The Mother of All Visits

Yes, it’s the much-awaited blog on my mother’s much-awaited visit.

But first, a quick vignette: don’t you just hate it when you and your spouse are minding your own business, walking along the Seine from the Orsay to the Louvre around 10:30PM, attempting to take advantage of the once-annual-open-til-midnight museum festival, when a band of approximately a dozen drunken young Frenchmen, dressed as various superheroes, go loudly toddling by you, and you end up debating Middle Eastern politics (you in French, he in English) with a quite rotund and overstuffed Captain America? Yeah, me too!

Anyway, now back to The Mother of All Visits.

You may have read in the papers in the past day or two that this year’s hurricane season is expected to be intense. You’ve got that right. This year’s first hurricane has unexpectedly already come ashore…right here in Paris. Hurricane Bobi, that is…

Now, a year after our wedding, it is probably safe for Sara and me to reveal that in the lead-up to the wedding, we would sometimes refer to our mothers as Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. No disrespect was meant—we were just making the point that they’re both true forces of nature, and that you stand in their way at your own risk.

So, how do you host a hurricane? Well, as Sara has already detailed in the blog, Char and Henry’s visit was more of a tempest in a teapot, stress-free, and a good time was had by all.

But, could lightning strike twice? (OK, I’ll drop the meteorological crap…) Could there be a low-impact visit from our high-powered parentals?

Long story short, yes. My mom’s visit was made a bit more, or less, complicated by the fact that she has visited each of the three previous years (1992/3, 1994/5, and 1998/9) that I’ve lived here. So, gone was the pressure to squeeze in visits to all the “biggie” destinations like the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre—Mom’s already seen them.

But gone also was the E-Z trip planning that comes with welcoming a first-time visitor. After three years of living in Paris, I have what past visitors lovingly refer to as “The Death March” down to a science, so that about 75% of Paris’ must-see sights get “hit” during a leisurely full-day forced jaunt across the City of Lights. A second day might involve hitting sites that would be the pieces de resistance in any other city, but which pass as also-rans here in Paris. All along we’d be discovering delicious French street food, a tasty treat at any price, but downright perfect given its low cost, strong euro or not. But my mom’s seen all this stuff, and tasted all these goodies, at least 2-3 times each.

The good news is that my mom had low-key needs at a time that Sara and I wanted to take it easy. It was a perfect fit—we slept in most days, turned in early, split our meals between restaurants and Sara’s ever-more-excellent cooking, and of course shopped, shopped, shopped.

We visited zero museums but five markets (artists’ markets at Bastille and Montparnasse, a temporary flea market in the 14th and the permanent one by Clignancourt, plus Sara’s and my beloved food market on the rue Mouffetard). We didn’t stand in line at any tourist attractions, but we did stand in several lines that had a cash register at the other end. We tackled the not-yet-in-Fodor’s Sara-and-Josh engagement tour (“here’s where I got down on one knee, here’s the hotel with the better-than-a-postcard view where we stayed on the engagement trip,” etc.) And we ended the eight-day trip having had more ice creams (three) than pre-10AM wakeup calls (zero), which is all you can really ask, frankly. After all, could we really have expected anything but an enjoyable visit when my mom’s accommodations were at…the Hotel Sunny?

Hail to Le Chef

Hello everyone,

I’m back, and I’m blogging. Pardon the delay, we’re in full visitor and travel season…

LET'S GET...PRESIDENTIAL
By popular (or unpopular, depending on what you think of requestor NN) demand, I’m going to share some thoughts about the recent French presidential election. You may have already read something about it. I’ve been surprised at how much coverage the election received—it was the top story on washingtonpost.com virtually all day the day of the election.

MEET THE BIGGIES
The two primary candidates in the election, center left Segolene Royal and center right candidate Nicolas Sarkozy, represented a sea change from past presidential contenders. First, they are a generation younger than most previous candidates. But second, they had a reasonable chance of winning the election despite the fact they had never previously run for President. This is unprecedented in France, where candidates often run several time before finally winning. (Francois Mitterrand ran in 1965 and 1974 before winning in 1981 and 1988, and Jacques Chirac ran in 1981 and 1988 before winning in 1995 and 2002). The latter practice clearly flies in the face of the flavor-of-the-month, eating-our-young system in the US, where once you lose one election, you’re tainted goods forever. Admittedly, Nixon ran, lost, then reappeared for a later victory (maybe that’s the exception that proves the rule…) Can you imagine Walter Mondale, Robert Dole, or John Kerry running three times before finally winning?!?

As you know, in the end, despite the presence of charismatic centrist Francois Bayrou, the two “intended” candidates progressed to the second round, and in the end center-right candidate Nicolas Sarkozy won by a fairly large 53% to 47% victory. Why did Royal lose, why did Sarkozy win, and what does this mean for France?

ROYAL, WITH PLEASE!
Royal would seem to have many points in her favor. First, she’s beautiful, in a country where that matters. Second, she was a surprise, challenge candidate in an election cycle that seemed to favor change. (As a side note, two points that would seem to have disqualified her to be a candidate in the US--the fact that she’s not married to her longtime companion and the father of her children, and the fact that he just happens to be the head of the political party she represented in the election—seem to be perceived as irrelevant in France. Amazingly, as the election results were announced on live TV, Royal’s significant other sat in a TV studio and commented on his de facto wife’s loss, unable to comfort her, and without the media commenting on the absurdity of the situation.) However, in the end, Royal seems to have peaked too early, and to have relied too heavily on the novelty factor without backing it up with proven competence and a clear message. The most damning statistic is this—a post-election poll showed that while two-thirds of Sarkozy’s voters voted for him (as opposed to against Royal), fully two-thirds of Royal’s voters were voting against Sarkozy (as opposed to for Royal).

Two key questions on this front remain to be resolved: First, what is the fate of the Socialist party, which has lost three straight Presidential elections, including one loss in the first round and a wide margin of loss this time around? And second, have we seen the last of Segolene Royal? As indicated above, history would indicate she would run again, but her predecessor as Socialist candidate, Lionel Jospin, only ran twice before throwing in the towel, and my personal sense is that in this instant-gratification, mass-media age, France will no longer has the patience or the stomach to watch someone lose twice before winning.

SARKO, FASCO?
So, what about the victorious candidate, Nicolas Sarkozy? The son of Hungarian immigrants, he has the classic psychological pairing of an inferiority complex and a massive ego. He didn’t attend the same prestigious schools as most politicians, and he’s famously short in stature. On the flip side, he’s made no secret of the fact that he’s always wanted to be President of France. Napoleon, call your office…

I think the perception of lifelong presidential wannabes is based almost entirely on whether said individual belongs to your political party. For Democrats like me, Bill Clinton’s childhood interest in being president was charming, his photo with JFK inspirational, and his eventual victory a happy ending (no pun intended). Yet, when an politician we dislike has such a lofty goal, we often perceive it as hubris, or ice-cold career calculation. This same dual perception seems to repeat itself here in France.

Sarkozy is a man with a mission, a clear vision he won’t easily be dissuaded from pursuing. I admit my own hypocrisy of perception on this front—I see GW’s unwavering self-faith frightening, but I find newly-elected DC Mayor Adrian Fenty’s single-minded pursuit of his platform impressive.

Everyone agrees that Sarkozy is a gifted politician. In an election that, as stated above, was focused on a theme of change, he successfully spun himself as the best proponent of innovation. This despite the fact that his opponent was the change-personified, first-ever serious female presidential candidate, the fact that his own party has controlled the presidency and the National Assembly for years, and the fact that he himself served as a minister in this same government until a month before the election.

THIRD WAY, THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM?!?
Sarkozy is France’s Bill Clinton or Tony Blair, just fifteen years later—a young, charismatic go-getter in search of the “Third Way.” He claims to want to maintain France’s significant social advances while also capitalizing (pun intended) on the benefits of a more liberal economic approach. Many in France doubt his true allegiance to the social gains, which will be at the core of any changes that occur in France’s immediate political future. France is in an impossible situation—there is a near jihadist-level obsession with the protection of these social benefits, yet an increasingly large national agreement that reform of social programs is essential if France is to escape from decades of malaise and experience the same renaissance as many of its European brethren.

Is Sarkozy the man for this job? He can certainly claim a mandate—he won by approximately two million votes despite facing a groundbreaking and charismatic opponent, an extraordinarily weak endorsement from his predecessor and fellow political party member Jacques Chirac, a request by the head of the Far Right party to his voters (likely second-round Sarkozy voters) to abstain from voting in the second round, and a statement from kingmaker centrist Francois Bayrou that although he wouldn’t endorse a second-round candidate, he would not vote for Sarkozy).

If Sarkozy is to succeed at reforming France, he will have to do so in a “Nixon-in-China” going against expectations mode. If he fails, he will face what the French refer to as a “third round” of the election—in the streets, with protests and riots that could make the disturbances of two summers’ back look minor in comparison.

MISCELLANEOUS

* Turnout in both rounds of France’s election was approximately 85%. Can you imagine? Even American Idol doesn’t get that kind of voter turnout number, let alone for a presidential election.

* Funny Newspaper Correction, from the International Herald Tribune: “Because of an editing error, Nicolas Sarkozy was misquoted in some Monday editions. In his victory speech Sunday night after the French presidential election, he said he loved France as one loves a dear being. There was no reference to a dear master.”

Ice Cubes and Turkish Toilets

I was standing in line for the bathrooms at the Luxemburg Gardens with my parents today after a lovely picnic and after hearing another comment about the lack of ice in France, I said, “That’s it, I’m blogging about you!”

My mother of course laughed and said, “Wow Henry, she’s really threatening us now!” The threat is especially empty for my father who is convinced that the “computer room” in their home is nothing more than a room without a TV worth watching, but still, I feel I need to follow through on my “threat”.

Let me first be entirely clear—it is a real treat to have two weeks to spend in Paris with my parents. I am lucky to have parents who I honestly consider friends and we are having a good time. My parents are also rolling with a lot of new things and doing so with a smile, or at least a nod.

This trip also continues a reasonably long history of the Plutas traveling together. As a family, we’ve left our mark on Cancun, Ecuador, Hutalco, the American West, Florida, Washington DC, plus many other US states. I am quite sure the locals are still talking about those crazy Plutas and I have no doubt that the French (and Josh for that matter) will also be talking about this “invasion” long after May 10th.

Now secondly, let me also be entirely clear about the fact that Hoosiers in Paris is just inherently a risky proposition. I knew that Paris was different from Washington, but I’ve been reminded often how REALLY different Paris is from Chesterton.

Here are just a few things that have been brought to our attention as being “different” in Paris. [and for non-midwesterners, “different” is often code for “not what I prefer”]
1. Beer, water and Coke are served chilled, but never iced
2. Our fridge is not big enough to even have a freezer with an ice cube tray
3. Coffee is strong and served in cups that “are tiny”
4. Bathrooms are rumored to have a “Turkish Toilet” in the men’s room, which seems to be causing an extreme reaction from my father (despite the fact that we haven’t actually seen one yet)
5. There are a lot of people here, all of whom speak French
6. The cars here are really, really tiny
7. Josh and I walk an extreme amount here
8. There is not enough ice in France (yes, we really talk that much about ice)

I will readily admit that their observations are right, but we are nonetheless attempting a crash course in “French Culture”

The first few days were a maze of introductions to customs, signs, and language differences. I think we can all agree through that steak-frites are a bridge across cultures and that for one shining moment, the Plutas loved France because of their ability to find a decent steak and a tasty drink for under ten euros.

History has been a saving grace. There aren’t many places on earth where you can still see a house built in 1407 within walking distance of a piece of the city wall that dates back to 1200, and for some reason, this kind of “extreme history” resonates with my parents.

My parents have also helped me learn even more about the history of France, through a few tours we have taken together, and because of the pre-trip research they did on the French Revolution. It has been really fun to share these moments of history with my mom and dad, even if we did have to find a McDonalds afterwards so we could talk about the history lessons over an iced cold coke.

We’ve also settled in a bit. They have a wonderful little studio apartment right off of my favorite market street. They too are staring to enjoy a daily coffee, even if it’s a café crème and not an espresso. I think they are coming to at least understand part of our Parisian life, even if two weeks of it will be as much as they care to enjoy.

Also in a sign of the apocalypse, my father has even started to learn French. In a constant quest for the perfect sandwich, he insisted on having Josh teach him the word for “olive oil”. It’s the only French word he knows, and he uses it a lot more often than you could possibly imagine. I can still hear Josh teaching him, in mixed French and English, to just say “Wheel dough leave.”

Tomorrow we head to Normandy, and my French teacher’s family will be taking a couple of days out of their lives to show us around (I had asked my French teacher for some ideas on what to visit in her home province in Normandy, and instead she drafted her whole family to host and facilitate our visit--so much for mean French people, huh?). I can only wonder if they actually know what is in store for them—they thought the last group of Americans visiting Normandy (in 1944) was a tough bunch. I’m sure it will be OK, though, as long as we can sit for at least a couple of hours with an iced cold beverage.

sPg

Culinary Lessons

I was told over a six-course French dinner last night that “Gastronomy is a religion in France”. Food, wine, cheese, bread and unhurried dinners continue to be regular parts of our experience and the one piece of French culture which many Parisians are inviting us to share with them, at their own kitchens and tables, which as anyone knows is the best place to learn about any country. It also is the only place where my limited vocabulary can keep up with conversation, so I’m extra grateful for the invitations.

This week I was invited to cook with Iris in her kitchen. Iris, in my mind, is the unpublished Julia Child and I would walk over fire for the chance to cook with her. Fortunately, I didn’t have to perform any extreme acts to receive the invitation, I just had to show up with a few ingredients that Iris requested: liquid cream and 200 grams of good grated cheese. I, of course, showed up with two different types of liquid cream fresh, and 400 grams of cheese—just to be safe.

The lessons (which doubled as a language lesson as well) had us making a homemade desert custard (which tasted good, but didn’t look quite as nice as we had hoped), gratin dauphinois (a classic French dish that is a bit like scalloped potatoes, but includes nutmeg), meatloaf (which included three types of meat ground fresh for me by the local butcher), and an apple tart (which is an Iris standard and I think I can finally replicate). It was a bilingual afternoon that also had two breaks—one for tea and one for wine.

One moment that speaks to the freshness of ingredients here was the making of the meatloaf and our collective checking of the spices. I was elbow deep in a kilo of ground meat while Iris was adding a bit of this and a bit of that and checking the seasoning by tasting the raw meat mixture (which is not something my mother does, so it was a bit shocking).

Then she told me to the same, and fool knows that it was NOT the time to explain you don't regularly eat mostly unrefrigerated raw meat mixed with a raw egg. So I tasted it, found it surprisingly good and decided that that salmonella was clearly an American problem, so we continued to talk about what else it needed.

That wasn’t the only time this week where I found myself eating something a bit unexpected in part for reasons of pride (more specifically not wanting to seem like the mostly mute American who only eats chicken nuggets) and for reasons of politeness. At last night’s dinner, which involved homemade pate, rabbit, and the strongest French cheese I have ever tasted, I was offered something by the host, I couldn’t quite tell what was going on because the meal was conducted entirely in French and it looked like I was being offered a large bean of some sort. I glanced over to Josh with our commonly used “Please translate” code and he explained “It’s the rabbit’s kidney”.

Everyone seemed happy to offer it to me, so of course, once again, I ate and thanked him profusely. It did taste surprisingly good, but I did find myself wondering—“Do rabbits only have one kidney? I also found myself feeling even less bad for serving rabbit sausage on Easter. Rabbits are clearly food here—bunnies are for cartoons—at least that’s how I justify that eating the kidney is a special treat.

And so the culinary adventures continue and I am already beginning to fret about how I will figure out how to make these recipes when we return stateside—and who will be an honored enough guest to be offered our rabbit kidney.

sPg

Milestones

Riddle me this: What do all of these numbers have in common? Or, more specifically, what is their relevance?


1169816
1262991
143368909

Time’s up, and as Alex Trebek would say Canadian-style on “Jeopardy!”, “Oooh, sewery!”

What the three numbers have in common is that they are all key milestones in our Paris existence.

The relevance of the first number is that it is the number of steps I’ve taken since I arrived in Paris in mid-January.

The relevance of the second number is that it is the number of steps Sara has taken.

And the relevance of the third number is that it is our phone number!

So, why do we know (or care) how many steps we’ve taken on Parisian paving stones? And why does a measly phone number get to join the august company of our million-plus step accomplishment? Read on, MacDuff…

Too often in the States, people judge their personal successes by maximizing salary earned, hours worked, dollars spent, and the like. By this account, our year is France ranks low indeed. We left those criteria behind when we stepped away from our jobs and flew away from US soil. We now work fewer hours in a week than we used to in a (bad) day, and we now relish a $10 meal whereas we would have taken a $100 dinner for granted a year ago. We’ve literally recalibrated our happiness, both the terms we use to measure it, and the scope of what seems reasonable on each scale.

Let’s take this one step (waka waka waka) at a time: whenever I’m in Paris, I wear a pedometer so I can see just how damn much walking I do when I’m here. When I proposed to Sara, in Paris, in 2005, after a red letter walking day, I had my pedometer on. The fifteen or so miles we walked prior to popping the question became part of The Engagement Lore, and could probably inspire a torture/duress/not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity defense if she ever tries to get out of this marriage.

Now that we both live here, we have His and Hers Pedometers (a lousy name for a blog, or a rock band…). We love Paris, love walking, love walking in Paris, and love Excel, so we actually track our daily walking distances in a custom spreadsheet. In the past couple of weeks, Sara and I both went over both the 1,000,000 step and the 500 mile thresholds, and that’s a big deal. We’re cranking out, on average, about 6 miles a day, which is great, since we’re eating like the foodies that we are (it’s a common misconception that you have to spend a king’s ransom to eat like royalty in Paris). These are two ways we’re judging the success of our year here: what wonderful food discoveries have we made, and just how far do we have to walk to work off all that salted butter, country bread, stinky cheese, cheap wine, and Berthillon ice cream?

From a milestone that’s a pain in the foot to one that brings joy to your ears—I have to explain why our phone number is a momentous sign of victory. Prior to heading to France, we had been clued in to what are called “ADSL providers” here that provide bundled cable TV, high-speed internet, and telephone services. Big deal, you say, I have that here in the States. Nope, you don’t. Did I mention that all calls to the US and about 50 other countries are entirely free, wifi and a DVR is built into the system, you can check your voicemail messages via the internet or on your TV, you can watch TV on any computer in the house, and that the whole thing costs just $40/month?

Taking advantage of one of these deals seemed like a no-brainer, so upon our arrival, I signed us up for Free.fr service. We anxiously awaited the arrival of our magic modem box, I meticulously read the directions and reverentially assembled the technology before plugging the box in and…nothing. Like the caveman next to the monolith in 2001, I awaited the anticipated series of flashing lights (supposedly first a slow “caterpillar” around the LED screen, then a fast one, then a flashing rectangle, then a dropping line, before, finally, with a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi Ho Silver, the time of day appears and the box works).

Sadly, for several…weeks…the box stayed stuck on the %&*#@(*@ slow caterpillar, and again, like the caveman in 2001, I wanted to beat the living crap out of the box with an enormous femur.

After hours reading the manual, e-mailing their techs, participating in online chats, surfing customer newsgroups, etc., I was told that I had in fact signed up for the wrong program (doubtful) and therefore had to send my modem back by certified mail, pay to sign up for a phone line with the national phone company, and then have that new line cut off by re-signing up for Free, this time with the correct program.

Being addled of mind and threatened of wife, I went along with their scheme. Sara had made me promise in late January that I’d have our technological house in order, and a working phone line in place, by her birthday (March 21). I assured her I would, and that Valentine’s Day would be a more likely deadline.

Needless to say, it took the national phone company 2.5 weeks instead of the promised 2.5 days to install a basic phone line. And needless to say, once I signed up for the second time for Free and once I received my second magic modem box, I was still stuck on the %*&*@$# slow caterpillar.

So, then Free issued their final challenge: bring your magic modem box to another Free customer’s house and see what it does there, and then bring another customer’s magic modem box to your house and see what happens. I felt like Dorothy being told by the Wizard of Oz that no, her journey just to reach him wasn’t enough, she also had to go get the Wicked Witch’s broom as well.

And of course, since I had heard that every Free customer has a horror story of how and how long their setup dragged on, I realized that no one was going to want to unplug their finally-functioning magic modem box so I can run my Free-inspired cross-modem diagnostics. Fortunately, after posting flyers throughout our apartment building, one kindly neighbor took pity on me, and agreed to the test. My magic modem box worked at his place, and his didn’t work at our place, which meant that the phone line was the culprit all along. When I gleefully shared this news with Free in an e-mail and in one of our daily online chats, they…went radio-silent and refused to talk to me. But they finally decided to ask the phone company to check out my line again, and, lo and behold, just a few hours after they did, victory—the time showed up on the magic modem box’s screen.

We’ll never know exactly who did exactly what to get the damn thing working, but in my head, I picture a clueless French tech walking into a control room, tripping on an unplugged plug (the kind that the operator on the Mayberry switchboard would use to connect Andy Griffith to someone on the phone), saying “huh,” then plugging it back into the jack it obviously fell out of .

But, long story short, after about ten weeks of trying, and sadly about a week beyond Sara’s birthday deadline, all systems were go. Not to go all the-late-Gerald-Ford on you, but our long international nightmare is over. So, if you want to call us, just dial 011 33 then our number, as listed above. We’ll call you right back, since, plus or minus ten weeks of abject misery and suffering, all calls are free.

Josh

PS: One or both of us will blog on this before too long, but for the “French people are NOT rude file,” two of Sara’s and my heroes are now the guy who let me cross-check our modems, and our next-door neighbor, who gave us her wifi password so that we could at least have internet access in time for Sara’s birthday, even if we didn’t have a working phone…

French Lessons

I have been seriously studying French now for twelve weeks, which is really the same as saying, “I’ve been attempting to communicate desperately and with limited success for 1,008 hours” (which equates roughly to the number of hours each day that I wish I could speak better French since I have arrived, leaving out some time for sleeping and conversations that would make more sense in English), or “I’ve been attempting to dig a hole the size of a Grand Canyon and I’ve been working hard, but this spoon just doesn’t make a good shovel.”

There is no way around it—French is hard, damn hard. I do continue to study with my teacher, named Eloudie, which has been a great help (she’s pictured her with my friend Angie who I take lessons with) and having a husband who is fluent is more of a gift than I can explain (As I write this, Josh is en route to the butcher to see if it is necessary for us to reserve a leg of lamb ahead of time for Easter, which is clearly beyond my vocabulary). [PS: “En route” is French, see, I can’t help myself!]

And I’ve made progress. I now can breathe when people talk to me on the street (I can’t usually answer them, but at least I’ve stopped turning blue) and I can now, honestly, conduct most basic things in French. I can buy a chicken, vegetables and ask simple questions without too much trouble. I mailed four letters all by myself last week, in fact. But, as they say, a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, which is exactly what I am finding with my French.

Just last week, I was in two work-related meetings, which were conducted nearly entirely in French. I am proud to say I understood a solid 25% of the content, but imagine being in a work meeting, and only understanding one of every four words being spoken and being nearly completely unable to respond in kind. I was still able to add a few seemingly worthwhile comments, in English, but it’s a humbling moment—no question.

My colleagues are so generous with their patience and we all consider it a step in the right direction that I can at least say with confidence “A demain” (or “until tomorrow) or “A lundi” (or “I’ll see you Monday). They also aren’t shy about inviting me to meetings (I guess they aren’t worried I’ll say something out of line) and as a result I’m learning more than I would, even if I studied 10 hours a day. The French speakers who I interact with are also kind in their responses. I find most people usually say, “I’m so sorry, my English isn’t as good as I would like” to which I reply, “No, no! I understand you perfectly. I am so sorry I don’t speak French yet.”

It is also really true that 60% of communication is nonverbal. [side note: there are limits to what you *should* communicate nonverbally. At times, I have probably over expressed, “I understand you” hoping that I would figure out the words, but the verbal understanding never came and I had to out myself that I really didn’t know what was going on.] Still, skepticism, trust, joy, disdain, uncertainty and fondness are not spoken emotions. Even without words, it’s not hard to communicate basic things that really matter.

As I stumble and trip and gasp and laugh my way through French, though, I am more grateful than I can explain for the patience and encouragement I have felt from Josh, from my colleagues, from the butcher, from my teacher, from the café owner and from our French-speaking friends who do whatever they can to honestly include me as a temporary, but real, part of Paris.

It isn’t true that “They all speak English” as I was told, but “They do all speak human”. When words aren’t always an option, I speak human really well and the French speakers that I’ve met do too.

- sPg

More odd thoughts...

Time for some more vignettes. As you know, “vignette” is French for someplace you haven’t visited but hope to see some day. I’ll use it in a sentence: “I’ve always wanted to visit Australia, but I haven’t vignette.” Waka waka waka, as Fozzy Bear would say…

Today I’m going truly random on the vignettes, getting rid of some odds and ends, so brace yourselves.

PHOTOS

Starting soon, I'll be providing you with a "best of" format, so that you don't get buried in too many photos. But here's the last batch of the old style...

http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=483201174411907605/l=249866128/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

FRENCH POLITICS THOUGHT OF THE WEEK
The French presidential elections are in May, so the campaign is in full swing. The French Communist Party’s candidate is named Marie-George Buffet. First observation: I can’t decide if “Buffet” is the best or the worst possible name for a Communist Party leader. On one hand, the excessive face-stuffing at a buffet seems so…capitalist. But on the other hand, everyone has equal rights to whatever they require. Tough call.

Second observation: she looks strikingly similar to Anne Robinson, the host of that “Weakest Link” game show (“You are the weakest link…Goodbye!”) Don’t believe me? Check out http://www.mariegeorge2007.org/ and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Robinson Now, should Communists really be singling out weakest links? Unclear.

SPACE INVADERS
As the kids say, I want to give a “shout out” to Space Invaders. Not to the 80s-era video game, but to the 90s-era French graffiti/mosaic street art project. Basically, some guy got the idea to put up small tile mosaic reproductions of video game figures (mainly Space Invaders) on exterior walls originally all over Paris, but now in more than 30 cities worldwide. They’re innocuous, mostly under one foot square, and if you are not looking for them, you might never see one. But once you do start looking, you come across them everywhere. Some (CM…) doubt their existence, but the photo I’m including here, as well as www.space-invaders.com and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invader_%28artist%29 should be proof enough. The Space Invaders are one of my favorite things about Paris, so I just thought I’d mention them here. The artist has put up Space Invaders in LA and New York (one Invader at the World Trade Center was destroyed on 9-11-2001); I wish he’d make it to DC, but maybe the Homeland Security folks have kept him at bay so far…

QUOTE OF THE YEAR
“Washingtonians think their town resembles Paris,” she once scoffed. “If Paris passed gas, you’d have Washington.”
- from Henrietta Lumbroso, AKA Etty Allen, mother of former Senator George Allen
[I don’t agree, I just think it’s hilarious]

RANDOM MUSINGS
On Asian Culture : I prefer chai tea to tai chi
On Revolutionary Tactics: I’d rather stow thrones than throw stones

EXCELLENT BAND NAME(S)
During a recent discussion between Sara and me regarding why most every French café posts the cost for a “gherkin supplement” on its menu, we stumbled on an excellent band name: Hoarding Gherkins. Another excellent band name would be Gherkin Elevator, the wonderful French invention that allows lonely gherkins (aack! another great band name!) to be easily lifted out of their brine (check out the thing at the bottom of the jar at http://amora.pourtoutvousdire.com/framora/product/Product_Detail_Ptvd_Framora/0,,10264-1577,00.html). Apologies to Dave Barry, who created the whole “good name for a rock band” humor concept, see http://www.davebarry.com/rockbandlist.html

CLIPS FROM THE BEDROOM WALL
Here’s some funny stuff I’ve found in local French periodicals and that’s now highlighted on our bedroom wall 1.) A kit of fashion accessories for an Ipod, intended just for young girls, with the they-must-not-speak-English name “Thrustmaster”; 2.) An ad for a tanning salon featuring “before” and “after” images, not of a pale-then-tan individual, but instead depictions of a person’s social life before and after the tan (in the first, a geeky guy licks a computer screen, in the second a sexy lady licks the geek’s ear); 3.) An ad for a gourmet Italian food store that features a cityscape of a charming Italian village, and towering over it, Godzilla-like, the owner, in chef’s whites, inexplicably…Japanese.

FUNNY FRANCE INFO MOMENTS
I love to listen to France Info, the 24-hour radio news station (you can listen live online at http://www.radiofrance.fr/chaines/france-info/accueil/). It’s always quite interesting, but a couple of times recently, it’s also been funny. First, they ran an in-depth story on gambling addiction story which was immediately followed by…that day’s horse race results. Later that day, they reported that a single, easy-to-remember nationwide domestic violence hotline had been created…and would be staffed six days a week, and closed overnight. Only in France…

IPOD ANECDOTE OF THE WEEK
Another absurd Ipod moment—while walking down one of Paris’ most narrow streets, in the primarily Jewish Marais neighborhood, what came on my Ipod but…Ghostbusters. But given the neighborhood, I suppose it was really more “Goybusters.” “Who ya gonna call? Your mother!” [Fret not, I just called my mom tonight, in case any of you were concerned…]

QUOTE ABOUT OUR STREET
I keep forgetting to post this quote about our street in Paris. In the last paragraph, she’s referring to a beloved French children’s book, “Les Contes de la rue Broca.”

“In Paris, I love the mystery of the Rue Broca because it is a street unlike any other…if you take a plan of Paris, you will see that the Rue Pascal and the Rue Broca run at right angles from the Boulevard Port-Royal. But if you take your car and to along the aforementioned boulevard hoping to find either street…you won’t find them! They both run from the Boulevard Arago to the Rue Claude-Bernard; thus, they ought to bisect the Boulevard Port-Royal.

In order to solve the mystery, return to Port Royal, but this time on foot. Start from the Gobelins Factory heading west and at a certain moment you will come alongside an empty space…Not far from here opens the mouth of a stairway. Descend the stairs: you are now on the Rue Pascal. Above you: the Boulevard Port-Royal. A little farther from the Gobelins, the same phenomenon occurs, but this time for the Rue Broca, which is a curved, narrow, tortuous, and sunken street not far away, but on another level, subterranean, in the open air and inhabited by people who, much like me (remember that I am an editor of tales), love their stories.

And I also love the story of Monsieur Pierre, the one about the giant, the sorcerer, Lustucru, and La Mere Michet, and about the voyaging doll and the fairs: the stories of the Rue Broca.”

- Paris Access, by Robert Saul Wurman (Second Edition, 1990)
Interview with Maria de Mase, Publisher (p. 200)

That’s all for now, stay tuned for something more thematic (it would be hard to be less thematic, I suppose…) next time…

Bordeaux and Cows

[Here are the two latest batches of photos:
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=41321172842757557/l=249642553/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=951201174410283660/l=249866127/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB ]

France just isn’t the country I thought it was and it seems just about every week there is something that takes my expectations and tosses them out the nearest “window”. This last week was no exception.

On a tip from our DC friend Meg, we decided to attend the French Agricultural Fair. I thought that this was my chance to make up for missing the Montgomery County Fair. The poster in the Paris metro had an enormous and very cute cow on it, but it was inside the city limits, so my expectations were low. But, it sounded like a great afternoon, one of the French Presidential Candidates was slated to visit on the day we were going and I heard there was a great food tent.

Well, I really underestimated the French this time. I should have known that any country that takes its food and wine so seriously would have to then take its agriculture seriously. As it turns out this event is so well attended, approximately 1:10 Frenchman will attend it!

First, the livestock—we visited the building with cows, sheep, goats, and pigs. Who would have guessed that the largest cow I’ve ever seen would be in Paris? (this is no small feat considering I did grow up in Indiana).

They had cows of every variety, each one seemingly more enormous than the previous. They also even had a special place for “the Poster cow”, so we saw him too. In a true Parisian twist, several of the larger cows were being sketched by art students.

The piglets were very cute, as usual, and the sausage stand a mere 25 feet from the pigs was a reminder of the circle of life. The goats and sheep weren’t particularly noteworthy, but I did enjoy the sheep dog who was rounding them up in the arena.

Admittedly though, we skipped the dog/chicken/horse building and the other 5 buildings of exhibits (gardening, tools, etc, etc, etc), to get to the good stuff aka—the food buildings. There was food from every region of France (which might as well be different countries in their own right gastronomically) and all of the French territories (say what you will about deciding French influence, but there are still a LOT of little places that speak French out there).

We enjoyed raw scallops and a special cake (that is pretty much butter, sugar and more butter) from Brittany, oysters from the coast, foie gras, boar sausage, caramel, cheese from all over, the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted that was a hand cranked coconut sorbet from the Tahiti area, banana rum (from Martinique) and wine from the Bordeaux region. Though I adore county fairs back in the States, I think the French version of the fair wins on the wine tasting area alone.

We did limit ourselves (so as to be able to make it through the rest of the fair), but it was really fun to chat wine with sellers who don’t even sell their wine in Paris (though we did ask often if they distributed to the states and /or Nebraska—though I’m not sure any of them had ever heard of Nebraska. CK/AK, we’re the Corkscrew Parisian scouting team. J)

We left happily full of all of France’s goodness (or at least as much as we could enjoy in 6 hours). Paris may be a city of cigarette smoking, café sitting, politics talking people, but they are a people who know really still connect with the country, if only at times for the food and I was happy to be counted among these Parisians for a wee bit.

sPg

These are a few of my favorite things....this week...

10 favorite things in Paris this week

In a spin off of Josh’s vignettes, I’m opting for an even briefer glimpse into life here in Paris these last few days. The reality is that this city continues to amaze me in 100 small ways each day. So, for anyone from 2T (you know who you are…) , this may seem a bit like the old days…

10. Cheap Vegetable Bins—I know I mentioned these in my last entry, but I love them! Today for 1 and a half euros, I got a bunch of mushrooms and two tomatoes.

9. The Buttes-Chaumont Park—it’s like Central Park, but on the edge of Paris. Josh and I visited the first time, and I returned yesterday to sit in the sun (and sip wine) with my friend Angie.

8. Student discounts—Josh and I have been flashing student IDs left and right, each time saving us a few euros. My ID is from the Alliance Francais (French classes are over, but the ID is still valid), Josh’s is from 1892 (aka 1998 when he was “researching” as part of a fellowship in France—they don’t check too closely). We have gotten discounts at the following places in the last week: the French Agricultural Fair, the Erotic Museum and the Louvre—oh wait, we didn’t go to the Louvre, but I am planning on trying to use it to get a cheaper haircut. My goal is to make back my tuition with discounts before we leave.

7. My Tuesday Coffee Group—Each week several of my former French classmates meet for coffee at 11:30AM. The regulars include: Angie (an American flight attendant), Ali (a Turkish journalist), Shell (a Canadian student), Eric (an Australian Chef) and myself. It’s a random group of people who make me laugh and gratefully speak English. We also swap English books and rugby has been the topic of conversation this week since the European playoffs have been going on.

6. Flowers—It really feels like spring has sprung here in Paris. The flower shops are outdone only by the flowering trees and the tulips that are starting to bloom. In a related note, you can also tell its spring because I think every other person is making out with someone, but it might also be that the city is just that romantic!

5. Ecole Koenig—My first real French job is with a music school that teaches over 350 students music and theater—sound familiar? I am thrilled to be in a place that feels so committed to good teaching and in an environment that inspires the children.

4. St. Chinian Wine—We continue to drink fabulous wine at every turn, but our “house wine” continues to be a favorite. As a true sign of our devotion (or slight insanity), we took a special trip to a store to stock up on Friday night. We just keep thinking that they have put the decimal point in the wrong place because surely no good wine could really only cost 1.25.

3. Marco Polo Vert Tea—I had the best cup of tea I’ve ever had at my French teacher’s apartment last week. Immediately after the lesson, Angie, Josh and I set out to find the tea (which we found for a good price at Bon Marche). It is made by Mariage Freres, a famous French tea company, and I’m drinking a cup as I type this. I will say, the French do coffee extremely well, but tea is a regular part of my life here in a way that it wasn’t in DC.

2. Metro musicians—I know it might be annoying to some people, but I adore the accordion players, singers and drummers who hop between cars, hoping for a euro from the crowd. This week I heard a fabulous violin player and found myself smiling (JN, I couldn’t help but think of you…)

1. Champagne—I know its no surprise that champagne in Paris is wonderful, but we’ve had only a few glasses and last night Josh bought a bottle to celebrate my new job. It was light and fruity (but yet complex and interesting). It was a special night and surely drinking champagne at our kitchen table will always be one of my favorite memories of this year.

A more traditional entry will follow soon, but I didn’t want to miss a chance to offer just a few tidbits from across the Pond.

sPg

Historical Humility

[First, before I forget, here are our latest photos, through March 2:
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=41321172842757557/l=249642553/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB]

I don’t know if this is normal for spouses (from what I’ve heard, it is with any siblings), but I know that as soon as I find out something gets under Sara’s skin, I waste no time in redoubling my efforts to break it out any chance I get. [Note from Josh: Sara hates the expression so much, she really didn’t want me including it verbatim in our blog, so you’ll note some edits below…]

A perfect example of this is the saying “X [poops] bigger than Y.” In other words, X is so clearly bigger/better/stronger than Y, it’s not even worth discussing. (Science has determined that in fact, virtually all species and people are bigger than their own excreta, hence the expression.)

For people too polite and/or sheltered to have had access to this expression (CM to the banquet, CM to the banquet please…), I’ll use it in a couple of sentences. The original Star Trek [poops] bigger than The Next Generation and all that crap. Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby [poops] bigger than that those little white Hood vanilla ice cream cups with the wooden spoons. Thomas Jefferson [poops] bigger than Millard Fillmore. You get the idea.

Well, go figure, Sara’s not a fan of the expression. But it’s the essence of today’s blog, so sorry Sara, I have no choice. Here it goes:

French history [poops] bigger than American history.

The first time I went to France back in 1989, my host father, a history buff and an antiques collector, made an offhand comment over dinner one night that the US was a young country with an extraordinarily short history and historical perspective. I remember sputtering, “We have a rich history, with the American Revolution, the Civil War, two World Wars, Vietnam, and the like.” He just smiled.

After three going on four years living in France, every day I understand better what he meant. Don’t get me wrong, I do think America has a fascinating and essential history. But the numbers don’t lie.

[Before I get started, let me recognize the politically correct and just plain correct reality that America was clearly home to indigenous people long before any of the European-American history I’ll discuss ever took place. And let’s just leave Leif Erickson out of the discussion for convenience sake as well.]

American history goes back roughly 400 years (as Queen Elizabeth’s upcoming visit to Virginia will soon commemorate). The history of the French (via their precursors the Gauls) goes back roughly 400 years…BC/BCE. Our country itself only goes back 230 or so years. France has stuff in the back of its fridge that’s older than that.

Admittedly, in those 230 years, we’ve only had two forms of government: the confederacy under the forgettable Articles of Confederation, and the democratic republic under the Constitution. Now, during those same years, the French had a monarchy, the First Republic, the First Empire, the Restoration of the monarchy, a bit more First Empire, the Restoration II (Electric Boogaloo), a constitutional monarchy, the Second Republic, the Second Empire (The Empire Strikes Back), the Third Republic, semi-dictatorship under Vichy, the Fourth Republic, the Fifth Republic, and something called “Cheese-a-palooza.”

Still, despite the…excitability of the past 230 years of French government, they still have millennia of perspective on their national history. To Americans who didn’t live through that era, the Vietnam War seems like ancient history. To the French (who got in and got out before us), it’s last Thursday.

In that same first visit to France, I asked my host father how the French could have moved so quickly past the humiliation inflicted by the Germans in three recent wars (1870, 1914, 1939) to go on to form the core partnership of the European Union. He replied that France had only been at war with the Germans for 100 years, and that the Brits were the ones that really got the French’s goat (cheese), since they’d been at war on and off with the French for fully 1,000 years.

I’ve mentioned my commute in an earlier blog, and it’s useful to mention here to reinforce my point about the immensity of French history. Just a block or two short of my office, there’s an intersection that I normally just plow straight through. But I know from past trips that were I to turn left at that nondescript intersection, within two blocks I’d be face-to-face with two beautiful timbered medieval buildings that date back over 500 years. And if I had turned right, within two blocks I’d find the massive remains of one of Paris’ earliest city walls, built between 1180 and 1210. (The church which stands in the wall’s shadow dates “only” from 1796.) Similarly, on a recent walk just minutes from our apartment, Sara and I stumbled on a castle and two of the oldest buildings in Paris, all centuries older than our country. The point being that in France, around any corner, you could just stumble on something one, two, three, even nine times (the Roman baths at Cluny) as old as our country.

But we have beautiful, historical structures in the U.S. as well, you say. What about the Washington National Cathedral? Well, here’s a quiz—which president placed the final stone in the Cathedral? Teddy Roosevelt? Woodrow Wilson? No, George H.W. Bush, in 1990 (The last stone was a finial, a word which I had to look up. It means “a sculptured ornament, often in the shape of a leaf or flower, at the top of a gable, pinnacle, or similar structure.” I wonder if before he placed the stone, Bush Pere said “Let’s get finial, finial. Let me hear some body talk…”) Notre Dame was started in 1163, and finished around 1345. That makes its cornerstone nearly four times as old as the U.S. of A.

When you consider that the French national cathedral was built 800 years ago using just hard labor and the most basic of tools, while ours relied on cranes and laser tools and was finished less than twenty years ago, it is truly humbling. In retrospect, the nearly twenty years it took me to understand the comparative youth of our country is just a drop in the bucket.

Greetings, People of Earth

Greetings, People of Earth:

No set theme to the blog today, just another collection of vignettes (as you know, “vignette” is French for “those tiny chocolate-covered raisins they sell you at the movie theater”).

First, an apology: I’ve been bad about posting our photo links to the blog. I’ve been good about taking the pictures, I’ve been good about transferring them from my camera to my computer, I’ve been good about uploading the photos to Snapfish. But each time I post a blog entry, I forget to post a link to the pictures. So, basically, there’s a frog-load of pictures here, so set aside longer than usual to peruse them. In each batch, there should be a satisfying mix of “artsy pictures,” “touristy pictures,” “people pictures,” and “still-life pictures of vegetables.” You’ll see what I mean. Let me know what you think of the pictures (particularly the artsy ones).

Week Two Photos: Most importantly, photos of our long-term apartment (the photos in our “Week One” batch were of the apartment we only lived in for our first few days in Paris). Also, photos of Sara and I drinking wine from baby bottles, and some of those crazy vegetable still lives.
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=199251169759156695/l=240180977/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Weeks Three and Four: lots of photos of the French national library, Sara’s and my stroll along a Paris canal, and other fun stuff
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=62461170781409622/l=240334660/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Weeks Four and Five: a good, old-fashioned Paris protest, Sara’s and my Valentine’s Day (a trip to the ballet and to a smoky jazz joint), plus a weekend trip to visit chateaux/castles in the Loire Valley (plus super-cute kidlet pix of our friends’ Beth and Sebastien’s twins)
http://www1.snapfish.com/share/p=201191171900796337/l=240502926/g=14513899/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Now, some non-photo-related thoughts and observations:
* Sara bought a chocolate bar, that, like most things here, had a wrapper that was translated into several languages (to make for easier trans-European sales). But go figure, what we call “Dark Chocolate” and what the French call “Chocolat Noir” the Spanish call “Chocolate Negro.” 'Nuff said. I suppose in America we'd call it "Theobroma Cacao African American," just to be both scientifically and politically correct. It also sounds like an entry on a Letterman Top Ten List of Rejected Ben and Jerry Flavor Names: 10.) Chocolate Negro, 9.) Fun With Fennel, 8.) Lemon Pledge, 7.) Chunks-o-Slim-Jim, 6.) Sawdust Swirl, 5.) Fingernail Chip, 4.) Peas-n-Tuna, 3.) Blue Balls, 2.) I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!, and 1.) Melgibsonilla. (PS: Yes, I know Letterman actually already did this list, but mine's not bad...)

* We also bought a bag of cheesy chip-like things that were called “Crac’zie.” That sure explains the whole “bet you can’t eat just one!” phenomenon, doesn’t it?

* In a recent debate between Sara and I about the comparative value of a “biscuit-flavored dessert cream” item I’d purchased, I was emphasizing that the damn thing actually tasted remarkably like a “petit beurre” cookie (“biscuit” means “cookie” in French, and “petit beurre” is like the official #1 most beloved store-bought cookie of France, similar in status though not in make-up to Oreos in America), which I thought was both amazing and worthwhile. Sara argued that the “phlegm-y” texture grossed her out. I asserted that “biscuit trumps phlegm-y,” which, as Dave Barry would say and M.S. would appreciate, would be a great band name.

* I love France Info, the 24-hour French radio news network (you can listen live online at www.france-info.com). One recent story actually involved the theft of 9000 Euros (or $11,700) worth of cheese. Even the French newsreaders recognized the absurdity of this, mentioning that a few cheese knives were also stolen, possibly in case the evildoers wanted a snack on the road. (N.E., help me out here, I know there must be a fantastic pun in this somewhere, but I’m blanking…)

* Fun Ipod Moment: While walking down the Rue Mouffetard (aka “The Mouffe,” a literally millennia-old steep and narrow street today filled mainly with touristy restaurants), what came on the Ipod but…the Magnum, P.I. theme. Between its irresistible, energizing vintage catchiness and the fact that Sara and I had seen “Rocky Balboa” recently, I have to admit that I felt projected into some kind of crazy, Euro-fey, reverse downhill version of the famous stairs/museum training scene. I resisted jumping triumphantly in the air, fists pumping above my head, when I got to the bottom of the hill. I did instantly sprout a thick, cheesy moustache (don’t worry, the Berthillon caramel au beurre sale ice cream is so good it instantly shaved it off for me) and felt the lingering need to call people “Huggy-Bear.” Oh wait, that's Starsky and Hutch. Never mind.

* Still on the Ipod theme, are you convinced, like I am, that your Ipod’s “shuffle” feature doesn’t actually create a random scramble, and that instead the damn thing plays favorites? We’re not alone. Check out these two articles (though I still don’t buy the explanation) http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6854309/site/newsweek/ http://www.wired.com/news/culture/0,1284,68893,00.html

Well, with the last two blog entries being death-slogs in terms of length, I’d better cut this short here. But stay tuned for another blog entry within a couple of days, and more vignettes shortly thereafter.

Josh

Cauliflower, Fennel and Wine

We’re starting to settle into the routine of life. Even in a foreign country, in time, comes routine. And, a regular part of my daily routine involves a trip to one of the local markets, which is one of the best parts of Paris in my mind.

We’re adopting a “European model” of life—our small fridge holds just enough groceries for a few days and most of the regular guests in our dorm-size fridge are things that are unlikely to be found in our fridge in the States.

We always have at least two types of cheese (and one of them is probably smelly in a good way), a variety of yogurts (this week we have coconut yogurt in small glass jars that is both cheap and tasty), diet coke (ok, not everything is a stranger), red wine (honestly a bottle lasts us a couple days here and the Gibson House Wine costs under two euros and its perfectly tasty—really!), and a collection of whatever other ingredients I have stumbled upon in my market journeys.

Josh refers to me as “MacGyver” in the kitchen—each day’s menu is based more on vision, intuition and improvisation, rather than planned menus. I tried a few recipes and they didn’t work out so well—I think I felt confined.

My favorite way to shape the menu is to find the “sale bins”. Each produce guy at the market (and yes, it usually is a man for some reason) has bins for a euro or a euro and a half full of things that are still in good shape, but are ripe enough he knows they won’t last more than a day or two. It’s a cheap way to buy a good amount of produce that is ready to eat immediately—perfect!

This week, I found a great deal on tomatoes (we’ve had tomato sauce, roasted tomatoes, sliced tomatoes and we still a have a few left), fennel (we’ve had fennel salad, sautéed fennel and we’ll keep having it for a few more days), eggplant (we’ve had roasted eggplant and I am considering making ratatouille) and clementines (which have been the omnipresent fruit since our arrival and have been in a part of at least one meal each day since our arrival). I also noticed that cauliflower is starting to show up (so we’ve had roasted cauliflower and cauliflower soup).

Josh is more than a good sport and has nearly stopped questioning the random mounds of produce that greet him each evening. He did ask today while staring at three enormous heads of fennel (when one head will usually last at least two meals)—“Was fennel having a going out of business sale?” For some reason he didn’t even take note of the five eggplants that were also on the table. And yes mom, I only paid 3 euros for all of it! [Note: Josh is also already predicting that one of my complaints about the states will be the lack of fennel. If you happen to be out and about and see fennel—can someone tell me how much it is a pound?] I think we might even be getting our five veggies a day.

We’re having a dinner guest tomorrow and therefore a trip to the market is on tap after French lessons. There is a market at Place Monge on Wednesdays and its on the way home from my teacher’s apartment—how convenient! We’re having pork, which I bought today, but I still need fruit for the tart—though I wonder, how bad could a fennel and cherry jam tart really be?

sPg

Equal but Separate, Part Two

Here, beloved readers, is part two of my manifesto (be sure to read my last post if this is going to make even a fragment of sense). Stay tuned next week for something more in line with the light-hearted drivel you expect from me.

FREE SPEECH
Both France and the US hold liberty dear, and no liberty is more central than the freedom of expression. But once again, the two countries part ways on how they allow this right to play out, or the limits to its exercise. The US again pushes this freedom to the limit, banning only expressions like the famous “shouting ‘fire’ in a crowded theater,” where speech directly creates danger or harm to others.

France honors the same principal, and includes the same limit, but defines harm quite differently. In France, it is illegal to deny the Holocaust happened. It was within the past couple of months made illegal to deny the Armenian Holocaust happened. You could either face steep fines, or literally go to jail, for either. In the aftermath of the Danish/Mohammed cartoon scandal last year, a French satirical paper re-ran the same cartoons out of solidarity, and currently the newspaper is facing charges. Perhaps the French mood is changing—at the trial for the newspaper, several presidential candidates showed up to testify in support of the newspaper.

When the French see American neo-Nazi or Ku Klux Klan marches covered in the media, they take it as additional evidence that our culture is more anti-Semitic and racist than theirs is. The difference is similar to the equality question above (maybe our country has too many shrinks) — we thrive on tearing the scab off our problems, admitting them, wearing them on our sleeve, letting it all hang out, perhaps bordering on a sick obsession. The French, on the other hand, take a more ostrich-like perspective—if they don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. My opposition to the French model is on two levels—first, what if the speech (even if it’s something as hateful as Holocaust denial) is the canary in the coal mine? What if it the hate speech allows the nation to see that it’s profoundly failing on a basic public policy basis, and inter-group resentment (think this summer’s French suburban riots) is brewing. I think it’s better to find that out. I also believe very strongly in the idea of the marketplace of ideas. Sure, let the neo-Nazis or Ku Klux Klan march, because they’ll turn out a few dozen people, whereas the protest will draw hundreds or thousands, and an impressionable young child watching the events will take away the correct lesson on who to emulate.

A pending counter-example to the general American openness is the long-term effort to ban flag burning. I think it’s another case where you let the moron do whatever s/he wants, and you trust your compatriots (and perhaps yourself) enough to let the transgressor know that this kind of behavior is problematic. But the idea of flag burning leads us to our next subject, that of patriotism.

PATRIOTISM
People in both France and the US clearly love their countries. But in France, strong declarations of patriotism are considered to be dangerous potential rightist tendencies. Whenever French people visit America, they are shocked by the number of American flags they see. In France, you only see French flags that are flown at government offices, and perhaps those for sale in tourist shops. The 2002 soccer World Cup was a rare exception to this tendency, with French fans painting their faces red, white, and blue and their team’s ultimate victory triggering celebrations by millions in the street. But, even in the aftermath of this good fortune, the French examined their patriotic response, wondering how fragile the distinction was between a stadium full of patriotic soccer fans, and an excessively whipped-up rally of pre-fascists.

Perhaps, with patriotism as with Holocaust denial, the much more immediate historical relevance and/or complicity of the French during World War II, leads them to better understand what’s really at risk if things go too far. They would rather bring things to a stop too soon than too late, risking a small preemptive loss of freedom to prevent its wholesale loss (such as what they directly experienced just 60 years ago.)

GUNS
Speaking of war, both countries love their guns. Both nations have their interest groups that fight tooth and nail to maintain their rights on this front. In 2002, Jean Saint-Josse, the leader of the French Hunt, Fish, Nature, Traditions (Chasse, pêche, nature, traditions) Party received 1,204,863 votes, or 4.23%, of the votes in the first round of the presidential election. The French presidential election consists of two rounds, the first which involves all possible candidates running in one field and the two highest-scoring candidates advancing to a winner-takes-it-all second round thereafter. The popular saying among the French is that they vote with their hearts in the first round and with their heads in the second round. All this to say that at least 4.23% of the French thought hunting an important enough issue that they put their vote where their heart was and voted for a presidential candidate uniquely on this front. This party would seem to be the group that the National Rifle Association in America once was, or in times of criticism, still claims to be.

Yet, French opposition to handguns, automatic weapons, and the like is nearly universal. They just don’t understand the American fascination with these kinds of weapons, and they constantly wonder when we’ll decide that their impact on our society is too tragic to be allowed to continue. Most French people don’t know about our Second Amendment, and trace our gun obsession instead back to our cowboy history (?!?). But just because they try to contextualize it doesn’t mean they understand it.

Sadly, in the aftermath of the shootings in Utah and Pennsylvania last week, the French all-news radio network led with the story, and editorialized that the two shootings should reignite the debate in our country about the impact of guns on our society. Sadly, later that same day I checked the Washington Post website, and the Utah story was listed as a minor, headline-only link, and the Pennsylvania story never made it into the website headlines at all. For the American debate to be reignited, it would have to be taking place, I suppose.


The conclusion—I don’t really have one. I just find it fascinating that two countries with intertwined democratic histories and overlapping core beliefs can exercise those principals in such different ways. I love to collect anecdotes and examples of how each countries’ freedoms play out. So, let me know what you think, and stay tuned for updates as the year continues.

Equal but Separate, Part One

Sorry, faithful reader(s), for the delay in posting my latest blog entry. I guess I fell off the blog wagon (who knew blogs had wagons?!?) Inexplicably, our schedules have felt quite tight, even once we found our apartment and I got settled at work. So far, our year seems to be the ultimate proof of Parkinson’s Law: “Work expands to fill the time available for its completion.” (I meant to compare it to Murphy’s Law, but who has the time?)

Doubly sorry to those of you who love my “vignettes” series of postings, because this is not one of them. Stay tuned to my next missive for more random mental wanderings. Today’s blog is more serious/political/academic/reflective, and it’s the anti-vignette in terms of length. Don’t worry, this will pass, more levity soon…

A disclaimer: as I say at the start of my tours of Paris for visitors: everything I say will be more or less “in the ballpark” accurate. Be inspired by the general principles and ideas, don’t hassle me with technical historical specifics…

INTRODUCTION
First, a basic bi-national history lesson. During our Revolution, France greatly aided the Colonies financially and militarily (admittedly mostly to piss off the Brits). [This is the counterpart to the cocky American rejoinder to the theoretical rude Frenchman—“If it wasn’t for us during World War II, you’d be speaking German. Well, if it wasn’t for the French during the American Revolution, we’d be speaking, well, at least with an accent.]

Lafayette (of Lafayette Park fame, or vice versa) volunteered to lead American troops into battle, and George Washington served as a mentor and father figure to him. During and after the Revolution (the treaty ending the war was signed in Paris), Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson served as the first US ambassadors to France, and became part of a bicultural mutual admiration society there. Our fledgling democracy served as a role model to French revolutionaries, but much more importantly, the dire straits the French economy found itself in (due to their going greatly into debt while helping fund us during our Revolution) led to great dissatisfaction among the masses, culminating in the French Revolution. To thank George Washington for the inspiration and assistance each had provided the other in times of revolutionary need, Lafayette provided Washington with one of the very few keys to the Bastille prison (it still hangs today at Mount Vernon).

All of this is a long way of saying that our two democracies were founded at nearly the same time (1776/1787 and 1789) and our two revolutions were in indirect relation to each other. We share many of the same founding principles: separation of church and state, liberty, equality, free speech, and the like. But what is most interesting to me is that, in many cases, our two nations interpret these founding principles entirely differently. That’s what I want to talk about today.

SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE
Let’s look at the separation of church and state. A bit more history: after the Revolution, the insurgents strove to suppress all signs of the Catholic Church, which they considered elitist and anti-democratic. They commandeered churches and converted them to civic purposes (even storage spaces such as salt vaults), smashed statues they thought evoked religious (or royal) figures, tossed holy relics into the Seine, and chiseled the letters “St.” (meaning “saint,” not “street”) out of saint-named street signs. They even created a new calendar, replacing our “Anno Dominis” year count with a new start at Year One, and replacing month names (since they are all part of the Justinian or Gregorian calendars created by popes) with new names based on nature and the cycle of the harvest. Long story short, they strove to create a civic space that was entirely free from any religious influence or even presence.

This period, though obviously long-since renounced and regretted, seems to have left its stamp on the French version of the separation of church and state. The French still want their government institutions entirely religion-free. In the States, we (and by “we” I mean most Americans, plus or minus a President or two…) believe in the separation of Church and State as well, but by that we usually mean we don’t want the government “playing favorites” among religions, or supporting any religion at the expense of the others. But we don’t usually insist that our government spaces be entirely clear of religious expressions by individuals. (Government religious expressions that most Americans, for better or for worse, take for granted—like “In God We Trust” on currency, the “under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance, having prayers open sessions of Congress, having the President take his/her oath on a Bible, and having court witnesses swear on a Bible—would and do baffle the French.)

An example of the contrast: for a decade, France has been undergoing a very public debate about whether Muslim girls can wear headscarves to school. The vast majority of French people say no, the public schools are religion-free spaces, and bold brandishments of faith have no place there. In America, on the contrary, the separation of church and state would likely prevent a teacher from wearing an “I [heart] Jesus” t-shirt (since this could be interpreted as a governmental endorsement of a particular religion), but a student could likely wear such a shirt with no problem.

Interestingly, rules are made to be broken, and in France, for centuries, the “home team” has been Catholic, so guess which way the exceptions break. So, while French school rules now ban “ostentatious” religious garb, more modest symbols (such as cross pendants on necklaces, or sometimes yarmulkes, are permitted). In other words, if the minimum physical manifestation of your faith happens to be something tiny, you can wear your faith on your sleeve, but if it’s larger, say, a headscarf, you are out of luck. [I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Patrick Weil, the professor I’m working with this year, served on the President’s headscarf committee, and supported the no-scarf policy, saying that many girls were forced under threat of violence by male family members to wear it, and that the public schools were the only “bite of the apple” that the French government got to teach these girls democratic principals, and the only chance the girls got to escape repressive conditions and improve their fate.]

Another coincidental convenience and church/state exemption for France’s majority Catholics: most French school cafeterias do not serve meat on Fridays, but there’s always plenty of tasty pork products. Kosher food is generally available on request, but again, it must be requested, while Catholic-friendly grub is the default for all students. Many French schools have half-days on Wednesdays and on Saturdays, remnants of former Catholic school carve-outs, but the Saturday school days are obviously difficult for orthodox Jewish students. Also, a look at the school calendar (and the general government holiday schedule) shows that it lives at the rhythm of the Catholic Church, with holidays for Easter Monday, Ascension, Pentecost, Assumption, and All Saint’s Day. A final loophole in the French separation of church and state, more charming than harming, is the fact that virtually all French weather forecasts list what saint day tomorrow will be.

Of course, our own separation of church and state can have its excesses. Americans United for the Separation of Church and State, a group I normally support, has sued the US government to stop it from using federal funds to rehabilitate deteriorating Spanish Catholic missions in California. I understand these are churches, but they’re historical and architectural treasures first. I’ve seen signs in Paris listing the City of Paris as one of the funders for the renovation of some ancient churches, and as long as this support extends to significant places of worship for other faiths, and funds their architecture and not their worship programs, I think this is a reasonable expense.

EQUALITY
Another key shared principle between our countries is equality. The French list it second only to liberty in their national motto “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité,” and clearly we’re all familiar with America’s somewhat tortured respect for the principle (The Declaration of Independence’s “All men are created equal” both proves our love of the principle and pointed out the galling gaps in our equality spectrum.)

Again, France and the U.S. share this key principle but differ sharply on how to make it a reality. In the U.S., we see equality as a future goal which can be accelerated through pro-active means such as affirmative action. In France, they feel that the only way to achieve equality is to create institutions that treat everyone equally, immediately. As a result, minorities basically don’t exist in France. Their census is entirely free of “race” questions, and most surveys are forbidden by law from including racial questions. All students nationwide are given the exact same tests, and, in a meritocratic manner, may the best (wo)man win. “We are all French, there are no minorities” is the almost painfully noble and optimistic principle.

Of course, by not collecting statistics by race, painful realities all too familiar to Americans can safely remain in the realm of ignorance or at least unproven speculation in France. The U.S. knows that there are still disproportionately high levels of poverty, illiteracy, alcoholism, health problems, unemployment, exposure to crime, participation in crime, and other sad scourges in many of our minority populations, not to mention the ongoing discrimination they face. Interestingly, because these statistics (sad though they may be) exist in the U.S., they are frequently used against us by French intellectuals who decry a persistent racism in America. France has no statistics, no minorities, and no problems like these—that’s the implied result.

I am moved by the idealism of the “we are all French” mentality, but the weaknesses of the principle were proven by an exercise I’d do with my students back when I was a language assistant in a French high school back in 1994-1995. I would ask “Name a famous French minority person who is not an athlete or a musician.” The students would then either name an athlete or musician (before remembering my rules), or, after reflection, would name a semi-obscure famous person, such as a deputy cabinet secretary or the anchorman on the 1PM news on the second-place, government-run TV station. I would then trot out the contrasting list for the U.S. (here’s an updated 2007 list: Condi, Colin Powell, Oprah, Barack Obama, Bill Cosby, Denzel Washington, etc.—literally, the headliners of the nation). In other words, the short term results of the “to make an omelet you have to break some eggs, wear your guilty feelings on your sleeve, make people less equal in the short term to make them more equal down the road” strategy practiced in the U.S. seems to have borne some fruit.

[The French would argue that there have been African Americans in America for several centuries, almost as long as Caucasians, therefore, they have had more time than the much more recent African and North African immigrants to France to integrate themselves into majority life. That is to say, one would expect African Americans to have done better in the US than North Africans in France, because of the historical head start African Americans enjoy. A better American point of comparison to France's North African immigrants might be Latinos, historically more recently arrived, where the US has had success but fewer “headliners” fame-wise.]

Recently, skirting the edges of the law banning racial surveys, an organization of black French people (there’s no PC term for black in French, there’s no “African American” equivalent) and two media outlets conducted a survey to determine the size of the French black population. Interestingly, the news of the survey results (4% of the French are black, and over half reported suffering from discrimination in their daily lives) was quickly overcome by the backlash to the survey’s mere existence. On the lips of virtually all of its critics was one word: “communautairisme,” a word meant to describe the American reality, where people are seen as breaking into separate and divisive identity groups. Long story short—the realities of the survey were lost in the furor over whether it ever should have been conducted in the first place.

There are clearly flaws in both models. The “race-blind” French system of “concours,” or mega-tests, to determine advancement in the educational system and into the most renowned institutions of higher learning is of course 100 percent egalitarian, but clearly rich, white students who live in neighborhoods with the best schools and have parents that have already passed similar tests a generation earlier have a “greater than equal” chance of succeeding at these challenges than poor minority immigrants in neighborhoods with shoddy schools and who may be the only generation to receive formal schooling in the first place.

But is the American model, where, in some cases (the number of which you will over- or under-estimate, depending on your views of affirmative action) less qualified minority students are admitted to universities over better qualified majority individuals, hence reinforcing their differences and perhaps stoking inter-groups resentment, better? To me, the “results” piece I mentioned above is determinant, but then again, there are no provable French results (see above), so it’s hard to say.

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO OF THIS TREATISE IN A COUPLE OF DAYS. Will Lassie save Timmy from the well? Will the General Lee actually clear the lake it was trying to jump over? Stay tuned...