Les gaucheries

Much of this blog seems to center around my awkward interactions and situations in France. This is due to the fact that, despite my impressive track record at home, somehow the language barrier and cultural differences only add to the many diverse displays of ineptitude I experience in the U.S. Surely, I think to myself, I am not the sole cause of these gaucheries. This is why I have come to ask myself to repeated question: is it me, or is it French?

My Franco-Algerian friend, Yanis, constantly points out my eccentricities – whether he does so outright by telling me so or simply highlights my own awkwardness by being his carefully put-together self, peu importe. He shows me his favorite dim-lit bars; I show him my multicolor carnival-carted crepe stands. He wears Dior; I wear Delia’s (but only pajamas that I bought when I was 11, don’t judge). He speaks four languages; I barely speak two. When discussing his knowledge of Arabic slang, I accidentally called the language “arabique,” trying to disguise my ignorance by Frenchify the English word instead of using the French “arabe.” I also inadvertently call him a girl multiple times, by using feminine versions of adjectives rather than masculine. “Tu est trop curieuse! You are such a curious … girl.”

Yanis insists that these mistakes add to my American charm. However, things can’t help but get awkward when I confuse two very non-confusable words. Baiser, in traditional French, means “to kiss” or “a kiss.” However, in today’s parlance, it has instead acquired a new meaning: “to fuck” or “a fuck.” Faire les bisous, instead, means “to kiss.” The French seem to revel is this sexual ambiguity; after all, there is no distinction between “I like you” (Je t’aime) and “I love you” (Je t’aime), a difference which Americans pick apart and which almost single-handedly generated the material of Sex and the City; the untimely appearance of the former, whether too early or too late, can end entire relationships. It’s somewhat refreshing to experience a culture that could care less about these details; it is less refreshing to accidently ask about your companion’s propensity for fucking in public.

Conclusion: It’s me.

I returned from a long weekend in Dublin earlier this month without the keys to my apartment; two new students were moving in while I was gone and I didn’t have a spare set to keep for myself. I arrived with my luggage looking pretty bedraggled. Unlike my fellow Parisian travelers, with their matching Louis Vuitton luggage sets, I don’t travel well. I always wear my most comfortable (read: grungiest) clothes for flights, I don’t shower the day of (what’s the point?), and my now nine-year-old suitcase is bright yellow so that I can spot it as soon as possible. The picture of elegance, I rang the doorbell for the landlady, Olivia, who had a key I could borrow.

Instead, an elderly man answered the door. I tensed. Olivia knew me and my language flaws, but I couldn’t help but think that a stranger would be that amenable to turning over the keys to a posh apartment to an unkempt foreigner. I started to ask anyway.

“Um, hello, I live in the Lauru apartment and I’m wondering if I could borrow the keys?”

“What?” Not encouraging.

“The keys? To borrow? I am an American student and there are now other students?”

“I don’t understand.” AH, damn it. I started rattling off possibly useful words, hoping that they would trigger some neural pathway that would put them together in a logical and sensible way, if brains even work like that.

“Keys. Students. Apartment. Suitcase. Olivia?”

The man shrugged, but shuffled over to the phone and rang Olivia. I felt like an utter failure. While we were waiting for her to arrive, he gestured to his ears. “I’m sorry,” he said. “These aren’t so good anymore. I’m calling the landlady; maybe she can help you.” When Olivia showed up, apologizing for her husband’s deafness, I received the keys immediately.

Conclusion: Not me!

As the two new students were staying in my old room, my host mother moved me, for my last few days, into the one of the building’s chambres de bonne, tiny rooms on the top floor that were once used as maid’s quarters and that tenants now use as storage space. Upon my arrival, I cased the space. Among the suitcases and old furniture, there was a bed, a lamp, an electrical outlet, a hand-lettered poster reading “Why drink and drive when you can smoke and fly?” – seemingly everything I needed. However, when I returned to the room that night, I discovered that there was, in fact, no electricity in the room, rendering the lamp and outlet useless. I solved this problem by turning the hallway light on multiple times (it stayed on for 2 minutes each time I turned it on) and leaving my door open; I then went on a search for a sink or shower. Discovering a possible bathroom, I attempted to turn on the light switch, but after multiple attempts pressing the button I discovered that the light was controlled by a turning knob, which I attempted to turn multiple ways (well, two) before I gave up. I then found a sink that looked like it dated around the turn of the century (20^th, that is); when I tried to turn on the tap, the handle promptly fell off.

During these wanderings, I kept turning the hallway light on, which created a lot of noise for some reason. While I was inspecting the sink, I heard a “Hello?” from down the hall. I froze, worried that a resident of the building had heard me and would discover that I was probably breaking the law and a million safety codes by living in this attic. Instead, a woman dressed in traditional African garb emerged from another one of the rooms from which emanated the sound of static-y TV. “Can I help you?”

Already tired, frustrated, and confused, I attempted to put my thoughts together. “Oh, um, hi. I’m –“ I realized the situation was way too complicated to explain at this late hour, so I simplified. “I’m living here. Is there a sink?” I was worried that this woman might turn me in to the cops; then I realized – she had a TV up here? She actually WAS living here? In these cell-sized rooms with no running water? Illegally? The woman explained that no, there was no sink, but I could use bottled water to brush my teeth. I thanked her and locked myself in my unlit room, where I navigated brushing my teeth and washing my face by proprioception.

The next morning, I awoke to find a note pushed under my door. It was from “your neighbors, Gwandoya and J-P,” the latter’s initials probably standing for one of the omnipresent French double names like “Jean-Paul,” “Jean-Pierre,” … – wait, there are TWO people living in that room? My shock was tempered by the note’s contents, apparently a list of rules they made up for people squatting in chambres de bonne. Apparently, I had already broken two of these rules (no spitting in the ancient sink, no turning on the lights multiple times at night) as well as the bathroom light knob (oops). I resolved this fact by always returning to the room after 1 a.m. when Gwandoya was asleep.

Conclusion: I’m still confused by this entire situation.

After my exams were over, my friend Michelle and I took a trip to Dublin for a long weekend. I adored it. We ate amazing food, we sat in cafés drinking tea for entire afternoons, we lay in the sun on St. Stephen’s Green, we danced for hours in underground clubs. But what I liked most about Dublin was the friendliness of everyone we met. I started to feel guilty. Did I really like Dublin better than Paris? Had I chosen the wrong place to study abroad? Was my love of the city just due to the familiar language and the short vacation-like nature of my stay, or was it really me?

Conclusion: I’m still debating this one, but what I do know is that upon my return to Paris, it felt strangely, unbelievably like home.

L'informel

From what I can discern, Americans have this perception of Parisians as being very haute couture, very chic, very formal. On our first day of orientation, our French program directors propagated this notion. French families, they said, were often far more formal than American families; parents are addressed by the formal pronoun, bedroom doors are always kept closed, and one never wears sweatpants to dinner. My friend’s host mother, a Countess whose family castle is visible on postcards throughout their house, once patted my friend on the head as she was leaving for class – not out of fondness, but to make sure her hair was dry before she went out in public.

Burping, admittedly frowned upon at home, is a punishable offense here. Another friend of mine accidently burped at the dinner table (sometimes it just has to happen), and her host brothers have been critiquing her for it ever since, trying to subtly work the loveable nickname “Burpy” into every conversation (they are 15 and 22). Personally, I hadn’t realized this phenomenon until I was buying a bag of apples at Monoprix, and the cashier burped almost imperceptibly. I looked up, startled by the first burp I had heard in 4 months, and our eyes met. She blushed and giggled, handing me the apples and wishing me an overly enthusiastic “bonne journée” – suspicious behavior, as Monoprix cashiers never giggle but rather berate me for not having exact change, and that day I was paying with a 50.

But there are a few things for which the stereotype just doesn’t hold true:

1. The Opera

Although daily dress is generally much more formal than the equivalent American wear, the French don’t dress up to go to the Opera. When I think Opera, I think tuxes, champagne, the pages of my neighborhood’s ridiculously-named society magazine, Gentry. Here, think upscale baseball game. I went to see Le Barbier de Séville a week ago at Opéra Bastille, one of the two grandest venues in France, and was confronted with trucker hats and jeans (albeit very nice jeans). During the intermission, those who hadn’t had dinner scarfed down boxed sandwiches, the kind that you see in vending machines and wonder how long they’ve been sitting there. While I will always wear a dress to the opera (sometimes I like to get dressed up, okay?), it’s kind of refreshing that the opera does not seem as stigmatized as being for an upper-crust elite. I welcome the trucker-hatted.

2. Classes

This one really shocked me, as I had been told that classes were, in fact, conducted much more formally than at home. People never slouched in their seats, never spoke, and were never late – if you were, the teacher had the right to send you away. Lies. In my experience (and of course this is sure to be a generalization), classes are much more informal than those at home. Large groups arrive late with no consequence. People constantly talk over the lecture. The most formal thing people do is to organize all their pencils in little leather pencil cases.

On April Fool’s Day, three boys in my music history class spent the entire two hours cutting out and coloring poissons d’avril – paper fish that children stick on each other’s backs as a joke. They then, of course, proceeded to stick them on people’s backs, including that of a 70-year-old woman who is auditing the course – all while the professor was still talking. On Thursday, our professor announced that we were going to take a 5 minute break, at which point the majority of the students left – for 25 minutes. There was no point in continuing the class while so many students were gone; my professor just sat at his desk, stared at his watch, slumped in his chair and sighed.

3. Sexual Harassment

Maybe it’s the politically-correct, lawsuit-filled culture that we’re so used to, but I was amazed by what I observed on a recent visit to the Louvre. Backstory: I had visited the Louvre a few times prior to this, thanks to my card that claims I am an art history student. On my first trip, the guard checked my card and said, “Ah, mais votre nom est très français!” As I have a very French last name (one of the benefits of Canadian ancestry), I get this a lot, so I smiled habitually and was about to move on when he said, “Your picture is very nice too.” I was puzzled by this. First of all, the picture on my card was horrible; they take it with a webcam in the Louvre offices when you apply for the card, and had been in the middle of saying something when it went off (however, this is still better than one of my high school ID photos, in which I was captured mid-sneeze). Secondly, this was a Louvre security guard on the job! In the U.S., I could sue him for less. Still, it didn’t really bother me, so I laughed it off and looked at Gericault.

Skip forward three months, and I’m back at the Louvre, this time prepared to take on the Flemish paintings floor. I get out my card and am prepared to flash it at the guard and walk on by, when the guard takes me card out of my hand and says, “Nicole Villeneuve! C’est vous!”

What?

It was the same guard. He gave me a huge smile, and winked. “Remember me? I am so happy now that you are here!” Uh-huh. I hold my hand out for my card.

“I am single! And you?” This is a guard at the Louvre. I am being hit on in the most celebrated museum in the entire world. I don’t know why this bothered me so much: if it really was the “harassment” or if it was purely the clashing of two opposite worlds: high culture and bar pick-up. What would seem normal in a club now, in the museum’s marble halls, felt uncomfortable and crass.

“No,” I responded. “No, I am not.” I took back my card as he told me how sad this news made him, walked upstairs, and stared at Rembrandts for hours.

La solitude

Although I was worried about many aspects of coming to Paris (Will I be able to make friends in another language? Will I be able to take exams in a foreign language? Will I even be able to buy food to keep myself alive – in a foreign language?), looking French wasn’t one of them. Sure, my fashion sense might need a little altering (my boots, scarves, and slouchy cotton dress collection has mysteriously tripled), but I figured I would fit in at least in a physical sense – after all, I am fairly thin and pale, and that’s all it takes, right? Wrong.

After spending and evening drinking cheap champagne in the apartment of a countess (they still exist), I was feeling pretty good as I got on the metro to go home. I began to let my mind wander, but unfortunately my eyes went along with it, and when we stopped at Châtelet I met the gaze of a man sitting at the station, a huge backpacking rucksack on the seat next to him. Bad move. He suddenly jumped onto the train as the doors were closing, dropped his backpack on the floor, and sat at my feet.

“Tu es rousse,” he said. “You are a redhead.”

Following this brilliant observation, this modern nomad proceeded to tell me about his previous girlfriends, many of whom were redheads and none of whom apparently liked him much. “You are very rare in Paris,” he said. “Every time I see one of you, it’s like … an apparition.”

“So,” he continued, “are you going home alone?”

As much as I disliked this encounter for its awkward, objectifying, and overly sexual nature, I hated it more for its spurring my realization that I just might not fit in the way I thought I did. Throughout the next few weeks, I would hear it on the streets: “Salut, la rousse!” Now that it had come to my attention, it was everywhere, a reminder that I would never be as Parisian as I might feel, a constant reminder of my own difference that was certainly not one of the many I had expected.

On my recent trip to Budapest, I had a similar sense of isolation when I realized, as I stepped off my “WizzAir” flight (Onomatopoeia is internationally recognized! This will be a great name for an airline!), that I didn’t know I single word of Hungarian. Usually, I like to know the words for please, thank you, and whatever you’re supposed to say when you bump someone accidently on the train, but “yes” and “no” are usually pretty intuitive. Not this time. Even the word for “yes” requires multiple syllables.

I treated this discovery with various remedies. When a woman on the street seemed to be commiserating with me about a bus that just cut us off, I smiled, laughed, nodded emphatically, and rolled my eyes in that knowing, “tell me about it” kind of way. When the clerk at the grocery store asked me something about the apple I was buying, I for some reason decided to grab my throat and pretend I was a mute. Somehow, I think she could see through this, but that was the end of the questions. When eating at a restaurant, my friends’ strategy was, when confronted with a garrulous Hungarian waiter, to wait for him to stop telling them what could have been the daily specials and then timidly respond, “…Hi?”

Before these events occurred, I thought that I had been making great strides to combat my fear of isolation. In high school, I was nervous about walking from my locker to class by myself, for fear of being forever marked as a loser. In Paris, I discovered how much I enjoyed doing things on my own. I could go to museums and only look at what I thought was interesting! I could go shopping and not wait for friends to try on things they ultimately would never buy! It was the end of caring about other peoples’ distasteful preferences! I even went to a concert alone, and although waiting for the band to start was rather painful (I can only pretend to be texting someone important for so long), when it started I was leaning casually against the wall, drink in hand, looking like an even bigger fan. “I am alone at your concert,” I wanted to say. “I don’t need other peoples’ validation or interest to like you. That’s just how much I care.”

But in Hungary, all possible forms of isolation came together when I was sitting alone at Café Pattaya, eating paprika chicken but unable to say “paprika chicken” or, for that matter, say hi to the waitress. To pass the time, I contemplated the food I had ordered (What makes tonic water taste so different from regular water?), then decided to write this blog entry (meta alert!) on a piece of notebook paper to look more productive and convince myself that I was doing the “Hemingway at La Closerie des Lilas” thing.

To me, Eating at Restaurants Alone has always been a rest stop on the way to Dying Alone Town. I first decided this in my freshman year of high school when I witnessed a man sitting alone and crying into his endless-refills bowl of pasta at our local all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant, Fresh Choice. The pathos was overwhelming. “I’ll never be like that!” I thought triumphantly, as I returned to my group of friends, who were in the midst of attaching their ponytails under their chins and pretending they had beards.

And I still haven’t been like that; my moments of solitude, so far, have been fairly self-induced. But part of me is excited to return to the U.S., where the language is easy and the redheads are plentiful. After all, too much isolation can get to a person. Paul Gauguin attempted suicide after his fruitless attempts to “fit in” in Tahiti. And that guy at Fresh Choice – well, that’s the stuff of nightmares.

La pub

Although I have already extolled the virtues of the Paris métro, the New York subway system does have one thing going for it: its poetry.

Riding the 4 uptown one day, I noticed that above my head, between tiled ads for Mitchum Man deodorant, there was an excerpt from “Sailing to Byzantium,” by Yeats. I don’t remember the exact passage now, but I believe it was the first stanza:

“That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.”

Intense, right? According to the MTA website for the program that puts up these poems, “Poetry in Motion,” this was up during all of 2007. I’m pretty sure movies take longer than a year to make, but I’ve convinced myself than the Coen brothers were inspired one day while riding the 4 train.

Apparently, Paris has a similar program, in which 2,500 Parisians entered their own poetry about their beloved city in a contest to be displayed in ads on the trains. Somehow, though, the poem I saw last night didn’t seem to inspire me too much.

"Une rue pavée dort
Nous sommes au matin
Personne n’est dehors
Ils ne sont pas malins"

(A paved street sleeps
It is morning
No one is outside
They’re not smart)

Sure, the translation sucks, but still, it’s no Yeats. It's not even Silverstein. Hell, it's grammatically incorrect.

Another thing about advertising here that bothers me is its blatant sexuality. When I got here, I wanted to embrace the fact that full-frontal nudity was displayed in magazine stands alongside Le Monde. “it’s so European,” I thought. “Why can’t we embrace our sexuality like that?”

Now I just feel dirty. Orangina has a new series of ads that are partout, featuring scantily-clad anthropomorphic animals with enhanced human sexual characteristics. Check out the bear with the six-pack and fig leaf, licking his lips salaciously. It just makes me feel uncomfortable, seeing animals this way. I think the U.S. does a cracking job of removing sex where it should be, and sanitizing things that are sexual. Here, it seems to be added to things that I never want to associate with sex. Like the zoo.

Les blagues

Before coming to Paris, I was worried that my lack of conversational French skills would impede me from getting to know people and making friends. Sure, I could analyze a work of literature, but how could I let people know the “real me” by talking about symbolist poetry? Or am I really only what I know about Mallarmé? I had an existential crisis on my hands, but had no way of talking about that in French, either.

Luckily, I shouldn’t have worried; there are lots of ways to communicate your personality through conversation in France (hint: speak English). What’s more, I think my personality is changing and adapting to its new environment – most notably, my sense of humor has transformed.

A few days ago, as I was riding the metro toward La Défense, a group of three eleven-year-old-ish boys ran on the train at Concorde. They pushed passed the other passengers to grab prime territory: a group of four seats, miraculously all recently vacated by ex-passengers of the crowded train. A minute later, as the blaring discordant minor-second alarm signaled the closing of the doors, another boy joined them.

“Hey, where were you? We thought we were going to leave without you,” his friends teased.

“J’ai laissé les gens passer,” he smirked. “I was letting people get off.” The implied “unlike you, heathens” was evident in his delivery.

“Ha ha!” I thought. I liked this kid’s style. Making fun of one’s friends is my game. I began active eavesdropping on the boys’ conversation, which now revolved around looking at pictures on a digital camera.

“Is that your sister that you told us about?” one boy asked my favorite one, who looked out the window, too cool to be there.

“Non, c’est ma meuf,” he said, poker-faced. “That’s my woman.”

“Ha ha!” I thought, happy I recognized the slang. This kid should be discovered! He should have a stand-up act! He should host SNL! He should have a spot on The Tonight Show! I ran out of things people do when they are famous comedians, so I returned to eavesdropping. Unfortunately, the boys were getting ready to depart.

“Charles de Gaulle – Étoile.” The recorded female voice routinely announced the upcoming stop in her perfect, mannered French.

“Charles de Gaulle – Étoile,” the comic genius repeated, imitating the same lilts and pauses that made the recorded voice sound so stilted.

“Ha ha!” I thought. I did that all the time, to practice my French (who knows when someone might want to know your favorite métro stop?). Now I couldn’t help but say it in the same way that I had heard so many times. How witty of this little kid to pick up on that!

Then I realized: calling your sister your wife? Not exactly Sedaris. These things weren’t funny. In French, I just have the sense of humor of a ten-year-old.

My boyfriend first pointed out that perhaps my differential perception of the two languages, English and French, is reflected in my reactions to them. For some reason, I find the sales pitches of the homeless on the subway at home tiresome, yet in Paris they are beautiful, lyrical, and with a sense of meter that rivals Shakespeare. It’s hard not to give a few centimes for a piece of poetry like that. Isaac, however, was skeptical.

“Are you sure you don’t just like it because, you know, you can understand it? And you’re excited about your ability to understand the language?”

I still believe that, whether it be the natural cadences of the language or the innate poetic talent of the Parisians SDF (sans domicile fixe), these propositions are different somehow. But as far as jokes are concerned, his theory holds up. Humor that I can understand becomes hilarious. These things are usually infantile. At family brunch, my host mother brought out her specialty: le gâteau nantais, or rum cake. Martine’s son-in-law grinned, “Ah, mon ami, le gâteau nantais.”

“Ha ha!” I said. His friend, the cake! Get it? Because he likes it so much! It's like a friend! His wife glared at me. My outpouring of mirth was too much for such a stupid comment. I now think she believes that I was trying to seduce him, sexy exchange student that I am. Au contraire. I just love a good joke.

You’d think, given these facts, that I would find comfort in the nadir of childish humor: bathroom stall graffiti. Awkward sexual jokes, scrawled phone numbers – things my French self would find a laugh riot. And yet, in the comfort of the co-ed sixth-floor bathroom of Paris-III, my university, I was rudely awakened. Beneath a drawing of a sad, emo stick-figure was written the following dialogue, between various temporary inhabitants of the second-to-last stall:

“Pk’il est triste?” (Why is he sad?)

“Pk’il aime mais il n’ose pas lui dire.” (Because he loves but doesn’t dare tell her.)

Another response: “Pk’il est vivant.” (Because he is alive.)

Oh god, this was getting heavy. I moved on.

“J’ai rompu avec qqn qui j’aime.” (I broke up with someone I love.)

“T’as raison, s’il ne reconnaît pas ton valeur.” (You were right, if he doesn’t realize your worth.)

“Synonyme : connard” (Synonym: bastard)

This was all too metaphysical for the bathroom wall. The innate sorrow of being? Acknowledging man’s intrinsic worth?

“Ha ha!” I thought. “They wrote, ‘bastard.’”

Les surgélés

While wandering around Passy – a neighborhood that houses one of the only shopping malls I’ve seen in Paris, people rich enough to afford a view of the Eiffel Tower from across the Seine, and, in the 19^th century, Balzac – I got hungry. As this is a common occurrence, I weighed the options available to me at the inconvenient hour of 3 in the afternoon.

Cafés were open, but Passy is expensive, and I didn’t want to take the time to sit down when I just wanted a snack. Boulangeries were everywhere, but I had eaten a loaf of bread, plain, for lunch and, while it was very satisfying at the time, the concept was getting a little stale (rimshot).

I wanted a big grocery store – somewhere where I could spend an hour just looking at the different types of breakfast biscuits. This is an easy undertaking at a place like Monoprix, where the three breakfast aisles are filled with one-euro boxes of cookies cleverly concealed as breakfast fare; they are the European equivalent of the muffin, cake’s breakfast cousin. Between semesters in Paris, my friend returned home to the U.S. for Christmas, returning with a box of chocolate chip cookies, a rarity in Paris, for her host family. “Great!” her mere d’accueil exclaimed. “We can share them tomorrow morning!”

But the area seemed too chic for big grocery chains. I tried to retrace the steps of shoppers with plastic grocery bags, until I arrived at the source: a store whose tell-tale florescent lighting outed it as a cheap food emporium. I had never heard of it, though; its lone sign pictured a snowflake and proclaimed that it was called “Picard.” I made Star Trek: Next Generation jokes in my head, because that’s the kind of girl I am.

But as I stepped through the door, I realized they were disturbingly on target. Instead of being greeted by chocolate Easter rabbits in florescent cellophane or cartons of semi-fresh fruit, as at a typical grocery, I found rows of people, staring down into rectangular, glass-covered metal boxes radiating light. There was no music – only the hum of lights and generators in synchrony. Shoppers’ faces were illuminated from below, in that terrifying way that kids with flashlights on camping trips have taken advantage of for decades.

There was nothing else in the store but those freezers: rows upon rows of them, all containing frozen components of a meal. There was the soups aisle, the salad aisle (ew); there were the main courses, the desserts. And all around, people shopping wordlessly for their prepackaged, frozen meals.

After checking out frozen pizza and madeleine prices, I left quickly. As I did, a man stationed at the door wished me a good day, like a Walmart greeter in a parallel and backwards universe.

Les paroles

The first words I learned in my sixth-grade French class were the names of different types of food, specifically possible orders at fast food restaurants. Our professor even brought out fast food menus he brought back from France, which he then laminated before giving to us. We gathered solemnly around the menu for Quick, the poor man’s MacDo (McDonalds’ is surprisingly well-received in France, as well as surprisingly expensive), diligently memorizing the vocabulary: les pommes frites, un Coca, un hamburger. Our next subject was café fare. We listened to songs about ingredients to bring on a picnic. We had a field trip to order croissants from a French bakery, impressing the owners with our food savoir-faire.

Unsurprisingly, I neglected to learn the vocabulary for anything else besides pains au chocolat. While this wouldn’t be a problem if I lived alone in Paris, where my activities primarily consist of ordering bread and asking people at museums if students get in free, as I live with a family, I occasionally have to communicate with people on subjects besides what I ate that day. This is why I need Marcus.

Marcus, the grandson of my host mother, comes over every Friday, and I am obsessed with him. He is energetic. He is hilarious. He is extremely cute. He is ten months old, and is teaching me French.

Martine, my host mother, and I gather around Marcus, who is seated on a blanket depicting various animals.

“Ça?” he asks, pointing at a fish.

“That’s a fish,” I respond. “Un poisson.”

“Ça?”

“Also a fish.”

“Ça?”

“That’s a lion. Un lion.”

“Ça?”

“That’s a … um …” I have no idea what a whale is. I look at Martine.

“Ça c’est une baleine,” she responds. I make a mental note. Baleine = whale.

So far I have learned 50 or so words this way. Tail. Sleeve. Every animal imaginable. There is no baby-talk, which is just the way I like it. “That’s a painting, Marcus,” Martine will say. “It depicts a Chinese village next to the ocean. You are looking very cute today. What are you doing? Please do not scrape that against the wall; it will make me very angry. Thank you very much for stopping what you were doing.”

I’m convinced that this treatment of children is one of the reasons that, in French literature class, my peers give oral presentations referencing Kant, Hegel, and Descartes rather than talking about silly things like “themes.” Rather than reveling over the appearance of a metaphor, as lit majors do so frequently (“I really love how Yeats uses the image of eyes to depict the concept of his memory – did you all get that?”), they pepper their presentations with references to Hegel, sensualist philosophy, and the mock-heroic like my friends drop obscure band names.

It’s a different way of learning about words – more holistic, rather than excavatory – that I first experienced in a sophomore year French lit class taught by a visiting French professor, who seemed puzzled by our methods. “Don’t you see how he uses the rhythm of the sentences to mirror the movement of the carriage across the town’s cobblestone streets? It’s the highest expression of the sensualists! It’s positively John Locke!” We stopped midway through our rapture over Flaubert’s magnificent simile between Charles Bovary and a cow, ashamed.

For someone so purportedly interested in words, I am embarrassed to admit how new these ideas seemed to me. In fact, listening to a recent broadcast of Malcolm Gladwell (www.thisamericanlife.org), I was surprised at how little I think about their exact meanings. While working at The Washington Post, Gladwell and a coworker had a contest to see how many times they could work the phrase “perverse and often baffling” into their copy. When his coworker used it to describe mollusks, his editor noted that mollusks, while potentially perverse, were either baffling or they were not; they did not oscillate between baffling and not baffling. It struck me – often I just write words because they sound good, and not for any actual meaning behind them. Maybe it’s the musician in me. Then again, shouldn’t I be better at poetry?

In any event, as my interactions with Marcus indicate, maybe I should just stick to learning individual words, before I start putting them together. A few weeks ago, alone in the apartment, I heard a key in the lock. In walked a woman I had never seen. “Hello,” she said, “I am la guardienne.” The guardian? Of what? I felt like I was in a J.R.R.Tolkien book. Turns out, it means the housekeeper.

I feel like it will be a while before I’m discussing Kant.

Le métro

A week ago, my mom sent me an email checking up on how things were going, and telling me the dates of her visit to Paris. In closing, she asked, “Which do you like better: NYC or Paris? XOXOXO, Maman”

I never responded to that question, because it seemed impossible, given the completely different contexts in which I lived in each city. I saw New York in the summer, lived with people I knew, had a clear work schedule, and came home to Top Chef every week. In Paris, it’s winter, I live with a stranger, I’m adjusting to cultural and linguistic differences, and try to see a new museum every day. New York was comfortable; Paris is mind-blowing, in both positive and negative ways.

However, there’s one aspect of the two cities where Paris is the incontestable winner: public transport.

A typical morning in New York: I wake up too late to take a shower, so I put my hair in a ponytail and cover it as much as I can with a headband. I put on something that to me resembles something Cool People in New York might wear, grab a clementine from the refrigerator, and speed-walk three blocks to the subway while eating it.

Inevitably, as I approach the station, my train is at the platform; I attempt to get my MetroCard out, go through the turnstile and down the stairs in the 30 seconds the doors are open, all at a sprint while shoving people out of my way. Sometimes I manage to stick my arm in the closing doors (injuries be damned – this is the subway) and pry them open with all the force I can muster. But more often than not, the doors are slammed in my face, and I begin the wait.

It doesn’t matter that it is rush hour; the wait for the second train is interminable. I sing a Mika song in my head. I eavesdrop on the man next to me before realizing he is speaking Swahili. I think about throwing my house keys on the tracks, just to see what would happen. One particularly miserable night in Greenpoint, after waiting 45 minutes for the train, I began creating my own Sudoku, which I then solved. I also wrote a Petrarchan sonnet about … how boring waiting for the subway is. As last, when the train finally arrives, there are no seats, I am standing next to a woman who insists upon touching my hand with hers on the handhold-thing, and I realize that, as I do not own a pair of purple sparkly leggings, my outfit will never be cool enough for New York.

In Paris, the first part hasn’t changed. Ponytailed and hungry, I begin the walk to the métro. I speed-walk into the station, carte orange in hand. And then … my train is there. Or, if not, a sign informs me that it will be there in 1-5 minutes. I have never had to wait more than 5 minutes for a train, including in the suburbs and late at night. This makes everything more civilized: no running, no possible dismemberment. If you miss the train, tant pis. Just listen to the accordion player play the Amélie soundtrack until the next one comes.

The signs announcing train times is ingenious, and I don’t understand why they haven’t been implemented in every city with a subway system. In Psychology 110, Paul Bloom explained a study about anticipation: two groups of subjects were given shock treatments, in which one group received repetitive shocks at equal intervals of time and the other received less painful shocks at irregular intervals. In the end, the subjects who claimed to feel less pain were those who could predict when the shocks would arrive, despite the fact that they were actually more painful than those given to the other group. Lesson: events are less painful when they can be anticipated. This is infinitely truer for trains. New York: GET UP ON YOUR PSYCHOLOGY.

After I board, the routine is the same: no seats, disappointing clothing. Paris has even made explicit a rule that is only tacit in New York, which our exchange program director explained to us on our first day. “Ne souriez pas. Don’t smile,” she said. “Only crazy people smile.” It’s a rule I attempt to follow, in order to seem authentic. But sometimes, after stepping joyfully onto my promptly-arriving train, I just can’t help it.

Les tapis

Every time I walk home from the métro station, I pass an Oriental rug store that has giant panthers carved out of stone in its display window rather than, say, rugs. Upon closer inspection, I found that these panthers sat throughout the store. I deduced that this could be for one of two reasons:

1) People prefer to buy rugs at stores with large black stone panthers.

2) People like to buy the panthers.

However, personally I:

1) Feel no urge to buy a rug upon viewing said panthers.

2) Have no desire to buy a panther.

I will be thinking about this for a long time.

La politesse

Upon entering any establishment small enough for the owner to recognize your presence, French politesse mandates that you greet the owner. This also applies in cases when you see someone you know, see someone you don’t know, interact with anyone in any form, or make eye contact (consequently, eye contact is strictly avoided whenever possible).

At least the greeting is simple enough, right? Wrong.

In the morning, say “Bonjour.” In the evening, say “Bonsoir.” In the afternoon, do not say “Bon après-midi.” It’s just not done. If addressing a man, add “Monsieur,” and a woman, “Madame.” Unless she’s a young woman, when it’s “Mademoiselle.”

But what time is officially evening? And when is a woman no longer young enough to be a mademoiselle? This system practically requires constant embarrassment and potential offensiveness. While buying a dress at H&M, I greeted the cashier with a hearty “Bonsoir.” The customer approaching the counter next to me paused, puzzled, for a moment, then greeted his respective cashier with a emphatic “Bonjour.” What? I looked outside; it was still light out, but definitely past 5 pm. So why was I being put in my place?

I asked some French acquaintances about the rules for this ritual, and they laughed. “At 5:59 exactly. That’s when you change.” They broke into fits of giggles. Unhelpful.

Still, the age distinction is more problematic; rather than just appearing gauche and uncultured, it’s possible you could commit a serious offense. It’s like the time Dan Adler, attempting to order at Yorkside, called the waitress over with a respectful “ma’am.” She veered around, glared, and responded, “I am twenty-three. Never call me that again.” He never did.

I thought the reaction was a little reactionary at the time; I’m still at the age where birthdays are a time for public celebration and when urgings to “enjoy the best years of your life” are frequent. Yet I felt similarly last week. As I was sitting in the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, attempting to parse Braques’ cubes into the grapes, pipe, and newspaper listed in the title, a crowd of schoolboys ran boisterously across my line of vision; suddenly, one of them turned back around, approached me tentatively and said, “Pardon Madame, désolé de vous déranger." Rather than remarking his sweet apology, one which never would have occurred by some kid at home, I was struck by his greeting. Was I really Madame-worthy? When had I passed by the times of mademoiselle, first loves, and blaming mistakes on youthful experimentation?

That afternoon on my way home, craving cherries, I lingered at a fruit stand long enough to be approached by the turbaned vendor, who encouraged me to try the cherries, bizarrely touting the fact they were imported. “They’re from Australia,” he said. “And you, where are you from?” I, the clearly-imported Parisian, explained my origins, and he laughed. “Tu a voté pour Hillary?” he asked, obsessed (as many French are) with the American primaries. We talked about our preferences for Obama, and laughed about Bush’s gaucheries.

“So,” I said, not wanting to waste his time, “how much are the cherries?” “Well, let’s see.” He took his time putting a carton on the scale: 0.7 kilos. “20 euro a pound, but for you, this will be 10 euro.” I made an apologetic face. “It’s too expensive; I’m really sorry.”

The vendor looked perplexed. “Mais Mademoiselle,” he said, insulted, “vous n’êtes pas obligée.” “There’s no obligation.”

And again, rather than notice the eccentricities of a world in which a businessman would rather converse than make a sale, I thought to myself, “Mademoiselle. Yes.”

Le repas

This afternoon, my host mother called me à table for a lunch of a green salad, baguette, quiche, yogurt, fruit salad. We discussed the obesity epidemic that is now crossing the Atlantic and making itself known in France, referencing the corporate subsidies that made sugary and fatty foods so cheap and available in the United States that do not exist here. I began to talk about the evolutionary reasons for our fatness, or as much as I could do in French.

“Well, it’s partly because, um, a long time ago, like, evolutionarily … we needed sugars and fats the most, because they gave us the most energy …”

“Also because they taste good!” she interjected.

“Well, yes, but … they taste good because … um … we needed to eat them … so we’re …” I paused to think of the word for ‘adapt,’ wondered if it was ‘adapté,’ wondered if saying ‘adapté’ was going to sound too American, then decided to abort the discussion. “Anyway, I really love chocolate,” I concluded.

We returned our trays to the kitchen, where I began loading the dishes into the dishwasher, and asked how her upcoming bridge tournament was organized. Apparently this was a sore point.

“The organizer, I’ve asked him nicely and not so nicely, but he always puts me in the first round and the last round, instead of two rounds together, so my whole day is devoted to bridge. If everyone had to do it, that would be fine, but it’s always me, and I have other things in my life, you know?”

“Ce n’est pas égal,” I said. “That’s not fair.”

“Si, c’est pas équitable,” she said. “It’s not fair,” with better grammar. “But he tells me I should do it because I’m all alone, and what else do I have to do?”

She went on, laughing at how the organizer liked her, but she was not at all interested in him, pas de tout. She paused.

“You know,” she said, “Je suis contente que tu es ici.” “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too! CUPA gave me a housing survey yesterday, and I didn’t have any … um …” I searched for the word for ‘complaints.’

“Critiques?” she said. “Me neither.”

I excused myself to pack my bag for the afternoon ahead, but instead sat on my bed, completely choked up. I heard her leave for the competition, and knew I was alone - but somehow, I wasn't really.

Les mecs

I’m not a huge party-goer, but when in Paris, do as the Parisians do. And do they ever.

The métro here closes at midnight. When I mentioned to a friend, who had studied in Paris a year ago, that I thought this was surprisingly early, she looked confused. “Well,” she said, frowning slightly, “it opens again at 5 so … is there a problem?”

Uh, yes.

Nevertheless, after a week my host mother was asking me every night, with a hopeful expression, if I was planning to soirée somewhere, and I felt that my French was passable enough to make conversation with people other than the American students in my program. I met some of them at a café in the 5ème and we headed out.

Strangely, one of the most popular nightlife spots in Paris is a row of British-themed bars on rue Princesse, all preciously named things like “The Frog and the Princess” or “The Little Temple Bar.” We headed into one whose blue-and-white striped façade was clearly intended to evoke a rugby uniform. After heading downstairs, we ordered a round of shots, and found a table.

There we were. Out. It quickly became apparent, however, that being out was one of those things that’s more about the journey than the destination. Exactly what does one do at a bar, once there, besides the obvious: drink? And that gets old fast, unless it happens fast enough.

Providentially, a group of French boys sat at the other side of our table with what looked like one of those wooden things that hold chemistry pipettes, only inside of phosphoric acid they held flavored vodka, infinitely better-tasting and only slightly less toxic. The boys weren’t particularly alluring, but they were novelties, and ones with whom we could practice our new language skills. Eye contact abounded. Then one of them looked at me, raised his eyebrows, smiled alluringly and said:

“…..”

Oh no.

I had been confident enough in my knowledge of French that I was sure I could understand pathetic bar-talk. But I hadn’t counted on the bar-atmosphere, in particular the incredibly loud bar-music. Familiar to anyone who has frequented Rudy’s on a night when some scruffy band is inevitably playing metal, bar-music inspires the oft-encountered bar-conversation:

“…..”

“What?”

“…..”

“WHAT?”

Apparently, it’s the same in Paris.

“…..”

“Comment?”

“…..”

“COMMENT?”

Unfortunately, because my accent marks me as a foreigner, my incomprehension wasn’t attributed to the music, but my inability to comprehend a word of French. The boy looked at his friend, who inexplicably was wearing a knit hat with a huge cloth ampersand embroidered on it.

“He says, ‘You are very beautiful.’”

Shit. SHIT. I missed that? Not that I was at all interested, but what girl doesn’t imagine some guy telling her she’s beautiful in French? Conversation resumed, and I found myself catching a few words and nodding a lot. Finally, the music allowed an entire sentence to emerge unscathed.

“So, we’re all coming to your apartment?”

What? No. NO. I recalled telling them that I lived and was studying in Paris, but I couldn’t make out anything else that had transpired. When had this happened?

“Uh, tonight? No, I don’t think so.”

The ampersand boy shrugged it off, but the other was indignant. “Mais elle a fait signe!” he said. “But she nodded!”

My friend caught my eye and looked toward the door, and despite the music, I recognized the universal sign indicating a very imminent departure.

Les cimetières

Père-Lachaise, the biggest cemetery in Paris, is also one of its most-frequented tourist attractions. I used to think that it was odd that a place so personal and relatively sacred could be co-opted for such a banal purpose, but I’m definitely not above going to see all my favorite dead celebrities. Although there are many better ways to get to know them, there certainly isn’t an easier way to get close to them physically. And while I’d much prefer to stand next to Oscar Wilde than stand on top of him, I’ll take what I can get. Plus, cemeteries are generally pretty. I love a good cemetery.

Still, their double purpose can be really awkward.

This week I went to Cimetière Montparnasse, conveniently located close to my study-abroad center where I’ve been taking crash French courses for the past week. A map by the gate pointed out the sites of various famed corpses: Baudelaire, Brancusi, Sartre, Saint-Säens. I mentally noted their placements and began to search, attempting to look like someone with a lot of respect for the dead who happened to be holding a camera.

Immediately, I encountered some problems. As soon as I stepped away from the map, I forgot where anything was. I went back to the map. I memorized. I walked five feet away. I forgot. At that point, I thought I would just walk around and look at all the gravestones until I found ones I was looking for. Forget that: there appeared to be no organizational principle to the cemetery system, and many of the graves weren’t visible from the paths, meaning I would have to climb over various tombstones to see all the names. Even I’m not that gauche.

My next strategy was to look for graves with lots of stuff on them. I had read that Serge Gainsbourg’s grave was covered in mementos from admirers; that can’t be hard to spot, I figured. I looked for graves with heaps of flowers; other people milling around it was a plus. Upon seeing one, I eagerly ran up to it.

The thing is, unlike Père Lachaise, Montparnasse is an active cemetery. This means if a grave has a lot of flowers on it, it might be because someone famous is buried there. However, it might also mean that the person just died and the people milling around are mourning their recent loss. After crashing quite a few wakes in my blissful search for Guy de Maupassant, I abandoned this technique. I hated myself. I was disillusioned with people. Who did we think we were? How dare we turn such a personal locale into a place for our perverse desires to run wild?

Upon leaving, I finally found one of the graves I had been looking for: Satre and Simone de Beauvoir, who are buried together (it was right next to the map where I had been standing for so long). I approached it and saw all the trinkets people had left on the grave, from the romantic (heaps of flowers, candles) to the trivial (metro tickets) to the inexplicable (multiple plastic mugs shaped in the hollowed-out head of Pluto the cartoon dog). Then there were the notes.

Sartre, Je t’aime et je suis née 10 ans après ta mort. –Chloe et Livia. Simone, je ne t’ai pas encore lu, mais il me reste toute la vie pour le faire.

(Sartre, I love you and I was born 10 years after you died. – Chloe and Livia. Simone, I haven’t read you yet, but I have the rest of my life to do it.)

Seeing them made me realize: there are tourists and there are mourners. But there are other visitors in the cemetery: the inspired.

L’Électricité

I don’t know whether I’m assimilating to France or it is assimilating to us, but while I’m sitting in class I often forget I’m in another country despite, you know, the fact that we’re speaking another language (or trying to). It’s only when I’m bored by crash French courses and look around the room that I realize – those electrical outlets are so weird.

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.

La petite américaine

In France, I am known as “The Little American.” Inexplicably, I like this. It makes me think of unorthodox superheroes from comics in the 1950s; a small American girl, in pleated Catholic school-girl skirts, has surprising strength for her diminutive stature, and uses it to fight criminals, all thinly-veiled allegories for forces of Communism or other plagues of our nation.

My hostess and her faceless friends on her speakerphone call me this constantly. At first I thought it was because she thought I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but after she would discuss parts of the conversations with me, I realized it was because there was no reason for concealment; it was a term of endearment. I am now considering have all my friends call me this when I return.

I live in an apartment in the 19^th, in a room with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a view of the building à côte and a tree in which huge ravens fight with each other. It has its own piano, as a result of a housing questionnaire in which I wrote that I would prefer that I would rather have a piano than not have one (who wouldn’t?); I was then informed that a piano had been moved into my room, as per my request. Oh.

I can already tell my vocabulary is improving; for example, now I know the word for cocaine (it’s the same, but pronounced co-ka-EEN). So far my hostess and I have discussed, among other things, interracial dating, pre-marital sex, agnosticism (she’s one too), and parties she attended in the 80s in which her husband tried coke. I didn’t understand the last one at first, which I’m attributing to cognitive dissonance – she couldn’t be talking about this, so I must be misunderstanding. But when she imitated doing lines, there was no mistaking it. Cocaine: the universal language.

From the subject matter, we seem like cross-generational girlfriends at a sleepover, only with more gesturing and incorrectly-conjugated verbs. But what better to create a bond by telling each other our most private stories, things I wouldn’t divulge to my parents. We both want to talk, to connect. We’ll see how long we can string these secrets out.

Le départ

When I was required, in sixth grade, to learn a language, Spanish was the natural choice.

Even in my northern California town, a good XX miles from the Mexican border, Spanish was everywhere. Spanish instructions inevitably followed English ones on any appliance; my friend Jose would shout in Spanish at the Oakland Raiders whenever they lost a game; my dental hygienist, it seemed, spoke almost entirely Spanish except for the words “wider” and “spit,” and played flamenco on the radio while I studied the pictures of different mammals’ teeth that were pasted on the ceiling.

Even my small public elementary school recognized the necessary nature of the language, and gave us Spanish classes once a week. While helpful in theory, the lessons were predominantly useless, even disregarding the fact that an hour a week does not a language teach. Course material was limited to the numbers and colors, knowledge of which was rewarded with appropriately-colored Jolly Ranchers (verde and rojo were the best). One time, the class was spent learning the words for “left,” “right” and “straight,” after which we were paired up and told to guide our blindfolded partner around the school grounds, using only verbal directions . When Scott, my partner, led me to step on a dead squirrel carcass, the lesson was over.

But somehow despite this (or maybe because of it), I chose French. As if to justify our irrational decision, our professeur played a video on our first day of class, showing students raving about how “beautiful” the language was. I took this as a point of pride. Sure, you could take Spanish and be merely “utilitarian.” I took French, purely for the aesthetics of it. I was the Romantic artiste: one who distained practicality in favor of the higher ground, the beautiful, the godly. Besides, I was French somewhere down the line. Studying the language was like the Caucasian equivalent of Roots: a reconnection with my heritage.

I became tellement française. I wore clothes with the Eiffel Tower on them. I threw in French phrases into conversation, just to show how cultured I was, how unpractical. I lined up Zola and Balzac on my bookshelf and watched The Triplets of Belleville, despite its being a terrible film. I used words like “film” rather than “movie,” constantly favoring the Latinate over the Germanic.

But despite my lofty ideals, after 10 years of study, I could barely speak the stuff; I had no one to speak with. My classes became exclusively writing papers and reading books far above my speaking level; the one time I had to speak in class, I attempted to say what page number I was on (86) and was corrected by the professor. I pretended to call non-existent amis in France, gabbing on my cell phone with no one on the other end, until my suitemates caught me and never let me live it down. Language tables were too stressful; everyone who would willingly put themselves through a meal in another language would inevitably be better than I was. I had to put myself in a situation I couldn’t get out of. So I’m going abroad.