Tuesday I had to get up early to finish my french assignment that wasn’t due until Saturday, but I knew that was my only time to get it finished. I went to class, come home, finished my french assignment, cleaned the apartment well, decorated a bit more, ran to the store to get ood for the party, and came home to start getting things ready. Cassie came over early after she got done with class to help me prepare foods. I decided to go with the most American foods I could find. We had cocktail wieners, veggies with ranch dip, chips, and our homemade pizza cut into bites, and “Western” potato wedges with “bacon flavor”, and of course Halloween candy. Cassie and Carly were awesome and got a wonderfully delicious chocolate-mousse cake. I blew out a votive stuck on top- lol. Had about 16 people all together at the party and I’m very thankful to all my great friends who helped me celebrate. It was a good time just hanging out with friends, and of course, what’s more festive than a good debate about international relations theory and nuclear proliferation? That’s what happens when you get too many ScPo students in a room together. I hope my neighbors didn’t mind the added noise for one night. Andrea was spending the night because we needed to leave at about 5 to get to CDG to catch our flight the next morning. And since we had an early day, everyone left before it got too late.
I, of course, hadn’t had time to pack yet. So after everyone left, I did a hasty cleaning of the apartment and threw a bunch of stuff in a suitcase. It was about 1:30 before we got to bed. I set the alarm for 4:15. That was NOT fun. We got up and dressed in the dark and cold and headed for the metros at 5. Now, I thought the metros opened at 5. I’ve always thought that, but never had an opportunity to test that fact. So we walk up to the metro strop closest to me, and the gate is still locked over the entrance. Wa??? We groaned and looked at each other. That’s when this dark skinned, thuggish looking kid who had been leaning against the metro entrance sign (and who I’d been watching surreptitiously as we approached) surprised us by asking in an American accent. “Do you speak English?” We were both so shocked that neither of us answered and the kid must have thought we didn’t understand. “Are you French?” Um... no, we’re American, Andrea told him hesitantly. “Do you know what time the metro opens?” Well it should be open now, I said looking at my watch that read 5:15. I guess we can wait? Any of you who have ever traveled with me know that I am a worrier. I am always worried about missing a flight, getting lost, getting stuff stolen, etc. etc. etc. so I want to be safe and not sorry, so feel like I need to be there crazy early for everything. We weren’t going to be late, but since neither of us had ever flown from terminal 3 at CDG, we didn’t know what to expect or how long it might take. I was worried about time and not really wanting to stand on the street at 5 am in north Paris, so I was all about finding an open metro. It occurred to me that maybe the next stop up the line might be open since it was a more major stop. “I’m on my way to meet a friend at the airport” our strange American said. “Where are you headed?” Same. “Oh good! I don’t really know how to get there. I just know it’s on the RER- B. I’m really glad I ran into you guys. I’ll just follow you.” Oh goody. He was about our age, not real big, but he was dressed very, uh...urban? I don’t know how to describe it, but baggy jeans, a leather jacket and a shirt unbuttoned most of the way. Not really your first choice of random people to hang out with, but to be honest, while I was still wary of him, I was glad to have him with us. We decided to walk to the next metro station in hopes that it would be open. That part of town isn’t dangerous, but it is a little sleazy, and at 5am there is no one out but people with early travel plans, and people who haven’t been home at all yet. In all probability that short walk with the 2 of us likely wouldn’t have been a problem, but I was quite thankful to have our male companion tagging along. When we got to the next station (open!) and got down to the platform, I was really thanking the Lord for sending a guy to stand with us while we waited 20 minutes with some “unsavories” for the first metro of the day. And when we had to go catch the RER at Gare du Nord which is a rough part of town. I got the impression that our friend probably couldn’t have done much to protect us if anyone tried anything, but I figured the deterrent would be more than sufficient.
I never learned his name, and he never asked ours but we chatted the entire way to CDG (much to Andrea’s annoyance- lol. “He just wouldn’t be quiet!”) He was Hawaiian, living in Paris for a month while visiting a friend and checking out art schools, and doing something that had to do with his family’s Bed-n-Breakfast back in Hawaii. He was certainly an interesting character. He was checking the internet to look up his friend’s flight info on his iPhone and telling about his hunt for American food. He was going to terminal 2 and we were at terminal 3, so we left him on the RER and said our goodbyes. Maybe it was just my inherited “weird person magnet” working overtime, or maybe it was some divine protection for two girls on their early morning trek to the airport, but as weird as he was, I’m thankful that he accompanied us.
It was cold in Paris, but it was even colder out of the city. We got off the RER and had to walk outside for 5 minutes to get to terminal 3 because, of course, the French can’t connect their terminals in a logical way! So we walk through the cold and arrive at a big building that was almost like a warehouse. So THIS is the other side of CDG. It’s a night and day difference. None of the frills of the international terminals, terminal 3 is for budget airlines. Check-in was surprisingly simple, and then we went and got some pastries from the snack bar and a french fashion magazine for the flight and went and hung out by the gate until time for boarding. We were flying EasyJet which, has non-numbered tickets, so it’s strictly first-come-first-serve as far as seats. And, you can’t just line up at the door and go get on the plane. You line up at the door and then get on a bus and then that takes you to the plane and then you go get on it. We get wedged into our seats and it isn’t long before Andrea is dozing against the window. The flight wasn’t a long one and I figured going to sleep would probably just make me more tired, so I decided to stay up and read the guide book and my magazine. Flying to Milan from Paris may be the only direct flight I’ve ever had in my life. It’s crazy to me that you can get from Paris to Italy as easily as flying from Daytona to Atlanta. And the flight attendants were trilingual. We arrived in Milan and got off the plane, took another bus to the terminal, and claimed our baggage and located the office to buy a ticket for the shuttle bus that takes you into the city. Milan-Malpensa is located almost an hour from the city center, but they have buses running every 20 mins, so it’s not real inconvenient.
The bus took us to the central train station in Milan, and then we were on our own. I had the directions to our hostel that I copied down from the website. After some wandering around we found a metro station, managed to buy a 48 hour transit pass, and find the right line. There are only 3 metro lines in Milan and not nearly as convenient as those in Paris. We take the metro to the designated stop and then we get off to find the tram we are to take. We find the right number but it seems to be headed in the opposite direction the best we can tell. Some general confusion and wandering around later, we find a stop to go the correct direction. The only problem is that the stop that my directions said to get off at, well there were 8 stops with that name. Seriously, they were all hyphenated and the first word was the same, and all mine said was the first word. My directions did say to go 6 stops. So I’m counting, and we get to the 6th one and get off. I was unsure because “go 6 stops” could mean, go get off at the 6th stop, or go past 6 stops and get off at the 7th. So we get off and can tell by the numbers on the buildings that we were not real close to where we wanted to be. So we walk a good 5-10 mins down this street hauling our bags and finally find the little building where our hostel is located...and 50 yards down from it, another tram stop. Clearly we were supposed to pass 6 stops. Oh well, we made it. Only one problem. There is a gate and it is locked. Not really sure what to do so I press the intercom button and hope for the best.
“Bongiorno”
“Bongiorno. Inglese, per favore?”
“Que? Do you speak English?”
“Yes!”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, the gate is unlocked.”
So I was thinking that I had successfully communicated in Italian.
A young girl met us at the door.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Can I ask you, what language were you speaking before?”
haahahah yes, that’s right. Apparently my Italian is not understandable. I apologized and explained that it was probably a cross between French, English, and Spanish. The hostel was nice and clean. We had a private room, only the bathrooms were shared. And there was a computer with free internet in the lobby area which was quite nice. We were tired but knew if we sat down we’d probably never get up again. So we dropped our stuff and headed back to the city center.
My first view of the Duomo was pretty impressive. It had scaffolding on the lower portion (like everything in Europe!) but the impressive spires were on full display. But more about that in a minute. It was lunch time so we decided to find a place to eat.
Me: What are you in the mood for?
Andrea: Italian food!
Me: We’re in Italy....it’s ALL Italian food.
Andrea: I know, I want Italian Italian food!
We found a cafe in the famous covered galleria shopping area and had our first Italian meal. After our repast, we headed to the big tourist attraction- the Duomo. Impressive from the inside, but stunning from the outside. If you know me, you know I am a sucker for ornate architecture and old buildings. I absolutely love the Duomo. Soooo cool. You can probably tell I’m a fan if you look at my pictures cause there are like 400 pics of it from various angles. Up on the roof of the Duomo the sun was so nice and warm. We stretched out on the slanted roof tiles and enjoyed the warmth. There were quite a few people just sitting up there and enjoying the day. It was pretty awesome, and a nice change from the Paris cold. We spent a good amount of time up top climbing around and taking pictures until the sun started to get low making it feel like it was much later in the day than it was. We decided it was time for some gelato. (Chocolate hazelnut and frutti di bosco for me). And after we finished our ice cream and walked around a bit more we decided we were both exhausted and should head back to the hostel. It was only about 5 or 6 when we arrived but fatigue overcame us and we fell asleep fully clothed on top of the sheets. Three hours later we woke up from our little “nap”. We were both too tired to really care about dinner, so we checked our email, ate some Prince cookies, and watched MTV because it was the only English channel on the TV. We went to sleep about 10. It was an anticlimactic end to my birthday, but I can’t complain since I got to be in Paris and Milan on my day. And that, my friends, is how I spent my twenty-second birthday!
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Now it begins...
Friday I did laundry at the laundromat. I went to the closest one to me, and since it was a weekday, I had the place to myself. I lugged my overflowing laundry bag down the 6 flights of stairs and down the block while also carrying a bag with my laptop and other stuff i needed to study. Now I’m not a fan of laundromats in the US, but they are even worse in Paris. Like everything else in Europe, they are small. We’re talking like fisher-price sized little washing machines. This particular laundromat advertised one “giant capacity” washer. Size is relative because their “giant” sized one is basically the same size as the average American one. I opt for that one. I sat down there in the tiny laundromat using the folding table as a desk and drinking tea out of my travel mug. Laundry at home is the chore I mind the least, but here it is painful when you have to pay so much.
Saturday I spent most of the day working on my presentation “NGOs and the EU”. I took a break in the evening though, for some time with friends. Glenn, my Singaporean friend, lives with the Brian Kirby, my pastor here, and his wife Denise and little girl Annalise. The Kirby’s were stateside for the week, so Glenn wanted to organize a hangout evening in honor of our friend Sarah whose time in Paris was coming to an end. Andrea volunteered to make an attempt at mexican food and it was pretty good despite the improvisation. It was a fun night to just relax with friends and play a little Taboo, which is always entertaining, especially when not everyone is a native english speaker.
Sunday my partner Loren was to come over at 5 to practice our presentation, so I spent the afternoon working really hard on my half, and cleaning up. I even turned the heat on for the first time because I didn’t want to freeze my guest to death. (I had been putting off turning on the heat as long as possible since it hadn’t been reeeeally cold yet, and when you wear a fleece bathrobe and wrap up in a blanket it’s plenty warm-lol) Working with Loren actually wasn’t bad. It was basically the same kind of conversation you’d have with an American student you don’t know very well.
“Wow that’s a lot of steps up to your apartment. No elevator?”
“Nope. You should have seen me trying to get my huge suitcases up those stairs by myself.”
“By yourself?! And the first flight is completely crooked.”
“I know, I have a near-death experience weekly. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just some water, thanks. This is a great apartment. So much nicer than most students. If you don’t mind, how much do you pay?”
You know, typical stuff, but with less smiling and laughing than most American interactions.
We decided to run through our presentation. Loren had the benefit of it being her native language so she could just use notes and freely talk about the topic. I, on the other hand, was stuck reading mine word for word from the paper. We ran through it once and I asked if she understood me or had some things to correct. She volunteered to go through my entire (about 10 minute) presentation and fix the French mistakes. How awesome is that?! She sat there for 20 minutes going “see this sentence doesn’t make sense in French, what are you trying to say?” When you try to do a presentation on something academic, it’s when you realize the limitations of translating sometimes. Certain words just do not have an equivalent in another language. I was trying to use the word “constituency” and I had looked it up and used what the dictionary listed as the translation.
Loren looked at me, “I don’t think this is the word you meant to use.”
Yes, I said, I want to talk about the people who are represented by each representative. The people who vote for them.
“Oh, then you say ‘citizens’. Is that what you mean?”
No, that doesn’t mean exactly the same thing. In english ‘constituent’ is more specific than ‘citizen’. Is there no word like that?
“I don’t think so...”
And so I wrote about European representatives being more removed from their “citizens” than national representatives. Close enough.
We ran through the presentation again, and halfway through, Andrea called. She was supposed to come over that evening as well to make plans for our trip to Italy for the end of the week, and I had told her I’d probably be done by 6 since I thought we’d only just run through it a couple times. I didn't’ foresee the editing and the discussion or Loren wanting to practice 4 times. I didn’t mind the extra work on it of course, because I need all the help I can get. But Andrea didn’t have anything to do in the city since it was Sunday night and everything was closed, so I told her to come on over and she could just hang out til we finished.
Andrea got there as we were finishing our last run-through. Loren and I finished up. She had prepared the outline that we have to pass out to all the students in the class to follow along with, all I had to do was add my notes. And print it. The problem being, I don’t have a printer at home and with our class starting at 8, we weren’t sure what time the computer rooms open at school to print it off. I suggested that I could run by a friend’s apartment to get at least one copy printed and then just run-off copies before class the next day. The problem being that the only friend I know in the city with a printer, lives on the other side of town.
Anyway, Loren left and Andrea and I got down to planning our trip. She had booked the plane tickets to Milan the day before, and now we had to find places to stay and figure out where all we wanted to go. We spent an hour or so looking at hostels online and when we had finally made the decision on which nights we wanted to spend where, Andrea had to run to catch the RER and get back out to Rueil, so I was left to book the hotels. Once that was taken care of, then I had to add in my notes to the outline. That took a while, and then I needed to print. I sent a text to my friend with a printer, hoping she would take pity on me. Not a problem. So at 10:30 at night I hopped on the metro and traversed the city to show up and print out 5 pieces of paper. We chatted a bit before I traipsed home. I had wanted to practice my part some more and maybe get to where I could do parts without the paper, but by the time I got home I was just so tired that I couldn’t make my brain function anymore.
The next morning came way too soon. It was still dark and cold and I could hear the rain drumming against the roof. Not a situation very conducive for getting up out of a soft, warm bed. I got dressed, put on my waterproof winter boots, and headed to school a good 30 mins earlier than I normally do, because I need to make the copies for the class and I didn’t know how crowded it might be or how long it might take. I arrived at ScPo at 7:20 and....it was locked. Seriously? I’m standing there in the cold rain and it’s barely light out, and I can see the little concierge guys running around in there, but they won’t open the door! And then I noticed two other international students from my class huddled in a doorway. They also had their presentation that morning and need to make copies. We stood looking forlornly at the barred doors and the warm light spilling out on the wet sidewalk. The computer room was supposed to be open at 7:25 I had learned so why were we still standing outside getting soaked? Finally one of the concierges noticed us and took pity and let us in even though they weren’t “ready” yet. Ready? Who cares! Open the door!
So I head for the copy room and...both copiers out of order. Great. Got to go to the computer room, pull up copies of the presentation that I emailed to myself and print out 25 copies. At least that worked out alright. I made it to class at 7:50 with papers in hand and as ready as I could have been for the presentation.
I was nervous, but knowing I could read it made it less nerve-wracking. I’d like to say that I’m just so good at French that once I got up there and started talking I realized I didn’t need my paper and did it just as fluidly as I would have done in English. I’d like to say that, but I can’t. I read every word from the paper. But, in my experience, better read and understandable, than incoherent free-speaking. All I was hoping was that people wouldn’t ask too many questions, or at least none that Loren couldn’t answer. I don’t know how I did, he didn’t give us our grades, but I was soo relieved to have it over, and a couple of the international students said I did a really good job, although they might have just been being polite. Loren and I sat back down and looked at each other and both made our phew!-glad that’s-over-with faces and smiled.
I headed home right afterwards in the rain. I arrived home tired, cold, and wet. I decided that after a week of stress about that presentation I deserved a break. So I got back into my PJs, made some hot chocolate, climbed into my nice warm bed, and watched a recently downloaded episode of Grey’s Anatomy while the rain tapped against the windows.
I had invited a bunch of people over for a Halloween/birthday soirée on Tuesday night, since Andrea and I were leaving for Italy early in the morning of the 31st. I took Monday afternoon to decorate for the gathering. I had Halloweeny decorations thanks to my mom who sent some fabric and odds and ends, and birthday decorations thanks to Carolyn who mailed me a “birthday in a bag”. And to that I added some festive fall colors and homemade decorations.
That evening I journeyed back out into the damp city to go to climbing class. It was a pretty exciting evening because I got to lead climb for the first time ever. There is definitely different schools of thought about climbing and of course, everyone thinks their own is the best. I may not agree with the lack of crash pads and mats under the climbing walls (just concrete floors!) and I may find it weird that they don’t make you do the whole “On belay? Belay on. Climbing? Climb on.” thing or that my way of belaying isn’t “safe” according to them, but I do like our teacher’s mindset that it is important for people to learn to lead climb as soon as possible, even if they aren’t great technical climbers. I have always wanted to lead climb but in most of the gyms back home you have to climb a certain higher-rated route perfectly and then take a class to learn how. Our instructor just picked an easy wall, showed us the basics and the safety precautions and said “go for it”. I thought it would be scarier than it was. I think it’s because I’ve been climbing so much and I’ve just gotten comfortable trusting the ropes and such and am more confident in my own abilities as a climber. Anyway, my first time up I followed a route and made it all the way to the top. I got down and my climbing instructor came over to me and asked if that was my first time climbing lead. “Really? I was watching you and you did really well.” I’m a sucker for a compliment so that totally made my day.
I wish that I could say that after a stressful week I was able to go home and relax. It was, unfortunately, just the beginning of what turned out to be an even more hectic week.
Saturday I spent most of the day working on my presentation “NGOs and the EU”. I took a break in the evening though, for some time with friends. Glenn, my Singaporean friend, lives with the Brian Kirby, my pastor here, and his wife Denise and little girl Annalise. The Kirby’s were stateside for the week, so Glenn wanted to organize a hangout evening in honor of our friend Sarah whose time in Paris was coming to an end. Andrea volunteered to make an attempt at mexican food and it was pretty good despite the improvisation. It was a fun night to just relax with friends and play a little Taboo, which is always entertaining, especially when not everyone is a native english speaker.
Sunday my partner Loren was to come over at 5 to practice our presentation, so I spent the afternoon working really hard on my half, and cleaning up. I even turned the heat on for the first time because I didn’t want to freeze my guest to death. (I had been putting off turning on the heat as long as possible since it hadn’t been reeeeally cold yet, and when you wear a fleece bathrobe and wrap up in a blanket it’s plenty warm-lol) Working with Loren actually wasn’t bad. It was basically the same kind of conversation you’d have with an American student you don’t know very well.
“Wow that’s a lot of steps up to your apartment. No elevator?”
“Nope. You should have seen me trying to get my huge suitcases up those stairs by myself.”
“By yourself?! And the first flight is completely crooked.”
“I know, I have a near-death experience weekly. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just some water, thanks. This is a great apartment. So much nicer than most students. If you don’t mind, how much do you pay?”
You know, typical stuff, but with less smiling and laughing than most American interactions.
We decided to run through our presentation. Loren had the benefit of it being her native language so she could just use notes and freely talk about the topic. I, on the other hand, was stuck reading mine word for word from the paper. We ran through it once and I asked if she understood me or had some things to correct. She volunteered to go through my entire (about 10 minute) presentation and fix the French mistakes. How awesome is that?! She sat there for 20 minutes going “see this sentence doesn’t make sense in French, what are you trying to say?” When you try to do a presentation on something academic, it’s when you realize the limitations of translating sometimes. Certain words just do not have an equivalent in another language. I was trying to use the word “constituency” and I had looked it up and used what the dictionary listed as the translation.
Loren looked at me, “I don’t think this is the word you meant to use.”
Yes, I said, I want to talk about the people who are represented by each representative. The people who vote for them.
“Oh, then you say ‘citizens’. Is that what you mean?”
No, that doesn’t mean exactly the same thing. In english ‘constituent’ is more specific than ‘citizen’. Is there no word like that?
“I don’t think so...”
And so I wrote about European representatives being more removed from their “citizens” than national representatives. Close enough.
We ran through the presentation again, and halfway through, Andrea called. She was supposed to come over that evening as well to make plans for our trip to Italy for the end of the week, and I had told her I’d probably be done by 6 since I thought we’d only just run through it a couple times. I didn't’ foresee the editing and the discussion or Loren wanting to practice 4 times. I didn’t mind the extra work on it of course, because I need all the help I can get. But Andrea didn’t have anything to do in the city since it was Sunday night and everything was closed, so I told her to come on over and she could just hang out til we finished.
Andrea got there as we were finishing our last run-through. Loren and I finished up. She had prepared the outline that we have to pass out to all the students in the class to follow along with, all I had to do was add my notes. And print it. The problem being, I don’t have a printer at home and with our class starting at 8, we weren’t sure what time the computer rooms open at school to print it off. I suggested that I could run by a friend’s apartment to get at least one copy printed and then just run-off copies before class the next day. The problem being that the only friend I know in the city with a printer, lives on the other side of town.
Anyway, Loren left and Andrea and I got down to planning our trip. She had booked the plane tickets to Milan the day before, and now we had to find places to stay and figure out where all we wanted to go. We spent an hour or so looking at hostels online and when we had finally made the decision on which nights we wanted to spend where, Andrea had to run to catch the RER and get back out to Rueil, so I was left to book the hotels. Once that was taken care of, then I had to add in my notes to the outline. That took a while, and then I needed to print. I sent a text to my friend with a printer, hoping she would take pity on me. Not a problem. So at 10:30 at night I hopped on the metro and traversed the city to show up and print out 5 pieces of paper. We chatted a bit before I traipsed home. I had wanted to practice my part some more and maybe get to where I could do parts without the paper, but by the time I got home I was just so tired that I couldn’t make my brain function anymore.
The next morning came way too soon. It was still dark and cold and I could hear the rain drumming against the roof. Not a situation very conducive for getting up out of a soft, warm bed. I got dressed, put on my waterproof winter boots, and headed to school a good 30 mins earlier than I normally do, because I need to make the copies for the class and I didn’t know how crowded it might be or how long it might take. I arrived at ScPo at 7:20 and....it was locked. Seriously? I’m standing there in the cold rain and it’s barely light out, and I can see the little concierge guys running around in there, but they won’t open the door! And then I noticed two other international students from my class huddled in a doorway. They also had their presentation that morning and need to make copies. We stood looking forlornly at the barred doors and the warm light spilling out on the wet sidewalk. The computer room was supposed to be open at 7:25 I had learned so why were we still standing outside getting soaked? Finally one of the concierges noticed us and took pity and let us in even though they weren’t “ready” yet. Ready? Who cares! Open the door!
So I head for the copy room and...both copiers out of order. Great. Got to go to the computer room, pull up copies of the presentation that I emailed to myself and print out 25 copies. At least that worked out alright. I made it to class at 7:50 with papers in hand and as ready as I could have been for the presentation.
I was nervous, but knowing I could read it made it less nerve-wracking. I’d like to say that I’m just so good at French that once I got up there and started talking I realized I didn’t need my paper and did it just as fluidly as I would have done in English. I’d like to say that, but I can’t. I read every word from the paper. But, in my experience, better read and understandable, than incoherent free-speaking. All I was hoping was that people wouldn’t ask too many questions, or at least none that Loren couldn’t answer. I don’t know how I did, he didn’t give us our grades, but I was soo relieved to have it over, and a couple of the international students said I did a really good job, although they might have just been being polite. Loren and I sat back down and looked at each other and both made our phew!-glad that’s-over-with faces and smiled.
I headed home right afterwards in the rain. I arrived home tired, cold, and wet. I decided that after a week of stress about that presentation I deserved a break. So I got back into my PJs, made some hot chocolate, climbed into my nice warm bed, and watched a recently downloaded episode of Grey’s Anatomy while the rain tapped against the windows.
I had invited a bunch of people over for a Halloween/birthday soirée on Tuesday night, since Andrea and I were leaving for Italy early in the morning of the 31st. I took Monday afternoon to decorate for the gathering. I had Halloweeny decorations thanks to my mom who sent some fabric and odds and ends, and birthday decorations thanks to Carolyn who mailed me a “birthday in a bag”. And to that I added some festive fall colors and homemade decorations.
That evening I journeyed back out into the damp city to go to climbing class. It was a pretty exciting evening because I got to lead climb for the first time ever. There is definitely different schools of thought about climbing and of course, everyone thinks their own is the best. I may not agree with the lack of crash pads and mats under the climbing walls (just concrete floors!) and I may find it weird that they don’t make you do the whole “On belay? Belay on. Climbing? Climb on.” thing or that my way of belaying isn’t “safe” according to them, but I do like our teacher’s mindset that it is important for people to learn to lead climb as soon as possible, even if they aren’t great technical climbers. I have always wanted to lead climb but in most of the gyms back home you have to climb a certain higher-rated route perfectly and then take a class to learn how. Our instructor just picked an easy wall, showed us the basics and the safety precautions and said “go for it”. I thought it would be scarier than it was. I think it’s because I’ve been climbing so much and I’ve just gotten comfortable trusting the ropes and such and am more confident in my own abilities as a climber. Anyway, my first time up I followed a route and made it all the way to the top. I got down and my climbing instructor came over to me and asked if that was my first time climbing lead. “Really? I was watching you and you did really well.” I’m a sucker for a compliment so that totally made my day.
I wish that I could say that after a stressful week I was able to go home and relax. It was, unfortunately, just the beginning of what turned out to be an even more hectic week.
Friday, November 23, 2007
ScPo Woes
Wednesday found me sitting at a long table in the Petit Salon at ScPo. It’s an open hall off the main entryway where they hold functions or exhibits, but usually have space set up for students to work or hangout or whatever. I was sitting right under a bronzed plaque set in marble of Emile Boutmy “Fondateur et directeur de l’école 1871-1906” (Founder and director of the school). The rest of the walls have similar memorials hanging on them to commemorate the men who were responsible for the school back when it was originally created as the “Ecole Libre des Sciences Politiques” in the 1870s. Ironically, since I’m in a country that prides itself for its long glorious history and considers the U.S. a “young” nation, the University of Florida is older.
I was sitting in there because I had arranged to meet with my partner for the oral presentation required by my NGOs in International Relations class. I was both relieved and worried about having a partner who is French. On one hand, having a native speaker is a great advantage, but we had been warned about the coldness of the French students and there is always the possibility for it being awkward and stressful. As it turned out though, my partner seems very nice, which is god because we made plans for her to come over on Sunday night to practice our presentation before we did it for the class Monday morning. I’m excited about having my first french student visitor to my apartment! Her name is Loren and she’s from just outside of Paris and it’s her first semester at Sciences Po, so this is her first oral as well as mine. She had already made an outline for the presentation and done all the organizational stuff herself which was wonderful because it would have taken me hours to figure out on my own.
One of my classes, Intro to the Arab World, is a “major” french class which means it has a lecture section and the discussion section, much like the system for big lecture classes in the US. I had been going to the lecture section these past 3 weeks, but my discussion section had been canceled 3 weeks running. So finally we get an email from the secretariat saying that we will be having class this Thursday. I’m a little frustrated because everyone else is already doing presentations and book reports and essays and our class doesn’t even know what is going on. So I go to class and we’re all sitting there when the head of the secretariate comes in. She tells us that the professor who was supposed to teach our class has been having some serious health issues. He thought he would be well enough to teach this semester and so they just cancelled class the first few weeks, but his doctor now says he can’t work right now. So long story short, he’s not our teacher anymore, and instead, they got a professor who was already teaching another discussion section for this class to take ours on as well and he will be here shortly and not to worry because the people at ScPo know the situation and understand. Ooookay. A few minutes later, in walks M. El Oifi. He took one look around the room, said it was too small and went to get one of the concierges to find us a new room. We relocated next door and M. Oifi started speaking.
Oh brother.
Not only does he talk 90 miles a minute, but he his pronunciation is very thick and mumbled, tinged with an arabic accent. My French business professor at UF talked ridiculously fast about stuff I wouldn’t have understood in English, which greatly helped to prepare me for this semester of lectures and people speaking fast. However, my ability to understand drops off quickly when it’s not spoken in a crisp Parisian accent. He just started talking and I had no idea what he was saying for the first 5 mins of the class. I was just getting to where I could decipher his words when this loud noise starts beeping. Everyone looks at each other. “Is that the fire alarm?” the professor asks. We all sit there, unsure of whether we are supposed to leave or not, when one of the little concierge guys runs into the room. “What are you doing?! It’s a fire alarm! Get out! Don’t take your stuff, GO!” Well call me foolhardy, but it’s 40 degrees outside, I’m not about to go stand out in the cold for who-knows-how-long without a jacket. So we all grab our stuff and follow a couple other classes out the emergency exits to stand on the street. It’s 10:30 in the morning and there are about 60 ScPo students and 3 professors standing out on the swanky boulevard Saint Germain in the cold. We don’t know if it is an electrical problem, or a drill, or if the building we are standing next to is actually on fire. All I know, is a fire alarm 10 mins into the class that has been cancelled for 3 weeks, well, that’s gotta be a sign that this class should not take place.
We stood outside for about 10 mins and then they told us to go back inside. I dunno what the deal was, but anyway, our class finally got underway. By the end of the class I was ready to cry. I had been thinking I didn’t have a lot of work this semester, but this one class has more work for it than for all my other classes put together. A 7 page paper, a 10 minute oral, a book report, a midterm, and a 4 hour essay final. All in French, and all about a subject I have virtually no background in and can barely understand the teacher. AND, because it was cancelled for 3 weeks and we have to make up the time, we are going to have three 2-hour makeup classes later in the semester. It was NOT a good day.
I was sitting in there because I had arranged to meet with my partner for the oral presentation required by my NGOs in International Relations class. I was both relieved and worried about having a partner who is French. On one hand, having a native speaker is a great advantage, but we had been warned about the coldness of the French students and there is always the possibility for it being awkward and stressful. As it turned out though, my partner seems very nice, which is god because we made plans for her to come over on Sunday night to practice our presentation before we did it for the class Monday morning. I’m excited about having my first french student visitor to my apartment! Her name is Loren and she’s from just outside of Paris and it’s her first semester at Sciences Po, so this is her first oral as well as mine. She had already made an outline for the presentation and done all the organizational stuff herself which was wonderful because it would have taken me hours to figure out on my own.
One of my classes, Intro to the Arab World, is a “major” french class which means it has a lecture section and the discussion section, much like the system for big lecture classes in the US. I had been going to the lecture section these past 3 weeks, but my discussion section had been canceled 3 weeks running. So finally we get an email from the secretariat saying that we will be having class this Thursday. I’m a little frustrated because everyone else is already doing presentations and book reports and essays and our class doesn’t even know what is going on. So I go to class and we’re all sitting there when the head of the secretariate comes in. She tells us that the professor who was supposed to teach our class has been having some serious health issues. He thought he would be well enough to teach this semester and so they just cancelled class the first few weeks, but his doctor now says he can’t work right now. So long story short, he’s not our teacher anymore, and instead, they got a professor who was already teaching another discussion section for this class to take ours on as well and he will be here shortly and not to worry because the people at ScPo know the situation and understand. Ooookay. A few minutes later, in walks M. El Oifi. He took one look around the room, said it was too small and went to get one of the concierges to find us a new room. We relocated next door and M. Oifi started speaking.
Oh brother.
Not only does he talk 90 miles a minute, but he his pronunciation is very thick and mumbled, tinged with an arabic accent. My French business professor at UF talked ridiculously fast about stuff I wouldn’t have understood in English, which greatly helped to prepare me for this semester of lectures and people speaking fast. However, my ability to understand drops off quickly when it’s not spoken in a crisp Parisian accent. He just started talking and I had no idea what he was saying for the first 5 mins of the class. I was just getting to where I could decipher his words when this loud noise starts beeping. Everyone looks at each other. “Is that the fire alarm?” the professor asks. We all sit there, unsure of whether we are supposed to leave or not, when one of the little concierge guys runs into the room. “What are you doing?! It’s a fire alarm! Get out! Don’t take your stuff, GO!” Well call me foolhardy, but it’s 40 degrees outside, I’m not about to go stand out in the cold for who-knows-how-long without a jacket. So we all grab our stuff and follow a couple other classes out the emergency exits to stand on the street. It’s 10:30 in the morning and there are about 60 ScPo students and 3 professors standing out on the swanky boulevard Saint Germain in the cold. We don’t know if it is an electrical problem, or a drill, or if the building we are standing next to is actually on fire. All I know, is a fire alarm 10 mins into the class that has been cancelled for 3 weeks, well, that’s gotta be a sign that this class should not take place.
We stood outside for about 10 mins and then they told us to go back inside. I dunno what the deal was, but anyway, our class finally got underway. By the end of the class I was ready to cry. I had been thinking I didn’t have a lot of work this semester, but this one class has more work for it than for all my other classes put together. A 7 page paper, a 10 minute oral, a book report, a midterm, and a 4 hour essay final. All in French, and all about a subject I have virtually no background in and can barely understand the teacher. AND, because it was cancelled for 3 weeks and we have to make up the time, we are going to have three 2-hour makeup classes later in the semester. It was NOT a good day.
Paris Casts Its Spell
(written mid-October)
Right now is one of those picture perfect Paris moments (minus my running nose). I was burnt out after being up late/early to finish my french paper and being sick, so after class I decided I should do something to make my day better, and so I headed to one of my favorite places in Paris- Ile St. Louis. At the moment, I am sitting down on the quay at the base of the island. My bare feet are dangling down the slanted stone wall, against which, several feet below, the Seine laps lazily. Tiny waves from passing tour boats and barges splash against the moss-slick wall. The trees on the quay have the first touch of fall and the faint breeze sends yellow leaves swirling down around me to land gently in the dark waters of the river. It’s late afternoon but the autumn sun has made it unseasonably warm and bright.
I have a superb view of Ile de la Cité and the buttresses of Notre Dame. A few guys just down the wall from me are having an impromptu chill session with their guitars. They’re playing Jack Johnson and old American stuff that is interrupted every so-often by the bells of the cathedral. My lips are a lovely shade of purple because I just finished some cassis gelato. For the life of me I can’t remember what the English translation of “cassis” is, but it’s a berry, and I don’t think it’s one I encounter often at home or I would know the word. *
There is an old man in suspenders with no shirt and his pants rolled up sunning himself while nearby seagulls dive for their dinner. Nelson, a once-white puffball of a dog, came to sit with me and watch the sun slip lower in the sky until his owner called him further down the quay. The sun marks a path of quicksilver across the water to my feet that is so bright it hurts my eyes and makes everything else seem dim. And that reminds me of a song so I start to hum, “and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His mercy and grace...”
Anyway, I know my descriptions can’t do justice to this moment, and even if I had my camera in my purse, it wouldn’t suffice to capture the feel of this place. It’s a moment that seems to suspend itself in time. It almost makes you sad because you know it will never be just like this again. The sun will set, the leaves will fall, and another day it will wonderful, but it will not be the same. But in this seemingly eternal moment, it is here. Life and time. Passing under your feet in the swirling waters of the Seine.
I hope someday you get a chance to see this city. And I hope that when you do, there is a moment like this where you want to do nothing but sit and exist in this place and feel the city whisper around you. It is in experiences like this that Paris concocts its magic. Eventually the moment will pass, even the memory will fade, but the spell is never really broken.
*FYI: I looked it up. Cassis translates to blackcurrant.
**And you should know that I wrote this whole thing spelling “quay” as “quai” and almost got mad at spell-check when it told me it was wrong, and then I said- oh wait, that’s French. Never mind. Thanks spell-check!
Right now is one of those picture perfect Paris moments (minus my running nose). I was burnt out after being up late/early to finish my french paper and being sick, so after class I decided I should do something to make my day better, and so I headed to one of my favorite places in Paris- Ile St. Louis. At the moment, I am sitting down on the quay at the base of the island. My bare feet are dangling down the slanted stone wall, against which, several feet below, the Seine laps lazily. Tiny waves from passing tour boats and barges splash against the moss-slick wall. The trees on the quay have the first touch of fall and the faint breeze sends yellow leaves swirling down around me to land gently in the dark waters of the river. It’s late afternoon but the autumn sun has made it unseasonably warm and bright.
I have a superb view of Ile de la Cité and the buttresses of Notre Dame. A few guys just down the wall from me are having an impromptu chill session with their guitars. They’re playing Jack Johnson and old American stuff that is interrupted every so-often by the bells of the cathedral. My lips are a lovely shade of purple because I just finished some cassis gelato. For the life of me I can’t remember what the English translation of “cassis” is, but it’s a berry, and I don’t think it’s one I encounter often at home or I would know the word. *
There is an old man in suspenders with no shirt and his pants rolled up sunning himself while nearby seagulls dive for their dinner. Nelson, a once-white puffball of a dog, came to sit with me and watch the sun slip lower in the sky until his owner called him further down the quay. The sun marks a path of quicksilver across the water to my feet that is so bright it hurts my eyes and makes everything else seem dim. And that reminds me of a song so I start to hum, “and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His mercy and grace...”
Anyway, I know my descriptions can’t do justice to this moment, and even if I had my camera in my purse, it wouldn’t suffice to capture the feel of this place. It’s a moment that seems to suspend itself in time. It almost makes you sad because you know it will never be just like this again. The sun will set, the leaves will fall, and another day it will wonderful, but it will not be the same. But in this seemingly eternal moment, it is here. Life and time. Passing under your feet in the swirling waters of the Seine.
I hope someday you get a chance to see this city. And I hope that when you do, there is a moment like this where you want to do nothing but sit and exist in this place and feel the city whisper around you. It is in experiences like this that Paris concocts its magic. Eventually the moment will pass, even the memory will fade, but the spell is never really broken.
*FYI: I looked it up. Cassis translates to blackcurrant.
**And you should know that I wrote this whole thing spelling “quay” as “quai” and almost got mad at spell-check when it told me it was wrong, and then I said- oh wait, that’s French. Never mind. Thanks spell-check!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
weekend o' sports
Amadeo, my french friend from Emmanuel is a tennis instructor and can take anyone who wants to to go play tennis at the courts where he teaches. I hadn’t been able to go the times before because it takes so long to get out to Rueil, but my Saturday (Oct. 20) was fairly open and it sounded like a nice way to pass the afternoon. I met up with Sarah A and we took the bus out to Rueil to meet Andrea and Amadeo for some tennis. Now the last time I was in Paris I did no sports. No physical activity. Nothing. So I did not pack for it this time around. And of course now I am in a rock climbing class and going to play tennis with friends and don’t have appropriate clothes. So I was wearing my lounge pants, a long-sleeve T, and my non-athletic sneakers. Amadeo took one look at me and said, “That’s what you wear to play tennis?” Yes, that is what I wear to play tennis in France when I packed nothing athletic!
Anyway, poor Amadeo. He’s a great tennis player stuck with 3 girls who, let’s say, are less than pros. But he was a good sport about it, and taught us how to do things properly.
That was the day I discovered that I have never played tennis with a full serve in my life. I also discovered there is a reason for that: I stink at serving. Seriously. I’m moderately athletic, but this is something that falls outside of my skill range. Once the serve was over I wasn’t too bad, but on games when it was my serve, other people didn’t get to touch the ball much...and the games were over reeeal fast. We played in one of those white tent domey things where if you leave the door open it’ll collapse. And it was chilly in there, but we had fun and it was good exercise. We played for two hours and then Amadeo made us have a play-off between the three of us at the end (drop serves not real ones!) and I’m proud to say I won, although I don’t think it was a result of talent.
That night was the Rugby World Cup Finals: England v. South Africa. I wanted South Africa just because English rugby fans are jerks. Basically the same reason I don’t like LSU. Some of the girls were going to get together to watch it. English rugby fans were everywhere that day in strange outfits. On the metro on the way down to meet the girls I was standing next to a group of young guys and a girl and they were already well into their bottles of wine and being really obnoxious. One of them wanted to ask me a question and have me weigh in on their inappropriate conversation but he didn’t know what language I spoke, so he proceeded to attempt to ask me in about 4 languages if I spoke English. I emphasize the word “attempted”. I stared back blankly and shrugged my shoulders. Pretending not to speak English is pretty entertaining because then people think they can say whatever they want because you don’t understand. Anyway, the rugby match was at least more exciting than the semi-finals, and South Africa won, and I only felt bad for Johnny Wilkinson (leader of the English team) because he’s just so pretty.
Sunday was a lovely day. The fall sun took the chill out of the air. After church we wanted to get something to eat, but instead of going out, a guy from church volunteered to cook if someone would run to the market. So the young adults all stayed and cooked lunch in the church kitchen. And since it was so nice, we set up tables out in the courtyard and had a very tasty lunch out in the bright autumn sun. It was really a pleasant afternoon. I thought that an afternoon couldn’t be any nicer, but I would be proved wrong later in the week.
Ciao!
Anyway, poor Amadeo. He’s a great tennis player stuck with 3 girls who, let’s say, are less than pros. But he was a good sport about it, and taught us how to do things properly.
That was the day I discovered that I have never played tennis with a full serve in my life. I also discovered there is a reason for that: I stink at serving. Seriously. I’m moderately athletic, but this is something that falls outside of my skill range. Once the serve was over I wasn’t too bad, but on games when it was my serve, other people didn’t get to touch the ball much...and the games were over reeeal fast. We played in one of those white tent domey things where if you leave the door open it’ll collapse. And it was chilly in there, but we had fun and it was good exercise. We played for two hours and then Amadeo made us have a play-off between the three of us at the end (drop serves not real ones!) and I’m proud to say I won, although I don’t think it was a result of talent.
That night was the Rugby World Cup Finals: England v. South Africa. I wanted South Africa just because English rugby fans are jerks. Basically the same reason I don’t like LSU. Some of the girls were going to get together to watch it. English rugby fans were everywhere that day in strange outfits. On the metro on the way down to meet the girls I was standing next to a group of young guys and a girl and they were already well into their bottles of wine and being really obnoxious. One of them wanted to ask me a question and have me weigh in on their inappropriate conversation but he didn’t know what language I spoke, so he proceeded to attempt to ask me in about 4 languages if I spoke English. I emphasize the word “attempted”. I stared back blankly and shrugged my shoulders. Pretending not to speak English is pretty entertaining because then people think they can say whatever they want because you don’t understand. Anyway, the rugby match was at least more exciting than the semi-finals, and South Africa won, and I only felt bad for Johnny Wilkinson (leader of the English team) because he’s just so pretty.
Sunday was a lovely day. The fall sun took the chill out of the air. After church we wanted to get something to eat, but instead of going out, a guy from church volunteered to cook if someone would run to the market. So the young adults all stayed and cooked lunch in the church kitchen. And since it was so nice, we set up tables out in the courtyard and had a very tasty lunch out in the bright autumn sun. It was really a pleasant afternoon. I thought that an afternoon couldn’t be any nicer, but I would be proved wrong later in the week.
Ciao!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
When life hands you transit strikes...make pizza!
Back in October, while everyone at home was enjoying America’s National Pastime and watching the Red Sox win the World Series, the French were enjoying their own National Pastime...striking. Yes that’s right. America has baseball, France has social protest. And like all good sports, there are rules. (As much as I supported the concept, I think the stunningly rapid failure of the XFL proved conclusively that you lose something when there are no rules to the game...) The unions have to give a heads-up to the government that they are going to strike, so at least you know about it in advance and can somewhat prepare for it. I enjoyed listening to some of the first-timers at school talk in anxious/excited tones about the impending strike and the rumors and what would happen to the city without the metro. To Parisians, and anyone who has ever been a temporary Parisian, strikes are just a fact of life. They illicit exasperated sighs, rolled eyes, and a multitude of other gestures that are so French they are hard to describe to someone who has never seen them, but they don’t cause surprise or confusion. As I told some of the students during the methodology course in September when everyone was new to Paris: if you spend any significant amount of time in Paris you will experience a strike. It isn’t a question of “if”, only a question of “when” and “for how long”. I think the last time I was here there were at least 3 transit strikes and 1 postal strike, though none were major. This one, however, was supposed to be a big one: the first social test of Sarkozy’s presidency.
This particular strike started with the rail workers of the SNCF and spread to include the public transit workers of the RATP, as well as the major gas and electric companies. The problem was that Sarkozy is reforming the pension plans of the rail workers and they were none too happy about it. Since the French will strike over every little thing (getting their dry cleaning paid for, wanting to work 34 and not 35 hours a week, not enough free pastry in the break room...okay so I made that last one up, but you get the idea) I will give them credit for at least picking a more important issue as a reason to bring mass transportation to a halt this time around. See, back in the day when working on the rails was a very dangerous and demanding job, the French government, in all it’s socialist brilliance, decided to set up a “special regime” for the workers in these demanding jobs where they could retire by 50 and live on full pension the rest of their lives. This was all well-and-good back when the jobs were very dangerous and the men retiring at 50 usually didn’t live much past 60. However, since then, thanks to technology and health care, the jobs aren’t as demanding and the workers are living to 80+ years on a full government salary. It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to realize that a state, even one with insanely high taxes, can’t possibly support that kind of financial commitment for long. So Sarkozy announced plans to reform these “special regimes” because it was costing the government billions of dollars. And honestly, the reforms aren’t even that drastic. (I’m simplifying since I’m sure there is more to it, but this is just the basic gist) It’s a step-by-step process and right now it was just a matter of requiring an extra 2.5 years before retirement on full pension.
The HORROR! Having to wait til you are 52 to retire?! It’s like slave labor!
At least that’s how the unions reacted. I was reading some of their rhetoric in the papers and the way their leaders talked, wow. One basically said that if these reforms go through, Sarkozy will have destroyed everything the “people” have been fighting for since the French Revolution. Seriously. He said that.
The problem with this strike is that it was an unpopular strike. Sometimes the strikes are effective because the citizens agree with or pity the workers and want the government to cave. This is not one such case. The French all want the reforms. They elected Sarkozy on a reformist platform. They recognize that it is a necessary step, and they don’t want Sarko giving in. He has very high approval ratings right now, and polls of people about their support of the strike showed an overwhelming percentage in support of the government. So that tells you right off the bat that it’s not going to be an easy battle since there won’t be any pressure on the government coming from the rest of the populace. And everyone knew that going in. Sarko wasn’t going to give in. He couldn’t. This was his first major strike as president. It was an obvious test of his mettle, and if he conceded anything to the unions he might as well pack his bags and head to Tunisia on a 4 year vacation because he wouldn’t be doing much more presidenting for the rest of his term.
I kept hoping that they would cancel class for the day of the strike. I mean, you have students who live outside the city with almost no way of getting there. But alas, t’was not the case. The strike started Wednesday night at 8. I only had one class Thursday morning and attendance is not taken so I could have just not gone, but we all know I am too much of a goody-goody to do that. Cassie is in that same class with me, and since she lives down in Sevres which is just outside the city limits, she was going to have a real hard time making it in. I don’t live real close to school, but it’s a lot easier to get there from my place than Cassie’s so we decided Cassie should spend the night at my place to make getting to school more convenient since we could walk if necessary. (When transit strikes happen public transit doesn’t shut down 100%, but it is severely reduced. Different lines have metros running at different frequencies. For example anywhere from 1/2 trains - 1/10 trains will be running. Which means that if you are going to try to take the metro, instead of waiting 4-5 mins, you could end up waiting 12-45 mins for a train and then it’s a crap-shoot whether or not you will be able to fit on it. Metro trains look like clown cars on strike days. More people than you ever thought possible in such a small space. So technically you can still try your luck with public transportation on those days, but it is better to avoid it if at all possible.)
So we decided since Cassie was coming over, we’d have a good ol’ fashioned sleepover. Cook dinner, watch a movie, have some fun... and then wake up real early to walk across the city of Paris in the dark and cold to get to our thrilling foreign policy class. My motto is: when life hands you transit strikes...make pizza. At least that’s what we decided to do this time around. We went to the Monoprix and Cassie discovered pre-rolled pizza dough. the only problem was that they didn’t have any of what we Americans consider “normal” pizza fixings so we had to improvise. No pizza sauce? A jar of Barilla Napoletana pasta sauce will do. No shredded mozzarella? Awkwardly sliced Tomme Noir des Pyrennes will suffice. No pepperoni? Smoked garlic sausage chopped into hunks. And some bell peppers for good measure. We weren’t sure our creation would turn out because 1) we were improvising with stuff we weren’t sure worked for pizza and 2) I had never used my oven before. But we figured at least it would be fun trying, and it was. That was some pretty tasty pizza if I do say so myself. I was glad to finally be able to put one check mark under the column of “Successful Paris food experiments” since I filled up the “Disasters” column then Lori and I tried to cook here in ‘05 with the “Mint-chocolate Mousse Fiasco” and the “Cambodian Rice Mush Incident.”
After our delicious homemade pizza, we settled down to watch “Funny Face” because Cassie likes Audrey Hepburn and I was horrified that she hadn’t seen it yet considering that it is set in Paris. (I highly recommend it for anyone who likes Paris/Audrey Hepburn/ old movies/musicals.) And then we crashed because class started at 8 and we had to leave by 7 since we didn’t know how long it would take to get there.
Thursday morning came and we rose and bundled up to head out onto the dark Paris streets to join hundreds of other Parisians trekking to work and school. We mapped out our route online the night before and determined that it shouldn’t take more than 45 mins to walk. I was glad for the company because the walk seemed to pass much more quickly with companionship and good conversation. It was really quite a lovely walk because of the landmarks we passed. We walked through the empty courtyard of the Louvre with it’s illuminated facade glowing gold against the still-dark sky, and emerged onto the bridge across the Seine just as the east began to lighten. I had to stop for a moment on the bridge. Standing there in the predawn chill, the view down the Seine was remarkable. The city still shrouded in shadows, the glow of street lamps and illuminated monuments, the spires of Notre Dame silhouetted against the first colors of morning creeping up from the horizon while the dark Seine swirled silently beneath the bridge. One of the most beautiful views of Paris I’ve experienced. It made walking halfway across the city at 7 in the morning worth it.
We arrived to Sciences Po at about 7:45, went and got our newspapers, and read until class started. Numbers were quite small, about 15 out of a class of 50. Afterwards I went and sat down in the cafe with some other intrepid students and hung out, ate a sandwich, fortified myself for the walk home, and told Cassie that if the strike wasn’t lifted that evening she was always welcome to crash at my place again.
I went home and decided that it might be cool to go check out the big rally that all the unions were having that afternoon. Of course I had to walk to get there, and it was a long walk, but it gave me a chance to see parts of the city that I probably wouldn’t have taken time to explore otherwise. I went down to the march route. They were going from Place de la republique to Place de Nation. I don’t know what i expected, but it was more like a street festival than a riot it seemed to me. The various syndicates were amassing around the statue in the square and street vendors were setting up, music was playing, big balloons and colorful signs everywhere. I walked down the route a bit with people handing me fliers and stickers explaining their grievances and reading the various organizations represented. It is so weird for me, coming from America where communism is still seen as the great evil, to adjust to a country where the communist party is open and active. When I see the communists in their red shirts and “pure left” signs, I have to resist my instinctive urge to start blacklisting movie stars and carpet-bomb Hanoi.
Anyhoot, I set up along the route and pretty soon here came the parade. They march with their syndicate and carry banners and chant things, and the rowdier ones light flares and yell while they carry half empty bottles of scotch. It is a smokey and loud affair, but rather entertaining because when you look at some of the people in the march you have to think that they don’t have any idea why they are protesting. I had my fill of social unrest and commies so I made the long haul home and tried to wash the smell of flare-smoke out of my hair.
The strike was held over and Cassie couldn’t get home easily, so she came to spend another night which was fine by me since I don’t have class on Fridays. The strike was supposed to be gradually lifting, meaning that traffic should be returning to normal throughout the day, but there is no guarantee.
Unfortunately, Friday was the Fall Family festival at Emmanuel and I had volunteered to help and I was in a quandary about how to get out to Rueil without consistent buses or RERs running. I asked around but no one who lived in the city with a car was going to try to make it out. I was getting disappointed because I had really been looking forward to such a typically American festival. Luckily, a friend called to say that another friend of ours who lives in Rueil and has a car was going to drive in to pick up the few of us who needed a ride. So that evening, dressed as Halloweeny as I could and still be warm, I went out to meet them on the edge of town. All the girls were there waiting, but our ride hadn’t turned up and he was pretty late. We called and found out that he was stuck in the traffic around the 4 lane round-a-bout that we were standing by and had been for about half an hour. Traffic was horrendous because everyone who doesn’t normally drive was driving because of the lack of public transportation, plus it was a Friday evening. Eventually Amadeo made it and we all piled into his car and held on as he exhibited a true big-city driver’s finesse while managing to cross about 5 ill-defined lanes of stop-and-go traffic at once without getting rear-ended or being hit by a motorcyclist. That was just the beginning though because traffic was horrible all the way out to Rueil and we were quite late, but not too late to help.
The festival was a lot of fun. Dozens of families, many who were French and aren’t members of Emmanuel, showed up with kids in a variety of costumes. They had trick-or-treating set up in the neighborhood and then games set up inside which is what we were in charge of running. I somehow ended up running the cakewalk, sometimes in 2 languages. That was interesting. And all I had was a radio and somehow managed to find a country-music station. So all the European kids not only got to learn about Halloween and American food (we were serving nachos, chili-chese dogs, sugar cookies, brownies, etc. and DR. PEPPER!), but they were also introduced to the wonders of Alan Jackson and George Strait. When we weren’t running the games, we got to snag some of the American junk food and candy and goof-off a bit ourselves. I tucked a Dr. Pepper in my purse to save for a rainy day. Actually, to save for a day when I am reeeeally missing the U.S. of A. Once all the little ghouls and goblins had taken their loot and headed home, those of us needing a ride back into the city all piled into Amadeo’s car again. We had more people than seats so it’s a good thing Miwa is from Singapore and small. We got back into Paris and it wasn’t real late yet so Amadeo suggested going to hang out. We were close to the Arc de triumph so he parked and we all walked down the Champs Elysee, stopped to watch some breakdancing on the street, and then found an all-night café where we got hot chocolate and sat upstairs and talked and joked around for a while. At one point we were talking about mascots and rugby and countries and such. This is how the conversation went:
Me: “Why is France represented by a rooster?!”
Sarah A.: “I don’t know. What does a rooster even do?”
Me:” They run around frantically and squawk at you.”
Sarah A.: “........yeah, that sounds pretty French to me”
Sarkozy didn’t give in. Traffic returned to normal. And that is how I spent the most “serious strike since 1995.”
A bientot!
This particular strike started with the rail workers of the SNCF and spread to include the public transit workers of the RATP, as well as the major gas and electric companies. The problem was that Sarkozy is reforming the pension plans of the rail workers and they were none too happy about it. Since the French will strike over every little thing (getting their dry cleaning paid for, wanting to work 34 and not 35 hours a week, not enough free pastry in the break room...okay so I made that last one up, but you get the idea) I will give them credit for at least picking a more important issue as a reason to bring mass transportation to a halt this time around. See, back in the day when working on the rails was a very dangerous and demanding job, the French government, in all it’s socialist brilliance, decided to set up a “special regime” for the workers in these demanding jobs where they could retire by 50 and live on full pension the rest of their lives. This was all well-and-good back when the jobs were very dangerous and the men retiring at 50 usually didn’t live much past 60. However, since then, thanks to technology and health care, the jobs aren’t as demanding and the workers are living to 80+ years on a full government salary. It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to realize that a state, even one with insanely high taxes, can’t possibly support that kind of financial commitment for long. So Sarkozy announced plans to reform these “special regimes” because it was costing the government billions of dollars. And honestly, the reforms aren’t even that drastic. (I’m simplifying since I’m sure there is more to it, but this is just the basic gist) It’s a step-by-step process and right now it was just a matter of requiring an extra 2.5 years before retirement on full pension.
The HORROR! Having to wait til you are 52 to retire?! It’s like slave labor!
At least that’s how the unions reacted. I was reading some of their rhetoric in the papers and the way their leaders talked, wow. One basically said that if these reforms go through, Sarkozy will have destroyed everything the “people” have been fighting for since the French Revolution. Seriously. He said that.
The problem with this strike is that it was an unpopular strike. Sometimes the strikes are effective because the citizens agree with or pity the workers and want the government to cave. This is not one such case. The French all want the reforms. They elected Sarkozy on a reformist platform. They recognize that it is a necessary step, and they don’t want Sarko giving in. He has very high approval ratings right now, and polls of people about their support of the strike showed an overwhelming percentage in support of the government. So that tells you right off the bat that it’s not going to be an easy battle since there won’t be any pressure on the government coming from the rest of the populace. And everyone knew that going in. Sarko wasn’t going to give in. He couldn’t. This was his first major strike as president. It was an obvious test of his mettle, and if he conceded anything to the unions he might as well pack his bags and head to Tunisia on a 4 year vacation because he wouldn’t be doing much more presidenting for the rest of his term.
I kept hoping that they would cancel class for the day of the strike. I mean, you have students who live outside the city with almost no way of getting there. But alas, t’was not the case. The strike started Wednesday night at 8. I only had one class Thursday morning and attendance is not taken so I could have just not gone, but we all know I am too much of a goody-goody to do that. Cassie is in that same class with me, and since she lives down in Sevres which is just outside the city limits, she was going to have a real hard time making it in. I don’t live real close to school, but it’s a lot easier to get there from my place than Cassie’s so we decided Cassie should spend the night at my place to make getting to school more convenient since we could walk if necessary. (When transit strikes happen public transit doesn’t shut down 100%, but it is severely reduced. Different lines have metros running at different frequencies. For example anywhere from 1/2 trains - 1/10 trains will be running. Which means that if you are going to try to take the metro, instead of waiting 4-5 mins, you could end up waiting 12-45 mins for a train and then it’s a crap-shoot whether or not you will be able to fit on it. Metro trains look like clown cars on strike days. More people than you ever thought possible in such a small space. So technically you can still try your luck with public transportation on those days, but it is better to avoid it if at all possible.)
So we decided since Cassie was coming over, we’d have a good ol’ fashioned sleepover. Cook dinner, watch a movie, have some fun... and then wake up real early to walk across the city of Paris in the dark and cold to get to our thrilling foreign policy class. My motto is: when life hands you transit strikes...make pizza. At least that’s what we decided to do this time around. We went to the Monoprix and Cassie discovered pre-rolled pizza dough. the only problem was that they didn’t have any of what we Americans consider “normal” pizza fixings so we had to improvise. No pizza sauce? A jar of Barilla Napoletana pasta sauce will do. No shredded mozzarella? Awkwardly sliced Tomme Noir des Pyrennes will suffice. No pepperoni? Smoked garlic sausage chopped into hunks. And some bell peppers for good measure. We weren’t sure our creation would turn out because 1) we were improvising with stuff we weren’t sure worked for pizza and 2) I had never used my oven before. But we figured at least it would be fun trying, and it was. That was some pretty tasty pizza if I do say so myself. I was glad to finally be able to put one check mark under the column of “Successful Paris food experiments” since I filled up the “Disasters” column then Lori and I tried to cook here in ‘05 with the “Mint-chocolate Mousse Fiasco” and the “Cambodian Rice Mush Incident.”
After our delicious homemade pizza, we settled down to watch “Funny Face” because Cassie likes Audrey Hepburn and I was horrified that she hadn’t seen it yet considering that it is set in Paris. (I highly recommend it for anyone who likes Paris/Audrey Hepburn/ old movies/musicals.) And then we crashed because class started at 8 and we had to leave by 7 since we didn’t know how long it would take to get there.
Thursday morning came and we rose and bundled up to head out onto the dark Paris streets to join hundreds of other Parisians trekking to work and school. We mapped out our route online the night before and determined that it shouldn’t take more than 45 mins to walk. I was glad for the company because the walk seemed to pass much more quickly with companionship and good conversation. It was really quite a lovely walk because of the landmarks we passed. We walked through the empty courtyard of the Louvre with it’s illuminated facade glowing gold against the still-dark sky, and emerged onto the bridge across the Seine just as the east began to lighten. I had to stop for a moment on the bridge. Standing there in the predawn chill, the view down the Seine was remarkable. The city still shrouded in shadows, the glow of street lamps and illuminated monuments, the spires of Notre Dame silhouetted against the first colors of morning creeping up from the horizon while the dark Seine swirled silently beneath the bridge. One of the most beautiful views of Paris I’ve experienced. It made walking halfway across the city at 7 in the morning worth it.
We arrived to Sciences Po at about 7:45, went and got our newspapers, and read until class started. Numbers were quite small, about 15 out of a class of 50. Afterwards I went and sat down in the cafe with some other intrepid students and hung out, ate a sandwich, fortified myself for the walk home, and told Cassie that if the strike wasn’t lifted that evening she was always welcome to crash at my place again.
I went home and decided that it might be cool to go check out the big rally that all the unions were having that afternoon. Of course I had to walk to get there, and it was a long walk, but it gave me a chance to see parts of the city that I probably wouldn’t have taken time to explore otherwise. I went down to the march route. They were going from Place de la republique to Place de Nation. I don’t know what i expected, but it was more like a street festival than a riot it seemed to me. The various syndicates were amassing around the statue in the square and street vendors were setting up, music was playing, big balloons and colorful signs everywhere. I walked down the route a bit with people handing me fliers and stickers explaining their grievances and reading the various organizations represented. It is so weird for me, coming from America where communism is still seen as the great evil, to adjust to a country where the communist party is open and active. When I see the communists in their red shirts and “pure left” signs, I have to resist my instinctive urge to start blacklisting movie stars and carpet-bomb Hanoi.
Anyhoot, I set up along the route and pretty soon here came the parade. They march with their syndicate and carry banners and chant things, and the rowdier ones light flares and yell while they carry half empty bottles of scotch. It is a smokey and loud affair, but rather entertaining because when you look at some of the people in the march you have to think that they don’t have any idea why they are protesting. I had my fill of social unrest and commies so I made the long haul home and tried to wash the smell of flare-smoke out of my hair.
The strike was held over and Cassie couldn’t get home easily, so she came to spend another night which was fine by me since I don’t have class on Fridays. The strike was supposed to be gradually lifting, meaning that traffic should be returning to normal throughout the day, but there is no guarantee.
Unfortunately, Friday was the Fall Family festival at Emmanuel and I had volunteered to help and I was in a quandary about how to get out to Rueil without consistent buses or RERs running. I asked around but no one who lived in the city with a car was going to try to make it out. I was getting disappointed because I had really been looking forward to such a typically American festival. Luckily, a friend called to say that another friend of ours who lives in Rueil and has a car was going to drive in to pick up the few of us who needed a ride. So that evening, dressed as Halloweeny as I could and still be warm, I went out to meet them on the edge of town. All the girls were there waiting, but our ride hadn’t turned up and he was pretty late. We called and found out that he was stuck in the traffic around the 4 lane round-a-bout that we were standing by and had been for about half an hour. Traffic was horrendous because everyone who doesn’t normally drive was driving because of the lack of public transportation, plus it was a Friday evening. Eventually Amadeo made it and we all piled into his car and held on as he exhibited a true big-city driver’s finesse while managing to cross about 5 ill-defined lanes of stop-and-go traffic at once without getting rear-ended or being hit by a motorcyclist. That was just the beginning though because traffic was horrible all the way out to Rueil and we were quite late, but not too late to help.
The festival was a lot of fun. Dozens of families, many who were French and aren’t members of Emmanuel, showed up with kids in a variety of costumes. They had trick-or-treating set up in the neighborhood and then games set up inside which is what we were in charge of running. I somehow ended up running the cakewalk, sometimes in 2 languages. That was interesting. And all I had was a radio and somehow managed to find a country-music station. So all the European kids not only got to learn about Halloween and American food (we were serving nachos, chili-chese dogs, sugar cookies, brownies, etc. and DR. PEPPER!), but they were also introduced to the wonders of Alan Jackson and George Strait. When we weren’t running the games, we got to snag some of the American junk food and candy and goof-off a bit ourselves. I tucked a Dr. Pepper in my purse to save for a rainy day. Actually, to save for a day when I am reeeeally missing the U.S. of A. Once all the little ghouls and goblins had taken their loot and headed home, those of us needing a ride back into the city all piled into Amadeo’s car again. We had more people than seats so it’s a good thing Miwa is from Singapore and small. We got back into Paris and it wasn’t real late yet so Amadeo suggested going to hang out. We were close to the Arc de triumph so he parked and we all walked down the Champs Elysee, stopped to watch some breakdancing on the street, and then found an all-night café where we got hot chocolate and sat upstairs and talked and joked around for a while. At one point we were talking about mascots and rugby and countries and such. This is how the conversation went:
Me: “Why is France represented by a rooster?!”
Sarah A.: “I don’t know. What does a rooster even do?”
Me:” They run around frantically and squawk at you.”
Sarah A.: “........yeah, that sounds pretty French to me”
Sarkozy didn’t give in. Traffic returned to normal. And that is how I spent the most “serious strike since 1995.”
A bientot!
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