Target Demographics

When we attended that horse show in Chantilly (see blog "Chantilly Chateau"), I forgot to mention something interesting I noticed about the audience. My observation: every single person watching the show with us was either an elementary school student (or a school chaperone/teacher) or was over the age of 75.

An unexpected by-product to this situation is that my fellow audience members actually served to foster a certain amount of self-esteem. I felt better about myself because it quickly became evident that I was in possession of quite the exemplary attention-span compared to essentially everyone else sitting in the amphitheater. That is to say, I did not restlessly squirm and fidget in my chair, nor did I feel the need to frequently stage-whisper to my neighbor, nor did I fall fast asleep and start snoring.

Also, I found this company reassuring. Why? Well, a recent realization I have had is that my French has "improved" to the point where I can understand what people are saying almost entirely. The caveat to this, seemingly admirable, improvment in my comprehension is that it applies only IF the person speaking is either under the age of 8 or else over the age of 70.

The vocabulary, volume, and repetition of phrases used by the younger set is perfect for me to catch on to what is being discussed/shouted/squealed, etc. And the slower, louder, often more formal vernacular favored by the older set is also extremely amenable to my skill level.

Since discovering where my French communication skills now shine, I have made somewhat of an effort to enjoy this revelation. Such a feat is actualy more difficult than it sounds, given that I have maybe five friends in France and I speak English with all of them (I know--really challenging myself with full immersion over here). But fortuitously, in the last two weeks, I have bumped into the elderly couple who live on the second floor of our building a few times in the hallway/stairwell. A few months ago, such chance encounters would have had me mumbling: "bonjour" as I raced up the stairs in an effort to avoid any small talk, and thereby almost assuredly embarrasing myself with my own ineptitude.

Well, no longer, my friends! The more recent meetings have been thrilling; a chance to practice! So with my newfound confidence, I have tried to engage my elders in conversation. And I thought things were going sort of well, that we were even on a "we exchange pleasantries in the hallway" basis.

But I clearly assumed too much regarding our affiliation because I saw the woman on the street the other day, about 20 minutes after I had tried talking to her in the hallway, and she completely ignored me. I am choosing to believe that she either did not see me (which is sort of a hard sell, given that we were on the same side of an empty sidewalk in broad daylight) or else that there is some social code in Paris where you are not supposed to acknowledge your neighbor outside your building.

You know, like how psychiatrists can not address a patient outside of the office?

Is it just me, or is that analogy surprisingly apt?

Anyway, as far as "communication" with children; circumstances have made it quite easy for me to just eavesdrop, since the weather is now nice here and the little buggers are positively everywhere.Thus, I can just walk through the park near our apartment and I hear all kinds of children arguing/discussing/shouting. It is a nice break from hanging about in the stairwells of my building, hoping to "bump into" my elderly neighbors, to just go linger around for long periods of time in the nearby parks in order to practice my comprehension levels.

Were I engaging in this sort of behavior in the U.S., I likely would have been arrested by now. But thank goodness this is Paris and it is thus darn hard to get into trouble for being a creepy quasi-child-stalking park loiterer. Or a public pervert, for that matter. Not that I am one of those, but believe me, they are around. A story for another day, perhaps.

In terms of my progression plans: I am hoping to move up to ten-year-old dialogue soon. I think I am almost ready. Then, of course I plan to skip teenagers altogether because, no matter what their language or nationality, I am quite certain no one outside of their immediate peergroup has any idea what they are saying about 80% of the time.  Besides, you know how I feel about teenagers.

Anyway, the sweltering, face-melting, weather seems to have broken for the day over here. Best be off to the park to practice--after spending 30-40 minutes lingering in the stairwell, of course.

Chateau Chantilly

My husband and I went to visit Chantilly (which is often mispronounced--it is "shan-tee-yee") recently. Chantilly is a chateau/palace/castle about 45 minutes outside Paris, which I believe was originally built in the 16th century and looks as though it is floating on a pond. It is a gorgeous place with a drawbridge, turrets, and the reflection of the water onto the external walls gives the place an ethereal aura. In addition to the beautiful effect of the exterior, Chantilly also allegedly houses an impressive art collection--with paintings by Raphael, Delacroix, and Titian--and offers a glimpse of the palace's apartments as they looked in the early 19th century.
You might wonder how I KNOW that it is beautiful from the exterior, yet only have ALLEGED information as to the interior.

Well I will tell you why:
Upon arriving at the gare/train station in Chantilly, we walked about 30 minutes or so to reach the chateau. There is supposedly a bus that runs between the station and the chateau, but we could not figure it out. I am not embarassed by that fact since if this year in France has taught me anything at all, it is that I cannot figure out much of life in general. And it was no great matter to miss the bus anyway since the walk was lovely; through a wooded path, then across an open field with a gorgeous (and quite famous) horse stable/riding ring. We even detoured into the little town center, and had a typical French lunch.

I brand the lunch "typically" French for three reasons. One, we ate quiche and chevre chaud. Two, we received ridiculously inconsistent and incomprehensible customer service. Three, the couple at the table next to us, who were basically sitting on top of us in this "typical" bistro, were enjoying each other's mouths far more than they were enjoying their food. But whatever, the food was good.

So when we finally arrived at the gates of the chateau, we find the billeterie/ticket office to be closed. Baffled by this turn of events, since the sign on the door clearly stated the opening hours--and we were well within them--I asked the guard what was going on.

The ensueing scenario is borderline predictable, but I will tell you anyway: He looked/glared at me for about 20 seconds longer than necessary before giving me a rather surly little "PFFFT" and responding to my French question in slow, deliberate English: "Castle is closed. A visit is not possible today." And he immediately turned around for no particular reason that I could discern other than to emphasize that he was through with me.

Being a persistent little bugger (and not wanting to think we wasted the day sitting on public transportation and watching a live cinemax movie at lunch only to not see the main attraction), I asked him if there was anyone who could explain to me the reason for the closing and/or if I could talk to someone. I asked this question not merely to be a thorn in his side, but because right as we were being turned away, there were still many people entering the grounds. Being the quasi-detective that I am, I ascertained that SOME people were allowed in. He just responded: "Special event today. You can try to talk to the people over there" This information was finished with another body spin away from yours truly.

So I spoke to the people "over there": a team of ladies in a little hut who were engaged in the serious business of gossiping and smoking cigarettes while pretending to organize what looked like brochures. One of the women (reluctantly) told me that there was a special fireworks display that evening and thus the chateau was closed. Okay.

I then said, "We did not see a notice on your website today. When are you opened then?" She responded: "Oh, we are open every day except for Tuesday, all year, all the time."

Me: "Every day except Tuesday, all year, all the time...except today?" (It was a Friday).

Her: "Yes, exactly. Except today, tomorrow, and some other times. But all the time from 10-6."

What?

Then it starts pouring rain and because it had been brilliantly sunny up until we were turned away from the chateau (symbolism, much?) we had no raincoats or umbrellas. Shame on me, I know to have no umbrella on my person in "sunny" Paris.

So we walk through half the field/mudslide and see that there is a show happening at the stables. It seemed fortuitous that the show was starting in two minutes, so we bought tickets and went.

Well, it was really a lovely show. Housed in a gorgeous amphitheater turned riding ring where they give demonstrations about dressage, horse training, and riding techniques. The highlight was the finale, when they brought out a team of animals, including an Eeyore clone, an exquisite beige pony with fluffy white hair, a wiley little donkey, and a miniature horse with the shortest legs imaginable named lil' Pedro or something adorable like that. They ran around and performed tricks and it was charming and hilarious.

Given the impromptu horse show, the "failed" trip to Chantilly was worth it in the end. And today I am actually going to take a second stab at gaining entrance to the chateau. It is not a Tuesday, there is no special announcement on the website or anywhere else that I can find, and I am going with a French person who has verified that the chateau will be open today.

All that considered, I figure I have about a 60% chance of actually seeing the interior without incident and an 80-85% chance of enduring some absurd customer service. If the latter comes to fruition, I will of course, fill you in accordingly.

In the meantime, I will give lil' Pedro your best.

EuroDisney

We went to EuroDisney the other day.

As it happens, a question I have been asked several times since moving to Paris is whether or not I have visited this venerable amusement park. Of course, many questions about my life in France have been repeated--in various forms--by friends, family members, and acquaintances. It is inevitable, I suppose, that my compatriots would persistently ask me if the French are really super rude, if the food is really universally amazing, and if everyone chain-smokes while wearing perfectly tied scarfs, sporting perfectly coiffed hair, and displaying a perfectly slim figure. Of course these questions come up with some frequency given the culturally-held opinions about France in general, and Paris in particular.

 

Perhaps you realized as much, but my use of the term "culturally-held opinions"=euphemism for "stereotypes."

 

What is different about the "Have you been to EuroDisney?" question is that it always seems to be asked in the exact same manner. To offer context, when people ask: "Have you been to the top of the Eiffel Tower?" or "Do Parisians really loathe Americans?" the questions are posed with a variety of emotional inflection attached to them. The tone might imply that the interrogator is fascinated, bored, indifferent, or terrified by the prospect.

 

But when I entertain the "Have you been to EuroDisney?" question, the asker always poses the question in the same manner: he or she asks as if he or she is making a joke...even when it is obvious that he or she is really quite serious. No one wants to seriously ask me if I have been to EuroDisney, I would guess, because with all the "real" culture to be absorbed in Paris, it might seem rather plebian to waste a moment on such an "American" outing.

 

And I get that totally. I imagine that I would also say, "Oh, so have you been to EuroDisney?" and follow the question with some nervous laughter, trying to pawn it off as though I do not care at all about EuroDisney, and was just making a funny comment in the vein of: "EuroDisney!? How absurd, huh?" Yet my face would betray me as I eagerly waited to se if the person responding could suss out the fact that I am really dying to know about EuroDisney because I am an adult-child weirdo Disney lover.

 

Which I obviously am.

 

And I am certainly not alone on that front either, as it appears that the Germans are quite entirely on board with Walt's magic as well. Danke shon very much.

 

In the spirit of this blog, I will be utterly candid with you with regards to my thoughts/impressions/feelings on EuroDisney.

 

I freakin' love it.

 

And I have been twice, so this assessment is not merely the result of a first-timer's flush at having experienced lands marked by fantasy, adventure, frontier, and discovery.

 

Generally speaking, I am not an amusement park lover. The whole "I do not cotton to unsupervised teenagers" credo that marks my life (see earlier blog entries) certainly plays a part in my disdain for places which draw such creatures like moths to a flame. Yet EuroDisney is different.

 

For one thing, the place is extremely clean. For another, and unlike its state-side counterparts, the size of the park outside Paris is totally manageable and not anxiety-inducing in terms of the overwhelmingness factor. Thirdly, the people within the walls of the park are all celebrating America, quite the rarity in France, and I enjoyed being able to be publicly proud of my heritage for an afternoon.

 

Do not get me wrong, there is still a vibe of gross consumer consumption and commercialization that infiltrates the park, but such is on a MUCH smaller scale to the American Disney's.

 

And there are aspects of EuroDisney that are hilariously European too--which add to the place's charm. For one thing, the customer service is, as ever, baffling. Example: we waited in line to ride the "Blanche Neige" ride (the Snow White ride was my favorite as a child for reasons I neither understand nor have yet to fully examine, but given that my last name is now "White" maybe I knew from an early age that Snow and I were sisters of sorts). We stood in line for about 20 minutes--which was just about as long as any line in which we had to wait if you can believe it. Then we arrived at the front, loaded up into our "Happy" trolley and anxiously awaited the beginning of a marvelous fantastic journey.

 

But we sat, inert, for about five minutes before we were suddenly ordered to vacate the cart by a woman dressed in a peasant outfit. I do not know who she was supposed to be, but I would have felt better about accepting her orders had she been the wicked stepmother in the mirror. Anyway, she takes our cart load of people (six of us) and drags us to the side, reporting to us that that ride is now broken and that we will have to come back later. We ask why they are not telling all the people still waiting in line about the glitch in the works. She says that it might only be a few minutes, and the people in line might want to wait. So we say, "Okay, then we can wait too, and just stand at the head of the line?" (You know the spot we already earned by already waiting for this ride). Nope. We are ordered to come back later. This back and forth goes on for a few minutes until we finally take our leave, feeling the magic evaporate in a peasant-dressed poof.

 

The whole situation was so bizarre that we wound up immediately leaving Fantasyland and going to Discoveryland--where we received both a dose of whiplash on Space Mountain (which was super fun!) and confirmation that Michael Jackson was always a little "off" by watching the Captain EO show.

 

Well, if that did not get us right back into the spririt of things!

 

Another funny quirk about EuroDisney is that the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom ride, which is touted as being a main attraction--basically the raison d'etre for Adventureland--was closed. No explanations, no forewarnings, we just walked right up to it and saw that it was indefinitely closed. Had this been America, you know a partial refund would have been DEMANDED by the patrons, and that many a lawsuit would have come about due to this travesty of false advertisment.

 

But this was Eurodisney and so people sort of "PFFFFTed" and said : "Oh it's closed, too bad" and wandered off in their beautifully-tied scarves, making rude comments about Americans and puffing away on their Gauloises. Or maybe (read: actually) they just walked over to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride and enjoyed that one instead.

 

Well, I just love the magical world of EuroDisney. Thus, I invite you to ask with confidence next time you wonder if a Parisian-dweller has visited the park. Better yet, go for yourself...and, if you do, please report back to me about the Blanche-Neige ride.

Detective Work

You may have already discerned that one of the themes of my time in Paris has unexpectedly centered around some rather informal detective work. I, acting as detective, am constantly trying to figure out the rhyme or reason to Parisian customer service trends. It has gotten to the point that no interaction, no matter how seemingly trivial, escapes my scrutiny. It used to be that I could go buy, say, some milk, and then immediately forget what the entire transaction entailed.

Who would have thought that I would bemoan the loss of an ignorant existence? Raise your hand if you smell a hypocrite.

In any case, my current life as a self-appointed and non-professional intercultural detective does not afford me the luxury of taking ostensibly simple transactions such as milk-buying for granted. Now buying milk is an action that immediately becomes entangled within the social experiment that is my daily life in France.

This past Saturday afternoon, my husband and I embarked on a sort of hefty shopping trip. Normally, Saturday shopping excursions are a bit more extensive than the ones during the week, simply because the produce stand, the fromagerie, and the wine cave are all closed on Sundays and Mondays. Plus the "normal" grocery store, where we buy staples like coffee, cream, butter, mustard, and copious quantities of Lindt chocolate bars (I am going through a chocolate phase) has limited hours on Sundays.

Using the phrase, "limited hours" makes it sound like it is still a viable option to do some shopping on a Sunday. That implication is actually quite misleading. Technically, it is possible, but only if you are willing to wait in lines rivaling that of a U.S. shopping mall on Black Friday. Which I am not.

On this particular outing, we enjoyed three good interactions with salespeople. THREE! Are you kidding me? No one told us our money was "too old" to be accepted, no one announced to a room at large that he or she had no idea what we were saying and thus forced us to repeat a simple request five times in front of (possibly judgmental) fellow-shoppers. No one even gave an exaggerated and irritated "PFFFFT"! when we did not offer exact change.

Miracles do happen, people.

After this anomaly of an afternoon, my husband suggested we avoid speaking to French people altogether for a week or two afterwards in order to bask in the glorious afterglow that emerged after not inadvertantly offending Parisian vendeurs whilst attempting to purchase tomatoes.

Though an arguably good thought on my husband's part, we were actually invited to a French/American couple's house for lunch the following day, so we were unable to carry out the proposed idea. It would have been a little awkward to not address the French man--at whose house we were eating--for an entire afternoon.

Although maybe not so strange considering we ate lunch at a restaurant just outside Paris today and the waiter did his best not to address us the entire time we were there. So maybe this experiment within an experiment would have gone off with nary a hitch. But we'll never know now.

In light of my boasting about our recent interactions with Parisan shopkeepers, you may think I am getting too big for my britches over here in France. I understand the feeling that I just ascribed to you, and I can assuage your (possibly non-existent) worries toute suite. As it happens, my ego has actually been in constant check for the past few weeks. I can explain why in two words:

French lessons.

I recently resumed taking (formal) French lessons. I imagine that there is a limit as to how much public humiliation and demoralization one person can endure and thus the salespeople who demonstrated unprecedented friendliness this past weekend must have somehow identified me as someone already being well-pummeled by their country-folk through outlets other than food purchasing. The existence of this invisible radar system certainly explains why they were nice to us this past weekend. And there you go: one mystery of my life solved just like that.

Told you I was something of a detective.

Italy=Heaven

We recently spent two and half weeks driving through Italy.

Put another way: we recently spent two and a half weeks in heaven.

Not that I even have a definitive stance on what "heaven" may or may not mean to me, but since we are talking about a country where catholocism reigns, I think the analogy is apt. And if one possibility for "heaven" is to imagine it as being synonomous with delicious food, stunning landscapes, extremely friendly people, and way too much limoncello, then the analogy works quite swimmingly.

So I love Italy, and I have thus been enthusiastically singing its praises for the ten or so days since we have been back in France. Hence, the following question has been posed by a few people, in varying forms: how does your opinion on/love affair with Italy compare with your feelings about Paris?

I think I detect, when this question is posed, the tiniest insinuation that I may have fickle tendencies when assigning geographical "favorites". Since I have admitted as much on this here blog, I suppose the insinuation is warranted. That said, I feel confident asserting that Italy is my favorite European country.

For the moment.

Of course I continue to be obsessed with France in general, and Paris in particular. I adore Paris' sense of propriety, its committment to aesthetics, its abundance of cultural offerings, its superior butter. Yet a juxtaposition was a lovely thing to experience. Thus the chaotically cheerful energy of Italy really drew me in. It may have helped that every morsel of food or drink I ingested was beyond beyond, as they say. And it is also somewhat flattering to have men complimenting you all day long--even if they do so in a slightly creepy manner and even though they are utterly undiscriminatory with regards to their appreciation of females and thus there is no real feeling of "specialness" that is ever imparted. It is still nice to be acknowledged with a (leering) smile and have a door held open for you--as opposed to being shoved out of a metro car as though you are an inanimate nuisance.

But I mean we all have different ways of being "friendly", I suppose.

In Italy in general, I just felt very welcomed and at home in the entire country. By contrast, in France I find I often feel like a houseguest in one of those homes that is less home and more museum. Have you ever gone to someone's house and find that you are afraid to use the hand towels in the bathroom because you might mess up the decor? That is how I frequently feel in France: like a "normal" gesture on my part will actually turn out to be some sort of aggregious insult and I will subsequently be forever shunned by the country at large due to the inadvertent error I may at any moment accidentally commit.

At least my feet are becoming more flexible. You know, because I am constantly on my toes.

In case you are wondering what we actually did in Italy: we flew to Milan, rented a car and drove to Lake Como. From there, we basically ate our way south for 17 days. We stayed in Pescallo, a tiny village near Bellagio on Lake Como, then went on to Venice, then Corniglia in the Cinque Terre, through Tuscany and Umbria, over to Spoleto, down through Naples to the Amalfi Coast, and then back up to Rome to stay with friends before flying out of FCO.

I recommend you borrowing our itinerary if you like, but it seems pretentious and not in the spirit of this blog to list out our trip in a step-by-step way. There is so much to see in Italy, and while I feel our vacation was the best ever, part of what made it so amazing were the last-minute discoveries and what we experienced when we strayed from our "plan." Thus, you could follow what we did, but then you might miss out on what would make your Italian trip the best ever for you. Because, you know, we are different people after all. But if you are interested in actual towns we saw, restaurants at which we ate, or places where we stayed, I could email you some names. And some might make it into subsequent blog entries too, so stay tuned.

Whose on their toes now, huh?

Or you could just buy "Rick Steves Italy" because his "Italy in 21 Days" plan basically served as my prototype when planning our Italian adventure.

Not that I lack imagination, and not that we actually stuck with his program on many accounts, but I must say his guidance in terms of fantastic local restos and in terms of providing us with fabulous summaries and background information on a myriad of sights really enriched our experience. I like that guys Italy book, I must say.

I also like limoncello, and our friends in Rome taught us how to make it. I am tickled (pickled?) at the prospect of having a dinner party back in the states and ending the evening with homemade limoncello (sorry Dr. Gray, no tequila that night). As an added perk to that party, I can guarantee our guests that the towels in our powder room are user-friendly.

Aesthetics Gone too Far?

The other day I was buying produce at the vegetable stand, and I handed the woman at the cash register a 10 euro note by way of payment. Normally, this woman glares and huffs if you are unable to conjure up exact change, so along with the 10, I also gave her 43 centimes (my bill came to 7,43). All things considered, I thought the interaction was shaping up to be another positive event on what had already proved quite the successful outing.

Well, I thought too soon.

As it happened, I had enjoyed some very pleasant conversing and purchasing preceding this produce adventure--with both the man at the wine store and the woman at the Italian trateur. These two anomalys of French friendliness had served to instill me with a false sense of confidence. I assumed that a positive experience at the produce stand was a sure thing, as it would result in a trifecta of loveliness (don't good things always come in threes?).

That assumption was my first mistake. Never get cocky when dealing with the French. They can sniff out your confidence the way they can sniff out a ripe cantaloupe, and will subsequently, swiftly, and sufficiently punish you for it.

The produce woman limply held the ten euro note between her two fingers and glared at me for what in the United States would be an uncomfortable period of time, but what is in France quite the "norm." I had no idea why she was staring at me, but as I have never known her to be either overly friendly or pleased by my presence, my first thought was not that I had committed any sort of error. Silly, silly, Maggie. will you never learn?

So then she starts waving the 10 around in front of my face, loudly asserting that it was too old to be of any use to her. I will concede that the money had seen better days, but it was neither torn nor defaced in any way, so I assumed that it was still a viable player in the commerce game. Thus, my second mistake has been identified.

Because I was feeling somewhat emboldened by the successful interactions I had already enjoyed that morning, I decided to take a French stance with this grumpy gal. I drew my facial muscles into a scowl of possibly intimidating proportions, "pfffffttt"ed with apblomb, and told her that it was not my fault that I had bad money.

Now here is where things became interesting (still humilating, mind you, but with a new cultural twist). She suddenly looked at me with something marginally bordering on respect and exclaimed that of course it was not my fault! She actually became more incensed at the fact that the money was still in circulation while she simultaneously became my ally. Now we were in it together: I was the victim of this bad money that she could not accept and she was going to vocally attest that my rights as a human being in France were being aggregiously compromised.

One emphatic "pffffft" from me and she and I were suddenly in cahoots against the French government as her outrage at allowing this decrepit 10 euro note to still exist escalated. The manager was then called over and he weighed in on the matter as well. His role within this impromptu forum was to reaffirm the unacceptability of the note, to add some of his own defamatory remarks about the French government, and to offer the advice that I needed to march to the bank tout suite and demand a replacement bill.

It seems of some importance to relay that there was a line of 4-5 people behind me as all of this was being discussed.

The woman then consulted her watch and added that I just might have time to make it to the bank before they closed for the weekend (it was like noon at the time, but so it goes in Paris on a Friday).

The only "good" aspect concerning the whole affair was that I actually did have another 10 euro note in my wallet, and it was decidedly more crisp. Had I drawn out my carte bleue to pay at that point I would have had to endure another lecture about the impossibility of taking a credit card for a purchase of under 15 euro--or whatever the rule du jour happened to be.

I handed her the newer, acceptable, money and scurried out. I would like to add, and not to toot my own horn or anything, but never once did I say: "I am sorry." I believe this elevated me in her eyes, and it certainly made me feel good about my newfound ability to resist becoming an automatic doormat for customer service people in Paris.

So then yesterday I happened into a bakery I had never before patroned to buy a dessert for dinner. My friend and I were lured in by the delectable-looking treats--which were impeccably displayed--in the window. Not that this information matters, but I decided on a caramel macaroon filled with a pastry cream and dotted with raspberries. The woman asked if I wanted it to go, to which I replied yes. She then spent a solid five minutes wrapping it up in a wax paper traingle (as they usually do) and then went above and beyond to fashion me a long white ribbon "handle" that enabled me to carry my paper prism without inflicting any damage to the dessert. My friend commented that she would like to receive such a beautiful presentation even if there was nothing inside of it (actually I think she said "even if there was just a pair of underwear inside of it," but that comment will not make sense to anyone who had not been privy to our conversations earlier in the afternoon).

Anyway, I understand the Parisian proclivity towards aesthetics, but it seemed a tad over the top to have to have good-looking money. But then as I happily walked home from the bakery yesterday, an impeccable white triangle dangling from my wrist and a curly white ribbon trailing behind me, I realized that there is something to be said for thoroughness. The French like things to look good, so who am I to complain about how far they may take it? I will just try to acquire the freshest looking euros I can and enjoy perfect prepared and packaged pastries and that will be that.