Tombeau Des Missionaires

October. Pics from Père Lachaise Cemetery

The other day some friends informed me that France is called the Tombeau des Missionaires, The Missionaries' tomb. In other words, the Missionary Killer because it is such a mentally difficult country to be missionaries in. Yikes.

La Chasse

October. One of many pages of research.

The Hunt. As soon as we lock eyes it is clear I am dead meat. You might as well throw me on a spit and call me dinner. The heat of the coals are hot and the appetites are mounting. Determined eyes are underscored in kohl black war paint. There are long talons* and curly locks in a frenzied array, an afterthought to the speed at which this predator flies. Red tainted claws clutch a veritable weapon in hand, symbols fly through it, and proclaim testament to the greatest weapon she possesses: perfectly balanced, impeccably native French. I bet I can tell you what she's texting into her smartphone right now, “Chui là, il n'y a q d étrangers. C à moi.”

A long sinuous threat of nicotine smoke seeps from her mouth. She's acting nonchalant in that way champions lope around to intimidate and psych out their competitors pre-race. Her bonjour was just the right amount of civility plus cold dismissal. I know what she texted, “I'm there, there's only foreigners. It's mine.”

I really wish she wasn't right. But she probably is.

You see, this is a city with more supply than demand, more renters than square centimeters of rental space. We are all scrambling in this urban jungle hunt for the proprietor that will shine grace upon that lucky someone. The proprietor puts up the add in the morning, “9 meters squared, show up at 3pm. 45 rue Charenton.” That afternoon, he has 15 people queued up on the sidewalk, poised and seething. He leans back and figures out who he likes the looks of the best, and most importantly, who has brought their wheelbarrow of French paperwork completed and handy.

She has every identity card with the necessary French seal on it, she can prove that she has a garant, a French person who has the means to back her up if she can't pay her highway robbery of a rent check every month. How can you have a French garant if you just arrived and don't know anyone? Much less a French person who is willing to back you? Here you can't get a bank account if you don't have a permanent address and you can't get a place if you don't have a French bank account. There are similar conundrums involving cell phones and other essentials but recounting them would be too depressing. It is the chicken and egg syndrome but the proprietor doesn't care about how you like your eggs, he just wants the highest bidder.

So, you scramble, you pray, you get blessed and a wonderful French person offers to be your garant. You muck through the paperwork and patch together a ragtag battery and embark in the hunt. You use your best French and are polite. You ask thoughtful questions, you climb endless stairs to look at bleak apartments. You will yourself to hold yourself together and not die laughing when you find out that your potential future flatmate has the most desperate comb over you have ever seen in your life because you need this place. Questions arise, “How much do I need my own toilet? A shower? A window?” This is Paris, a city carved out of the nooks and crannies of an ancient city that emerged from a swamp. People live in closets and call them fancy names like pieds à terre that sound hopelessly romantic. We show up and find out that no, there is no hot water and there is a mold stain in the shape of the Eiffel Tower behind the door. Inventive of the mold, very creative, but perhaps a little too avant garde for my taste. Thank you anyways.

At night you crash into bed, thankful you have temporary shelter and wonder if perhaps you will end up being like that homeless guy you shared your crepe with at dinner. You know it is ridiculous to feel so stressed and to be comparing yourself to him but you still do because you are overtired and your brain is wandering unchaperoned. Sluggish musings offer that maybe you should have brought your tent over from home. The Bois de Vincennes is beautiful, and plenty of homeless folk do live in those woods...

In the morning you gather your courage once again, put on your war paint, and climb on the metro for the next apartment viewing. You show up, insisting on hope, and there she is, the native French, leaning against the doorway. Oh, to just turn on your heel and slink back into the urban underbrush! Yet you know, you need housing. You tell yourself you must be brave, even though she is going to do her best to flay you alive. While you are stammering to address the proprietor with correct grammar she's already reminiscing with him about how she used to go on vacation as a child in Savoie, just like him! You yank up your bootstraps and leave the best impression you can muster. Merci Monsieur, au revoir. The six flights of stairs creak in empathy as you tumble down and you set your course for the next apartment.

*talons are high heels.

La Colocation ou Pourquoi Je Suis Prête à Déménager

Mid-October. My bedroom for the moment.

Living in Community or Why I Am Ready to Move Out “Why are you heating that water?” He inquired. “To wash the dishes.” I replied as neutrally as possible. You see, the kitchen doesn't have hot water. So, I heat water to wash dishes because that is sanitary. If we were in the Gobi Desert I wouldn't stress too much, cognizant that water is scarce. This, however, is France, a country perfectly capable of practicing good culinary hygiene. And so, unfortunately, I must admit to annoyance.

As I swirl the water in the saucepan I am using as a washbasin instead of the leaky sink, I reprimand myself. I shouldn't be peeved because it is very kind of him to let me stay here as a favor to his friend, one of my colleagues. He is welcoming a complete stranger into his home to stay while I search for housing. You see, finding an apartment in Paris is very difficult. A girl who moved here from New York said, “I thought housing in New York was bad. This is a 100 times worse.” Thanks, that is encouraging. Yes, I knew housing would be difficult, but this was not exactly the Parisien experience I had envisioned.

In fact, this isn't Paris. This is the banlieue; the suburbs, but don't let this trim word fool you. The suburbs in France are the opposite of American suburbs. In Paris it is generally more desirable to live in the city and the rough parts lie in the surrounding areas. This is not the land of barbeques and polo shirts with loafers. This is the version of suburb where you return home by 10:30pm in honor of safety. Hence, no late night café scenes for this kiddo. Instead, it is a quick goodbye and a mad rush to get on the train for the 30min trip home, a furtive hustle past the shadowed overpasses and other unsavory looking options on the route home from the station. When people hear of where I am living they first make a face, followed by, “You live where?” Because the French like to use pretty phrases for not necessarily pretty things they say, “Oh, that is a 'sensitive' quarter.” This means it is an area with aggression and strife.

However, don't fear. These aren't the most dangerous suburbs. During the day it is fine and you need to just faire attention (be careful) in evening and have a back up plan. Families live and thrive here. The women, often clad in Muslim garb go out in the mornings, pushing their strollers in pairs. Later, it's mostly men and more liberal women. The vast majority of the population hail from former colonies or current DOM-TOMs: overseas states or territories. In other words, it is a predominantly black population, rich in culture. The man I am staying with is from French Guyana, which is north of Brazil. It is a fascinating country! France launches its rockets from there and the capitol is Cayenne. In fact, they have pretty darn good food! He not only is graciously letting me stay but has also cooked meals.

This has been a great opportunity to get to feast on new foods but has also posed a problem. How to say this? Straightforward is probably better. After he cooks meals he does not refrigerate the left overs, he instead leaves them out for days in the pot on the stove, and reheats them for each meal. Now, if these were vegetarian dishes, no sweat. However, they are exclusively meat based. His two young children are robust (how they can go to bed late and wake up early at full volume is astounding) and can handle it but it slowly has been wearing down my system. Finally, my immune system had enough, crashed and burned. Hence the around the clock vomiting and subsequent trip to the doctor.

Try as one might, there is no polite way to say, “Your cooking is making me sick.” Forcing him tochange the way he runs his household is not an option. So, here's hoping sickness keeps its distance, after we have been eating that veal dish for three days now. Moving out sounds delicious.

La Diversité

Everyday the RER (extended network of the subway system) pumps people from every tribe and nation from the banlieues (suburbs) into the heart of Paris. Pakistan, Madagascar, Brasil, Poland, Hindu, Agnostic, Muslim, it's all here. Metro stations are little Babels and people dress according to their nation. It is beautiful. This France has concrete apartment buildings where families pack into rooms and make dishes rich in spices found on no traditional French plate. Citizens of countries once colonized by France like Algeria and Tunisia or still dependent on France like Reunion or Martinique pour into France with their varying customs. The result is vibrant, rich, and at times, very dissonant.

Read more about banlieues at! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banlieue

Tu Es le Soleil

You are the Sun. Life is very good today. Across the Seine, on the Ile-de-la-Cité a man is perched on the cobbled embankment with a saxophone. The strains of “When the Saints Go Marching In” are floating over the lapping waves to where I am nestled on a stone bench on the Right Bank. Autumn has settled in and reminds me to give thanks for this warm scarf around my neck. The leaves are turning in honor of the season and a breeze sends them in a prancing, catapulting whirl along the walkway. Despite the tartness in the air, crisp as a fall apple, the sun is of the variety that motivates you to sit as quietly as possible with face upturned to the sun, eyes half closed, to soak up every warm and precious ray.

Several men are doing their best to enjoy this moment as well a few strides away. The clink of their Heinekens and animated conversation in an unknown tongue makes lively accompaniment for the saxophone.

“Vous écrivez? You are writing?” One steps over as he nods towards the notebook where this blog lies half written.
“Oui”
“Ah,” He looks, “En français?” closer, “Anglais? In French? English?”
“En anglais.”
“Vous êtes écrivain? You are a writer?”
“Non, je fais un blog Non, I do a blog.”
“O, le soleil, il vous donne les idées. Oh, the sun, it gives you ideas”
“Oui, c'est ça. Yes, that's it.”

Yes, that's it. It is hard to not feel immensely grateful and a little transported when you find yourself sitting along the Seine on a gorgeous day under such a perfect Sun.

Les Gens Sympas, Les Gens Méchants

Nice people, mean people. Some people like to visit famous buildings and landmarks when they are new in a country. Yours truly, apparently, seems drawn to visiting medical facilities. Only several days had passed from the last doctor's visit when I found myself in the St. Antoine Emergency Room.

Thankfully, the occasion had nothing to do with my own injury. My friend Rachael had accidentally slammed her finger in an elevator door. It was late Saturday night and we weren't sure what to do about it. Paris has many hospitals but each is specialized. That means one hospital is for eyes, another for hearts, etc... In other words, you can't go to just any hospital for a broken finger. Since it was late we used what little we could find to splint it for the time being. A carton from a wine bottle, yarn, and some random padding works as a great splint, in case you are wondering. I knew those backcountry medicine courses would come in handy some day!

The next morning found us walking to the hospital someone had directed us to when a random man on the street approached us with much concern in his eyes. He had recognized the splint on Rachael's finger which was no small feat, for it resembled a craft project gone awry more than a bandage. It was apparently of the greatest importance to him that we know this was not the hospital for broken bones and that he would love nothing more than to enlighten us. He then shared his own personal experience of broken limbs and care. It was all very sweet and convivial. He sent us off with exclamations of goodwill and most importantly, in the right direction.

Little did we know how much we would need this man's kindness to buoy us as we entered the St. Antoine Emergency Room. Unfortunately, many Americans believe the French are rude and stuck up. Our doctor seemed more than willing to perpetuate this conception. As soon as she discovered we were Americans and I would be translating she sniffed and promptly exited the examination room to never return again. Never. Rachael is an American Brit who has lived here a year and a half calls this the French “F You” button. Pardon her French.

I have to admit, it is an accurate expression. After the boiling frustration of watching her walk by our door, halt with haughty disdain and then stride off again, finally another doctor popped his head in, “Are you being helped?” Nope. Certainly not by Madame le Docteur I Hate Americans. He tracked her down in the corridor, she told him she had it handled. Right... He had read the Hippocratic Oath, unlike our friend the American hater, and found us another doctor.

We weren't really sure if we ought to be furious or laugh at how ridiculous the first doctor was. I'm still not sure. That first guy was really kind, as were the other doctors. At least there's that.

Ouai!

Yay! Congrats to Jake, who was the first to respond and send me his address. He's getting the first letter! (By the way, that is a French postbox. This may seem obvious to some but a lady I know who has lived here for 6 months just realized that the other day.)

Chez le Medecin

At the Doctor's office. As we made curlicues around town in Rob's Opel (French car), lost, trying to find the office, I mulled over if it would be worse to be sick or to go to the doctor. Plenty of horror stories have circulated about French medicine, from disinfecting implements over a Bunsen burner before inserting them in the patient's mouth* to no hospital gowns, leaving patients quite exposed. Call me an American puritan, but that sounds cold and awkward. Par contre (on the other hand), thanks to the French Securité Sociale I wouldn't have to take out a mortgage in exchange for medical treatment. Maybe that was the deciding factor, perhaps it was because I knew what had made me sick (but that's another story). Either way, when Rob opened the office door, I complied.

The doctor's office was a set of three rooms tucked above a nondescript pharmacy. Nothing fancy, no sign, no placards describing their education. Just a narrow stairway unfit for anyone over seventy, a crowded waiting room, stale air, and no receptionist in a cardigan to grin at me and say, “Oh good! You're here! Please just fill out forms A through ZZ and sign in blood on the dotted line.” What we did do was say bonjour to every person in the waiting room as the French are really big into acknowledging everyone. I just nodded weakly to their bonjours and keeled over into the nearest chair, green with nausea.

After a half hour of convincing myself the room wasn't spinning and trying not to care that the other patients seemed to think I had the plague, the doctor came. Yep, a one man band. He exchanged the expected French pleasantries and then escorted us into the examination room / office. The room was an homage to the color sea foam, Doris Day and Cary Grant would have approved. I made a beeline for the examination table, eager for his diagnosis even if it was clear no one had cleaned up after the last patient.

But no! The doctor wanted to chat some more, at his desk, at the end of the room. We sat, he regarded me carefully, attentively, hands folded on the table, “Now, what is your name? Tell me what is going on.” In my distressed state I hadn't looked up the vocabulary I may have needed for this visit. Thankfully, we were able to fill in the holes in my repertoire and address all of the symptoms. After our diverting discussion pertaining to my current state of health he nodded and seemed to know what he thought it was. Now to the examination table! Rob stepped out and I steeled myself for the cold and awkward part that I mentioned beforehand. But it never came! The rest of the visit was a very “normal”, acceptably Anglo-Saxon interaction.

Once again we went to the desk and he carefully relayed all of the information. He banned me from going to work for a few days. In the spirit of French bureaucracy he had to fill out government forms because you can't be absent from work in France for more than one day without official medical documentation. In the end, I ended up having a few things going on but nothing a cocktail of medication couldn't take care off. I did all of that throwing up for that? It wasn't even anything really good!

It was a revelation however, to see him do all of the paperwork. A doctor having time to do everything himself? I wanted to ask him if he did his own dictation and accounting too but thought that might be a bit intrusive. He took my cash, 27 measly euros of it and he counted back my change in coin. We stood up, shook hands, he escorted me to the door, and said au revoir (good bye). I didn't sign a syllable or touch a single sheet of paper.

Downstairs, the pharmacist filled the prescription, several minutes and only 20 euros later I limped out, all meds in hand but already feeling better knowing I wasn't dying of some mysterious disease. Later on, when my French Social Security is finalized, they will reimburse 70 percent. It is all really rather comical. For the complexity of all things French, you would think that the medical system would be complex as well. Au contraire, that visit was one of the most painless things I have done in France to date. True, I am paying for it (and many other's medical bills) since I will be paying high taxes here but it feels special for the moment. It is all about perception, isn't it?

* This occurred in 2004 to one of my friends.

D'Être Malade, Ce N'est Pas Marrant.

Far from Home.

Being sick is no fun. (Mid-October) Remember the first time you were sick away from home, far from the loving arms of mom? Steeped in abject misery because no one knows how to take care of you like she does? No one is there, ready with juice and thermometer in hand.

After a while you get used to it and you just deal with it. Then you go to a foreign country. And you come down with something, and weird things happen to your body that never occurred before and you start to get freaked out, and no one in this blasted country speaks English.* You'd be furious but you are too lethargic to lift your head to scowl.

I'd like to say this has never happened to me but it just did this past week. Oh, yes, I have been sick before in foreign countries, in scarier places with scarier maladies, but never alone. So for a girl who has thrown up three times in her life, vomiting all night and day may indicate she wasn't feeling like a champ. I wasn't feeling like a champ. We'll skip the word vomit (ha ha) but it is disheartening to be miserably sick, thousands of miles away from anyone familiar, and just on this side of delirium to recognize that you can only blame yourself for coming here - it's enough to make you lose your stomach.

Par hazard (by chance), I happened to get a text from one of my colleagues. When he discovered my condition he insisted, “You should go to the doctor. I will take you.” (In case you don't know, I loathe going to the doctor. Those in the medical profession deserve high regard and I have fond memories of my childhood pediatrician but I don't like to go, that's all.) About an hour later, a desperate girl swooned into the doctor's office. This sickness had knocked me down enough to purge my pride. If nothing else came of this errand, that at least was impressive. I did wonder, however, if going to the doctor here in France with its socialized medicine might end up being the biggest shock of these past few days...

*Ok, ok. Plenty of people speak English here. This is added to focus on the frustration of language barriers. Poetic license!

Calling All Coldplay Fans

Just so you know, the cover of Coldplay's Viva la Vida album is a very famous painting by the French painter Eugène Delacroix called La Liberté Guidant le Peuple (Liberty Leading the People). It highlights the symbol of the nation of France, the peasant girl Marianne, leading the people to revolution and subsequently, freedom. And you thought art history was inaccessible and boring!

I can't send you the original that hangs in the Louvre but I can send you Liberty; Marianne, via her effigy on a little stamp that would arrive on the corner of an envelope with your name on it. Send me your snail mail addresses and I would love to send you a letter!

Bienvenue à France!

This is one of the white boards in the teacher's lounge. The note in red is a reminder of the next strike march they will be having.

“It's a good thing I came to pick you up at the airport.”

“Why?”

“Because there are strikes today and you may not have been able to get anywhere.” That was the phrase that welcomed me to France. In the following weeks several strikes came and went. As if that wasn't enough French syndicats (unions) decided that September 19 would be the ideal day to start a huge nationwide strike. You may chuckle when you hear why. Currently French workers have the most vacation, short work weeks*, and pampered social benefits from rest of the world's point of view. On top of this, they get to retire at age 60 with a pretty neat pension to ripen in old age like a quality Roquefort cheese: carefully maintained, unperturbed, and given ample opportunity to get stinky and blue.

However, Sarkozy and his support in the government are trying to screw it up for everyone. They want to change the retirement age! They say that France can't be a global competitor or continue to be so generous to its citizens when it isn't economically sound. People are livid. They don't want to retire at 62, they want to retire at 60. Other people agree reform is necessary. Either way, people are on strike. A lot of people.

You see, the French love a good strike. The other day, teachers at school (the ones not on strike) were reminiscing about their first strike, “Oh, I was a freshman when I participated in my first strike...” It is a Gallic** rite of passage. It stems from a proud tradition stemming from the French Revolution and a general admiration of civil unrest. (Today, when I Googled “civil unrest” France was the second entry. Ha ha!) This translates into blockades in front of schools by students (such as mine) and determined supporters filling the streets covered in stickers and banners emblazoned with union logos. Millions of euros have been lost by Air France alone and every industry is feeling it. If your gas station is out of gas because the petrol refineries are blockaded, you can't drive to work, and if you can't work, no one benefits from your service. I haven't been able to get to my school some days due to there being no public transportation.

Can we really blame them? This retirement age is considered to be a given, like we would consider a bathroom being a given in an apartment (it isn't here). If you could have your cake and eat it too, would you? Have great benefits throughout your career and then retire at a young age with great benefits? Hmm, tough choice.

However, the reformers have a point. France is struggling and needs to get itself in gear if it wants to keep up with China, the US, and the others. You can't have your cake and eat it if is only half baked because you couldn't pay EDF (electricity company) to keep the oven on.

*I say short work weeks but I have met many people who work long, hard hours. This seems to be due to being salarié (on salary) or a low guy on the totem pole. It is very difficult to get fired in France due to employment laws so your superior might dump tons of work on you = you work like a beast and they don't get fired despite not meriting their job.

**Gallic refers to the French. The French are generally considered descendants of the Gauls.

Les Menaces

Note the headcoverings and the full covering by the ladies in the background.

The Threats. Due to more than a few societal issues radical Islam is not pleased with France. One of these reasons was the banning of traditional Muslim head coverings in schools and public buildings. In general, the very large Muslim community feels ostracized and ignored. Relations worsened due to kidnappings of French nationals in Africa and botched attempts by the French to rescue them. Unfortunately, it has been a story involving such tragic words as “retaliation” and “execution”.

The fact that France is an extremely secular country doesn't help. France prides itself in its separation of church and state whereas Muslim nations are defined by their religion. Two extremes don't make a right, you might say. It is like repeatedly hitting a bruise, one can only stand it for so long before blowing up.

During my first few weeks here the terrorist threat level soared to alarming levels. Bomb threats sneered by al-Qaeda based in North Africa sent everyone in a scurry, including the evacuation of one of the main train stations in Paris and the Tour Eiffel. Potential bomb targets (like the American Church) set security guards in place to check handbags and question entrants. Sometimes, while riding the métro (subway), I've envisioned what it would look like to watch a bomb explode through the underground tunnels where many threats have been targeted. The most impressive show would be at the Bastille métro station, as the approach is curving and the hot orange blast would pummel through the connected métro cars. This thinking may be macabre but not altogether unrealistic. Public places have been carefully monitored and policemen in heavy boots with muzzled German shepherds have been a constant reminder of the specter of fear the terrorists hope to incite.