Insupportable: something that is intolerable, unjustifiable, etc. I realize that this word exists in English, but it's simply not used with the same frequency or enthusiasm as it is in French. In Paris, many things are insupportable -- the one-minute delay on the metro, colors that aren't black, the amount of reading for a class, life in general.
La grève: a strike
When something that is especially insupportable happens, the Frenchman's first recourse is to stage a manifestation -- a protest. When things get especially insupportable, however, he must turn to la grève.
I should correct myself: the word "must" implies that the Frenchman hesitates to use -- even dislikes -- la grève. This is not the case. Over the past month or so, professors (and some students) at public universities in France have been staging des grèves over President Sarkozy's proposed privatization of the French university system: Until he drops the proposal, many departments are refusing to hold any classes. Since Sciences Po is private, I have been, sadly, unaffected by the no-school grèves.
Until today. As an American who wasn't even around when President Reagan fired the air traffic control workers, my experience with grèves is limited to a few childhood memories of picket lines at the grocery store. Today, though, the French showed me how it's done. This is France, so la grève necessarily involved emotional highs and lows.
When I left for school, the metro was still running, but it took me an extra fifteen minutes to get to class. "I hate la grève, I hate la grève." When I left school for my lunch break, I was craving a ham and butter sandwich, made with the delicious, delicous ham from the butcher shop near my apartment. I hop back on the metro, go to the butcher, and... the BUTCHER is on grève. "I just took the metro back to the right bank and the butcher is on strike? What the heck is he angry about? WHERE IS MY HAM?" Needless to say, I was very hangry (hungry+angry) at this point, and not at all a fan of la grève.
Not a fan, that is, until I realized why the French are such fans of la grève: it is one huge party. Walking into the Place de la Republique was sensory overload: the entire plaza was blocked off and literally packed with members of different labor unions, all protesting the French government's response to the economic crisis. There was a lot of shouting and sign/flag waving, yes, but there was also live music, dancing, drinking in public, picnics, pamphleteering... and, merciful Mother of God, barbeque. The emotional low of the morning metro rush and the ham failure was more than offset by the fantastic cooked sausage I got for lunch. After enjoying my lunch and watching the grève for a bit (seriously, this is a real activity), it was time to go back to school for my evening class. Worried that I hadn't done the most complete job on the reading, I hustled to my class to find... it was CANCELLED! Turns out there had been threats against Sciences Po, since it's a very bourgeois, political school, and the purpose of the nation-wide grève was to protest France's supposedly (read: not) bourgeois economic policies.
So, instead of a ham sandwich and a two-hour class, I ate barbeque and took a lovely stroll in the sun (!) along the Seine. Vive la grève, indeed.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Earthly delight and otherworldy horror
Long time no post, I know... it has been a busy few weeks with classes starting and friends from BC visiting.
Something that Paris does very well: this city is full of cafes and restaurants in which time seems to stand still, in the best possible way. Though this means there really isn't such a thing as a quick bite to eat (with the delightful exception of crepe stands), it lends itself to everything from epic steak-frites dinners to perfect lazy afternoons with a glass of wine. This time-and-calories-don't-exist phenomenon most recently manifested itself on Saturday morning. My friend and I wandered to a restaurant in the Marais called "Le Loir dans la Theiere" -- The Dormouse in the Teapot. This place was so cozy, with big leather chairs and wooden tables, walls plastered with posters, and retro toys hanging from the walls...the perfect place to spend a languorous Saturday morning. (For those of you who have been to Sydney: this is like Gertrude and Alice, sans books). Kristen and I ordered the prix fixe brunch and proceeded to spend three hours eating, chatting, and people watching. It's a fantastic country where three-hour meals are considered a birthright, not an indulgence.
After brunch, Kristen proposed that we check out the catacombs. Quick history lesson: Paris quarried much of the limestone used for the city's construction from beneath its own streets, largely on the left bank. While some Parisians were busy building monuments to their country/emperor/monarch's greatness, other Parisians were dying and being buried in the middle of the city, causing major public health problems and cemetery overcrowding. When important Parisians realized that if they quarried any more limestone the buildings above the quarries might collapse, they decided that -- voila! -- they could make efficient use of space by moving the other Parisians' remains to the quarries. (Apparently, this was ethical in the 18th century, but frankly, I'm surprised someone in Paris didn't protest this decision). And so it came to pass that there are 1.7 kilometers of subterranean, human-boned-lined passages in Paris.
An aside: I've always had a soft spot for Indiana Jones. Adventure, history, travel... really, it has it all. So suffice to say I was pretty excited about the catacombs -- an urban Indiana Jones experience, how cool!
...Or terrifying. You enter the catacombs via a staircase and a long set of dark, low-ceilinged tunnels. The staircase is circular, very steep, and goes on forever, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you've completely lost your sense of direction. The tunnels twist back and forth, with no sources of light save the occasional overhead lamp. Even scarier than the flickering lamps, however, are the barred-off side tunnels that recede into darkness: we hurried past each one, fully expecting poisonous darts to shoot past or a skeleton to reach out and grab us. You see, when Indiana Jones does something like this, it's adventurous; when I do it, I feel like I'm in a horror movie. The catacombs themselves are simply unreal... all the walls are literally covered in closely-stacked human bones, which are sometimes arranged into designs (not sure why -- the bones aren't going to get cuter if you put the skulls in a circle and surround them with femurs). And, since this is France, the bones are supplemented by tablets inscribed with philosophical quotes on death. For those of you who are so inclined, here's a link to a picture on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:DJJ_1_Catacombes_de_Paris.jpg
So, I'm back in the world of the living. My classes (which I'm taking in French and English) are a bit hit-or-miss, but I am taking one class, The Origins of American Identity, in which Benjamin Franklin's "Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress" is assigned reading. Ben suggests that young men look for older women because, unlike young women, "they are so grateful!!" Politics, architecture, science, agriculture, and illicit relationships -- The Founding Fathers really were experts on everything. Gotta love history.
A bientot!
Something that Paris does very well: this city is full of cafes and restaurants in which time seems to stand still, in the best possible way. Though this means there really isn't such a thing as a quick bite to eat (with the delightful exception of crepe stands), it lends itself to everything from epic steak-frites dinners to perfect lazy afternoons with a glass of wine. This time-and-calories-don't-exist phenomenon most recently manifested itself on Saturday morning. My friend and I wandered to a restaurant in the Marais called "Le Loir dans la Theiere" -- The Dormouse in the Teapot. This place was so cozy, with big leather chairs and wooden tables, walls plastered with posters, and retro toys hanging from the walls...the perfect place to spend a languorous Saturday morning. (For those of you who have been to Sydney: this is like Gertrude and Alice, sans books). Kristen and I ordered the prix fixe brunch and proceeded to spend three hours eating, chatting, and people watching. It's a fantastic country where three-hour meals are considered a birthright, not an indulgence.
After brunch, Kristen proposed that we check out the catacombs. Quick history lesson: Paris quarried much of the limestone used for the city's construction from beneath its own streets, largely on the left bank. While some Parisians were busy building monuments to their country/emperor/monarch's greatness, other Parisians were dying and being buried in the middle of the city, causing major public health problems and cemetery overcrowding. When important Parisians realized that if they quarried any more limestone the buildings above the quarries might collapse, they decided that -- voila! -- they could make efficient use of space by moving the other Parisians' remains to the quarries. (Apparently, this was ethical in the 18th century, but frankly, I'm surprised someone in Paris didn't protest this decision). And so it came to pass that there are 1.7 kilometers of subterranean, human-boned-lined passages in Paris.
An aside: I've always had a soft spot for Indiana Jones. Adventure, history, travel... really, it has it all. So suffice to say I was pretty excited about the catacombs -- an urban Indiana Jones experience, how cool!
...Or terrifying. You enter the catacombs via a staircase and a long set of dark, low-ceilinged tunnels. The staircase is circular, very steep, and goes on forever, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs you've completely lost your sense of direction. The tunnels twist back and forth, with no sources of light save the occasional overhead lamp. Even scarier than the flickering lamps, however, are the barred-off side tunnels that recede into darkness: we hurried past each one, fully expecting poisonous darts to shoot past or a skeleton to reach out and grab us. You see, when Indiana Jones does something like this, it's adventurous; when I do it, I feel like I'm in a horror movie. The catacombs themselves are simply unreal... all the walls are literally covered in closely-stacked human bones, which are sometimes arranged into designs (not sure why -- the bones aren't going to get cuter if you put the skulls in a circle and surround them with femurs). And, since this is France, the bones are supplemented by tablets inscribed with philosophical quotes on death. For those of you who are so inclined, here's a link to a picture on wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:DJJ_1_Catacombes_de_Paris.jpg
So, I'm back in the world of the living. My classes (which I'm taking in French and English) are a bit hit-or-miss, but I am taking one class, The Origins of American Identity, in which Benjamin Franklin's "Advice to a Young Man on the Choice of a Mistress" is assigned reading. Ben suggests that young men look for older women because, unlike young women, "they are so grateful!!" Politics, architecture, science, agriculture, and illicit relationships -- The Founding Fathers really were experts on everything. Gotta love history.
A bientot!
Monday, February 16, 2009
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...
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...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
"Aujourd'hui, non" (and other facts of life in Paris)
So finally... hello from Paris! Before I forget, my address does indeed have one additional line, which follows my name. It is: Lauren Haumesser, Chez Mme. Chemin, 42 Boulevard du Temple, 75011 Paris, France.
I arrived on Tuesday and have spent the week getting settled in. Paris is beautiful; I've been having so much fun just walking around the city. However, some things here can be a bit different...
Inefficiency: Let's face it: Frenchmen are not Germans, or even Americans. Things here simply happen at a slower pace. Setting up our internet -- literally acquiring a router and putting our laptops on the wifi (amusingly pronounced "weefee") network -- has turned into a nearly week-long process. My friend's refrigerator has been broken for almost a week. The server which Sciences Po students use to register for classes has crashed multiple times. Etc.
Delicious (and inexpensive) wine, cheese, and bread: Frustrated about that lack of a wireless connection? No worries: any problem isn't something a glass of red wine, a crispy baguette, and some fantastic cheese can't put into perspective. Our landlord took my housemate (a fellow Boston College student) and me to the market to be introduced to all of her favorite vendors. All of them were very kind to us, but Maggie and I were most amazed by the cheese stall, where the woman sent us home with a massive assortment of cheese to sample and instructions to remember which ones we liked so she could make better recommendations next week. Also at the cheese stall, a grandpa was holding his tiny granddaughter and teaching her about the different kinds of cheese... it was very cute (and very French).
Manifestations: Protests. I live on the Place de la Republique, where most of the protests in Paris begin. Instead of (or hey, perhaps in addition to) writing letters to their representatives, Parisians protest... a lot. In the five days I have been here, there have been three protests. The liberal Californian in me is amused; the part of me that wants to sleep in is not. The giant statue in the middle of the square is holding a big sign that says, simply, "NON." The protesters are now long gone, but the sentiment remains. Aux barricades!
Anyway, I'm having a fantastic time here. I went to Mass at Notre Dame last night (beautiful, but in French, so I was a bit lost); and today I'm going to brunch at a place in the Marais that has live jazz, and then maybe spending a couple hours at the Louvre. Tomorrow I start a two-week language course, and then finally classes at Sciences Po begin during the last week in February.
Au revoir!
I arrived on Tuesday and have spent the week getting settled in. Paris is beautiful; I've been having so much fun just walking around the city. However, some things here can be a bit different...
Inefficiency: Let's face it: Frenchmen are not Germans, or even Americans. Things here simply happen at a slower pace. Setting up our internet -- literally acquiring a router and putting our laptops on the wifi (amusingly pronounced "weefee") network -- has turned into a nearly week-long process. My friend's refrigerator has been broken for almost a week. The server which Sciences Po students use to register for classes has crashed multiple times. Etc.
Delicious (and inexpensive) wine, cheese, and bread: Frustrated about that lack of a wireless connection? No worries: any problem isn't something a glass of red wine, a crispy baguette, and some fantastic cheese can't put into perspective. Our landlord took my housemate (a fellow Boston College student) and me to the market to be introduced to all of her favorite vendors. All of them were very kind to us, but Maggie and I were most amazed by the cheese stall, where the woman sent us home with a massive assortment of cheese to sample and instructions to remember which ones we liked so she could make better recommendations next week. Also at the cheese stall, a grandpa was holding his tiny granddaughter and teaching her about the different kinds of cheese... it was very cute (and very French).
Manifestations: Protests. I live on the Place de la Republique, where most of the protests in Paris begin. Instead of (or hey, perhaps in addition to) writing letters to their representatives, Parisians protest... a lot. In the five days I have been here, there have been three protests. The liberal Californian in me is amused; the part of me that wants to sleep in is not. The giant statue in the middle of the square is holding a big sign that says, simply, "NON." The protesters are now long gone, but the sentiment remains. Aux barricades!
Anyway, I'm having a fantastic time here. I went to Mass at Notre Dame last night (beautiful, but in French, so I was a bit lost); and today I'm going to brunch at a place in the Marais that has live jazz, and then maybe spending a couple hours at the Louvre. Tomorrow I start a two-week language course, and then finally classes at Sciences Po begin during the last week in February.
Au revoir!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Contact information
Hey all! I have finally managed to secure both a visa and an apartment, so it seems I will indeed be leaving for Paris next week, without becoming an illegal alien and/or a vagabond. Just to clarify, this blog is meant to save me from writing the same email twenty times, but it is not meant to be in lieu of individual communication: I want to keep everyone updated, but I want to hear how your lives are going, too! In that spirit, here's my contact information:
Email: haumesse@bc.edu
Skype: lauren.haumesser
Address: 42 Boulevard du Temple
75011 Paris
France
It strikes me as a bit strange that my street address doesn't include an apartment number, and the phone situation is iffy, but in general, I enjoy correspondence and I love -- absolutely love -- writing letters.
You'll hear from me next week!
Email: haumesse@bc.edu
Skype: lauren.haumesser
Address: 42 Boulevard du Temple
75011 Paris
France
It strikes me as a bit strange that my street address doesn't include an apartment number, and the phone situation is iffy, but in general, I enjoy correspondence and I love -- absolutely love -- writing letters.
You'll hear from me next week!
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