A guy sitting next to me on the metro today was clipping his fingernails.
If I were a slick liar, I would never have shared that sentence with you since it obviously sounds completely fabricated.
Unfortunately, it was the sad truth of my mid-day metro ride. I have actually seen people do grosser things while on the metro (you can imagine the sort of human emissions to which I am alluding), but at least I could assume those people were very drunk, very sick, or very insane.
The nail-clipper's egregious behavior could not be excused so easily--he seemed to be sober, in good health, and competently functional as far as I could discern.
Well, I will tell you something, France: he was not a good guy for me to run into today. Since my year in Paris is now drawing to a close, many of my thoughts are devoted to the things I will miss about this city and this country. As is inevitable when compiling such lists, my mind also wanders to the antithesis. Thus, I have also been considering the components about living here which I will decidedly NOT miss, the aspects where America is the one who shines.
Pre-metro ride, I had eaten an especially delectable pastry made of croissant dough, slathered in pastry cream, and topped with fresh roasted figs. I thought: GOSH dang it, such a mouth treasure would be hard to come by in the states; how I will miss you, Paris! Then I walked out into the freezing cold, rainy, gray weather and thought: Well chalk one up for team U.S.A., because I defy the sun not to shine in Boston or Charleston for weeks at a time during the month of JULY.
Then I passed the clicheed-yet-true-to-reality numerous cafes where people were sipping cafes, perriers, and dainty glasses of wine, and I thought: Oh, well, you have me there, Paris. I love to just sit and look. Sit, and drink, and read, and look. Nothing better than just soaking up life and having a good think without being worried about being shooed away or harassed by waiters needing tips from actual consuming customers. But then I was practically trampled by the people shoving their way onto my metro car as I tried to exit it (you know the drill--I have written about that deplorable habit in full detail), and I thought: Oh, to be around American people who have manners again will be so nice!
In case you were not keeping score: the game was tied at this point.
So then I hopped/aggressively shoved myself onto the second metro car and sat down and peacefully read for a few stops. Then HE got on and sat next to me. At first he seemed innocuous and inconsequential--ideal qualities for stranger traveling mates to embody. Then, just when the car had become really crowded, the un-hygienic public personal hygiene activity started taking place.
And America wins by default in today's round of "Which Country is Better?"
I am not saying that this inappropriate behavior was indicative of Parisians, or of behavior exhibited by the French. In fact, I am not even certain this fellow/troglodyte was French. But the affair did cloud my judgment and made me think: Oh, goodness, to be back in America, where people know better!
Also, I am excited to go "home" because then I can stop worrying that MY every activity is being scrutinized and branded as behavior indicative of my countryfolk. Like if I drink my water or wine too quickly: "Oh, you Americans! Always glug, glug, glug." Or if I smile at the baker and she glowers at me for being such an imbecile as to be smiling without a reason...smiling like a vacuous lil' American! Or when I make a silly error in simple conversation en Francais and then instantly panic that I am lending credence to stereotypes of American ethnocentrism. Or when I go to the gym in my gym clothes and worry that I am perpetuating the idea that all Americans are slobs who wear sweats 24/7.
It is exhausting being an unoffical, unappointed, and ineffectual ambassador for my country.
But I do wonder how many times I have done something mindless, silly, or just plain stupid and had someone walk away from me, making a gross generalization like: "Oh, those Americans! What nitwits!" based solely on my isolated behavior.
Kind of like when you exit a metro and think: "Ugh, you un-hygienic Frenchies. Keep it in your W.C., s'il vous plait."
Stay tuned for the next go-round in this exciting match.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Other Side of the Traveling Coin
As a follow-up to my last super insightful and riveting entry; there is another side to the "how to best visit Paris" coin that is worth considering. Isn't there always?
In my last entry I opined on why people with limited time in this city might want to discard the "dream" of living like a local, and instead just soak up Paris as a tourist; to live it up in the way that you can live it up when you have only limited time somewhere. Because, unless you are conducting some sort of research project, there is really no need to spend the three or four or seven precious days you may have in the city of light really living like this average local: scrambling around the crowded metro, drinking instant coffee from a kitchen kettle as opposed to waffling the morning away at a chic cafe, arguing with bureacratic figures about the various impenetrable bureacratic processes, and eating at non-famous local establishments where no one wears a tux (though they likely have plenty of atttude).
HOWEVER, while I clearly do endorse and encourage the splashing out of visitors, here is the flip side to consider: if you have been here many times, or if you are able to have an extended stay here--say two weeks or more--then I absolutely would invite you to spend some time living more like a locale.
Because to really "get" Paris, you do have to wade in the trenches a little. You do have to take the metro. Even when it is crowded and smelly, and some guy with an accordian wants to set up shop millimeters away from your left, and soon to be partially deaf, ear. You must shop at the local markets on market day (which are different for every arrondissment but usually two per week per arrondissement), and you must therefore endure a little self-esteem crushing from the vendeurs as you attempt to order tomatoes.You will want to eat at your local bistro. Even if the food is not the absolute best to be had, and even if the service is deplorable--for at least six months if possible.
Because eventually, you will not blink an eye or wrinkle your nose when you are crammed into the smelly, crowded metro and an accordian is jammed up to your shoulder. You will find such inconveniences are worth it because it is only through the metro that you can buzz through Paris as quickly and adroitly as any resident. You will acquire an ease, an attitude, and an understanding that are simply not to be garnered through taxi-traveling. Eventually, you will adopt a sassy and indignant tone right back at the vendeur who is insulting your accent, or repeatedly igrnoring you in favor of waiting on locals/native French speakers. Once you do so, you might find him eyeing you with a bit of respect, waiting on you a little sooner the next time around and maybe throwing in a few beautiful ripe cherries with your tomatoes and aubergines. And eventually your local server who has been pouting at and borderline abusing you for months will one day ask you how you are doing and will maybe bring you a complimentary coupe de champagne.
And when any of those moments happen, it really is an amazing thing, an aha feeling. To borrow from the venerable Mr. Hemingway, your fitting in happens very gradually, then quite suddenly. Et voila! One day you are able to successfully function and feel like a real local. My golly goodness, wowzer. How to best describe it all? We can borrow from the decidedly un-venerable Mr. Sheen: winning!
Of course, rapport takes time and and, at times, sacrifice. But wait in line at the boulangerie with the impossibly long line, take 20 minutes to hear what the woman at the fromagerie has to say about cheeses that are in season, go out of your way to hit up the place with the best baguette around. Walk through the gardens, see a movie at an independent film house and browse in a tiny, stuffed-to-the-gills book shop (Paris has a good deal more of both than many other cities). Stay at a European hotel, even if they have no a/c, no room service, and a shower stall the size of a grade-school cubby.You might not have time to do these things on a short vacation, but if you are have the opportinuty for an extended stay, then take the time, make the effort. It will be worth it, because your overall experience will be richer, will be more "authentic"...and at the very least, the croissant will be better.
I know this "other side" can be a tough card to throw out: if I only have three days in a city, I often just want to take taxis, to maximize every moment. I do not always want to take chances on hotels or restos that may or may not prove fruitful. But, if I have longer to spend somewhere, then I do try to see some of the heart of a city, and I feel confident that Paris is a city with so much heart, so much more than the glitzy, glamourous sheen that coats its outer layers. So dig deeper, if you can, and I know you will be happy you did. Or, and at the risk of redundancy: at least the pastries you unearth will be TDF.
In my last entry I opined on why people with limited time in this city might want to discard the "dream" of living like a local, and instead just soak up Paris as a tourist; to live it up in the way that you can live it up when you have only limited time somewhere. Because, unless you are conducting some sort of research project, there is really no need to spend the three or four or seven precious days you may have in the city of light really living like this average local: scrambling around the crowded metro, drinking instant coffee from a kitchen kettle as opposed to waffling the morning away at a chic cafe, arguing with bureacratic figures about the various impenetrable bureacratic processes, and eating at non-famous local establishments where no one wears a tux (though they likely have plenty of atttude).
HOWEVER, while I clearly do endorse and encourage the splashing out of visitors, here is the flip side to consider: if you have been here many times, or if you are able to have an extended stay here--say two weeks or more--then I absolutely would invite you to spend some time living more like a locale.
Because to really "get" Paris, you do have to wade in the trenches a little. You do have to take the metro. Even when it is crowded and smelly, and some guy with an accordian wants to set up shop millimeters away from your left, and soon to be partially deaf, ear. You must shop at the local markets on market day (which are different for every arrondissment but usually two per week per arrondissement), and you must therefore endure a little self-esteem crushing from the vendeurs as you attempt to order tomatoes.You will want to eat at your local bistro. Even if the food is not the absolute best to be had, and even if the service is deplorable--for at least six months if possible.
Because eventually, you will not blink an eye or wrinkle your nose when you are crammed into the smelly, crowded metro and an accordian is jammed up to your shoulder. You will find such inconveniences are worth it because it is only through the metro that you can buzz through Paris as quickly and adroitly as any resident. You will acquire an ease, an attitude, and an understanding that are simply not to be garnered through taxi-traveling. Eventually, you will adopt a sassy and indignant tone right back at the vendeur who is insulting your accent, or repeatedly igrnoring you in favor of waiting on locals/native French speakers. Once you do so, you might find him eyeing you with a bit of respect, waiting on you a little sooner the next time around and maybe throwing in a few beautiful ripe cherries with your tomatoes and aubergines. And eventually your local server who has been pouting at and borderline abusing you for months will one day ask you how you are doing and will maybe bring you a complimentary coupe de champagne.
And when any of those moments happen, it really is an amazing thing, an aha feeling. To borrow from the venerable Mr. Hemingway, your fitting in happens very gradually, then quite suddenly. Et voila! One day you are able to successfully function and feel like a real local. My golly goodness, wowzer. How to best describe it all? We can borrow from the decidedly un-venerable Mr. Sheen: winning!
Of course, rapport takes time and and, at times, sacrifice. But wait in line at the boulangerie with the impossibly long line, take 20 minutes to hear what the woman at the fromagerie has to say about cheeses that are in season, go out of your way to hit up the place with the best baguette around. Walk through the gardens, see a movie at an independent film house and browse in a tiny, stuffed-to-the-gills book shop (Paris has a good deal more of both than many other cities). Stay at a European hotel, even if they have no a/c, no room service, and a shower stall the size of a grade-school cubby.You might not have time to do these things on a short vacation, but if you are have the opportinuty for an extended stay, then take the time, make the effort. It will be worth it, because your overall experience will be richer, will be more "authentic"...and at the very least, the croissant will be better.
I know this "other side" can be a tough card to throw out: if I only have three days in a city, I often just want to take taxis, to maximize every moment. I do not always want to take chances on hotels or restos that may or may not prove fruitful. But, if I have longer to spend somewhere, then I do try to see some of the heart of a city, and I feel confident that Paris is a city with so much heart, so much more than the glitzy, glamourous sheen that coats its outer layers. So dig deeper, if you can, and I know you will be happy you did. Or, and at the risk of redundancy: at least the pastries you unearth will be TDF.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Paris Through Your Own Eyes
When people come over to visit me/us in Paris, they often say things like: "I want to see what YOUR life in Paris is like! I want to live like a Parisian through you!"
I completely understand the sentiment and the implication behind it; knowing a "resident" means there exists increased opportunity to really "live like a local" in a foreign environment. There is a certain cache and appeal to being "in" on what the natives do or know. It seems often that people return from travels boasting about finding "little out of the way" places, restaurants "full of locals", and ways they managed to "avoid all the tourist traps".
These sorts of post-vacation tales are a precious source of pride and a way to prove that you really made the most of your experience, that you really know how to travel. And I think this behaviour is a quite reasonable and healthy approach to travelling. At least I hope so, as I have totally been one of those people--on more than one ocasion.
So I can appreciate my friends and acquaintances looking to me/us as a faster means of attaining that, often elusive, vacation-insider-knowledge.
But, the thing is: no one can actually wants to, nor even practically can, live like a local if they have only a few days in Paris. And seriously: no one actually REALLY wants to live my day-to-day life in Paris if they will be here for only a limited time.
Because whatever romantic notions visitors have of my life a Paris, it is really not as spectacularly romantic as it may sound. Proof?
On a typical day, I get up, I eat some combination of yogurt/cereal/fruit and I make coffee. I drink said coffee while checking email and/or doing some writing. Then I shower, dress, prepare a face to meet the faces I will meet, and usually walk around for a bit (that part they might enjoy as the sites are often incroyables). I then spend a typical afternoon doing some grocery shopping and often taking care of some aspect of an inevitable bureacratic problem that has surfaced as a result of my being an American in Paris. So an hour or two is devoted to trying to make headway on whatever the problem du jour happens to be and usually only leaving such an interaction with nothing to show for it except further proof as to my non-fluency in the French language. In my newly humbled state, I then do some more work, reading, or walking in the late afternoon, often go to the gym, and finally return to my apartment to make dinner. After eating, I do some more reading, perhaps some watching of YouTube videos, and maybe a little Skyping with my mom.
Umm, yeah. Paris is SO glamourous isn't it?
Granted, a couple of days a week, the routine is broken up by a visit to a museum, monument, or exhibition. I'll have lunch or dinner out at least that often as well. And when I do all this walking about it could be in such amazing places as the Jardin du Luxembourg or along the Seine, and I always have the option to grocery shop at wonderful little fromageries, boulangeries and boucheries...not to mention the fact that a scrump-dilly-umptious little croissant is always waiting for me around any corner. So there are those noteable perks. I will give you that.
But what I assume people ACTUALLY want to do when they express their desire to "live my life in Paris" is to get away from their mundane "regular" life in the United States. Through me, I imagine they would like to validate the hope and belief that life need not be banal. Having a contemporary who is really "living the dream" in the form of a fabulous Euro-life in one of the most incredible cities in the world is a wonderful thing to think about. And to go and join him or her or them in that exotic and exquisite life for a few days would be really magnifique--proof that life can be continually exciting.
I certainly don't blame them for thinking such things. But nor can I offer them solid proof that living as an ex-pat in Paris is all that they have cracked it up to be in their minds in terms of romance, riches, and restos. Not to completely spoil that pretty little thought or anything.
It is also been my revelation that what they really mean when they say they want to "see it through my eyes" is that they want me to show them around (which I am more than happy to do) so they do not have to worry about either language or navigational issues and can thus be assured of seeing all the "greatest" sites and eating at all the "best" places without taking the time and effort that is usually involved in the planning of a visit to a foreign place. And because I am presumably "in the know" we can do all this sight-seeing and eating without ever being suckered into the dreaded, and rather prevalent, tourist traps.
And, again, I hardly blame them. It is quite a good deal for the vacationer if such works out as planned. I have certainly reaped the benefits of visiting cities where I know people and the experience is usually infinitely better than trying to feel out a city on my own.
Plus, my job is easy; I love to show off Paris and she does show quite nicely, after all. But the Paris I am showing off is not necessarily the Paris I live on a day-to-day basis. If someone is only here for a few days or a week, they should dine at the more venerable restos, walk down the most glamourous shopping streets, easily skip from impressive monument to more impressive monument. They definitely should try to see the latest greatest exhibitions and generally soak up la creme de la creme in this gorgeous city.
Paris wows people really well. And you should definitely take advantage of the time you have here to be sufficiently wowed.
If I could live the high life in Paris every day, trust me, I would! But living that sort of Parisian life--while manageable for a week or a long-weekend--is not exactly sustainable if your bank account is significantly less sizeable than, say, Donald Trump's. Fortunately, I have found ways to live very well in Paris on not a lot of money. But if you are a visitor, then I say to heck with it. Forget living through my eyes: be a tourist, live it up, and enjoy every second of it.
As I said, I am more than happy to show you around, but I will try to show you the best of what is around, and that might mean that you need to forget about "living through me" and just allow yourself to be amazed for a few days while you really enjoy what the Paris of your dreams is all about. I may not be able to afford all the activities I recommend (we do have a lot of visitors and there is only so many times one can go to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz or enjoy a champagne brunch next to the Louvre on half a weeks wages), and I may only window shop while you really shop, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. You need to see the dazzle of this city and let's face it: my kitchen kettle is not going to wow you. And you really need not Skype with my mom, lovely as she is.
I completely understand the sentiment and the implication behind it; knowing a "resident" means there exists increased opportunity to really "live like a local" in a foreign environment. There is a certain cache and appeal to being "in" on what the natives do or know. It seems often that people return from travels boasting about finding "little out of the way" places, restaurants "full of locals", and ways they managed to "avoid all the tourist traps".
These sorts of post-vacation tales are a precious source of pride and a way to prove that you really made the most of your experience, that you really know how to travel. And I think this behaviour is a quite reasonable and healthy approach to travelling. At least I hope so, as I have totally been one of those people--on more than one ocasion.
So I can appreciate my friends and acquaintances looking to me/us as a faster means of attaining that, often elusive, vacation-insider-knowledge.
But, the thing is: no one can actually wants to, nor even practically can, live like a local if they have only a few days in Paris. And seriously: no one actually REALLY wants to live my day-to-day life in Paris if they will be here for only a limited time.
Because whatever romantic notions visitors have of my life a Paris, it is really not as spectacularly romantic as it may sound. Proof?
On a typical day, I get up, I eat some combination of yogurt/cereal/fruit and I make coffee. I drink said coffee while checking email and/or doing some writing. Then I shower, dress, prepare a face to meet the faces I will meet, and usually walk around for a bit (that part they might enjoy as the sites are often incroyables). I then spend a typical afternoon doing some grocery shopping and often taking care of some aspect of an inevitable bureacratic problem that has surfaced as a result of my being an American in Paris. So an hour or two is devoted to trying to make headway on whatever the problem du jour happens to be and usually only leaving such an interaction with nothing to show for it except further proof as to my non-fluency in the French language. In my newly humbled state, I then do some more work, reading, or walking in the late afternoon, often go to the gym, and finally return to my apartment to make dinner. After eating, I do some more reading, perhaps some watching of YouTube videos, and maybe a little Skyping with my mom.
Umm, yeah. Paris is SO glamourous isn't it?
Granted, a couple of days a week, the routine is broken up by a visit to a museum, monument, or exhibition. I'll have lunch or dinner out at least that often as well. And when I do all this walking about it could be in such amazing places as the Jardin du Luxembourg or along the Seine, and I always have the option to grocery shop at wonderful little fromageries, boulangeries and boucheries...not to mention the fact that a scrump-dilly-umptious little croissant is always waiting for me around any corner. So there are those noteable perks. I will give you that.
But what I assume people ACTUALLY want to do when they express their desire to "live my life in Paris" is to get away from their mundane "regular" life in the United States. Through me, I imagine they would like to validate the hope and belief that life need not be banal. Having a contemporary who is really "living the dream" in the form of a fabulous Euro-life in one of the most incredible cities in the world is a wonderful thing to think about. And to go and join him or her or them in that exotic and exquisite life for a few days would be really magnifique--proof that life can be continually exciting.
I certainly don't blame them for thinking such things. But nor can I offer them solid proof that living as an ex-pat in Paris is all that they have cracked it up to be in their minds in terms of romance, riches, and restos. Not to completely spoil that pretty little thought or anything.
It is also been my revelation that what they really mean when they say they want to "see it through my eyes" is that they want me to show them around (which I am more than happy to do) so they do not have to worry about either language or navigational issues and can thus be assured of seeing all the "greatest" sites and eating at all the "best" places without taking the time and effort that is usually involved in the planning of a visit to a foreign place. And because I am presumably "in the know" we can do all this sight-seeing and eating without ever being suckered into the dreaded, and rather prevalent, tourist traps.
And, again, I hardly blame them. It is quite a good deal for the vacationer if such works out as planned. I have certainly reaped the benefits of visiting cities where I know people and the experience is usually infinitely better than trying to feel out a city on my own.
Plus, my job is easy; I love to show off Paris and she does show quite nicely, after all. But the Paris I am showing off is not necessarily the Paris I live on a day-to-day basis. If someone is only here for a few days or a week, they should dine at the more venerable restos, walk down the most glamourous shopping streets, easily skip from impressive monument to more impressive monument. They definitely should try to see the latest greatest exhibitions and generally soak up la creme de la creme in this gorgeous city.
Paris wows people really well. And you should definitely take advantage of the time you have here to be sufficiently wowed.
If I could live the high life in Paris every day, trust me, I would! But living that sort of Parisian life--while manageable for a week or a long-weekend--is not exactly sustainable if your bank account is significantly less sizeable than, say, Donald Trump's. Fortunately, I have found ways to live very well in Paris on not a lot of money. But if you are a visitor, then I say to heck with it. Forget living through my eyes: be a tourist, live it up, and enjoy every second of it.
As I said, I am more than happy to show you around, but I will try to show you the best of what is around, and that might mean that you need to forget about "living through me" and just allow yourself to be amazed for a few days while you really enjoy what the Paris of your dreams is all about. I may not be able to afford all the activities I recommend (we do have a lot of visitors and there is only so many times one can go to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz or enjoy a champagne brunch next to the Louvre on half a weeks wages), and I may only window shop while you really shop, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. You need to see the dazzle of this city and let's face it: my kitchen kettle is not going to wow you. And you really need not Skype with my mom, lovely as she is.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Movie Recommendation for Cultural Understanding
The other day, I was exiting the metro (Parisian subway) behind an elderly man. He was probably around 80 or so, and while he was not using a cane, he was clearly not altogether steady on his feet. As soon as the doors opened on our train car, the crowd of people on the platform immediately started to board--as is always the case.
Mind you, I wish I could say "the crowd of people waiting on the platform parted to let us off before starting to board". But such a description would have been misleading as there is no "waiting" whatsoever involved once the train has pulled up.
For inexplicable reasons, no one in Paris waits for the people who are already ON the train to disembark before they all start shoving into the metro car. And if you are one of those rare species of people who opts to exercise a modicum of politeness by waiting for the people on the train to first get off, then you will most decidedly not be rewarded for you Emily Post exhibitionism. Instead, you will likely be shoved from behind as the someones standing in back of you will not tolerate an ounce of hesitancy.
For a city comprised of people who will regularly stand in line for 30-plus minutes at the fromagerie, and then, once at the head of the line, just leisurely chat with the vendeur for another 30 minutes--all to buy a morsel or two of cheese--the whole: "I have to get on NOW" attitude of the metro is a strange juxatpostion indeed.
And, I know; it makes no practical sense. Beyond the obvious rudeness of the scenario, it is simply an inefficient system. Shoving, jostling, and trampling people is a time-consuming business, and the whole enterprise would obviously swim along at a faster clip if a little give and take were incorporated.
But this elderly man, he of the unsteady feet, made a pretty admirable move as soon as the doors opened. He held out both his arms directly in front of him and basically shouted: Arretez! to the crowd that was about to mow him over because they could not wait 15 seconds before boarding the train.
Well, maybe the move was not totally admirable. It may have been an issue of fundamental physical self-preservation.
Because it is really a scary exercise in human survival. Don't I know it: this metro business (coupled with my love of eating copious amounts of chocolate) is a main reason why I am happy I go to the gym on a regular basis. Public transportation Darwinism, I am telling you: best be prepared.
So after the unprecedented traffic-cop move by the senior, the crowd was noticably OFFENDED. I would have guessed I would see some sheepish expressions, some lightbulbs of self-realization showing on the faces of the crowd, and quite a few physical movements of the "backing off" variety.
Nope. Not so. The hordes trampled forward, not to be deterred by the elderly one iota. Some started snickering, some simply ignored him or offered a little outraged "pffft" in his direction, and a few openly glared at him as though he was committing an offensive crime.
Does this scenario seem "off" to you? I mean, only in Paris, right?
So yesterday, I was invited to a lovely lunch at our friends' house who live just outside of Paris. They are French, and we often share a laugh, or seventeen, at every visit while we remark on the discrepancies of French versus American cultural behaviors and expectations. The girl and I often read the same books, like the same movies, etc. Recently we both happened to watch Two Days in Paris with Julie Delpy and Adam Goldberg. Before I had a chance to tell her I had seen it, she said something like, "Oh, you have to see this movie! It so perfectly captures some of the differences between French and American culture."
I loved that she brought it up because while I was watching the movie, I was frequently thinking about her, how much she would enjoy the film, and how we would both laugh at all the ways Americans misinterpret or are confused by French cultural "norms"...and vice versa.
I know that the metro situation is not indicative of French people on the whole (at all), and it might just be a "city" thing. Perhaps the same thing would go down in an NYC subway. But I see "happs" like that every day in Paris, and I thus inevitably compare them to my own cultural expectations and assumptions. As you know, if you read this blog at all.
And the movie is really a tremendous and humorous look at the ways we take things for granted and the ways we look at another culture and think: "What the heck is happening here?!?! Why is everyone here NUTS???"
So see it. It won't save you from being trampled by a crowd of impatient Parisian metro travelers, but it might shed some light on Parisian tendencies and/or make you think a bit more objectively about American habits. If nothing else, it will definitely offer a more aesthetically pleasing backdrop (the city of light) than I can on this here picture-less blog. Happy viewing!
Mind you, I wish I could say "the crowd of people waiting on the platform parted to let us off before starting to board". But such a description would have been misleading as there is no "waiting" whatsoever involved once the train has pulled up.
For inexplicable reasons, no one in Paris waits for the people who are already ON the train to disembark before they all start shoving into the metro car. And if you are one of those rare species of people who opts to exercise a modicum of politeness by waiting for the people on the train to first get off, then you will most decidedly not be rewarded for you Emily Post exhibitionism. Instead, you will likely be shoved from behind as the someones standing in back of you will not tolerate an ounce of hesitancy.
For a city comprised of people who will regularly stand in line for 30-plus minutes at the fromagerie, and then, once at the head of the line, just leisurely chat with the vendeur for another 30 minutes--all to buy a morsel or two of cheese--the whole: "I have to get on NOW" attitude of the metro is a strange juxatpostion indeed.
And, I know; it makes no practical sense. Beyond the obvious rudeness of the scenario, it is simply an inefficient system. Shoving, jostling, and trampling people is a time-consuming business, and the whole enterprise would obviously swim along at a faster clip if a little give and take were incorporated.
But this elderly man, he of the unsteady feet, made a pretty admirable move as soon as the doors opened. He held out both his arms directly in front of him and basically shouted: Arretez! to the crowd that was about to mow him over because they could not wait 15 seconds before boarding the train.
Well, maybe the move was not totally admirable. It may have been an issue of fundamental physical self-preservation.
Because it is really a scary exercise in human survival. Don't I know it: this metro business (coupled with my love of eating copious amounts of chocolate) is a main reason why I am happy I go to the gym on a regular basis. Public transportation Darwinism, I am telling you: best be prepared.
So after the unprecedented traffic-cop move by the senior, the crowd was noticably OFFENDED. I would have guessed I would see some sheepish expressions, some lightbulbs of self-realization showing on the faces of the crowd, and quite a few physical movements of the "backing off" variety.
Nope. Not so. The hordes trampled forward, not to be deterred by the elderly one iota. Some started snickering, some simply ignored him or offered a little outraged "pffft" in his direction, and a few openly glared at him as though he was committing an offensive crime.
Does this scenario seem "off" to you? I mean, only in Paris, right?
So yesterday, I was invited to a lovely lunch at our friends' house who live just outside of Paris. They are French, and we often share a laugh, or seventeen, at every visit while we remark on the discrepancies of French versus American cultural behaviors and expectations. The girl and I often read the same books, like the same movies, etc. Recently we both happened to watch Two Days in Paris with Julie Delpy and Adam Goldberg. Before I had a chance to tell her I had seen it, she said something like, "Oh, you have to see this movie! It so perfectly captures some of the differences between French and American culture."
I loved that she brought it up because while I was watching the movie, I was frequently thinking about her, how much she would enjoy the film, and how we would both laugh at all the ways Americans misinterpret or are confused by French cultural "norms"...and vice versa.
I know that the metro situation is not indicative of French people on the whole (at all), and it might just be a "city" thing. Perhaps the same thing would go down in an NYC subway. But I see "happs" like that every day in Paris, and I thus inevitably compare them to my own cultural expectations and assumptions. As you know, if you read this blog at all.
And the movie is really a tremendous and humorous look at the ways we take things for granted and the ways we look at another culture and think: "What the heck is happening here?!?! Why is everyone here NUTS???"
So see it. It won't save you from being trampled by a crowd of impatient Parisian metro travelers, but it might shed some light on Parisian tendencies and/or make you think a bit more objectively about American habits. If nothing else, it will definitely offer a more aesthetically pleasing backdrop (the city of light) than I can on this here picture-less blog. Happy viewing!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Gym Nudity
So I thought I might solve my shower-drain-clogging problem by simply showering at the gym from here on out. That way my shower, which is currently draining splendidly, can just remain in its peak condition until I move out next month. Thus, no more ickaboo drain cleaning for this bird.
I realize that "solve the problem" is a less accurate descriptive choice than would be "avoid the problem".
The plan also had a second bonus attached to it: by showering at the gym, I would actually be "fitting in" much better in terms of an aspect of French life. You might remember from an earlier posting, but no one actually arrives or departs from my gym wearing work-out clothes. Well, no one except for me.
Instead, they show up in heels and lipstick, scarves and skinny jeans, with their hair all done up. Or with their hair all un-done up, but only in that way that was totally "done to be un-done" and probably took six hours to arrange. The men are also reluctant to come in dressed to work-out--they all arrive wearing their suits with the pants that are slightly too snug and tapered in a way that American men would never stand for, or wearing their street clothes/quasi-dischoteque-wear into the workout establishment.
Post-workout, everyone showers and re-dons their pre-workout get-ups. Even if it is like 9 pm on a Tuesday and they are likely only going home to once again remove the heels and lipstick and scarves and too-tight, too-tapered pants. The ruling mantra of gym goers is as follows: heaven forbid anyone on the street--or the metro conductor--sees me in workout wear. The horror!
So I have been an anomaly, as you may know, in that I actually do show up and leave the gym in a shocking array of garments known as gym attire. Brave soul that I am. And I am sorry, fellow Americans, for adding to the stereotype that prevails over here that many Americans are slobs and wear sweatsuits and t-shirts everywhere. Other than working out, I seriously dress as best I can here, so I am doing my part to help us all out, and thus I figure I am allowed a litte slack. Plus, I NEVER wear t-shirts with crass/chessy/stupid slogans and I would rather eat mold than wear velour track-suit pants with bedazzled words across the derriere. So don't worry, I am not embarassing us too much.
The major problem involved in executing this new shower idea is that I am a rather modest American. My time living in Europe has led me to believe that comfortability with nudity is a culturally-conditioned phenomenon. Thus, as a "typical" American gal, I REALLY dislike the abundance of nakedness that occurs in the locker room at my Parisian gym. I understand that one needs to un-dress and re-dress oneself pre-and post-shower, and therefore a flash of flesh here and there is inevitable. But all the brazen walking around, the blow drying of hair, the repainting of toes, and the watching daily soap operas (there is a TV in the locker room that plays some sort of Frenchie daytime drama type show ALL the time--I know not why--question for another day) which takes place au natural in the locker room is a bit off-putting.
I am not terribly self-conscious about my body, but nor do I think I should be subjecting others to seeing me, from every vantage point, just because I decide to perform a number of other tasks prior to donning some undergarments. Really, can you just answer your cell phone, after you throw on a t-shirt? Maybe I am a prude American, but it has never been my inclination to stalk around stark.
Well: stark-raving mad, maybe. Stark-raving nude, no.
But once I decided on implementing my new shower-cleaning-avoidance plan, I thought I could brave the sitch--or at least try it out. So I brought my towel and shampoo and whatnot to the gym with me the other day. I walked in, wearing my normal day clothes, carting around my gym bag that weighed about 60 pounds due to the sneakers, the water, the clothing, the toiletries, the makeup, etc. Honestly people who take this approach need not even work out, as it is enough of a bicep-builder to just lug all that paraphernalia around.
After my work out I was getting ready to try out the new shower plan when a woman in my locker aisle started speaking to me in rapid-fire French. I looked up at her, and though it could be surmised that such was a forgone conclusion, she was (of course) buck nake-o. Evidently she had some sort of allergic reaction to the soap or the water or the walls or something in the shower stall and her skin was turning sort of pinkish as a result of this mystery problem.
As she chatted me up, she started pinching areas of her flesh to demonstrate where the offense had been the most intense (I thought this course of action bizarre since such was presumably only serving to further aggravate the irritation. Am I wrong?). As she blabbered on in her outrage at the egregious transgression by shower-stall, she kept walking towards me. Eventually, she was practically standing on top of me; I think her unspoken assumption was that the more she talked and the closer she came the more likely it would be that we could wage a war on the hive-inducing shower stall together.
Now, NORMALLY, I would have walked away tout suite, and never allowed the converation to progress (regress?) as far as it did. But I was using the scenario, initially, as an exercise in my becoming more comfortable with the locker-room nudity. Also, I was sort of interested in the fact that I was able to actually understand most of what she was saying, and I thus remained engaged because I had a fleeting thought that being "in" with the locker room crowd might provide me with more opps to practice my fluency.
But then I realized that I do not like being publicly naked, and I do not like talking to naked people. It suddenly seemed pretty clear that I just do not want to deal with the "perks" of this new lifestyle as a gym showerer. So I guess I will remain a prude, gym-clothes wearing American "weirdo" with a clog-prone shower drain. Whatever, there are some areas in life where "progression" is not all it is cracked up to be.
And at least my shower does not induce hives. So I have that going for me.
I realize that "solve the problem" is a less accurate descriptive choice than would be "avoid the problem".
The plan also had a second bonus attached to it: by showering at the gym, I would actually be "fitting in" much better in terms of an aspect of French life. You might remember from an earlier posting, but no one actually arrives or departs from my gym wearing work-out clothes. Well, no one except for me.
Instead, they show up in heels and lipstick, scarves and skinny jeans, with their hair all done up. Or with their hair all un-done up, but only in that way that was totally "done to be un-done" and probably took six hours to arrange. The men are also reluctant to come in dressed to work-out--they all arrive wearing their suits with the pants that are slightly too snug and tapered in a way that American men would never stand for, or wearing their street clothes/quasi-dischoteque-wear into the workout establishment.
Post-workout, everyone showers and re-dons their pre-workout get-ups. Even if it is like 9 pm on a Tuesday and they are likely only going home to once again remove the heels and lipstick and scarves and too-tight, too-tapered pants. The ruling mantra of gym goers is as follows: heaven forbid anyone on the street--or the metro conductor--sees me in workout wear. The horror!
So I have been an anomaly, as you may know, in that I actually do show up and leave the gym in a shocking array of garments known as gym attire. Brave soul that I am. And I am sorry, fellow Americans, for adding to the stereotype that prevails over here that many Americans are slobs and wear sweatsuits and t-shirts everywhere. Other than working out, I seriously dress as best I can here, so I am doing my part to help us all out, and thus I figure I am allowed a litte slack. Plus, I NEVER wear t-shirts with crass/chessy/stupid slogans and I would rather eat mold than wear velour track-suit pants with bedazzled words across the derriere. So don't worry, I am not embarassing us too much.
The major problem involved in executing this new shower idea is that I am a rather modest American. My time living in Europe has led me to believe that comfortability with nudity is a culturally-conditioned phenomenon. Thus, as a "typical" American gal, I REALLY dislike the abundance of nakedness that occurs in the locker room at my Parisian gym. I understand that one needs to un-dress and re-dress oneself pre-and post-shower, and therefore a flash of flesh here and there is inevitable. But all the brazen walking around, the blow drying of hair, the repainting of toes, and the watching daily soap operas (there is a TV in the locker room that plays some sort of Frenchie daytime drama type show ALL the time--I know not why--question for another day) which takes place au natural in the locker room is a bit off-putting.
I am not terribly self-conscious about my body, but nor do I think I should be subjecting others to seeing me, from every vantage point, just because I decide to perform a number of other tasks prior to donning some undergarments. Really, can you just answer your cell phone, after you throw on a t-shirt? Maybe I am a prude American, but it has never been my inclination to stalk around stark.
Well: stark-raving mad, maybe. Stark-raving nude, no.
But once I decided on implementing my new shower-cleaning-avoidance plan, I thought I could brave the sitch--or at least try it out. So I brought my towel and shampoo and whatnot to the gym with me the other day. I walked in, wearing my normal day clothes, carting around my gym bag that weighed about 60 pounds due to the sneakers, the water, the clothing, the toiletries, the makeup, etc. Honestly people who take this approach need not even work out, as it is enough of a bicep-builder to just lug all that paraphernalia around.
After my work out I was getting ready to try out the new shower plan when a woman in my locker aisle started speaking to me in rapid-fire French. I looked up at her, and though it could be surmised that such was a forgone conclusion, she was (of course) buck nake-o. Evidently she had some sort of allergic reaction to the soap or the water or the walls or something in the shower stall and her skin was turning sort of pinkish as a result of this mystery problem.
As she chatted me up, she started pinching areas of her flesh to demonstrate where the offense had been the most intense (I thought this course of action bizarre since such was presumably only serving to further aggravate the irritation. Am I wrong?). As she blabbered on in her outrage at the egregious transgression by shower-stall, she kept walking towards me. Eventually, she was practically standing on top of me; I think her unspoken assumption was that the more she talked and the closer she came the more likely it would be that we could wage a war on the hive-inducing shower stall together.
Now, NORMALLY, I would have walked away tout suite, and never allowed the converation to progress (regress?) as far as it did. But I was using the scenario, initially, as an exercise in my becoming more comfortable with the locker-room nudity. Also, I was sort of interested in the fact that I was able to actually understand most of what she was saying, and I thus remained engaged because I had a fleeting thought that being "in" with the locker room crowd might provide me with more opps to practice my fluency.
But then I realized that I do not like being publicly naked, and I do not like talking to naked people. It suddenly seemed pretty clear that I just do not want to deal with the "perks" of this new lifestyle as a gym showerer. So I guess I will remain a prude, gym-clothes wearing American "weirdo" with a clog-prone shower drain. Whatever, there are some areas in life where "progression" is not all it is cracked up to be.
And at least my shower does not induce hives. So I have that going for me.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Solo-Operator
My husband left France a few weeks ago to return to the states for work. His absence has resulted in a slew of unpleasant self-revelations regarding my ineptitude as a solo operator. I really thought, delusional though it now seems, that I was quite an independent, self-sufficient human being. While I love my husband beyond measure--and I also love the friendship, partnership, and co-conspiratorship our relationship provides--I had thought all of those things to simply be complementary bonuses to my already "whole" being.
Not so much. As it turns out, without him I can barely function as a member of society.
This year has been marked by such humbling revelations.
A small example: about two weeks after he left, I realized that the shower in our apartment was completely clogging up--to the point where I would be standing in a pool of non-draining water within just a couple of minutes of my washing-up process. The shower itself is about 2 feet by 2 feet which sounds claustrophobically small and ridiculous because it is both of those things. But there is evidently some construction/design clause for all bathrooms in France which erroneously was written under the belief that anyone who enters a shower stall is suddenly reduced to midget proportions, thus showers must all be smaller than the average high-school locker. Do the French think that water shrinks people? Not sure how it came to fruition, and even less clear on how most people are even ABLE to shower in those tiny lil' cabinets. I am not a large person. AND I do yoga. And it is darn difficult for me--my elbows are perpetually bruised. My poor brother, who has sort of ridiculously huge feet, really had a pickle of a time when he visited.
ANWAY...Given the minute size of the cubicle in which I clean myself, it takes less than five minutes for the entire basin to fill up to the brim. Since I do not want the bottom to overflow onto the floor and then possibly cause permanent water damage and/or leak into the apartment below, I shower in about three minutes. Now my elbows are really bruised: speed is the enemy of precision, people.
Not wanting to bother my husband with this household issue since he has plenty on his mind with his new work project, I initially asked a girlfriend of mine here what she thought I ought to do. She was wondefully supportive (as she always is), and told me that she too suffered from that very problem. So I asked her what she did and she suggested pouring a bunch of Drano (or the Frenchie equivalent) down the pipes and voila! problem solved. Or at least alleviated somewhat.
Or at least for about a week or two, at which point she just repeats the process again. And so on.
Before leaping into this plumbing venture, I told my husband about my "Mrs. Fix It" plans--just to get his stamp of approval. He paused for sort of a long time before saying: "Well, yes. You could do that," in a slow voice that suggested it was not at all what he would do. So I asked him what I should really do.
So he says: "Well, if you really want to fix the problem, then you have to pull the entire drain out. There are three parts, so just detach them from one another and de-clog and clean each part. It will be pretty gross though, so wear gloves. There are some under the sink in the kitchen."
We hung up and I went to work. I would be lying if I told you that while I was pulling on the plastic gloves I did not glance longingly at the Drano on the counter.
Well, oh my golly gee yuckaboo. That was the GRODIEST task ever. Whatever was clogged in those three pieces of drain was the narstiest gunk of all time. And here I thought I was quite a clean person. Add another item to the list of self-delusions!
Post yuck-bucket festival 2011, I called my husband back to tell him what transpired. At some point during my exciting play-by-play, I proclaimed something like: "Ugh!! Of course the plumbing issue happens AFTER you leave."
You know because I obviously would not have been the one dealing with it if he were here. What is wrong with me?
Realizing I sounded like a jerk, I tried self-correction of a more generous sort: "But at least YOU did not have to deal with it! Isn't it weird though, that the drain was fine all year and then as soon as you go--boom! It's all backed up?"
He paused for a long time. Too long of a time.
Then he goes, "Maggie, the shower has not backed up because I have been cleaning that shower drain every week for the past year."
WHATTTTTTTTT?
Why the poor guy has not filed for divorce is beyond me. If you saw the grodie gunktastic goo, you would also agree he had solid grounds for desertion.
Then it struck me that that there are so many ways he makes our life smoother. The internet acts up and I am utterly ineffectual. Trying to navigate trains/buses in new territory takes me about six times as long as it takes him (and I make about 12 times more errors). The woman at the grocery store even asked where he was and since she likes no one on the planet, I have to imagine that her inquiry was less about her interest in his whereabouts and more based in her concern that I ought not to be let loose on the world without the supervision he provides. So I may "speak" French, but he is the really brains and brawn (and beauty for that matter) behind the operation that is our life in France. Or anywhere for that matter. Humbling indeed.
On this blog, I share so much about the trials and tribulations involved with living an "ex-pat" life in Paris. Imagine what sort of disasters would have befallen me without the help of a trusted and competent partner? I shudder to think. Though YOU may have been gypped; things could have gotten very entertaining for you the spectator. Everyone loves a train wreck, just look at how pop-tastic that Jersey Shore crew is.
But being independent is also a great thing. Or trying to be independent, maybe is a more accurate assessment of my current state. It is such an important part of life to learn how to depend on yourself, or to re-learn how to do so. And it is empowering in the same way that conquering a new language or a new culture can be. So, just like I am enjoying the social experiment that is life in France, I am also enjoying these less culturally-centric self-discoveries. While also wondering how I ever escaped being sent to remedial school.
Next time I'll tell you about how I ALMOST completely and utterly solved the problem of the shower forever. ALL BY MYSELF! It is an intriguing tale that involves naked French peeps. Now I have your attention, don't I?
Not so much. As it turns out, without him I can barely function as a member of society.
This year has been marked by such humbling revelations.
A small example: about two weeks after he left, I realized that the shower in our apartment was completely clogging up--to the point where I would be standing in a pool of non-draining water within just a couple of minutes of my washing-up process. The shower itself is about 2 feet by 2 feet which sounds claustrophobically small and ridiculous because it is both of those things. But there is evidently some construction/design clause for all bathrooms in France which erroneously was written under the belief that anyone who enters a shower stall is suddenly reduced to midget proportions, thus showers must all be smaller than the average high-school locker. Do the French think that water shrinks people? Not sure how it came to fruition, and even less clear on how most people are even ABLE to shower in those tiny lil' cabinets. I am not a large person. AND I do yoga. And it is darn difficult for me--my elbows are perpetually bruised. My poor brother, who has sort of ridiculously huge feet, really had a pickle of a time when he visited.
ANWAY...Given the minute size of the cubicle in which I clean myself, it takes less than five minutes for the entire basin to fill up to the brim. Since I do not want the bottom to overflow onto the floor and then possibly cause permanent water damage and/or leak into the apartment below, I shower in about three minutes. Now my elbows are really bruised: speed is the enemy of precision, people.
Not wanting to bother my husband with this household issue since he has plenty on his mind with his new work project, I initially asked a girlfriend of mine here what she thought I ought to do. She was wondefully supportive (as she always is), and told me that she too suffered from that very problem. So I asked her what she did and she suggested pouring a bunch of Drano (or the Frenchie equivalent) down the pipes and voila! problem solved. Or at least alleviated somewhat.
Or at least for about a week or two, at which point she just repeats the process again. And so on.
Before leaping into this plumbing venture, I told my husband about my "Mrs. Fix It" plans--just to get his stamp of approval. He paused for sort of a long time before saying: "Well, yes. You could do that," in a slow voice that suggested it was not at all what he would do. So I asked him what I should really do.
So he says: "Well, if you really want to fix the problem, then you have to pull the entire drain out. There are three parts, so just detach them from one another and de-clog and clean each part. It will be pretty gross though, so wear gloves. There are some under the sink in the kitchen."
We hung up and I went to work. I would be lying if I told you that while I was pulling on the plastic gloves I did not glance longingly at the Drano on the counter.
Well, oh my golly gee yuckaboo. That was the GRODIEST task ever. Whatever was clogged in those three pieces of drain was the narstiest gunk of all time. And here I thought I was quite a clean person. Add another item to the list of self-delusions!
Post yuck-bucket festival 2011, I called my husband back to tell him what transpired. At some point during my exciting play-by-play, I proclaimed something like: "Ugh!! Of course the plumbing issue happens AFTER you leave."
You know because I obviously would not have been the one dealing with it if he were here. What is wrong with me?
Realizing I sounded like a jerk, I tried self-correction of a more generous sort: "But at least YOU did not have to deal with it! Isn't it weird though, that the drain was fine all year and then as soon as you go--boom! It's all backed up?"
He paused for a long time. Too long of a time.
Then he goes, "Maggie, the shower has not backed up because I have been cleaning that shower drain every week for the past year."
WHATTTTTTTTT?
Why the poor guy has not filed for divorce is beyond me. If you saw the grodie gunktastic goo, you would also agree he had solid grounds for desertion.
Then it struck me that that there are so many ways he makes our life smoother. The internet acts up and I am utterly ineffectual. Trying to navigate trains/buses in new territory takes me about six times as long as it takes him (and I make about 12 times more errors). The woman at the grocery store even asked where he was and since she likes no one on the planet, I have to imagine that her inquiry was less about her interest in his whereabouts and more based in her concern that I ought not to be let loose on the world without the supervision he provides. So I may "speak" French, but he is the really brains and brawn (and beauty for that matter) behind the operation that is our life in France. Or anywhere for that matter. Humbling indeed.
On this blog, I share so much about the trials and tribulations involved with living an "ex-pat" life in Paris. Imagine what sort of disasters would have befallen me without the help of a trusted and competent partner? I shudder to think. Though YOU may have been gypped; things could have gotten very entertaining for you the spectator. Everyone loves a train wreck, just look at how pop-tastic that Jersey Shore crew is.
But being independent is also a great thing. Or trying to be independent, maybe is a more accurate assessment of my current state. It is such an important part of life to learn how to depend on yourself, or to re-learn how to do so. And it is empowering in the same way that conquering a new language or a new culture can be. So, just like I am enjoying the social experiment that is life in France, I am also enjoying these less culturally-centric self-discoveries. While also wondering how I ever escaped being sent to remedial school.
Next time I'll tell you about how I ALMOST completely and utterly solved the problem of the shower forever. ALL BY MYSELF! It is an intriguing tale that involves naked French peeps. Now I have your attention, don't I?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Adventures in Normandy
You may remember from a previous post, but in early spring, while some of our dear friends were visiting us from the states, we visited Utah and Omaha Beaches, the American cemetary and the amazing WWII museum in Caen. All of these sites are located in the northeastern pays of France known as Normandy. While that experience was incredibly moving and eye-opening, it also afforded a glimpse at some tremendous landscapes, and I had therefore been eager to return to the vicinity.
Thus, I just returned from a five-day trip through parts of Normandy. Normandy, you may wish to note, is not an area that is especially easy to explore via public transportation. The one day I spent eight hours riding four different trains, two buses, and one taxi to make a trip that ought to have taken about two and half hours in a car can attest to that fact. However, this stringing together of public transportation/wasting hours of time waiting in train stations was the best option for someone like me.
And by "someone like me", I mean someone who does not know how to drive a standard transmissioned car (renting an automatic is about three times more expensive and thus, on principle alone, ridiculous) and who also unfailingly believes that when the GPS lady says, in her crisp and precise language, to bear right in 300 meters, I am sure what she really means is that I must turn right immediately. Even if there is no right to be had.
Cut to me panicking, frantically trying to figure out how to turn the hazard lights on, usually only succeeding in making the windshield wipers go full tilt, sweating, and crying because the "stupid GPS lady" made me lost.
In any case, all this public transport may have resulted in my over-meeting my yearly quota for vending machine coffee and in my having to share a bench (or six) too many with local riff-raff, but at least I saved myself quite a bit of both stress and gas money (all that getting lost/being lead astray by the GPS lady can really drain the tank). And--bonus alert--I also saved Europcar from having to replace a transmission on one of their rental Renaults. Well, hello silver lining!
So this time around in Normandy, I went to Honfleur, the coastal town that is known by some as the "birthplace of impressionism", with a good friend of mine. I then travelled on to St. Malo and Le Mont St. Michel solo. Honfleur is an adorable little harbor town, and we did what I imagine most people do whilst there: ate seafood, drank wine, walked around the harbor and the surrounding hills, and relaxed.
Oh, and I took a bunch of photographs of cows. Mostly because they were there, but also because they seemed to enjoy posing.
Despite its reputation, there are no impressionist museums in Honfleur, nor many art galleries of any sort, nor anyone sitting around painting the harbor. If you were hoping I would follow up the mentioning of the town's venerable nickname with proof as to its deservedness, I am sorry to disappoint you.
We ate an especially delicious meal one night at a place called "Le P'tit Mareyeur," which is not situated on the overly touristy, over-priced old harbor, but is only about two minutes away. The menu boasts that the staff is not just a bunch of 25 year olds and that it is a serious, family-run, business. I see nothing wrong with 25-year-old servers, especially since I was one, but I see their point. The food was extraordinary--we both had seafood--exquisitely presented, and accompanied by a delicious Sancerre that was crisp and fruity and fantastic. I could go into the details of our dishes, but I have so much confidence that you would absolutely adore your meal, that I will just send you there with no hesitation.
That is, if you happen to be planning a trip to Honfleur; if you are only spending a weekend in Paris, it would be stupidly out of the way to go there for dinner. But if you do happen to be planning a visit to Normandy, I would definitely recommend you stop in this sweet little place for a day or two, and try that particular resto for a meal.
Moving on...during the solo portion of my trip, three major things transpired. One involves an egg, one involves manipulation by bus, and one involves a humanistic tragedy. The latter two are somewhat linked.
I will preface the details to the aforementioned by stating that St. Malo is an incredible place. It is a walled city, located on the coast, essentially on the line between the Normandy and Brittany regions of France. It is so charming you almost cannot stand it. I could stand it, and you could too for that matter, but it is fun to be extreme at times. The beaches just outside the city walls are gorgeous---the color of the water is a very light aquamarine. If you go there, you might want to eat a crepe, a regional pastry treat called a ker-y-pom, and most definitely indulge in some seafood.
Now about my three events.
#1: The egg. I ate breakfast at my hotel only because it was POURING rain outside and wandering the streets in search of food under such climatically disastrous conditions seemed a self-masochistic choice. Yes, even more so than spending 12 euro on a hotel breakfast that, at best, could be described as "fine." So at this "fine" breakfast, they had this egg tree sitting on the table, next to the toaster, a large panier of bread, and a basket of jams. There were eggs all perched into this little tree, and I assumed that they were hard-boiled.
The fact that there was a vat of bubbling water on that same table did not really strike me as odd, mostly because barely anything strikes me as odd these days. I did make a mental note that a cauldron of openly boiling water would never fly at a United States breakfast bar. Umm, can anyone say lawsuit?
As it happens, the purpose of the boiling water was not purely decorative. I found this factoid out when I sat back at my table and cracked my egg on the side of the plate only to find out that it was not hard-boiled at all. It was just raw. Yup, raw.
There I sat, with a raw egg all over my table.
There was a table of three French ladies sitting in front of me and they all sort of turned and ogled me. They made disgusted faces and glared at me as though I had a communicable disease and was happily sneezing all over their food. It was really comforting, that Frenchie support.
I think that this sort of scenario would actually have been really funny had I not been alone. Alone it was mortifying. Especially when the waitress came by my table, stared at the eggy mess, and immediately turned around to clear an already entirely cleared table.
Such a boost to self-esteem, that "fine" breakfast was.
#2: Manipulation by bus. Post-eggy breakfast disaster, I took a bus to see Le Mont St. Michel, a famous abby that was first established in the 8th century, and is a symbol of fortitude and natural beauty. It has been a site for religous pilgrimages for almost as long as it has existed and has been listed as a UNESCO world heritage site since the 1970's. Anyway, it is pretty famous, so you might want to look it up and be wowed by the pictures.
There are two buses per day that travel from St. Malo to Le Mont St. Michel. One leaves at 9.30 in the morning and the other at 9.50. Both get you to the Mont around 11. In the afternoon, one return bus picks you up at 3.50 and the other at 4 pm.
I have no idea why these buses are so close together in terms of their time tables, but the world is not a sensical place, so whatever. And, in case your math is a bit slow: no matter how you shake the dice, if you are traveling by bus, then you are required to stay at Le Mont for five hours.
Five hours is too much time when it takes less than 1.5 hours to thoroughly tour the abbey, and 30 minutes to fully circumnavigate the ramparts. Add in lunch, and the whole affair takes 3.5 hours. MAX.
What does one do for the remaining 1.5 hours? Well if one is me, then one spends the majority of the time squeezing down the streets, being jostled between the various Japanese tour groups and German tourists, drinking botttled water that costs as much as a down payment on a house, and marveling at all the overpriced crap-tastic jumk in all the souvenir shops. And then one becomes a bit incensed thinking about the marketing ploy into which one was so blatantly ensnared: that bus KNEW I would have time to "kill". Thus, the whole enterprise is engineered to snag tourist dollars by essentially forcing us poor bus travelers to buy chotchkes since we have nothing else to do with our time besides trying to avoid being stabbed in the toe by German walking sticks. Manipulation by bus: there you have it.
#3 Humanistic Tragedy: So Le Mont St. Michel is beyond beautiful in photos and in theory. Really captivating, majestic, ethereal. But then the reality of it is a parking lot with hundreds of HUGE tour buses, so many shops selling all overpriced junk, restaurants serving food that ranges from fried ick to decent fare, and all those PEOPLE. Good golly. It could have been amazing, instead it was a humanistic tragedy.
I did see some cows on the bus ride back though. You know me: always a silver lining.
Thus, I just returned from a five-day trip through parts of Normandy. Normandy, you may wish to note, is not an area that is especially easy to explore via public transportation. The one day I spent eight hours riding four different trains, two buses, and one taxi to make a trip that ought to have taken about two and half hours in a car can attest to that fact. However, this stringing together of public transportation/wasting hours of time waiting in train stations was the best option for someone like me.
And by "someone like me", I mean someone who does not know how to drive a standard transmissioned car (renting an automatic is about three times more expensive and thus, on principle alone, ridiculous) and who also unfailingly believes that when the GPS lady says, in her crisp and precise language, to bear right in 300 meters, I am sure what she really means is that I must turn right immediately. Even if there is no right to be had.
Cut to me panicking, frantically trying to figure out how to turn the hazard lights on, usually only succeeding in making the windshield wipers go full tilt, sweating, and crying because the "stupid GPS lady" made me lost.
In any case, all this public transport may have resulted in my over-meeting my yearly quota for vending machine coffee and in my having to share a bench (or six) too many with local riff-raff, but at least I saved myself quite a bit of both stress and gas money (all that getting lost/being lead astray by the GPS lady can really drain the tank). And--bonus alert--I also saved Europcar from having to replace a transmission on one of their rental Renaults. Well, hello silver lining!
So this time around in Normandy, I went to Honfleur, the coastal town that is known by some as the "birthplace of impressionism", with a good friend of mine. I then travelled on to St. Malo and Le Mont St. Michel solo. Honfleur is an adorable little harbor town, and we did what I imagine most people do whilst there: ate seafood, drank wine, walked around the harbor and the surrounding hills, and relaxed.
Oh, and I took a bunch of photographs of cows. Mostly because they were there, but also because they seemed to enjoy posing.
Despite its reputation, there are no impressionist museums in Honfleur, nor many art galleries of any sort, nor anyone sitting around painting the harbor. If you were hoping I would follow up the mentioning of the town's venerable nickname with proof as to its deservedness, I am sorry to disappoint you.
We ate an especially delicious meal one night at a place called "Le P'tit Mareyeur," which is not situated on the overly touristy, over-priced old harbor, but is only about two minutes away. The menu boasts that the staff is not just a bunch of 25 year olds and that it is a serious, family-run, business. I see nothing wrong with 25-year-old servers, especially since I was one, but I see their point. The food was extraordinary--we both had seafood--exquisitely presented, and accompanied by a delicious Sancerre that was crisp and fruity and fantastic. I could go into the details of our dishes, but I have so much confidence that you would absolutely adore your meal, that I will just send you there with no hesitation.
That is, if you happen to be planning a trip to Honfleur; if you are only spending a weekend in Paris, it would be stupidly out of the way to go there for dinner. But if you do happen to be planning a visit to Normandy, I would definitely recommend you stop in this sweet little place for a day or two, and try that particular resto for a meal.
Moving on...during the solo portion of my trip, three major things transpired. One involves an egg, one involves manipulation by bus, and one involves a humanistic tragedy. The latter two are somewhat linked.
I will preface the details to the aforementioned by stating that St. Malo is an incredible place. It is a walled city, located on the coast, essentially on the line between the Normandy and Brittany regions of France. It is so charming you almost cannot stand it. I could stand it, and you could too for that matter, but it is fun to be extreme at times. The beaches just outside the city walls are gorgeous---the color of the water is a very light aquamarine. If you go there, you might want to eat a crepe, a regional pastry treat called a ker-y-pom, and most definitely indulge in some seafood.
Now about my three events.
#1: The egg. I ate breakfast at my hotel only because it was POURING rain outside and wandering the streets in search of food under such climatically disastrous conditions seemed a self-masochistic choice. Yes, even more so than spending 12 euro on a hotel breakfast that, at best, could be described as "fine." So at this "fine" breakfast, they had this egg tree sitting on the table, next to the toaster, a large panier of bread, and a basket of jams. There were eggs all perched into this little tree, and I assumed that they were hard-boiled.
The fact that there was a vat of bubbling water on that same table did not really strike me as odd, mostly because barely anything strikes me as odd these days. I did make a mental note that a cauldron of openly boiling water would never fly at a United States breakfast bar. Umm, can anyone say lawsuit?
As it happens, the purpose of the boiling water was not purely decorative. I found this factoid out when I sat back at my table and cracked my egg on the side of the plate only to find out that it was not hard-boiled at all. It was just raw. Yup, raw.
There I sat, with a raw egg all over my table.
There was a table of three French ladies sitting in front of me and they all sort of turned and ogled me. They made disgusted faces and glared at me as though I had a communicable disease and was happily sneezing all over their food. It was really comforting, that Frenchie support.
I think that this sort of scenario would actually have been really funny had I not been alone. Alone it was mortifying. Especially when the waitress came by my table, stared at the eggy mess, and immediately turned around to clear an already entirely cleared table.
Such a boost to self-esteem, that "fine" breakfast was.
#2: Manipulation by bus. Post-eggy breakfast disaster, I took a bus to see Le Mont St. Michel, a famous abby that was first established in the 8th century, and is a symbol of fortitude and natural beauty. It has been a site for religous pilgrimages for almost as long as it has existed and has been listed as a UNESCO world heritage site since the 1970's. Anyway, it is pretty famous, so you might want to look it up and be wowed by the pictures.
There are two buses per day that travel from St. Malo to Le Mont St. Michel. One leaves at 9.30 in the morning and the other at 9.50. Both get you to the Mont around 11. In the afternoon, one return bus picks you up at 3.50 and the other at 4 pm.
I have no idea why these buses are so close together in terms of their time tables, but the world is not a sensical place, so whatever. And, in case your math is a bit slow: no matter how you shake the dice, if you are traveling by bus, then you are required to stay at Le Mont for five hours.
Five hours is too much time when it takes less than 1.5 hours to thoroughly tour the abbey, and 30 minutes to fully circumnavigate the ramparts. Add in lunch, and the whole affair takes 3.5 hours. MAX.
What does one do for the remaining 1.5 hours? Well if one is me, then one spends the majority of the time squeezing down the streets, being jostled between the various Japanese tour groups and German tourists, drinking botttled water that costs as much as a down payment on a house, and marveling at all the overpriced crap-tastic jumk in all the souvenir shops. And then one becomes a bit incensed thinking about the marketing ploy into which one was so blatantly ensnared: that bus KNEW I would have time to "kill". Thus, the whole enterprise is engineered to snag tourist dollars by essentially forcing us poor bus travelers to buy chotchkes since we have nothing else to do with our time besides trying to avoid being stabbed in the toe by German walking sticks. Manipulation by bus: there you have it.
#3 Humanistic Tragedy: So Le Mont St. Michel is beyond beautiful in photos and in theory. Really captivating, majestic, ethereal. But then the reality of it is a parking lot with hundreds of HUGE tour buses, so many shops selling all overpriced junk, restaurants serving food that ranges from fried ick to decent fare, and all those PEOPLE. Good golly. It could have been amazing, instead it was a humanistic tragedy.
I did see some cows on the bus ride back though. You know me: always a silver lining.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
