Winter Warmth

Pont d'Alma on a Sunday evening.

Here we are on day 18 of the new year and things are going swell.

The Irishman and the doge just get more lovable by the day. I'm enjoying my new job as Personal Assistant to a Head of Division who knows a thing or two about leadership. Since my big New Year's resolution post, I'm down 1.6 kg. And even though winter has finally arrived, Paris can be quite cozy -- chocolat chaud at Cafe de Flore, anyone?

I'll do an honest-to-goodness cleanse before January wraps up, but in the meantime I thought I'd share this four-ingredient (six if you count the garnishes) soup that's as delicious as it is warm.

Butternut Bliss Soup

If the soup doesn't warm you up, there's always Armagnac.

Ingredients:
1 large butternut squash, peeled and cut into cubes
2 medium white or yellow onions, chopped
2 tablespoons butter
2-3 cups broth (chicken or vegetable)
chives and creme fraiche to season

1. Heat the butter in a large pot and add the chopped onions. Sauté until translucent
2. Add the squash then the broth. Cover and boil over medium heat for about 10 minutes until the squash is tender. Really, you should be able to cut it with a spoon.
3. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the squash and onion from the pot to a food processor or blender. Blend until smooth. 
4. Stir your puréed veggies back into the broth. Serve with a dollop of creme fraiche and a sprinkle of chives.

Bon appetit :)

Resolutions for 2016

Okay, I get it. Resolutions to lose 10 lbs or start a new healthy eating plan or write that novel in the upcoming year are pretty much doomed from the get go, which also makes making them kind of, well, pathetic. I know this -- hell, I've comforted my unresolved self with all the articles about the resolution-initial effort-failure feedback loop every December for at least 5 years running. I know that most of us well-intentioned ninnies will fall off the wagon by February (where I come from we call that Mardi Gras).  And yet.

This year, I'ma do it anyway. I'm going to try putting myself out there in an Amy Schumer flailing among the Knicks Girls at the end of Trainwreck kind of way. 

Parcours Gourmand at the Galeries Lafayette

   Psst... Here's a secret that's sure to get out:

Le Retour

Here it goes!

The city's still a dream in sandy stone and wrought iron.  This time there's a charming Irishman around to make everything more fun. In the evenings we cook and walk around the 16eme; on the weekends we vow we'll stay in and rest and then don't. Work doesn't start until October 1st so I have loads of time to roam around and search for an apartment of my own as well as play the femme au foyer in the teeny kitchen of the Irishman's flatshare.

One of the best parts of returning to the sprawl of sandcastles on the Seine has been revisiting a few old favorites. Now-Former Host Mom greeted me with a big hug and tizane in the same chic apartment, having just returned from my old nemesis, la piscine. Another highlight was finally bringing the Irishman and a friend to Le Temps des Cerises (31, rue de la Cerisaie, 4e) my favorite little bistro tucked away in the Marais. They've raised their prices (about 19 euros for a main, 8 for appetizers or dessert) and added a vegetarian option to the menu (yay!), with the same cozy ambiance and friendly staff.

The settling in process is a bit of a drag as I search for cheap, furnished accommodation. One problem I keep running into is the necessity of a French bank account to do just about anything.  HSBC already rejected my request saying my salary as a teaching assistant will be trop juste to make me worth their while. Quels snobs! Trying again with Société Générale on Thursday. Any bank recommendations out there?

Apart from my continued mission to improve my French, I've now added 3 more goals:

• Not deform any of the young minds that will be in my charge for 12 hours each week,
• Get my cardiovascular fitness up to par with the Irishman so I don't have to stand and pant on the sidewalk while he jogs on all Rocky-like up the Champs Elysées.
• Find gainful employment over here-- gainful meaning something that gets me above the French equivalent of the poverty line.  

Bises, y'all

Visa Extension Part II

As you might remember from the first part of this story, the thing to do if you want to extend your student visa is to START EARLY.  Failing that, gather together as many of the requisite documents as you can, and then...lie.  I can tell you to do that because an honest-to-God, real French fonctionnaire told me to. 

I needed to keep my visa to be eligible to work in France.  (Can we get the US an honorary membership in the EU, please?) Apparently prolonging it isn't even an option, which left me with renouvellement,  renewal.  So I showed up on July 4, the day my visa expired, with as many of the documents from the list as I could scrape together. 

After waking up at 6:00 a.m. in order to be on time for my 8:00 a.m. appointment, I stood in line with some other exchange students and Parisians trying to get their drivers' licenses.  When I finally reached the gate keeper fonctionnaire, he promptly sent me away for not having a photo copy of my host mom's Carte d'identité.  Boo hiss.  Failure.  I left in shame and panic.  Six hours, one afternoon wasted waiting for documents that weren't even in the mail yet, and 48 métro stops later, I'm back.  Nevermind that I don't have the merest whisper of a translated birth certificate or proof of enrollment for the upcoming school year; picture of host mom's picture ID in hand, I got a number and - oh boy! - a seat. 

When my number was called I got my first break of the day: my caseworker was a man! not only a man, but a youngish, non-grouchy man! I felt somewhat relieved, but the stress of the day and my still somewhat slim file must have showed on my face.  He smiled, told me to take a seat, and not to look so scared.  He gave me a form to start filling out.

Where was my birth certificate?
"Well, you know, I'm from la Nouvelle Orléans, and there was this hurricane, which really messed up--"
Doesn't matter.  The embassy could write something up in that case.  Next issue: enrollment for this year?
"Well, I'm still deciding whether I want to stay on as an exchange student or enroll directly..."
Questionable.  Was I done filling out the form yet?
"...I think I spelled my name wrong."

And that is the story of how yours truly got a temporary extension, to be replaced by a renewal after a second meeting, currently set for October 3, by which point I'll "have all the documents together." I'm pretty sure my fonctionnaire saw through the little scheme, but he seemed to find me an appealing character, and I was more than ready to be sympatico with him. 

And that seems to be how Paris works: in a town that knocks you down a thousand times a day, you have to give people a reason to smile at you, either by cutting them a break or being the prettiest girl they've seen all afternoon.  Little bits of solidarity in the big, bad city; little glimmers of vulnerability showing through stony don't-fuck-with-me faces.  One of the most appealing qualities of Paris is how human it is, despite all the masterpieces and elaborate grooming, it's still a place that's okay with nudity, emotional and physical, but show some restraint, doucement, doucement. 

How to Prolong a French Long Stay Student Visa / Comment prolonger un titre de séjour étudiant longue durée

Ok, first of all, when I was nearly hysterical and pulling my hair out I couldn't find a satisfactory answer for this online, so I should say that there is probably a simpler way to do this, and if you do want to prolong your student visa, you should DEFINITELY start TWO MONTHS before it expires.  (NB: If you have not yet applied for your visa, be sure to get the full year you are entitled. At the consulate, my interview was with some girl who thought it would be cute to set my visa expiration for Independence Day. Let me tell you, there were no fireworks for me on the 4th, just lots of métro rides and photocopying.)

So, if you are still outside the two final months of your visa, by all means, head for the Préfecture, and you'll probably have little or no trouble with the process I outlined last month. If you are already in that danger zone, hightail it up to Porte de Clignacourt with your passport (secure all of your valuables first) and get ready to stand in line.  What you are going to do now is a little bit tricky.  Luckily, I got a lady who was about to go on holiday and had just had a lovely chat with a cute indie gay couple whom she seemed to know pretty well (fonctionnaires' moods makes all the difference in these instances).  I told her I needed to extend my visa to work for the summer. If my employer had been willing to give me an embauche d'emploi or contract, this all could have been over in 20 minutes, but no...

**NB: Americans can stay in France 90 days past the expiration of their visas.  Your status automatically becomes that of a tourist.  However, tourists can not work or attend school.**

Here's what we did: She gave me an appointment for July 4 (my own personal D-Day) and a list of documents I needed to renew my visa. Extension didn't seem to be an option. The list included:

• Passport, titre de séjour/yellow OFII thing, visa
• *Official* translation of birth certificate into French, 
• Proof of funds - a notarized letter from my parents saying they'd spot me 500 euros a month sufficed (ha! lucky the immigration officials don't know my parents)
• Proof of housing for at least the next 3 months - My host mom wrote an attestation d'hebergement and gave me an electricity bill from within the past 6 months, and it turned out I needed a photocopy of her passport or carte d'identité, too.
• Proof of enrollment and grades from the last school year, 
• Proof of enrollment for the upcoming school year. 

With a wink she told me to say that I had not yet found the program qui me va for the next year. Stay tuned for how the appointment went down.

Norman fait des vidéos

How do you know when you're really getting proficient in a language? When you get the jokes.

And this guy is hilarious.

Crème Glacée

On Tuesday a friend and I had our histoire du livre exam followed by a disastrous dinner at CROUS (student cafeterias throughout the city where you can get a wholesome meal for 3 euros - here's a link). To make it up to ourselves, we decided to get ice cream! Because we were at St. Michel where many of the restaurants are overpriced and/or of dubious quality, we decided to go with Amorino, a chain of gelato shops where the vendeur or vendeuse will shape your scoop into a flower. It's also novel for France because you get to pick as many flavors as you want, even for the small size. We took our frosty treats two blocks down to the river and sat on the quai watching the bateaux mouches go by and reminiscing.

Here is a list of some of my favorite ice cream places in Paris, in no particular order:

Berthillon - Yes, it can cost you about a day's salary (who am I kidding, what do I know about salaries?) for two itty bitty scoops, but I'll be damned if there's a richer chocolate ice cream out there. Their white chocolate and caramel are also too exquisite! Don't even get me started on the sorbets -- sanguine or framboise, anyone?
Original location: 29-31 rue Saint Louis en l'Ile 75004 Paris; available at many other restaurants and cafés.

Amorino - Gelato from an international chain. It's less expensive than Berthillon at 3,50 for a small coppa or cornetto. Amorino's great when you want some creamy goodness that's less familiar than the ubiquitous Haagen-Daz and cheaper than Berthillon. And, did I mention the flowers? They also tend to hire cute vendeurs, especially at the one by Bastille.
Address: 4 rue de la Roquette 75011 Paris, other locations throughout the city and Europe.


Le Bac à Glaces - At this tiny little shop in the 7th arrondissement, a scoop of one of their finely crafted ice creams or sorbets will set you back 3,50 (for much higher quality stuff than Amorino's). Yesterday's parfum du jour was pain d'epices with real bits of gingerbread inside! There's a little park full of joyous Parisian children and their stylish mothers right next door. Settle yourself on a bench for some of the cutest people watching in Paris!
Address: 109 rue du Bac 75009 Paris

Martine Lambert - Le Chef is responsible for introducing me to both Martine and Le Bac. This one's a bit pricier but also very, very good. Plus it's on one of those cute little pedestrian shopping streets.
Address: 39 rue Cler 75007 Paris

C'est (pas trop) dure, la matinée

Meh. Mornings. Joëlle, who's up by 7 o'clock on weekdays has more reason to complain than I do, with my one 9 a.m. class and one at 10:30. Some mornings she leaves me pain au chocolat (two sticks of dark chocolate wrapped in croissant) from Dominique Saibron, a.k.a. my French Lover, officially the baker of the third-best baguette in Paris who also has locations in Tokyo. He just happens to be the corner bakery. No big deal. (He'll get his own post soon.) Anyway, pair that little roll of light flaky joy with a cup of French café out of this little wonder:

And it's already a good day.

I eat this petit dejeuner des champions at the kitchen table. Usually, I forget to turn the light on until after I've finished my coffee, so I sit in the soft light and stare out the kitchen window - the only one with a view of the sky - and look at the blue, or more often indecisive, backdrop. Cohabiting the kitchen with the coffeemaker is the yellow réfrigo.

C'est facile à faire la grasse matinée dans cet apart :)

La vie étudiante

In light of the recent chute of my GPA, I would like to take a moment to comment on the difficulties of adjusting to student life in Paris.

1. Kafkaesque organization

A few weeks ago the elevator at Paris 7 broke. No problem, thought I and my co-exchange students, we are young and able-bodied! We shall take the stairs! No matter that this particular class, Histoire des Livres, meets on the seventh floor. We hiked up there only to arrive at this exquisite metaphor for the exchange student experience:


Yep, you have to pull, upholding the legacy of this masterpiece

Somehow we made it to class. Prying was involved. But that moment was really nothing compared to the process of registering to take the class:

• Step 1) Find a course list. As soon as most French students pick a major, the next three years are laid out for them, with a little leeway for the odd elective. This means that course catalogs are virtually not existent, or at least not readily available. Posted online? Dream on. I think most exchange programs assemble some sort of course list each year or each semester. Take advantage of this.
• Step 2) Verify that the courses that interest you actually exist. 2.A) This involves finding the secretariat of the department offering the course at your university. It could be anywhere in the city. Do not expect one department's staff to know where their "colleagues" in another discipline are located. I recommend Google. 2.B) Once you find the right office, try to go when it is open and - and this is crucial - the courses are posted. This will probably necessitate multiple visits: first to find out the office's hours, then to find out when they'll be posting the courses and when the department's courses start, a visit the day the courses were supposed to be posted, and another the day before the courses start when they are all actually up. Even if they do go up (on the wall, not online) on the specified date, check back the day before the course begins, just in case the room has changed. If you're feeling really brave or masochistic, try asking the secretariat for a list to take home. If she gives it to you, you will be a hero among your fellow study-abroaders

• Step 3) Go to the classes that look interesting and exist. At this point you need to be sure you can understand the professor, won't be expected to read 20 books in 10 weeks, and understand what you'll be graded on.
• Step 4) When you're sure you want to take the class (this pretty much has to be decided by the end of the first meeting), screw up your courage and present yourself to the professor. Ask if you can take the class. Since the system is so rigid and most French kids know what they're taking a year ahead of time, a lot of classes fill up that far in advance. If the professor welcomes you (and you really want him to welcome, not just tolerate you - that will end badly) you are free to register. The semester has officially begun.

2. Grèves

Some of you might remember this post from back in October. We Americans like to joke about the French's willingness to go on strike at the slightest imposition on their liberté, but they do take it very seriously -- or at least the subset of students who blockaded the main buildings of Paris I Panthéon-Sorbonne every Thursday through October did. Teachers responded to this in a variety of ways. Some organized classes at cafés during their courses' regular meeting times, others scheduled Saturday rattrapage sessions after things had calmed down. Mine gave us printed copies of her lecture notes, end of story. We were still responsible for the information at the end of the semester, and I was so scared of missing something I read everything I could find about the skipped classes' topic (seriously, ask me anything about Ethiopia during 19th century), but after three weeks without any kind of class (or even homework) it was a little hard to get back into the History of Sub-Saharan Africa during the 19th Century.

3. Loooong lectures

Facebook has ruined my generation. It's a highly debatable statement, but I think we can at least safely say that in the era of expressing yourself in 140-character tweets, attention spans have definitely shortened. (A word to the professors reading this blog: If your students are taking notes on a computer, they are going to check out their friends' status updates and new profile pictures sooner or later. This isn't a reason to ban laptops in your classroom, if we're going to space out, we're going space out.) In France, where children are trained to do hours of dictation in beautiful handwriting -- seriously, these kids not only highlight but whip out rulers to underline key points while writing down the professor's lecture verbatim -- they are unsympathetic to American's lack of cerebral endurance. Most courses meet for three hours, once a week, which coupled with my next point, means all-out sprints of intellectual effort separated by 6 days of "What classes are you taking?", "Um...let me think."

4. Two notes per semester

Okay, this one is only half a complaint. Do I want to be caged up in Beaubourg doing my devoirs when I could be at any number of parks and free museums? Hell no. But my entire grade for the each class depends on a paper (or worse, an oral presentation) and a final exam, which, much like the almost equally stressful phenomena of mid-terms and finals in America, tend to bunch up within the same two-week period for all classes. After five or six weeks of relatively smooth sailing, the weeks that count can best be described in three syllables that rhyme with fustercluck.

And they post your grades publicly.

5. Ugly, ugly buildings

Most Parisian universities have one or two flagship buildings (the Sorbonne's ancient, domed edifice most famously) from which they have expanded into smaller, often cramped buildings that may or may not be anywhere near the original. Paris 1's main building, with it's yucky concrete courtyard shrouded in cigarette butts and barricades, is the poster child for ugly publicly run higher education, but even at Paris 7's new, modern campus, graffiti is rampant. How it got there is a mystery - the door is almost always locked when I want to get in.

Momma Said There'd Be Days Like This...

Sometimes I get pouty, and then I remember I live here^^

Today started out nicely, even if it is freezing again - blue sky out the window, nice note and pain d’épices (gingerbread) from Host Mom. The concierge stopped by to drop off the ironing, and for once I was not still in my pajamas with crumbs on my sweater and yesterday's makeup hanging on for dear life. But then I missed the bus to school. The next one was in 11 minutes. Okay, at that point I had two options: wait around at the bus stop (Oh, what's that? Snow?) and be at least 11 minutes late, or give up on the cinema class I was trying to get to once and for all. Now, 11 minutes is hardly terrible, but I've already had some issues trying to go to this class, plus it's in an amphitheater in which the doors are at the front of the room. This means that you have to walk in directly under the flared nostrils of the professor, who might even send you right back out. Since I have already had the displeasure of being unable to open the door in one of these lovely horrors of modernist architecture, I was not prepared to risk getting kicked out. So, good, now I no longer have to choose between History of Aesthetics of Cinema and How to Read Poetry. Nine A.M poetry class, here I come.

After a stop by my exchange program office to pick up some paperwork, I was starting to get hungry for lunch. What would normally have necessitated a quick stop at my friendly neighborhood boulangerie was complicated by this weekend's unfortunate discovery that my back-up debit card has expired. (Who currently owes an attractive German man 3 euros for her school book? This kid.) With $11 remaining of what was once a sizable savings, I am officially poor, but only for 3 more days, until my allowance check clears. (THANK YOU SO MUCH GRANDMOTHER!!) At this point, I would like to share a quote that I never thought I'd relate to:

8 Hunger Was Good Discipline
You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg Gardens, where you saw and smelled nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg Museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cezanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry, too, when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. later I thought Cezanne was probably hungry in a different way.
- from A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Okay, so I'm not disciplined and I borrowed 2 euros from a friend and bought a loaf of bread. No illuminating thoughts for me, thank you. But I did share it with the chomeur sitting outside the bakery. I think most of us have walked past beggars and either pretended not to hear them or straight up lied and said we didn't have any money, sometimes maybe we don't have any cash, more often we don't have any small change.

In Paris, it is simply not feasible to help all the beggars you see. They line the metro walls (where they sleep), they queue for public bathrooms, they flank ATM's. Then there are questions of merit -- Give to the old ones? The young girls? The people holding children? The ones with puppies? Soon, you start to recognize them. The girl pale girl who sits by the metro entrance at my stop; the tall, schizophrenic black guy who takes his shoes off and puts his feet up on line 4; the man who wears sunglasses at St. Germain-des-Près. Earlier this winter, I decided to "adopt" the old man who stands outside the Monoprix on my block. What does that mean? I buy him a bag of bread about once a month. Okay, it's not great, but it's something. Except this week, for the first time in my life, when he held out his little cup, I could choose between him having dinner or me.

(Before my mother has a heart-attack, I should clarify: I get breakfast every morning at my homestay, and Host Mom is always happy to share her food with me, even though she is only required to give me dinner three times a week. I also have some pasta and soup left. I am a far cry from starving.)

At any rate, I spend a lot of time contemplating the homeless people of Paris, and I know some of them lie about their situations, and many of them have substance abuse problems. But since I'm not above going out for a drink myself, I do try to give when I can for the simple reason that people ask. Something I remember hearing in church when I was younger: It is not for us to judge...

Anyway, me and half of my baguette made it to the university cafeteria, where I plopped down to read Andromaque by Racine before my Théâtre et Théâtralités class. That's when the call came. Le Jumeau is in trouble. A combination of noise disturbances and not enough studying has put his housing situation, and thus his stay in Montpellier, in jeopardy. Needless to say, he was freaked, and so was I. I've known Le Jumeau since we were eight years old. On this continent, where I sometimes feel that everyone I know is an acquaintance and communicating even the most basic ideas is still something of a struggle, he knows that I am not actually retarded, and he's going through the same struggles, too. Plus, sometimes, when Paris with it's beggars and expensive food and kind though somewhat inscrutable host mothers becomes too much, Montpellier exists in my mind as an escape where I can go and be dorky and maybe hug someone without having to kiss their cheeks. If he goes, I lose that safety net.

After that call I went back to reading my play until a few of my friends sat down and we started gabbing. Because I seem to have lost all sense of pudeur (discretion) somewhere around my junior year of high school, I started talking about the German who came to visit me this weekend, which lead to a discussion of dating in France, etc. I also gave what has to have been the most disgustingly bastardized summary of the greatest classical French tragedy in a rather loud tone of voice. But the conversation kept coming back to dating. After about 30 minutes I looked to my right, and there was D., smirking. D. is a charming Frenchman with a devilish smile who appeared in this blog briefly right when I got to France. Well, suffice it to say that he is an adult and I am ridiculous and our brief friendship went down in small, awkward flames. Is he still gorgeous? Definitely. Did he hear me give a five minute treatise on dating in Paris that included a reference to "this guy I met the first week we were here?" You betcha. I bolted.

I may have smoked a cigarette. Eventually I decided to be a big girl and say hello and then rejoin my friends. I forgot that I am painfully awkward when I made this decision. Besides, I had no face left to save. To recap, it was now 4 p.m. and I was cold, poor, almost friendless, and face to face with best looking guy to ever reject me.

Then I had a test.

After the test my Theater class went to la Comedie Française to watch Andromaque, which was really really good and had great costumes and sets. I wasn't really feeling very sympathetic to Andromaque and Hermione as they rejected their lovers over the course of five acts (blah blah duty blah blah) but their dresses were awesome.

Tomorrow I have scary translation classes, but hey, it's a new day.
Et voilà les nouvelles.

Monday in the Métro

Many men in France (and in other parts of Europe) love to draguer, to flirt, to try to pick up women. Anyone who looks culturally appropriate in a skirt in France encounters this. It's strange to me that in a city where saying "bonjour" to a stranger is unheard of, it's normal to try to seduce one on sight. At best it's funny and flattering, at worst it's menacing. Usually it's just annoying. In general I tell the unwanted male I'm Russian (nobody speaks Russian), but Monday night, being cold and running late around 7 p.m., I was not prepared as I entered the métro at Alésia. Actually, that was just as well, since not even my trusty alibi couldn't have gotten me out of this one gracefully. This is definitely the most extended incident I've had, and since an account of my time here wouldn't be complete without at least a mention of awkward sexual advances, here's how it went down:

I was standing on the voie, waiting for the train. Two youngish guys walk by behind me, laughing, and sit down on my right. Just when I am starting to wonder if they are laughing at me, a voice:

Random man: *indistinguishable French in my left ear*
Me: Blagh! *deer in the headlights face*
Random man: (in French) Oh, I surprised you...[something something]...getting pushed in front of the train.
Me: *starting to get terrified, polite nodding*
RM: Ah, you don't speak French.
Me: Not really
RM: Spanish?
Me: No.
RM: Italian?
Me: No.
RM: English, then? I don't really speak English...
Me: Yes. *ain't-that-a-shame-now-leave face*
RM: So you're English? American?
Me: American.
RM: So you're here on holiday?
Me: No I'm a student. (Doh!)
RM: Ah-ha! So you speak French then!
Me: Sometimes. (Where is the train?!?)
RM:What do you study? Law? Business?
Me: History (The train!)
RM: Where are you going?
Me: The, uh, library.
RM: Come dancing with my friends and I?
Me: No thanks.
RM: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
RM: Really?
Me: Yes, it's impossible.
RM: *boarding the train* Ok, I'll leave you alone then. Happy New Year. Have a nice evening.
Me: Same to you.

-2 seconds later-

RM: *sitting down next to me* Actually, my friends are trying to figure out where we're going, I'll come sit with you!
Me: So you're not from Paris then.
RM: Me, yes, I've lived here for four years. They're trying to figure out how to get to the club.
Me: I see.
RM: So which library are you going to? Odéon?
Me: (not understanding) Cool.
RM. La Sorbonne? Montparnasse?
Me: Yes, er, no. (Oh look my stop!)
RM: *Also getting off the train* Oh! I think you like me!
Me: (Fantastic) *power-walking to next train*
RM and friends: *giggles* (Guess who's also taking Line 6 towards Nation.)

*As I approach the voie, the train pulls away. Next train, 7 minutes.* (Hooo, boy!)
Me: *Trying to blend into the crowd on the voie. Pointedly avoiding eye contact.*
RM: *Pointedly trying to make eye contact. *
Me: *Surpressing nervous laughter*
RM: It's destiny.
Me: Nope.
RM: Do you like Frenchmen?
Me: uhhh...
RM: American men, they aren't very tender, are they?
Me: I guess?
RM: So you've come to France to experience tenderness, affection, to fall in love with a Frenchman.
Me: Nope.
RM: No? You don't like men...you only like women now.
Me: Haha...I only like books.
RM: Ah, yes you're going to the library, that's very good.
Me: Yup.
RM: But you can't curl up against a book at night...
Me: (Says you) Oh well.
RM: What part of your studies are you in? What do you want to do afterward?
Me: I don't know.
RM: Ah well, that's very good, and I wish you luck and a happy New Year and a nice evening.
Me: Yes, to you as well, bye bye

-2 seconds later-
RM: Please, if I could just know your first name.
Me: No.
RM: Mine's Nicolai, I'm Russian.
Me: Cool, you speak very good French.
RM: I studied a lot. You won't tell me your name?
Me: No.
RM: Maybe in 10 years, after you finish your studies...
Me: I don't think so.
RM: Very well. I wish you a...Actually, I don't wish you anything. You have your studies, you're on a good path. Have a nice night.
Me: Ok. Byebye.


RM: You really won't tell me?
Me: No.

Cultureshock

Okay, one more week and then it's Christmas Break and this blog will get more exciting. For now though, I'm not doing much besides studying, Facebook, and the occasional pastry with friends (which I will post about later).

In honor of exam week, here is a list of a few of the things I have learned this semester:

1. How to navigate les piscines municipales

For 1,70 students can swim as long as they like and take a warm (though not private) shower in a warm building. A proper swimsuit and swim cap is all that's required. Hop under the requisite shower, walk through the foot-cleaning pond, then just pick a lane in the pool. If you bump into someone, just say excusez-moi and swim away.

Warning: Ladies, everyone who works there is male, and they won't knock before entering the locker room (not that there's a door anyway) There are a few private changing rooms, though.

Click here for more info about public pools in Paris

2. Poireaux, fromage de chèvre, St. Honorés, courgette, café espresso - these are a few of my favorite things

Leeks, goat cheese, the most amazing pastry you've ever seen, zucchini/strange pumpkin-looking squash, espresso.

There are books, blogs, paintings, and movies dedicated to french food, so I won't try to sum up my experience with it in this list, but these are some of the things I had never tried before coming here, and now I don't know if I could make it a week without them.

There are some pretty hilarious and wise food bloggers in Paris right now, two that le Chef turned me on to are David Lebovitz and Clotilde.

3. It is never that simple.

It's all about the logic, baby. All of the assignments I've received in my parisian classes have intimidating names - the compte rendu, dissertation, synthese de texte, résumé, explication du texte. What do they all have in common? They all mean, more or less, "read & summarize." No one in France is interested in your interpretation. It's all about the author's logic, and how well you can keep up.

That being said, not all summaries are created equal. The résumé involves summarizing while keeping the tone and point of view of the narrator. The explication du texte hinges on choosing the right 3 examples to demonstrate the thématique of the text. In the compte rendu you do actually get to state what you did or did not like about the text, but you better have a damn good reason why you found it touchant.

Other things that aren't so simple:

• Crossing the street - Why why why would you have the two walk/don't walk signs on either side of the very tiny median on different rhythms??
• Showering - The claw foot tub is beautiful, but I don't have time to run a bath and there's no shower curtain.
• Staying in the country - Searching every tabac in Paris frantically for official stamp - 3 hours; required stamp for immigration documents - 55 euros; printing costs for a housing attestation signed by my host mom to be attached to an electricity bill from the last 6 months- 10 centimes, stress pimples; being ordered to undress before getting pushed against a wall and zapped with radiation by a public health official in the required TB exam - priceless.

4. Franchement, mon chéri, je m'en fous.

This roughly translates as "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," and sometimes, in a crowded, overly complicated city like Paris, it's a necessary sentiment. The French are generally extremely polite, so sometimes it seems to take a willful oblivion to make it through the forced intimacy of the sardine-can metro, past the hoards of beggars (often with strategically cute animals), through the never-ending queues and home safe without having a nervous breakdown. Also handy for when people make fun of your accent, or you've just done something gauche like swimming into that lady at the piscine - What was she doing in my lane, anyway?

5. Parisians are very, very nice.

Sure, they don't smile at random people like we do in some parts of the States, and they don't particularly appreciate it when tourists assume they speak English, but if you brush up your best "Excusez-moi, Monsieur/Madame. Vous parlez anglais?" you'll almost always get what you need. Ask someone for directions and they may very well lead you where you need to be. Look worried/scared or flirtatious/conspiratorial and the world is your oyster. Just be polite.

6. Romance ≠ Love

One of the things many visitors note on arrival in the City of Love is the rampant PDA. That couple making out between the vending machines and the homeless man in the métro station? The ones that look like they'll elope any second? They could be on their third date. The French are in love with Love, and they are more than willing to fake it 'til they make it (and if all those couples in the métro are going home together, they sure make it a lot).

7. The 35-hour work week is a myth.

True, it is hard to fire a French employee, and they do take longer lunch breaks, but most white collar workers don't get home until 8 p.m. these days. They do take vacations and keep their weekends private, but during the work week, it's a little scary.

8. They aren't all that skinny

My first week here I read an article that cited a statistic about France's growing obesity problem. Le snacking as well as le Macdo (McDonald's) have caught on, and by 2020 French obesity rates will probably equal America's. While it's clear that French women do get fat, there are still plenty of Audrey Hepburn lookalikes running around.

Mireille Guiliano is a wealth of advice on how to avoid becoming grosse

9. "Good advice" is highly subjective.

A sample of questions and responses from recent issues of Femina magazine:

Q: My adolescent son's girlfriend showed up at our breakfast table wearing one of his shirts as pajamas! I don't want share my tartines with her! What do I do?

A: Lay down the law, but you and your spouse should consider clearing out once a month to give the young lovers their space. If your son complains, remind him that if the nest is too comfortable, one never leaves it.

Q: My ex, the father of my 6 year old child, refuses to pay any attention to his little girl. This saddens and confuses my daughter, who doesn't understand why her daddy doesn't love her. How do I get him to take an interest?

A: I sense that you aren't really over your ex. The real question here is: Why haven't you found someone else yet? Find a man who can love and take care of both of you, that's the best way to provide a father figure for your daughter.

Le Pique-nique :)

One of the best ways to save some money and generate some extra melatonin before the sun goes on vacation for the winter is picnics. We had a perfect one, and discovered a beautiful park right by my house last month!



Here we have Pont-l'Eveque cheese (similar to brie) and another soft cow's milk cheese, figs, Louis Bouillot rosé champagne (4,60euros at Monoprix) and bread made from organic flour and a selection of patisseries by celebrated baker Dominique Saibron!

The best part? All of it came from shops on my block! The park where we sat down with our spread, Parc Montsouris, is also no more than a 5 minute walk. It has great walking paths, a lake, and pony rides complete with adorable French toddlers. And of course, it was only fun because I was there with some lovely people. C'est belle la vie. :)


(Photos stolen from Le Chef's facebook page)

Allons enfants de la Patrie...

So, Sarkozy, who is about as popular as Bush was at the end of his second term, is pushing to move the national retirement age back (from 60 to 62) and the Frenchies are freaking out. To be fair, everyone understands that people are living longer and something's gotta give, but the proposed reform is very biased. Since people with cushy desk jobs stay in school longer, they might work (if they finish grad school at 28) 32 years while an ouvrier, a laborer, who starts working at 16 has 44 years of hard labor. The proposed reform does not account for this. It also gives less to women who take time off to raise their children, but I am unclear on the details there. Young people are also up in arms because it's already extremely difficult to get hired in France. They're counting on the geezers to move into maisons de retrait (retirement homes)and clear a space.

Anyway, this all means ongoing grèves(strikes)and lots of lots of manifestations (demonstrations). Le Chef and I headed over to one last week.



If only New Orleanians had turned out in such force for the oil spill protests!

The way the manif works is basically just a big marching parade with lots of red balloons (Glenn Beck would have a field day with that!), stickers, and bullhorns. Of course, the parade starts at - where else? - Place de la Bastille, the granddaddy of all sights of civil disobedience. When we were there, it was chalked up with slogans and anarchy symbols.Each syndicat, or labor union, has a truck, usually with a woman sitting on top shouting slogans and then going "Tous ensemble! Tous ensemble!" (Basically, "All together now!") The union members marching behind the truck, being French and very dignified, do not holla back.





The grèves only really effect study-abroaders when the workers at national monuments and the transit workers go on strike. When this happens, put on your walking shoes...