Les Schubertiades contemporains

In my opinion, there is only one accurate barometer for measuring how native one looks in a certain city or country : how many people ask you for directions. When I moved to New York for the summer, after a month or so someone asked me how to get to Wall Street. I wasn’t sure how she thought I would know, as I don’t strike many people as the investment banker-type; in fact, according to my directions, she ended up somewhere in Turtle Bay. However, I had fooled her into thinking I knew, and that gave me no small amount of pleasure. I was a real New Yorker.

Imagine my surprise when someone asked me, after I had spent all of three days in France, where the nearest Métro station was. I was startled, but blurted the answer in almost-coherent French, then scampered away lest he call me out for the American I was. How did this mistake occur? I was wearing what I like to think of as a Parisian outfit, so that’s my current theory. The coat I borrowed from Danielle simply screams chic.

However, following this exchange, I stopped in “Le Phone Shack” to buy a cell phone. Seeing as I know nothing about cell phones in my own country, I was prepared for an ordeal. I had brought all my papers, addresses, telephone numbers, meticulously labeled in the best French I could muster. I figured that these would not be needed, however, as it is widely known that the French will quickly switch to English if they detect a hint of the étranger. I entered the Shack, greeted the two men at the counter, and looked for phones with prepaid-by-the-minute SIM cards. In less than 15 minutes, I had my new phone after an exchange completely in French. It may be my proudest moment to date.

It still might have been the coat, though. That thing can unite the world through fashion.

* * *

Sunday, my mere d’accueil brought me to the apartment of her friend, who was hosting a musical fête of sorts. Pascale had hired two well-known professional pianists from the area, and encouraged the musical amateurs in the group to play, sing, chaque à son métier. After listening to Brahms, Liszt, Chopin, Mozart, and Offenbach, popular song lyrics appeared at each table with champagne and desserts. The room rang with the sound of Edith Piaf and Charles Trenet.

I turned to the man next to me, engrossed in “Au Champs-Elysées,” and attempted to grace him with my music major knowledge. “You know,” I reported in French, “Schubert’s contemporaries had evenings kind of like this, with not just professionals but everyone participating. It was the rise of the musical amateur.”

The man responded with a look of kind acknowledgement. “Of course,” he said in English. “Here we call those people Schubertiades.”

In retrospect, I should have known how common such an idea would be here. Music and art inundates peoples’ lives as if it were still the 19^th century. However, there are still moments that jar me into the present. This morning, a musician, clearly a popular regular from the immediate response he garnered, boarded the Métro. “Normally, I sing the classics,” he said. “But today I felt like something different.” Then he began “Angels.” The Jessica Simpson version.