been hard to achieve via the Skype video distraction/speaker-phone inconvenience/curry-stenched booth systems with which I have been working over here. It was a rarity, and it was really refreshing.
It just seems often after speaking to members of my family from here in Europe, I feel sort of unsatisfied. At home, I normally speak to my mother at least once a day, so this system of shouting at her through my laptop twice a week is a bit of a departure from my preference.
I really want to pick up the phone and tell my mom about my day. About how I bought a piece of fish at the open air market yesterday and the fish purveyor actually smiled at me and complimented my French (huge victory, by the way). I want her to tell me about her recent poker night (yes, seriously) and actually be able to hear the details. Because when I do try to have a "normal" conversation such as that , we seem to spend a good amount of time responding to one another with disjointed, "What was that? I missed that last part? You want pepperoni? What?"
Something really is lost on translation. Even, ironically, when you are speaking the same language. There is simply no substitute for having clean, clear communication with others. And when you don't have it, you seriously miss it.
So while I love Paris (and I also apparently love to complain about technological challenges), I think what I am really saying is that I am having a bout of homesickness. It is not Skype's fault, after all. I just want to have an uninterrupted conversation at a normal volume with my mom. Is that too much to ask?
Aside from the well-documented struggles I have experienced--and will doubtless continue to experience--with cross-language conversations, the communication in my life that should be, for all intents and purposes "easy," has also been marked by some unexpected struggles over the past few months.
When I bought a "portable" phone and signed on with a mobile provider in Paris, I opted for a plan that allows unlimited local texts and very limited local calls. It seemed that two hours of "call time" per month would suffice because I did not start out with many friends in France. I figured that when and if the masses of Frenchies clamouring for my friendship started rolling in, texting would be the preferable means of communication anyway; I find I am sharper through the written word.
Well that and I have a lot of trouble discerning the French language through le telephone; such a scenario becomes a literal version of that game "telephone" that always produced wildly muddled interpretations of mundane sentences (although I used to suspect there was a clown or two in on the game who purposefully messed up the chain of communication just to inject a dose of revelry--sort of appreciated as the game was, let's face it, not that fun). Incidentally, I am still not certain if I did make the right decision with my phone plan selection, as my hunch has never been tested. The truth is that the aforementioned busload of French friends I had planned to meet and enjoy has somehow still not pulled up to my door stoop.
Must be a lot of traffic in the banlieues.
But more to the point: It was tempting to pay more in order to have international service available to me, but since I do not currently have a trunk of gold coins in my closet, such a luxury was a tad out of the budge. I was not overly concerned; since leaving adolescence and my super cool Swatch phone behind, I have actually become a bit phone-phobic (another fear that set in late in life, along with my fear of heights, cats, and unsupervised teenagers). Thus, not having a plethora of people available at a moment's notice seemed like a refreshing change of pace.
Let me divert here and interject a personal pet peeve: it incenses me when people complain about others who do not pick up their mobile phones every time it rings. Unlike the vast majority of American youth, I do not happen to advocate answering the phone while in a restroom, a movie theater, or waiting in a deli line. When people complain, "That is what a cell phone is FOR, to always be able to be reached!" I want to give them an Indian sunburn right then and there. No, people, in my mind, having a cell phone is certainly not so that I can be perpetually available to you.
It is actually so that I can screen your call, listen to your voicemail message, and respond accordingly--crossing my fingers that I will also be screened and can therefore just leave you a voicemail.
Back on terra firma (i.e. off that soap box I just cannot seem to resist), I am finding that not being able to talk on the phone like a "normal" person in Paris, has its challenges.
For example, I gave up calling my mom from phone booths in European internet cafes because the combined smell of human sweat and curry that seems to cling to the walls in those places is actually a bit distracting/revolting. So there was that. And then my predicament is further exaccerbated by the fact that I really dislike Skyping.
I sound like I am difficult to please don't I?
Umm, yeah. Have you MET me? I am the person who needs her butter to taste a certain way in her croissants. So, yes, difficult I am . Though I prefer "particular," as it sounds a tad softer and more sophisticated.
But Skyping is disorienting because I am always looking at myself in that little box and critiqueing my appearance. I would feel embarassed because such an admission sounds rather narcissistic but I think it is sort of implied already that I am a tad narcissistic. I mean who else has a blog devoted to tales and scenes from her own life if not a narcissist?
But Skyping became almost bearable when I figured out how to turn that self-video box off, but then I still did not like how the picture would periodically freeze and the person would go on talking while being frozen in some unflattering manner, like with their eyes half closed and their mouth agape. It is like when the voice-overs on TV shows do not match the movement of the characters' mouths. Ugh, that is annoying. And saying goodbye on Skype is always a hard challenge to navigate too. Like do you blow air-kisses, or pretend to hug as you might bid adieu in person? Saying a simple "bye," as you would on the phone always elicits this weird back and forth of "Okay bye," "Now, okay, bye," "All right, bye," until one person has to somewhat aggressively annouce that he or she is definitively cutting off the contact tout suite: "I am ending this call now!"
I was finally almost satisfied with a system of calling via Skype but without the camera aspect. This arrangement is tolerable, the drawback being that I am constantly on speaker phone. Who likes speaker phone? And the quality is not very reliable with these calls either. Half the time, I am convinced that someone is trying to order pizzas as I am attempting to hear my mother tell me about her crazy neighbors. Or yesterday, I was talking to my brother and, due to the high-pitched static that kept popping up, he was convinced that my husband was on the line too, laughing hysterically. Never mind that fact that my husband was in bed, behind a closed door from where I was speaking/shouting into my computer screen. And the fact that the sound was more like a giggly 8 year-old girl than that of an adult man laughing, but my brother has never had the best hearing.
And regarding that conversation with my brother, he made some comment about how I was funny. It sounded to me like he was suggesting something was a bit "off" about me (as in: "This yogurt is passed the expiration date, does it smell funny?"), and I immediately jumped all over him, demanding to know why he thought I was a weirdo. He was understandably confused by my (over)reaction, and by the time he had explained that he really thought I was funny (like as in someone who makes good jokes) I think he was wishing he could change that "funny" label to "paranoid nutter."
For the most part we had a great conversation. About 50% of it was my brother telling me stories about his life and laughing so hard before he could reach the punchline, that we both ended up laughing without really knowing what we were laughing at. I love that sort of thing. But such a true "connection" has been hard to achieve via the Skype video distraction/speaker-phone inconvenience/curry-stenched booth systems with which I have been working over here. It was a rarity, and it was really refreshing.
It just seems often after speaking to members of my family from here in Europe, I feel sort of unsatisfied. At home, I normally speak to my mother at least once a day, so this system of shouting at her through my laptop twice a week is a bit of a departure from my preference.
I really want to pick up the phone and tell my mom about my day. About how I bought a piece of fish at the open air market yesterday and the fish purveyor actually smiled at me and complimented my French (huge victory, by the way). I want her to tell me about her recent poker night (yes, seriously) and actually be able to hear the details. Because when I do try to have a "normal" conversation such as that , we seem to spend a good amount of time responding to one another with disjointed, "What was that? I missed that last part? You want pepperoni? What?"
Something really is lost on translation. Even, ironically, when you are speaking the same language. There is simply no substitute for having clean, clear communication with others. And when you don't have it, you seriously miss it.
So while I love Paris (and I also apparently love to complain about technological challenges), I think what I am really saying is that I am having a bout of homesickness. It is not Skype's fault, after all. I just want to have an uninterrupted conversation at a normal volume with my mom. Is that too much to ask?
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Hot Air...Balloons
We just returned from Chateau d'Oex which is a small village in the Swiss Alps, just north of Montreux. You may have heard of it because it is the hot air balloon capital of the world. I am not altogether sure how many competitors had to be elbowed out of the running to earn such a venerable title, but regardless, such a claim does sound rather unique and impressive, doesn't it?
And those two words exactly encapsulate this tiny town. In fact, my husband announced, several times, that it was his "favorite place in the world." This proclamation might sound dramatic, so I feel it is important to note that my husband is prone to neither exaggeration nor theatrics (a good thing because an overactive imagination like mine needs a yin to complement my yang).
He loved this place because it was hard not to love it. Nestled in the Swiss Alps, it is a sort of faux skiing village. I say "faux" because there is no direct access to skiiing trails (unless you count the toddler ski school whose attendants spent the morning making their way up an almost flat spanse of land on a very short T-bar, and who seemed to be adorably under the misguided impression that they were conquering the Matterhorn). Fabulous ski trails are a short bus/car ride away, but that small distance means that the town is not overrun by the snooty skiers that make most gorgeous mountain towns borderline intolerable. Yes, Colorado, I am talking to you.
Also adding to Chateau d'Oex's charm: there are no chain stores of any kind, and with the exception of a small cache of "Nestle" products at the general stores and an oddly prominent Subaru banner at a local car wash, there was no sign of commercial industry whatsoever. Who knew that a McDonald's-free zone even existed in this day and age?
I had the feeling that everyone residing in the town hand-crafted their own furniture, churned their own butter, and contacted one another through a centuries-old smoke signal system. Simply being there, I felt compelled to get in touch with my inner country farmer, or inner quaker, or inner something that is the antithesis of urban-dweller. I half-wanted to move to the alps and start my own cheese farm.
The town consisted of a rather active bowling alley (you might be interested to note that I am a rather competent bowler--I averaged about 130 a game and had one particularly impressive round where I scored a 155), which was part of this "entertainment" complex that also boasted a pool table and small arcade as well. That sounds slightly cheesy and also a potentially ripe opportunity for delinquent teenage loiterers, but both times we went the clientele consisted of families, couples, and small groups of adult friends. Not an errant teenager to be found. I don't know about you, but I darn well like such a quality in a town where I may or may not ever pursue a life as a goat cheese farmer.
There is also an outdoor skating rink, and when my husband saw the "Men's Hockey Club" sign he almost danced with glee. You may remember that this is a guy who is averse to dancing, so you can imagine the magnitude of his elation. He pictured himself lacing up the old skates and having a sunset match beneath the surrounding alpine mountains, and I think a better image was never conjured for the former hockey player. The village also has a tiny cinema, several restaurant and pubs full of very friendly locals, and a library that has books in several different languages. As if that were not enough, dogs are everywhere, and allowed anywhere. In case my verbal love affair with Chateau d'Oex is not well understood: it was pretty perfect.
So it was a huge bummer when my husband woke up on our final morning in Chateau d'Oex, and had a raging stomach flu. Aside from feeling badly about his condition and the fact that he missed the amazing train ride down through the alps to Lake Geneva in Montreux, which was seriously one of the most impressive vistas I will ever see in this lifetime, it also had me thinking.
And here is what I thought: What is the significance to him tossing his cookies here and now?
You don't become an adept over-analyzer by letting things like this go, people. But let me rewind a bit: I think I may have permanantly scared off a friend of mine today. She mentioned that she had a cold, and I responded that I believed that all physical ailments are manifestations of unresolved emotional or mental turmoil. When I offered this unsolicited opinion, I was thinkng of her, of course, but I was also thinking of my husband.
I mean he had been looking forward to this trip for months, and the train ride is always his favorite part of any adventure on which we embark. All train rides are great, but this one was singularly spectacular. And he missed the entire return trip. So what is that about, I wondered.
And here is what I think: my husband is a guy who is at home in the country. He loves land, he loves mountains, he loves space, and he loves feeling comfortable. We go to a place where there is gorgeous scenery, wide open expanses of land, and everyone says hello and goodbye and thank you and does not care if you are speaking French, English, Russian, or Pig Latin. It was a place he felt utterly comfortable.
And then we are faced with returning to Paris. A place I love, but a place that is more of a challenge for him. It is a bustling city, it is noisy, it is often unfriendly, and no one really welcomes English speaking (though they tolerate it quite well at times). So of course he would become sick. His body was finally releasing all the toxic urban nonsense that he has been force-feeding it for months. Being away from the hustle and bustle resulted in him needing to purge it all from his body. Makes some sense, doesn't it? With this "diagnosis" in mind, all I can think about is what a trooper he is.
Or else I am just being outlandish (me?) and trying to find significance in everything just because that is what I like to do in order to make sense of this crazy, wild world.
Because maybe he simply ate a bad batch of pot-au-feu.
Either way, Chateau d'Oex is awesome, and that is all I really wanted to say here.
And those two words exactly encapsulate this tiny town. In fact, my husband announced, several times, that it was his "favorite place in the world." This proclamation might sound dramatic, so I feel it is important to note that my husband is prone to neither exaggeration nor theatrics (a good thing because an overactive imagination like mine needs a yin to complement my yang).
He loved this place because it was hard not to love it. Nestled in the Swiss Alps, it is a sort of faux skiing village. I say "faux" because there is no direct access to skiiing trails (unless you count the toddler ski school whose attendants spent the morning making their way up an almost flat spanse of land on a very short T-bar, and who seemed to be adorably under the misguided impression that they were conquering the Matterhorn). Fabulous ski trails are a short bus/car ride away, but that small distance means that the town is not overrun by the snooty skiers that make most gorgeous mountain towns borderline intolerable. Yes, Colorado, I am talking to you.
Also adding to Chateau d'Oex's charm: there are no chain stores of any kind, and with the exception of a small cache of "Nestle" products at the general stores and an oddly prominent Subaru banner at a local car wash, there was no sign of commercial industry whatsoever. Who knew that a McDonald's-free zone even existed in this day and age?
I had the feeling that everyone residing in the town hand-crafted their own furniture, churned their own butter, and contacted one another through a centuries-old smoke signal system. Simply being there, I felt compelled to get in touch with my inner country farmer, or inner quaker, or inner something that is the antithesis of urban-dweller. I half-wanted to move to the alps and start my own cheese farm.
The town consisted of a rather active bowling alley (you might be interested to note that I am a rather competent bowler--I averaged about 130 a game and had one particularly impressive round where I scored a 155), which was part of this "entertainment" complex that also boasted a pool table and small arcade as well. That sounds slightly cheesy and also a potentially ripe opportunity for delinquent teenage loiterers, but both times we went the clientele consisted of families, couples, and small groups of adult friends. Not an errant teenager to be found. I don't know about you, but I darn well like such a quality in a town where I may or may not ever pursue a life as a goat cheese farmer.
There is also an outdoor skating rink, and when my husband saw the "Men's Hockey Club" sign he almost danced with glee. You may remember that this is a guy who is averse to dancing, so you can imagine the magnitude of his elation. He pictured himself lacing up the old skates and having a sunset match beneath the surrounding alpine mountains, and I think a better image was never conjured for the former hockey player. The village also has a tiny cinema, several restaurant and pubs full of very friendly locals, and a library that has books in several different languages. As if that were not enough, dogs are everywhere, and allowed anywhere. In case my verbal love affair with Chateau d'Oex is not well understood: it was pretty perfect.
So it was a huge bummer when my husband woke up on our final morning in Chateau d'Oex, and had a raging stomach flu. Aside from feeling badly about his condition and the fact that he missed the amazing train ride down through the alps to Lake Geneva in Montreux, which was seriously one of the most impressive vistas I will ever see in this lifetime, it also had me thinking.
And here is what I thought: What is the significance to him tossing his cookies here and now?
You don't become an adept over-analyzer by letting things like this go, people. But let me rewind a bit: I think I may have permanantly scared off a friend of mine today. She mentioned that she had a cold, and I responded that I believed that all physical ailments are manifestations of unresolved emotional or mental turmoil. When I offered this unsolicited opinion, I was thinkng of her, of course, but I was also thinking of my husband.
I mean he had been looking forward to this trip for months, and the train ride is always his favorite part of any adventure on which we embark. All train rides are great, but this one was singularly spectacular. And he missed the entire return trip. So what is that about, I wondered.
And here is what I think: my husband is a guy who is at home in the country. He loves land, he loves mountains, he loves space, and he loves feeling comfortable. We go to a place where there is gorgeous scenery, wide open expanses of land, and everyone says hello and goodbye and thank you and does not care if you are speaking French, English, Russian, or Pig Latin. It was a place he felt utterly comfortable.
And then we are faced with returning to Paris. A place I love, but a place that is more of a challenge for him. It is a bustling city, it is noisy, it is often unfriendly, and no one really welcomes English speaking (though they tolerate it quite well at times). So of course he would become sick. His body was finally releasing all the toxic urban nonsense that he has been force-feeding it for months. Being away from the hustle and bustle resulted in him needing to purge it all from his body. Makes some sense, doesn't it? With this "diagnosis" in mind, all I can think about is what a trooper he is.
Or else I am just being outlandish (me?) and trying to find significance in everything just because that is what I like to do in order to make sense of this crazy, wild world.
Because maybe he simply ate a bad batch of pot-au-feu.
Either way, Chateau d'Oex is awesome, and that is all I really wanted to say here.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Substitute Teacher
We had a substitute teacher in my French class this week because, for reasons still unknown, our "regular" teacher was absent for several days. While the focus of this entry has nothing to do with why she was not in class, I obviously hope she is all right.
Having a substitute, though, was a bizarre phenomenon to experience as an adult. Even though all my classmates are "mature" individuals (the ages of the people in my French class range from 18 to about 60), there still exists obvious antipathy for substitute teachers. I had assumed that the immediate rejection of substitutes simply evaporated after adolescence, much like concepts such as "recess" and "best friend" necklaces. But such is not the case. Who knew?
So, my classmates definitely did not seem to warm to the newcomer. People expressed that they wished they had skipped class since they so did not like having someone different teaching. I found this reaction borderline extreme because the class, it seems worth noting, is not exactly cheap. But such a response does illustrate the opposition to the circumstances pretty well.
Oh, and I should also include that there was nothing particularly "wrong" with the sub. She was helpful, she described thing well, she even made an effort to learn our names right away. By and large, she is a good teacher and I suspect that if we had her from day 1, we all would have liked her just fine.
Obviously, in my French class, we are not wholly proficient at the language--hence the need for the class in the first place. So it does make a certain amount of sense that we crave some consistency during the hours when we make clumsy attempts at pronouncing/hacking up the "r" sounds and earnest efforts at grasping elusive concepts such as why some verbs can never be followed by a preposition or why using the word pendant correctly is so darn difficult.
I guess it stands to reason that, with so much uncertainty going on with our learning trajectory alone, we would want to know that there are some reliable factors involved in our pursuit of knowledge. And the teacher seems to be an obvious choice to proffer that stability.
It made me think, though--what is with this human propensity for comfort, for safety? It definitely seems as though there is an innate attraction we feel towards "known factors." It is not just in random adult French classes that this proclivity is exemplified. It has occurred to me that it is illustrated in all kinds of life situations.
It seems to me, that humans generally like the balance between the "known" and the "unknown" to be tipped in favor of the former. My assumption is that we like to maintain a certain degree of familiarity in our activities and interactions because that familiarity provides a backbone--a source of stability from which we can more confidently move forward. Also, in a lot of cases, we just want consistency because it is physically and emotionally easier on us; change or the unexpected often rattles us in an unpleasant way.
And Aha! There you have it: we have unearthed the most basic reason why intercultural living can be so challenging at times. There are so many things that "just aren't the same" when you live within the boundaries of another culture. Aside from the obvious language differences that often exist, everything from the way to order a sandwich, to how much you smile, to the to the texture of plastic wrap is different.
It is frustrating because we spend a good deal of time in our "normal" lives acclimatizing to our surroundings, learning and repeating rituals, cultivating our personalities within the reasonable external boundaries of what is "acceptable" for our particular culture.
And then you up and move to France and your whole way of living, your every paradigm is unceremoniously turned on its head faster than you can ascertain the appropriate time of day to switch from saying bonjour to bonsoir.
The craziest part of this personal revelation is that I always assumed I was fairly engaged in life in general. I thought of myself as a curious person, as someone who was not satisfied with taking the "easy" solutions, of living a life replete with banal routines, or automatic actions. But being in France has shown me how much of my life I really did live on "auto-pilot."
Because here, I have to think about everything before I say or do it. I find myself examining and reexamining my habits, the ways I interact with people, even my value system. In many ways, it is a great thing to force yourself to question why you do every little thing that you have been doing without thought or consequence for countless years.
In other ways, it is just exhausting. Like, "Can't anything be simple?" "Can't anything just be predictable?"
In a word: Nope.
I suppose I am grateful that I am forced to be present in my life here. Because I do think that leaving your comfort zone is really crucial to being able to evolve as a person. So while I may want to scream in frustration and humiliation at regulal intervals while trying to acclimate to France, I do think that it takes forcing yourself to loosen the white-knuckle grip on all the "knowns" to be able to critically look at yourself.
And maybe that decision to pull yourself out of your saftey net is not always up to the individual either. Because it does seem that in life, just when we are starting to feel comfortable, there is always some sort of unexpected entity, some sort of "substitute teacher" that comes in and forces us to shake things up anyway.
Having a substitute, though, was a bizarre phenomenon to experience as an adult. Even though all my classmates are "mature" individuals (the ages of the people in my French class range from 18 to about 60), there still exists obvious antipathy for substitute teachers. I had assumed that the immediate rejection of substitutes simply evaporated after adolescence, much like concepts such as "recess" and "best friend" necklaces. But such is not the case. Who knew?
So, my classmates definitely did not seem to warm to the newcomer. People expressed that they wished they had skipped class since they so did not like having someone different teaching. I found this reaction borderline extreme because the class, it seems worth noting, is not exactly cheap. But such a response does illustrate the opposition to the circumstances pretty well.
Oh, and I should also include that there was nothing particularly "wrong" with the sub. She was helpful, she described thing well, she even made an effort to learn our names right away. By and large, she is a good teacher and I suspect that if we had her from day 1, we all would have liked her just fine.
Obviously, in my French class, we are not wholly proficient at the language--hence the need for the class in the first place. So it does make a certain amount of sense that we crave some consistency during the hours when we make clumsy attempts at pronouncing/hacking up the "r" sounds and earnest efforts at grasping elusive concepts such as why some verbs can never be followed by a preposition or why using the word pendant correctly is so darn difficult.
I guess it stands to reason that, with so much uncertainty going on with our learning trajectory alone, we would want to know that there are some reliable factors involved in our pursuit of knowledge. And the teacher seems to be an obvious choice to proffer that stability.
It made me think, though--what is with this human propensity for comfort, for safety? It definitely seems as though there is an innate attraction we feel towards "known factors." It is not just in random adult French classes that this proclivity is exemplified. It has occurred to me that it is illustrated in all kinds of life situations.
It seems to me, that humans generally like the balance between the "known" and the "unknown" to be tipped in favor of the former. My assumption is that we like to maintain a certain degree of familiarity in our activities and interactions because that familiarity provides a backbone--a source of stability from which we can more confidently move forward. Also, in a lot of cases, we just want consistency because it is physically and emotionally easier on us; change or the unexpected often rattles us in an unpleasant way.
And Aha! There you have it: we have unearthed the most basic reason why intercultural living can be so challenging at times. There are so many things that "just aren't the same" when you live within the boundaries of another culture. Aside from the obvious language differences that often exist, everything from the way to order a sandwich, to how much you smile, to the to the texture of plastic wrap is different.
It is frustrating because we spend a good deal of time in our "normal" lives acclimatizing to our surroundings, learning and repeating rituals, cultivating our personalities within the reasonable external boundaries of what is "acceptable" for our particular culture.
And then you up and move to France and your whole way of living, your every paradigm is unceremoniously turned on its head faster than you can ascertain the appropriate time of day to switch from saying bonjour to bonsoir.
The craziest part of this personal revelation is that I always assumed I was fairly engaged in life in general. I thought of myself as a curious person, as someone who was not satisfied with taking the "easy" solutions, of living a life replete with banal routines, or automatic actions. But being in France has shown me how much of my life I really did live on "auto-pilot."
Because here, I have to think about everything before I say or do it. I find myself examining and reexamining my habits, the ways I interact with people, even my value system. In many ways, it is a great thing to force yourself to question why you do every little thing that you have been doing without thought or consequence for countless years.
In other ways, it is just exhausting. Like, "Can't anything be simple?" "Can't anything just be predictable?"
In a word: Nope.
I suppose I am grateful that I am forced to be present in my life here. Because I do think that leaving your comfort zone is really crucial to being able to evolve as a person. So while I may want to scream in frustration and humiliation at regulal intervals while trying to acclimate to France, I do think that it takes forcing yourself to loosen the white-knuckle grip on all the "knowns" to be able to critically look at yourself.
And maybe that decision to pull yourself out of your saftey net is not always up to the individual either. Because it does seem that in life, just when we are starting to feel comfortable, there is always some sort of unexpected entity, some sort of "substitute teacher" that comes in and forces us to shake things up anyway.
Monday, February 14, 2011
"Perfection"...Who Needs It?
Since I have lately been gleaning endless blog material from my French class, it should come as no surprise that I am keeping the trend going with this entry. That said, in class earlier this week, we spoke about the ideal city. Apparently, there was a poll performed a couple of years ago where opinions of citizens from 14 different world cities were gathered. The pollers asked these people if they thought that the "ideal" city existed and, if so, where it was.
The consensus was that the perfect city definitely did not currently exist, however, the poll-ees had a pretty concise idea of what this "urban nirvana" would be. Using what seemed to be a Mr. Potato Head model, the people just picked and chose what they wanted from various existing places in order to complete a whole, albeit imaginary, picture.
The results of the study illustrated that the ideal city would encompass the quality of life in Sydney with the location and cleanliness of Los Angeles. It would proffer the beautful architecture of Prague and the booming economy of Singapore and Peking. The public transportation system in this mythical land would emulate that of Tokyo, it would boast the cultural diversity of New York, and the easiness of meeting others that can allegedly be found in Berlin. Most bizarrely, it would possess the feeling of "love" that supposedly floats around Alexandria (umm, not sure if that is the case en ce moment, but the poll was performed a couple of years ago. So maybe now the "love" city role model would currently be somewhere else as seemingly arbitray as I found Alexandria to be--like Reykjavik). The final component showcased in this imaginary mecca is that it would encompass the myriad cultural offerings of Paris.
So you might wonder what one is to do with that information? I mean, besides incorporating it into an adult French class to force les etudiants to make sentences of comparison using various tenses of verbs. Well, I cannot answer for everyone, but I will tell you what I did with the information: I filed it away in a bin called "rubbish." Because such a poll I find utterly inane, and my assessment of the people polled (whom I obviously do not know) is that they were huffing glue.
Admittedly, I am not the best audience for such a hypothetical question. Other than Alice in Wonderland and very few other exceptions, tales involving fantastical representations of life do not sit well with me. I don't really relate to the idea of imagining a life that could never actually happen, and it troubles me to think that my fellow human beings might be living under serious disillusionment. Because, really, don't they know that if this "perfect" place did exist, it would become overpopulated, overpolluted, and subsequently overrated in no time flat? Thus, its "perfection" would crumble before it was ever enjoyed. (Oh irony, there you are again).
Also, haven't these poll-ees considered that this whole "perfection" shabang has allegedly been done already? If it were to come to fruition again, who is to say that Adam would not stroll on in and grab an apple from his buddy Eve and the whole thing wouldn't go to pot in two flashes?
Just to be clear: I am definitely pro finding a locale to live that suits your lifestyle and temperment. I see no reason why someone should settle for environs that do not make them happy, that do not resonate on a personal level. And the fact that I have tried living in multiple cities on multiple continents since my early twenties lends conviction to that stance.
Thinking about this poll, however, had me thinking about life in general. And here is why the poll irritated me: in life, perfection is not an option. It is not an option in a city, nor in a partner, in a vocation, and, unfortunately for me, in hairstyles. It is true that for something to be a truly wonderful factor of your life, then you definitely need glimpses of perfection (whatever it means to you), you do need snapshots here and there to keep you going when things are less than perfect. Because they sure will be "less than" a good deal of the time. And I think that is not such a bad thing, because I think part of loving something and really appreciating it and knowing it-whether it be a city, a person, a passion, or whatever--is to really see the imperfections.
And so it is with me and Paris. I love Paris. Of this fact, there is no doubt. At this moment in my life, there is no other place I would want to be. No matter what happens or where I eventually end up physically, I imagine that I will always feel connected to this city to which I formed an attachment so many years ago. I truly delight in being here. But is Paris perfect?
Hardly.
But the more important question: would I want it to be?
Never. Because the thing is that I learn so much from the imperfections of this city. The gloomy weather and the chainsmokers lend it a unique ambiance that simply could not be found in Sydney or L.A., with all the sunshine and outdoorsy athleticism. The architecture is varied and flawed, not gingerbread-perfect or impeccably kept up (though breathtakingly beautiful in many cases). The public transportation is really good, but that hardly excludes the trains from being late, the workers from going on strike, or a dusting of snow from throwing the whole operation into cahoots. Paris is a diverse place comprised of many nationalities and ways of thinking, but it is also decidedly French with many "rules" and traditions that clearly deny the recognition of different or "other" customs. It has the reputation of being a city of love. And it is just that. Sometimes.
And so we have arrived at the crux of my thought process: Paris is not "always" one thing. And that enables it to be at anything at anytime. Even perfect. Sometimes.
That poll we talked about was obviously no more than a hypothetical question used to ellicit thoughts on how to improve the world's cities and not something designed to encourage people to actually view perfection as feasible. But it still made me think about how much we all strive for "perfection" in so many aspects of our lives. And doing so is not only futile but is also misguided. If living abroad has taught me anything, it is how much more exciting, memorable, and instructive are life's imperfections.
Needless to say, if that perfect city ever comes to fruition, you won't find me living there. Me and my flawed self would never fit in anyway, so I will happily stick with some place with character.
The consensus was that the perfect city definitely did not currently exist, however, the poll-ees had a pretty concise idea of what this "urban nirvana" would be. Using what seemed to be a Mr. Potato Head model, the people just picked and chose what they wanted from various existing places in order to complete a whole, albeit imaginary, picture.
The results of the study illustrated that the ideal city would encompass the quality of life in Sydney with the location and cleanliness of Los Angeles. It would proffer the beautful architecture of Prague and the booming economy of Singapore and Peking. The public transportation system in this mythical land would emulate that of Tokyo, it would boast the cultural diversity of New York, and the easiness of meeting others that can allegedly be found in Berlin. Most bizarrely, it would possess the feeling of "love" that supposedly floats around Alexandria (umm, not sure if that is the case en ce moment, but the poll was performed a couple of years ago. So maybe now the "love" city role model would currently be somewhere else as seemingly arbitray as I found Alexandria to be--like Reykjavik). The final component showcased in this imaginary mecca is that it would encompass the myriad cultural offerings of Paris.
So you might wonder what one is to do with that information? I mean, besides incorporating it into an adult French class to force les etudiants to make sentences of comparison using various tenses of verbs. Well, I cannot answer for everyone, but I will tell you what I did with the information: I filed it away in a bin called "rubbish." Because such a poll I find utterly inane, and my assessment of the people polled (whom I obviously do not know) is that they were huffing glue.
Admittedly, I am not the best audience for such a hypothetical question. Other than Alice in Wonderland and very few other exceptions, tales involving fantastical representations of life do not sit well with me. I don't really relate to the idea of imagining a life that could never actually happen, and it troubles me to think that my fellow human beings might be living under serious disillusionment. Because, really, don't they know that if this "perfect" place did exist, it would become overpopulated, overpolluted, and subsequently overrated in no time flat? Thus, its "perfection" would crumble before it was ever enjoyed. (Oh irony, there you are again).
Also, haven't these poll-ees considered that this whole "perfection" shabang has allegedly been done already? If it were to come to fruition again, who is to say that Adam would not stroll on in and grab an apple from his buddy Eve and the whole thing wouldn't go to pot in two flashes?
Just to be clear: I am definitely pro finding a locale to live that suits your lifestyle and temperment. I see no reason why someone should settle for environs that do not make them happy, that do not resonate on a personal level. And the fact that I have tried living in multiple cities on multiple continents since my early twenties lends conviction to that stance.
Thinking about this poll, however, had me thinking about life in general. And here is why the poll irritated me: in life, perfection is not an option. It is not an option in a city, nor in a partner, in a vocation, and, unfortunately for me, in hairstyles. It is true that for something to be a truly wonderful factor of your life, then you definitely need glimpses of perfection (whatever it means to you), you do need snapshots here and there to keep you going when things are less than perfect. Because they sure will be "less than" a good deal of the time. And I think that is not such a bad thing, because I think part of loving something and really appreciating it and knowing it-whether it be a city, a person, a passion, or whatever--is to really see the imperfections.
And so it is with me and Paris. I love Paris. Of this fact, there is no doubt. At this moment in my life, there is no other place I would want to be. No matter what happens or where I eventually end up physically, I imagine that I will always feel connected to this city to which I formed an attachment so many years ago. I truly delight in being here. But is Paris perfect?
Hardly.
But the more important question: would I want it to be?
Never. Because the thing is that I learn so much from the imperfections of this city. The gloomy weather and the chainsmokers lend it a unique ambiance that simply could not be found in Sydney or L.A., with all the sunshine and outdoorsy athleticism. The architecture is varied and flawed, not gingerbread-perfect or impeccably kept up (though breathtakingly beautiful in many cases). The public transportation is really good, but that hardly excludes the trains from being late, the workers from going on strike, or a dusting of snow from throwing the whole operation into cahoots. Paris is a diverse place comprised of many nationalities and ways of thinking, but it is also decidedly French with many "rules" and traditions that clearly deny the recognition of different or "other" customs. It has the reputation of being a city of love. And it is just that. Sometimes.
And so we have arrived at the crux of my thought process: Paris is not "always" one thing. And that enables it to be at anything at anytime. Even perfect. Sometimes.
That poll we talked about was obviously no more than a hypothetical question used to ellicit thoughts on how to improve the world's cities and not something designed to encourage people to actually view perfection as feasible. But it still made me think about how much we all strive for "perfection" in so many aspects of our lives. And doing so is not only futile but is also misguided. If living abroad has taught me anything, it is how much more exciting, memorable, and instructive are life's imperfections.
Needless to say, if that perfect city ever comes to fruition, you won't find me living there. Me and my flawed self would never fit in anyway, so I will happily stick with some place with character.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Still not used to the rudeness...
Since moving to France, I have developed a really tenuous relationship with optimism about human kind in general.
Until I came here, and had to rely on the kindness and patience of others to accomplish even the most basic tasks, I sort of took it for granted that people, for the most part, were nice to other people. Wild idea, I know. I am full of them.
I would even go so far to say that I thought people wanted to help other people--especially when the help proffered would be utterly simple and require nothing more than minimal effort and thirty seconds of time. Doesn't it make sense that unless someone is a jerk for no provoked or discernible reason, the only way to deal with others is under the presumption that he or she is decent? Thus, if you have the opportunity to be polite, friendly, or helpful, of course you would be just that.
Except that is not always the case, as I have found out recently. It is true that I have never really had to test this assumption because, in the states where everyone speaks English (at least in the places I have lived and at least for now), I don't usually have all that much trouble getting my point across. I do not have to rely on non-verbal cues or to ever abide by a cultural coding system that is clearly different from the one to which I have grown accustomed. I rarely have to second-guess myself when I am in my "native" land speaking my "native" tongue because things are much more straightforward. Moreover, I have options: if someone seems unreasonable or unwilling to help, then I either take care of things myself or I find someone else to assist me.
Here in France, where I speak broken Franglish and am perpetually confused by the cultural "norms," it is a different story altogether.
And so I feel I ride this tsunami of emotions when I deal with other people. Like, for example, is the woman at the bakery on the corner mean to me everytime I go in because she has a particular dislike for me specifically, or does she loathe Americans in general? I know she does not despise the human race as a collective unit, because I have witnessed her being quite nice to French people on a regular basis. So did I do something offensive, of which I am unaware? Does she just hate my shoes? I mean what is going on here? And same goes for the woman at the produce store we go to multiple times a week...AND the cashier at the grocery store across the street whom we see at least twice a week. Why do these people hate us??
Because these are perplexing situation, I have run down the list of potential errors we could have made, and have come up with no plausible reason. On my checklist of "how to behave in France" I think we have done fairly well with our dealings with them.
That is to say, we announce "bonjour!" whenever we walk into the boulangerie, the fruit stand or the grocery store, even if there is no one is immediately visible in the shop. We say "merci" when it is called for (but we do not overuse the word since we have come to understand that being overly polite is not a way to win people over), and we frequently pay with exact change at the smaller places where such a practice is clearly appreciated. My pronunciation of things may be off at times, but does the boulangerie lady really have to repeat my words back to me in that evil tone and announce three times to the store at large that she has no idea what I am saying? My French is not that bad! So why does she glare at me like I am gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe?
See what I mean? I have lost my emotinal stability when it comes to dealing with others. It is a problem. I could be feeling rightly jolly about the human condition--could even be feeling wholly content with French people, after having had a nice little exchange with someone in our building and then I walk into that store, and poof! Done. Back to square one. I feel confused and glum about human beings: people here are arbitrarily mean, and I don't get it.
If this was the U.S., I could just say, "Oh these people are just looney turds who are mad at the world, it has nothing to do with me." But here I wonder: "What did I do to you, people?"
However, there is a silver lining: After five plus months of frequenting the produce shop at the end of our street, my husband has finally made progress with the grumpy produce woman!
He delivered the news with elation one day last week, and we were beyond happy at the thought that our dogged diligence at being ignored and scoffed had finally earned its reward in the form of a gruff smile and five words of recognition. Oh the joy!
Along those lines, I actually had a couple of legitimately friendly exchanges with the grocery lady recently. My husband was floored and as he noted in shock, "I think she sort of smiled at you. Twice!" my heart was practicallly bursting with love for humanity. It only took five months to be treated with a modicum of friendliness. At this rate, we might be on a hugging basis in 2060.
These are herculean progressions, and no doubt worthy of a little dance of triumph (though not for my husband, as he is not a dancer). But my reactions to these events is indicative of what happens to me thirty five times a day here in terms of my emotional roller coaster in dealing with the French. I feel disproportionately elated when someone extends a minor kindness and I feel disproportionately dejected when there is rudeness for no reason that I can understand.
It is exhausting being so emotional all the time. And bizarre too. Every interaction is subject to a scrutiny that would never occur in the U.S., where I "get" the codes of conduct. I just never know what is the random behavior of an individual and what is a cultural difference, and it is important to me to be aware of the latter, so I am on constant alert.
Just the other day, I had a delightful little exchange with a woman on the street. She was French, she needed directions, and she was gracious, smiley, and appreciative (it was really weird, pigs were flying that day too). She even complimented my French and I left the encounter feeling jazzed up about the fact that there are people who are polite and nice here and I just loved the French!!
About five minutes later, I was on the metro. The train stopped and I stepped back to make room for a father wheeling a baby in a baby carriage, who was trying to make it off the train. As I moved for him, I was jostled by about five determined Frenchies who had to push their way onto the metro car immediately, and darn that baby if she gets shoved aside. I mean what is that? I was filled with irritation for cultural "norms" such as these--where handicapped people are trampled so that the able-bodied do not miss their train (never mind that fact that another train would be along in under five minutes). Ugh, I just do not get the rudeness. And so, once again, I was filled dismal thoughts about human kind.
Not to be too dramatic.
An hour or two later, we went out to eat and halfway through the meal the power in the resto went out twice. Rather than becoming anxious or starting to freak out about their food, etc, the entire restaurant erupted into a jovial rendition of "Joyeux Anniversaire" (the Happy Birthday song). We have seen this happen before in restuarants when the power goes out, and the whole mood lifts. The diners all seem content with the knowledge that the food will arrive soemhow and they seem to feel like having a moment of anything but happiness when out to eat would be a silly waste of time. It that moment, I think: "Oh, I just love French people! They really have their priorities straight." Perpetually on the coaster, I am telling you.
So yeah, a tenuous relationship with optimism about human kind in general pretty much encapsulates my emotional standing regarding the French. I guess if you don't have the lows, you can't appreciate the highs? that said, I could do without the mean baker.
Until I came here, and had to rely on the kindness and patience of others to accomplish even the most basic tasks, I sort of took it for granted that people, for the most part, were nice to other people. Wild idea, I know. I am full of them.
I would even go so far to say that I thought people wanted to help other people--especially when the help proffered would be utterly simple and require nothing more than minimal effort and thirty seconds of time. Doesn't it make sense that unless someone is a jerk for no provoked or discernible reason, the only way to deal with others is under the presumption that he or she is decent? Thus, if you have the opportunity to be polite, friendly, or helpful, of course you would be just that.
Except that is not always the case, as I have found out recently. It is true that I have never really had to test this assumption because, in the states where everyone speaks English (at least in the places I have lived and at least for now), I don't usually have all that much trouble getting my point across. I do not have to rely on non-verbal cues or to ever abide by a cultural coding system that is clearly different from the one to which I have grown accustomed. I rarely have to second-guess myself when I am in my "native" land speaking my "native" tongue because things are much more straightforward. Moreover, I have options: if someone seems unreasonable or unwilling to help, then I either take care of things myself or I find someone else to assist me.
Here in France, where I speak broken Franglish and am perpetually confused by the cultural "norms," it is a different story altogether.
And so I feel I ride this tsunami of emotions when I deal with other people. Like, for example, is the woman at the bakery on the corner mean to me everytime I go in because she has a particular dislike for me specifically, or does she loathe Americans in general? I know she does not despise the human race as a collective unit, because I have witnessed her being quite nice to French people on a regular basis. So did I do something offensive, of which I am unaware? Does she just hate my shoes? I mean what is going on here? And same goes for the woman at the produce store we go to multiple times a week...AND the cashier at the grocery store across the street whom we see at least twice a week. Why do these people hate us??
Because these are perplexing situation, I have run down the list of potential errors we could have made, and have come up with no plausible reason. On my checklist of "how to behave in France" I think we have done fairly well with our dealings with them.
That is to say, we announce "bonjour!" whenever we walk into the boulangerie, the fruit stand or the grocery store, even if there is no one is immediately visible in the shop. We say "merci" when it is called for (but we do not overuse the word since we have come to understand that being overly polite is not a way to win people over), and we frequently pay with exact change at the smaller places where such a practice is clearly appreciated. My pronunciation of things may be off at times, but does the boulangerie lady really have to repeat my words back to me in that evil tone and announce three times to the store at large that she has no idea what I am saying? My French is not that bad! So why does she glare at me like I am gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe?
See what I mean? I have lost my emotinal stability when it comes to dealing with others. It is a problem. I could be feeling rightly jolly about the human condition--could even be feeling wholly content with French people, after having had a nice little exchange with someone in our building and then I walk into that store, and poof! Done. Back to square one. I feel confused and glum about human beings: people here are arbitrarily mean, and I don't get it.
If this was the U.S., I could just say, "Oh these people are just looney turds who are mad at the world, it has nothing to do with me." But here I wonder: "What did I do to you, people?"
However, there is a silver lining: After five plus months of frequenting the produce shop at the end of our street, my husband has finally made progress with the grumpy produce woman!
He delivered the news with elation one day last week, and we were beyond happy at the thought that our dogged diligence at being ignored and scoffed had finally earned its reward in the form of a gruff smile and five words of recognition. Oh the joy!
Along those lines, I actually had a couple of legitimately friendly exchanges with the grocery lady recently. My husband was floored and as he noted in shock, "I think she sort of smiled at you. Twice!" my heart was practicallly bursting with love for humanity. It only took five months to be treated with a modicum of friendliness. At this rate, we might be on a hugging basis in 2060.
These are herculean progressions, and no doubt worthy of a little dance of triumph (though not for my husband, as he is not a dancer). But my reactions to these events is indicative of what happens to me thirty five times a day here in terms of my emotional roller coaster in dealing with the French. I feel disproportionately elated when someone extends a minor kindness and I feel disproportionately dejected when there is rudeness for no reason that I can understand.
It is exhausting being so emotional all the time. And bizarre too. Every interaction is subject to a scrutiny that would never occur in the U.S., where I "get" the codes of conduct. I just never know what is the random behavior of an individual and what is a cultural difference, and it is important to me to be aware of the latter, so I am on constant alert.
Just the other day, I had a delightful little exchange with a woman on the street. She was French, she needed directions, and she was gracious, smiley, and appreciative (it was really weird, pigs were flying that day too). She even complimented my French and I left the encounter feeling jazzed up about the fact that there are people who are polite and nice here and I just loved the French!!
About five minutes later, I was on the metro. The train stopped and I stepped back to make room for a father wheeling a baby in a baby carriage, who was trying to make it off the train. As I moved for him, I was jostled by about five determined Frenchies who had to push their way onto the metro car immediately, and darn that baby if she gets shoved aside. I mean what is that? I was filled with irritation for cultural "norms" such as these--where handicapped people are trampled so that the able-bodied do not miss their train (never mind that fact that another train would be along in under five minutes). Ugh, I just do not get the rudeness. And so, once again, I was filled dismal thoughts about human kind.
Not to be too dramatic.
An hour or two later, we went out to eat and halfway through the meal the power in the resto went out twice. Rather than becoming anxious or starting to freak out about their food, etc, the entire restaurant erupted into a jovial rendition of "Joyeux Anniversaire" (the Happy Birthday song). We have seen this happen before in restuarants when the power goes out, and the whole mood lifts. The diners all seem content with the knowledge that the food will arrive soemhow and they seem to feel like having a moment of anything but happiness when out to eat would be a silly waste of time. It that moment, I think: "Oh, I just love French people! They really have their priorities straight." Perpetually on the coaster, I am telling you.
So yeah, a tenuous relationship with optimism about human kind in general pretty much encapsulates my emotional standing regarding the French. I guess if you don't have the lows, you can't appreciate the highs? that said, I could do without the mean baker.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Wonder-Bruges
We went to Brugge/Bruges this past weekend. When deciding if we would visit Bruges or Brussels, most people were pretty adamant that Bruges was the city to see first and foremost.
This is information about which I already should have been aware, because I have actually been to Bruges before. Sort of.
What I mean by "sort of" is that due to the fact that I was possibly the least impressionable/observant 19-year-old on the planet, I have virtually no memory of the city. However, because I am fortunately in possession of photographic documentation of the trip and because I also have human witnesses to attest to the fact, I do know that the visit definitely did occur. Good thing, because I otherwise might have argued that I had never before laid eyes on the place.
Really, the only memories I have are as follows: climbing some sort of tower that had a rope instead of a bannister and therefore seemed pretty unsafe, drinking amazing hot chocolate where we recieved pots of molten chocolate to pour into steaming mugs of milk, and a rather ill-fated bicycle trip in a very cold and seemingly unnavigable forest.
Actually, I also remember something else: the aforementioned bicycle trip ended with several of my girlfriends and I getting into a taxi -van because we simply could not forge on under the cold and non-GPS guided conditions. Were I to forget large hunks of this initial trip to Bruges, I would have preferred to have forgotten my wimpy attempts at athleticism as opposed to the beauty of the city itself, but unfortunately my memory does not work that way.
More important than any of what I have said thus far, is why I could not remember this city. Well folks, I cannot say because it is actually really memorable. I loved it.
And I better tell you about it now, before my cantankerous memory decides to kick out the "Bruges" files in order to maintain the room for other super important life details that it refuses to forget, such as my sixth grade boyfriend's home phone number or the fact that my dad's friend, Spooky, whose house I visited only once when I was about six, had cactuses growing out of earns next to his front door (it does seem worth noting that it was winter in New England when I visited).
So, as I was saying, most people had told us that visiting Bruges was a "must." There were a few naysayers, however, who felt strongly that Bruges was way too touristy and not at all like a real city where real people live.
Well considering that I am a tourist and I rarely, if ever, live in the real world (my dad had friends with names like Spooky, does that sound like the "real" world to you?), it actually sounded like a pretty good fit.
And so it was. An exceedingly charming city of friendly people, cobble-stoned streets, and gorgeous architecture. After wandering around for a day, my only real question was: why doesn't everyone know about this place? They darn well should. It was so unbelievably magical I half expected to see unicorns frolicking about.
We did see reindeer on the train ride over, and that came pretty close.
Belgium is famous for beer, french fries--the french fry originated there if other bloggers are to be believed--(negligible point, who believes bloggers?), mussels, waffles, and chocolate.
If you want to be respectful when visiting a country, it is really only right that you try their native cuisine. So we did. With quasi-gluttonous pleasure, I might add.
I had the most incredible waffle ever consumed at a place called Le Medici, and it came with a pot of hot molten chocolate to pour over it. Ummm, scrumtaculous. We ate these amazing mussels, in this adorable restaurant that was essentially a 16th century cave, and we tried four different types of beer (my favorite was the Leffe Blonde). We stopped at a few chocolate places to sample the goods and to do a little compare/contrast tasting. I can comparitively say that all of it was good.
The only thing I will not rave about is the french fries, because I quite frankly did not find them all that wondrous. Disclaimer: I am not really a potato person. In fact, at lunch as we munched on these decent-but-not-sublime-fries, I made the call that If I were forced to give up five "major" foods forever, one of the first to go for me would be the potato.
So do with that what you will, but I would recommend that you do not count me high on your list of people from whom to take advice on potato products. My friend Kristyn is much better suited to the job, and I can give you her number. Chocolate, butter, wine...I am your girl. But please go to someone else for all matters potato related.
And if you have questions about Indian food, I really can't help you there either.
So we loved Bruges, we walked around the whole city all day, and visited a Dali exposition. I love Dali because he makes me feel sane, and I imagine that at least of a third of his other fans are fans for that very reason. But that is just conjecture. We saw the windmills on the city border, admired all the adorable little homes on cobble-stoned streets, and generally acted like food-obsessed tourists.
Except there was no "acting" going on. So if you have the chance definitely go to Bruges, poke into the charming/kitchy lace shops, admire the architecture, and eat your guilty pleasure--because it likely exists there and is darn good. A magical land of wonderment...and if you are really lucky, you might even see a reindeer on your train ride over.
This is information about which I already should have been aware, because I have actually been to Bruges before. Sort of.
What I mean by "sort of" is that due to the fact that I was possibly the least impressionable/observant 19-year-old on the planet, I have virtually no memory of the city. However, because I am fortunately in possession of photographic documentation of the trip and because I also have human witnesses to attest to the fact, I do know that the visit definitely did occur. Good thing, because I otherwise might have argued that I had never before laid eyes on the place.
Really, the only memories I have are as follows: climbing some sort of tower that had a rope instead of a bannister and therefore seemed pretty unsafe, drinking amazing hot chocolate where we recieved pots of molten chocolate to pour into steaming mugs of milk, and a rather ill-fated bicycle trip in a very cold and seemingly unnavigable forest.
Actually, I also remember something else: the aforementioned bicycle trip ended with several of my girlfriends and I getting into a taxi -van because we simply could not forge on under the cold and non-GPS guided conditions. Were I to forget large hunks of this initial trip to Bruges, I would have preferred to have forgotten my wimpy attempts at athleticism as opposed to the beauty of the city itself, but unfortunately my memory does not work that way.
More important than any of what I have said thus far, is why I could not remember this city. Well folks, I cannot say because it is actually really memorable. I loved it.
And I better tell you about it now, before my cantankerous memory decides to kick out the "Bruges" files in order to maintain the room for other super important life details that it refuses to forget, such as my sixth grade boyfriend's home phone number or the fact that my dad's friend, Spooky, whose house I visited only once when I was about six, had cactuses growing out of earns next to his front door (it does seem worth noting that it was winter in New England when I visited).
So, as I was saying, most people had told us that visiting Bruges was a "must." There were a few naysayers, however, who felt strongly that Bruges was way too touristy and not at all like a real city where real people live.
Well considering that I am a tourist and I rarely, if ever, live in the real world (my dad had friends with names like Spooky, does that sound like the "real" world to you?), it actually sounded like a pretty good fit.
And so it was. An exceedingly charming city of friendly people, cobble-stoned streets, and gorgeous architecture. After wandering around for a day, my only real question was: why doesn't everyone know about this place? They darn well should. It was so unbelievably magical I half expected to see unicorns frolicking about.
We did see reindeer on the train ride over, and that came pretty close.
Belgium is famous for beer, french fries--the french fry originated there if other bloggers are to be believed--(negligible point, who believes bloggers?), mussels, waffles, and chocolate.
If you want to be respectful when visiting a country, it is really only right that you try their native cuisine. So we did. With quasi-gluttonous pleasure, I might add.
I had the most incredible waffle ever consumed at a place called Le Medici, and it came with a pot of hot molten chocolate to pour over it. Ummm, scrumtaculous. We ate these amazing mussels, in this adorable restaurant that was essentially a 16th century cave, and we tried four different types of beer (my favorite was the Leffe Blonde). We stopped at a few chocolate places to sample the goods and to do a little compare/contrast tasting. I can comparitively say that all of it was good.
The only thing I will not rave about is the french fries, because I quite frankly did not find them all that wondrous. Disclaimer: I am not really a potato person. In fact, at lunch as we munched on these decent-but-not-sublime-fries, I made the call that If I were forced to give up five "major" foods forever, one of the first to go for me would be the potato.
So do with that what you will, but I would recommend that you do not count me high on your list of people from whom to take advice on potato products. My friend Kristyn is much better suited to the job, and I can give you her number. Chocolate, butter, wine...I am your girl. But please go to someone else for all matters potato related.
And if you have questions about Indian food, I really can't help you there either.
So we loved Bruges, we walked around the whole city all day, and visited a Dali exposition. I love Dali because he makes me feel sane, and I imagine that at least of a third of his other fans are fans for that very reason. But that is just conjecture. We saw the windmills on the city border, admired all the adorable little homes on cobble-stoned streets, and generally acted like food-obsessed tourists.
Except there was no "acting" going on. So if you have the chance definitely go to Bruges, poke into the charming/kitchy lace shops, admire the architecture, and eat your guilty pleasure--because it likely exists there and is darn good. A magical land of wonderment...and if you are really lucky, you might even see a reindeer on your train ride over.
No Regrets?
Since we have been learning how to properly use the conditionnel forms of verbs in my French class, a big theme has been regrets. The conditionnel is mostly used, as far as I can ascertain, for expressing regrets, desires, hypothetical situations, and reprimands.
The above list is likely not exhaustive, but as my list of what the conditionnel is used for formerly consisted of, "I have absolutely no idea," it is a considerable improvement, and one with which I am satisfied. After only two weeks of what is called "extensive" French lessons, I have learned what eluded me for an entire decade during my schooling. Talk about an expeditious return on my investment.
Anyway, we have been talking about regrets, as I also mentioned in the blog entry immediately prior to this one. Speaking of that entry, you might be interested to know that I can now say with some alacrity, in French, that I regret not knowing what Chirac looked like before opening my big American mouth in class last week. But that is neither here nor there.
The point is that my French teacher, evidently inspired by the topic of regret in general, started going around the room and asking each of us in the class what were our biggest regrets in life.
Questions like these make many people cringe and clam up. Not me. I love them.
My brother is a life coach, my best friend is a social worker, and my mentor for life in general is a counselor/coach as well. Are you kidding me? Not only am I no stranger to opening up parts of my inner psyche that most people dub as "off limits," but I love doing so. I am fascinated by these kinds of conversations, and I am riveted by the responses of others. Human beings are so WEIRD (myself not excluded, by the way), and learning about all the oddities is sort of a personal hobby.
Speaking of weird, right?
So the teacher goes around and asks everyone to tell the class about their regrets. Not to be judgmental or anything, but I found the answers to be rather uninspired. Since my classmates are all operating with limited French, it is possible that such was the circumstance hindering their ability to adequately express their regrets, but still. One girl said that she regretted giving up the piano.
Umm what? Don't regret that, girlie, just start playing again. She is only about 18, so it is not as though she is plagued by arthritis or a terribly grueling schedule or some other obstacle; she could actually just start tickling the ivories again whenever it suits her fancy. It really seems useless to me to regret something that you have utter power to change within a 24 hour period. Are you with me?
Another person allowed that she regretted selecting the particular college she wound up attending, but then would not explain why because she said it was "too personal." Bummer. Would have liked to hear that one, as I obviously love hearing anything that is "too personal."
Most of the other responses were equally banal and unexciting. I wanted to hear some major divulgences, like "I regret stealing my brother's girlfriend," or "I regret having gone to jail for arson," or something a little more juicy.
Anyway, I was about to tell the class that I regret not having had a better relationship with my dad while he was still physically alive. Many people might cringe at my openness on that end or wonder why on earth I would admit such a "personal" thing to a class full of strangers in broken French, but that was what came to mind first, and not to honestly answer a serious question seemed disingenuous. It surprised me, then, that when my turn came, I instead said: "I have no regrets."
Somehow, it felt really true.
Boring as all get out, but true noentheless.
Maybe I should have invented a "faux-gret" just for the sake of the class. I could have said I regretted not saying yes to training for the Olympic figure skating team when I was 10.
I do sort of regret that, though it was never an option as I was never a figure skater, let alone an Olympic hopeful. As if. Still, I like the outfits, and such a life of discipline and difficulty would have likely prepared me well to write a deliciously tortured memoir, and I could be working on that right now instead of sharing odd tidbits about my rather unexciting personal life on this blog. Oh, well. Spilled milk.
That was neither milk nor spilled, when you think about it.
So after revealing to my class that I had no regrets, I really started considering the question over the next few days. Was it true? I figured that I must have some regrets (real ones, not of the Olympic skater variety). I could easily conjure up things surrounding which I had some sadness or some wistfulness, but not really regret. And then there are certainly some past behaviors/actions of which I am not terribly proud. But even when I examined those in the context of the life path I have thus far traveled, I saw clearly that they could never be considered "regrets" (yes, even my relationship with my dad). "Shame-inducing snafus," maybe.
Since I did not particularly like my answer (boring), I became sort of obsessive about really trying to figure out if I actually have no regrets. As a result, all last week I pondered this question as I walked from metro to metro, train to train, and observed the world around me. Then it struck me that I do have one regret.
I regret having spent so much of my life being self-conscious.
It was like a lightbulb that went off in my head. Walking around Paris, you see so clearly and absolutely that the French are not self-conscious or self-apologetic in the slightest. I wasted so much of my life worrying about what others thought, petrified of making mistakes, or of seeming like a fool. And why?
No one in Paris is concerned with any of that and, as a result they have plenty of time to cook and eat great food, to drink delicious wine, to sit for hours over a coffee with friends. They are not troubled by what they may or may not be doing "wrong" and, perhaps such is what allows them to have 5-plus weeks of vacation chaque annee. They do not apologize for making mistakes (though they could lay off acting as though their mistakes are actually the problems of others). Nor do they apologize for their dog barking in public or for not knowing what type of cheese they want even when there is a huge line snaking behind them at the fromagerie.
So there you have it, and I think it is a good one: I regret being so self-conscious for so much of my life. And now it is not for long...I am rectifying the regret as we speak; living in Paris, I find that these French people are really showing me how to obliterate that nonsense from my life.
It figures that now that I am actually able to use the conditionnel to express regrets, the one that I could finally identify is now steadily dissipating. I am telling you: irony really is everywhere.
The above list is likely not exhaustive, but as my list of what the conditionnel is used for formerly consisted of, "I have absolutely no idea," it is a considerable improvement, and one with which I am satisfied. After only two weeks of what is called "extensive" French lessons, I have learned what eluded me for an entire decade during my schooling. Talk about an expeditious return on my investment.
Anyway, we have been talking about regrets, as I also mentioned in the blog entry immediately prior to this one. Speaking of that entry, you might be interested to know that I can now say with some alacrity, in French, that I regret not knowing what Chirac looked like before opening my big American mouth in class last week. But that is neither here nor there.
The point is that my French teacher, evidently inspired by the topic of regret in general, started going around the room and asking each of us in the class what were our biggest regrets in life.
Questions like these make many people cringe and clam up. Not me. I love them.
My brother is a life coach, my best friend is a social worker, and my mentor for life in general is a counselor/coach as well. Are you kidding me? Not only am I no stranger to opening up parts of my inner psyche that most people dub as "off limits," but I love doing so. I am fascinated by these kinds of conversations, and I am riveted by the responses of others. Human beings are so WEIRD (myself not excluded, by the way), and learning about all the oddities is sort of a personal hobby.
Speaking of weird, right?
So the teacher goes around and asks everyone to tell the class about their regrets. Not to be judgmental or anything, but I found the answers to be rather uninspired. Since my classmates are all operating with limited French, it is possible that such was the circumstance hindering their ability to adequately express their regrets, but still. One girl said that she regretted giving up the piano.
Umm what? Don't regret that, girlie, just start playing again. She is only about 18, so it is not as though she is plagued by arthritis or a terribly grueling schedule or some other obstacle; she could actually just start tickling the ivories again whenever it suits her fancy. It really seems useless to me to regret something that you have utter power to change within a 24 hour period. Are you with me?
Another person allowed that she regretted selecting the particular college she wound up attending, but then would not explain why because she said it was "too personal." Bummer. Would have liked to hear that one, as I obviously love hearing anything that is "too personal."
Most of the other responses were equally banal and unexciting. I wanted to hear some major divulgences, like "I regret stealing my brother's girlfriend," or "I regret having gone to jail for arson," or something a little more juicy.
Anyway, I was about to tell the class that I regret not having had a better relationship with my dad while he was still physically alive. Many people might cringe at my openness on that end or wonder why on earth I would admit such a "personal" thing to a class full of strangers in broken French, but that was what came to mind first, and not to honestly answer a serious question seemed disingenuous. It surprised me, then, that when my turn came, I instead said: "I have no regrets."
Somehow, it felt really true.
Boring as all get out, but true noentheless.
Maybe I should have invented a "faux-gret" just for the sake of the class. I could have said I regretted not saying yes to training for the Olympic figure skating team when I was 10.
I do sort of regret that, though it was never an option as I was never a figure skater, let alone an Olympic hopeful. As if. Still, I like the outfits, and such a life of discipline and difficulty would have likely prepared me well to write a deliciously tortured memoir, and I could be working on that right now instead of sharing odd tidbits about my rather unexciting personal life on this blog. Oh, well. Spilled milk.
That was neither milk nor spilled, when you think about it.
So after revealing to my class that I had no regrets, I really started considering the question over the next few days. Was it true? I figured that I must have some regrets (real ones, not of the Olympic skater variety). I could easily conjure up things surrounding which I had some sadness or some wistfulness, but not really regret. And then there are certainly some past behaviors/actions of which I am not terribly proud. But even when I examined those in the context of the life path I have thus far traveled, I saw clearly that they could never be considered "regrets" (yes, even my relationship with my dad). "Shame-inducing snafus," maybe.
Since I did not particularly like my answer (boring), I became sort of obsessive about really trying to figure out if I actually have no regrets. As a result, all last week I pondered this question as I walked from metro to metro, train to train, and observed the world around me. Then it struck me that I do have one regret.
I regret having spent so much of my life being self-conscious.
It was like a lightbulb that went off in my head. Walking around Paris, you see so clearly and absolutely that the French are not self-conscious or self-apologetic in the slightest. I wasted so much of my life worrying about what others thought, petrified of making mistakes, or of seeming like a fool. And why?
No one in Paris is concerned with any of that and, as a result they have plenty of time to cook and eat great food, to drink delicious wine, to sit for hours over a coffee with friends. They are not troubled by what they may or may not be doing "wrong" and, perhaps such is what allows them to have 5-plus weeks of vacation chaque annee. They do not apologize for making mistakes (though they could lay off acting as though their mistakes are actually the problems of others). Nor do they apologize for their dog barking in public or for not knowing what type of cheese they want even when there is a huge line snaking behind them at the fromagerie.
So there you have it, and I think it is a good one: I regret being so self-conscious for so much of my life. And now it is not for long...I am rectifying the regret as we speak; living in Paris, I find that these French people are really showing me how to obliterate that nonsense from my life.
It figures that now that I am actually able to use the conditionnel to express regrets, the one that I could finally identify is now steadily dissipating. I am telling you: irony really is everywhere.
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