Sitting in Silence

I recently attended a dinner party with some young, French professionals. Twenty-something's milled about drinking wine from plastic cups and snacking on sausage with cheese as they discussed politics and operas they'd recently seen. It was surreal only because it wasn't what I expected when I was invited to have a dinner with a friend-of-a-friend and his cousin. 

What I imagined as a small, quiet affair was anything but. The passage of time was marked by food and conversation and it was all really charming. 

That said, I spent the majority of the time feeling anxious. While this group of established friends talked about climbing the job ladder and getting their Master's I tried to look really cool in the corner--hoping the red wine wasn't staining my teeth. And what's worse, I managed to exhaust the brunt of my go-to French phrases in the first 10 minutes. After that I was left with my backup tactic in instances of prolonged French speaking: offering superficial insight on a conversation at 45 second intervals to the effect of,  "well there you go," "I know!" "That's cute," "where's the toilet?" 

Everyone was extremely nice though, and my novelty as an American helped buoy me among the party guests. One conversation that struck me was with a charming fellow named Eloi who had studied for three years in America getting his Master's. He'd also spent time in Brooklyn (and had the red flannel to prove it). I asked him if he experienced any culture shock during his stay? He responded that only one social custom really caught him off guard. It took Eloi almost a full year to understand the concept of  "hanging out."  "People would invite me over and we'd sit on a couch and do nothing. I had no idea what was going on."

I looked back at him blankly. What's there to get?

That's the point. Eloi explained that in France there is always an occasion for getting together. Whether it be coffee/tea, aperitif, amuse-bouche (pre-dinner snacks) or a night cap. In fact, the French have partitioned happy-hour into so many distinct parts that you can always find an excuse to get together post 5pm. As he said this I reflected on my own time in France. And I was like, "WHOA!" Every time I'd met up with a French person it primarily revolved around eating or drinking. 

For the comparison, I thought back to the states. Sure we like to get together and do stuff, but just as often there will be no premise to socializing. In American we actively invite someone over and then continue to go about our day as if we were alone. The only difference being that we can enjoy that pleasant, social sensation of being with another human for a couple of hours. My social life in middle school revolved around going to my best friend's house while we took turns watching each other play video games. Yea I thought. Hanging out is sort of weird. And I love it! And apparently so does Eloi, who is a big convert to the custom. Sure, some might suggest that sitting in silence with your friends is the opposite of healthy, but I think it's quite romantic. Like Uma Thurman's line to John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction."

And even more interesting was the fact that here I was, at this harmless (dare I say delightful)  dinner party, and I was a wreck. These tiny, unspoken rules of society are so ingrained that you don't realize you've exited your comfort zone until someone offers you a plastic cup of red wine and asks your opinion on the opera of Aida. "She had things pretty rough. But boy could she sing."

My (exhaustive) List of French Things

In my first few weeks of living here I've noticed several differences between the United States and France. The first to strike me were the fact that France doesn't have the sexy green M&M and also Castle is very popular. Here's my extensive list (so far) of other peculiarities. Check back often:

*Everything is closed on Sunday. I asked a French friend if this was for religious reasons (I was under the assumption that France was a pretty godless country). "No" he replied. "The French are just very lazy." 

*Street signs in France are more of an afterthought than a signpost.

 It's as if the city itself is saying, "oh, you don't know where you're going? Too bad. Try harder." Street signs are small blue placards that are attached to the outside of buildings. And they're really small-

That is if you're even lucky enough to find a street sign amongst the pageantry of stimuli vying for your attention. Sometimes there's nothing there. It's special.

*Pharmacies, on the other hand, are incredibly easy to find. I don't know what medieval tradition this dates back to, but whenever you're in need of some european Advil or bandaids you simply have to look for the glowing plus-sign. The street signs could learn a lesson here...

*When you go to the gym you have to bring your own workout towel. This is a tiny detail, but still striking to me. Also gyms in France kind of have the ambiance of a gay club. Lots of flashing lights, bright colors, and electronic remixes of Kelly Clarkson. 

*Rollerblading is still cool here. So much so that I just happened to stumble upon literally hundreds of roller blades while walking along the Seine. This was reassuring to my 90's sensibilities--much like Mighty Ducks or Saved by the Bell.

*While the sexy green M&M is nowhere to be found, France still has Crispy M&M's. Which is huge in my book. I imagine they made a deal with Mars in the early 90's to keep the crispy M&M in exchange for giving up all peanut butter products. 

*At the Laundromat you pay a flat rate for the washing machine, but for some reason, to use the dryer you pay in increments of six minutes. This makes absolutely no sense to me. 

*Bagels are kind of popular-

They're also super expensive and bad. Extra demerit points for the grammatical error. 

*That said, the pizza is pretty good-

But you have to buy a whole pie. The idea of buying a "slice" is as foreign as pasteurizing the cheese that's on it. This is purely a cultural oddity since they obviously have the tools to sell slices. I mean they use heat lamps to keep the pastries warm! This is one American export that would make a killing.

*The French (and UK) equivalent of a drunk slice of pizza is a kebab--often lamb, beef or chicken. 

*They make up for the lack of drunk pizza with drunk-

massages. Seriously. It's a weird and thriving industry. If you can get past the fact that a stranger is gripping your thigh like a Shake Weight, it actually seems kind of nice.

*If you're looking for milk and eggs in the supermarket don't waste your time in the refrigerated section. More often then not they're chilling (figuratively) in the cereal aisle. This confuses my mother to no end.

*They do yogurt and pudding like a boss-

It's a thing of beauty.

*Butter is good. REALLY good. So good that most products proudly boast the quality (and quantity) of their butter-

This is just a small sample of the "pur beurre" crowd. They are a proud and gluttonous group. 

*I just thought this was beautiful. I apologize in advance.

This is America

While staying with Geoffrey and Arnaud I had the pleasure of visiting a French restaurant. Most of my experience in France has been with home cooked meals. That felt sort of right to me (i.e. very French) so I was excited to see what dining out was like. 

It looks like this:

And also a lot like this:

Since we wanted something quick, but didn't want to opt for fast food (MdDonald's has monopolized France, but the first Burger King is opening this month) we settled on a something both inexpensive, but with the amenities of fine dining (chairs and waiters). This idea, of course, is an American export.

Buffalo Grill is best described as the love child between T.G.I.Fridays and Applebee's--if the baby was conceived at a tailgate... on top of an indian burial ground. 

The restaurant as a whole is an effort to reduce "America" to its smallest, most essential parts. Obviously there's a lot of Native American imagery-

But also pinball-

It's like the founder of the restaurant watched a bunch of cowboy films and then accidentally popped in "Tommy."

All of that I can look past though. At least the chosen details--while anachronistic and tangential--are accurate. What really gets me is the dessert menu-

OK. They got the brownie with ice cream right. Fine. But that's like knowing that Eskimo's live in igloos (am I dating myself and being slightly racist? Who knows!). Pancakes on the dessert menu? Nice try but that's firmly a breakfast staple! Although I get why that my be confusing. It is basically a cake...But sorbet! Yogurt! 

Nice try Buffalo Grill but those aren't the makings of an American dessert. I'm calling you out!

But they really did get the brownie right. Seriously. It was delicious. 

Face of Education

Today I sat in the Teacher's Lounge of the high school I work at dipping a day old pancake in a plastic espresso cup filled with hot chocolate while reading a back issue of New York Magazine from July (the "cheap eats" edition). 



Don't believe me?

I teach children. It's a crazy world we live in.


PS: I've made approximately 2 teacher friends. 

Color me Humbled

Well, I've arrived in France. I'm currently staying in Evreux to the West of Paris with my two friends Arnaud and Geoffrey (left to right). They have a charming flat on the edge of the city.

Not saying they aren't cute together, but the real winners of the Cute Contest are Arnaud's two dogs, Gamet and Copine (sp?).

I dare you to tell them apart. They look exactly alike, and both have a propensity for climbing on furniture/people/each other.

I kid you not, as I write this, Copine is sprawled across my lap, and Gamet is resting his head on my right arm . I haven't had this much action in months (I'm so alone...JK) ! 

Besides the dogs, my constant search for housing, and the bizarre feeling that I am somehow Geoffrey and Arnaud's child every time they leave for work, I've been getting along fine. 

One realization I've recently made is how humbling it is to live in another country. Sure, there's the appreciation of another culture, and the challenge of assimilation, but what I'm talking about hits a little closer to home. 

Studying a language abroad teaches you what it's like to be stupid. Like, really, really dumb. Day-in and day-out, you will invoke looks of pity from bus drivers, waitresses, bank tellers, and even close friends, as you mix your tenses, swap your verbs, and stumble your way through a language that seemed a lot easier in the classroom. 

At first I fought it. I said to myself, They just don't get it. I'm making perfect sense to myself. I got a 4 on AP French! But now I've learned to wallow in it. People meet me, and their first impression is a mix between "awww, that's cute" and "where's your mother?" And I'm OK with it. Yesterday I tried saying that I enjoy working out (this is a lie--I was under pressure) and instead I suggested to my table mates that I enjoy exorcising myself (like, of ghosts). This character I've created through linguistic foibles is a complex one. For instance, I cry when it's cloudy out, and yet, the idea of eating dinner makes me sexually excited. I like to keep everyone on their toes.

I've grown to find this mentality somewhat liberating. There's no pressure to be smart or witty. There's simply a surprised appreciation when something cogent comes out of my mouth. I've embraced my inner (French) child. But now I've got to go, because my dads just got back from work. I wonder what kind of cartoons are on?

The Embassy

The Embassy

Last Thursday I went to the French Embassy in New York City to get a working visa. I assumed the process would be nothing more than filling out basic information, and maybe getting my passport scanned. You know, like going to a new doctor. In retrospect, I should have noticed the small signs that abounded whenever I told someone I was going to the French embassy. “Oh…Whew. Good luck.” Luck? Luck is for the unmotivated I thought. I’m going to put on a dress shirt and this is going to be a breeze!

It wasn’t.

First of all, it was raining—which was the first blatant stab at the bubble of ignorance I’d created for myself. Like a character in a scary movie whose car breaks down by the side of the road, I willfully approached the spooky castle without concern. The visa building was my spooky castle.

The visa building is a tan, Victorian era stone walkup that looks like its been converted into a white color prison. The windows are covered with bars and a burly security guard meets you at the door. In front of me in line is a classic Upper East Side family (read: Jewish). The waify mother and balding father are hurriedly explaining to their daughter the protocol of applying for her study abroad visa. They act as if she’s entering a POW camp and her return is uncertain.

Suddenly I become very nervous. Am I actually as prepared as I thought I was? I can’t contemplate the question long before the bouncer/security guard whisks me though a metal detector and ushers me up the steps. “I’m just curious if there’s anything I—" he cuts me off with a wave of his hand and points up the steps. The rest of the morning is imbued with this same affected hustle and urgency. It’s as if these government employees had been trained to create the most hostile environment possible to scare a couple dozen people away from their work abroad each month.  Walking into the waiting room, I try to rebound. I straighten my posture and summon my most happy-go-lucky attitude. This situation can easily be fixed with enough palpable optimism (thought no one ever).

The waiting room looks like the inpatient den on a TV psychiatric ward. People subtlety rock back-and-forth, fingering through old copies of some magazine simply called “FRANCE.” In turn, the role of Nurse Ratchet is shared by all of the employees—who, may I add, could not have made it more clear how little they cared about us. The PA system in the waiting room is on its last leg, and most proclamations simply sound like a game of German bingo.

Finally I approach a stern, caramel colored Parisian man with small rectangular glasses. I hand him my paperwork and he immediately asks why my form doesn’t have a small, passport-eque photo on it. Suddenly, I notice the glaring hole on the “your photo here” section of my application. I suggest he can, maybe, photo copy my passport? Word of advice to anyone who goes through this process: don’t suggest they photo copy your passport. After getting yelled at for a good 30 seconds I’m told to go around the corner to Clyde Chemists to get my photo taken. “You have to back in 15 minutes or you can’t come back.” He adds, “We are very busy.” Challenge accepted motherfucker. My cool, affable-self, strolls past the rest of the clerks.

After clearing the security guard I sprint around the corner. “Pictures” I gasp. The lady-greeter points me to the back of the store. The two women behind the counter of the photo section look like Fran Drescher’s aunts on The Nanny and they are reassuringly Jewish with their updos and big, costume jewelry. “So you need photos? Edith, call Stephen, he needs the practice.” He needs the practice. Those are the last four words you ever want to hear when putting your faith in a stranger. The situation could only have been worse if I was going in for back surgery or getting a colonoscopy. Stephen is an attractive Latin guy who looks like he just woke up from a nap. My demeanor still says: I’m cool. Take your time! and I hate myself for it. Stephen pulls out an old school, Polaroid camera and tells me to stand against the whit backdrop. 

“Hmm…It’s out of batteries. Deborah, where is the battery charger?” 

“You’re sure it’s not here?” 

“I don’t see anything back here.” 

As they rustle behind the desk Edith comes over to me, “you look stressed. Those people over there can be so mean. Here” she produces a package of Oreos that could easily be from the 1980’s, “have a cookie.” I’m not really hungry, since my stomach is in knots, but I accept out of kindness. Seconds later the camera is working and Stephen prints out my photos but, again, he makes a puzzled face. “These aren’t the right size.” Stephen you’re killing me here!

Finally I get back and await my nemesis. He accepts my form and tells me to to return to the waiting room. I think to myself: There’s more? Maybe they’ll just give me my visa on the spot cause I’m here so early?

Wrong again. 

Next I’m called up by a tiny, terse woman that I can only imagine emerged directly from Satan’s testicle. No pleasantries at all, she simply demands a copy of my passport. Which, you guessed it, I don’t have. [Time Out]

I will fully acknowledge, I was unprepared for this visit. In my defense, they make no attempt at directing you to the relevant material before your visit and also, this WOMAN HAS THREE COPY MACHINES BEHIND HER AND YET SHE DEMANDS I GO DOWNSTAIRS AND USE THE PAY-PER-COPY MACHINE.

[Time In] To make matters worse, she tells me to hurry in making my copies since she can’t help anyone else until I’ve been processed. The fact that it’s 50 cents a copy assaults all my economic sensibilities but I ignore that and reach into my wallet only to realize that all I have is a 10 dollar bill. To the security guard: “can you break a 10—.”

“Go upstairs and ask in the waiting room.” I protest—I don’t like making eye contact with strangers let alone asking for money. He repeats his advice again and I bound back up the stairs, into the arms of the she-devil herself. “What’s taking so long?!”

Finally I find a kind young woman who miraculously has change for a 10. In retrospect, I imagine she was the product of a stress-hallucination, as I’ve never met anyone in my life that could break any quantity of money.  Back at the copier, Beelzebub’s spawn has followed me and is now yelling as I furiously photocopy my passport.

Finally I hand her my documents. With the flourish of her pen she hands me a piece of paper and disdainfully explains, “Come back in a week.” Shaken, I exit the consulate, hoping that she chokes on her next croissant—and praying my visa is accepted.

PS: I’ve now successfully received my visa. I didn’t want to post this until I had it locked down.

Cat Nipped

One of the perks of house sitting is that we have a built in animal butler. Her name is Grasminet.

The PG translation of Grasminet is "fat kitty." It's meant in a charmingly playful way (as Grasminet is not fat at all).

Grasminet is 10, which I'm told is middle aged for cats. She performs her duties as cat butler very well--she chases birds and keeps my parents company. She even tans in her spare time. That said, Grasminet has been known to keep the peace against less civilized cats in our area. Which is how she got that awesome scar on her left ear. It's small enough to be hidden for an important photo shoot, but noticeable enough to say, "Yea, I started a fight club."

My mother is allergic to cats, but she also loves animals. Especially ones that communicate. And Grasminet has no qualms with laying down the law. She loudly 'meows' when she wants doors opened, lights turned off, and her burger flipped.

Seriously--she likes to eat the grizzly bits left over on the grill. She's got my dad wrapped around her paw too. That said, she enjoys my mother's habits more (as they're proper and civilized). Shes even taken to drinking chardonnay (though she prefers pinot gritio). 

Also like my mom, she's reading the new Dan Brown novel on her Nook.

She's finding it a little reductive, but now desperately wants to visit Italy. 

I know, I know! I won't spoil the ending. 

One of her most impressive talents--by far--is a knack for drinking water with her paws.

This was something she learned as a cat-in-waiting before fleeing her country estate because of pregnancy. She continues to insist it was immaculate conception but my money's on the farm hand.

Unfortunately, I learned something pretty upsetting today. While taking a post dinner stroll I saw Grasminet in an alley by our house with another cat. They were just sort of staring at each other and purring loudly. I had been falsely convinced that Grasminet was putting her full attention on us, and our needs. I was blinded with rage and confusion as I ran back to our house...

That's why I've started covering the grill.