Expecting the expected (and still being surprised)

Two weeks in, Paris continues to amaze -- or more accurately, amaze, frustrate, delight, and confuse, all in equal proportions. It is a unique city where one can expect the expected and still be surprised -- pleasantly or otherwise.

A paradox: the French love order, and yet nothing works. The desire for order leads to administration (a French word, by the way), but people in administrative systems here are generally less than helpful, leading to disorder and general frustration. (Side note: there is no word for "helpful" in French. Obliging, amiable, useful, yes; helpful, no). At this point, I am aware of the order/disorder paradox. I no longer expect things to be easy. And yet France still manages to surprise: just when I think I am prepared for a task to be frustrating, it turns into something that's downright painful. For the French, the pain of inefficiency and disorder is offset by the opportunity to negotiate their way to success and then relax with a glass of red wine. As an American who enjoys neither disorder nor negotiation, the only part of the process I enjoy is the wine. Example: buying a weekly metro card, also known as a NaviGo. My first attempt was fruitless: Non, they do not sell them at this station. "Where are they sold?" I ask earnestly. A look of contempt is shot my way. "Tiens, je vous ai dit, pas ici mademoiselle, desole." (Look, I told you, not here, sorry). Window shut, end of story. The second attempt went better: At a different station, I demand a better explanation. The man acquiesces, but he speaks too quickly for my mediocre French and too impatiently for me to ask him to slow down. Then, success: At a third station, I alternatively demand, cajole, and finally charm my way to a weekly metro pass. I go home, pour myself a glass of Semillon, and congratulate myself on a job well-done.

Another surprise: the food. "You are in France," you say, "how could you expect anything other than good food?" I did expect good food. In fact, I expected exquisite food. I expected light souffles and even lighter croissants, rich sauces and even richer desserts. All of these things, blessedly, have turned out to be true. However, the food here still amazes me, every single day. The food -- everything from crepes to tartlettes to french onion soup -- is so incredibly good that you don't simply enjoy it, it actually puts you in a better mood. I've had some of the best chocolate of my life, and I already adore the man who runs the wine shop down the street, but the best food experience I've had so far was with a chicken. There is a streetside butcher about ten minutes from my house that has rotisserie chickens roasting in glass cases on the sidewalk, and on a whim a friend and I decided to buy one and bring it home for dinner. It was juicy, tender, and had been cooked in what seemed to be a whole-seed mustard and rosemary glaze. Words fail to do this chicken justice.

I've spent the past week in orientation, which consists of a two-hour French language class and two hours of instruction on Sciences Po methodology. The language class is nothing surprising (I mean really, I've been learning and subsequently forgetting the conjugations of irregular subjunctives since I was fourteen), but the methodology course has been...interesting. Sciences Po is very strict about the format in which work is submitted, and so, our professor informed us, we would have to completely re-learn how to write essays. One must explicitly define terms. One must derive a central conflict from the original essay question, and state it in the form of a question. One must have an argument and a counter-argument of exactly the same length for each point. Etc. "Why do essays have to be composed like this?" we asked. Turns out, it's because Louis XIV said so. Seriously -- the man wanted policy recommendations put forth with point and counterpoint perfectly balanced. And so, during the Fifth Republic, the French still insist on writing as they did during an absolute monarchy when a minority of the population was literate. Makes perfect sense. I was expecting a passion for the history of the patrie, but once again the expected took me by surprise.

Finally, the art and architecture. Yes, Paris is the culture capital of the world, but when you spend your time trying to master Louis XIV essays, you sometimes lose sight of that fact. Luckily, my friend Laura was visiting from Bath (where she is studying this semester) and I got to play tour guide. Of course we went to the Eiffel Tower and saw the Arc de Triomphe, but two things I saw with her reminded me of how rich French culture truly is. The first was a medium-sized Art Nouveau wood carving in the Musee d'Orsay. The piece, by Georges Lacombe, is titled "L'Amour." It's a very intimate work, and yet it is not voyeuristic: looking at it, you put yourself in the place of the man or the woman, as opposed to feeling like an outsider looking in. It's really beautiful. The other is Saint-Chapelle. I took a few pictures, but no photograph can convey what it feels like to be in a room in which all the walls are stained glass. Laura put it best when she said that standing inside the upper chapel feels like existing in the middle of a ruby.

So, I spend my days marveling at food, art, and architecture, and trying to resist the urge to bang my head against something hard when things get frustrating.... but hey, I'm having a fantastic time doing it. 'Til next time...