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.