2011: A Year in Review

I started this blog in August once I knew my little Parisian experiment was going to last more than half a year. Since then I've tried to convey an idea of the cultural, linguistic, business, and political differences between my native American culture and this strange, fascinating, historic land which has now become my home.

Starting a new job and losing my SLR camera have hampered the blogging schedule I would have liked to keep, but I hope that you have enjoyed reading all the same.

In case you missed them, here are the top 5 posts from 2011 according to pageviews:

1. It's Not Terrible: A funny take on a funny French phrase.

2. The Strange Case of My Visa: The fact that I got a work visa at this political and economic juncture approaches miraculous.

3. Commemorating 9/11 at Notre Dame de Paris: On the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I attended a memorial mass at Notre Dame.

4. A Tale of Two Cities: I went to London in November; it was impossible not to compare the two cities.

5. A Doctor's Visit: Visiting the doctor in France was not at all like I expected it to be.

One of my personal favorites was the post A Rather Unromantic View, mainly because it pushes against the New York Times view of Paris, which is shared by so many Americans. The Paris of postcards is only a part of the package. I hope I have managed to capture more of that whole that doesn't make it into guidebooks.


The Parisian Sketches has some changes in store for 2012. So please stay tuned.

Sarkozy and Obama

Nicolas Sarkozy, the President of France, doesn’t like wine. He doesn’t like smelly cheeses. He doesn’t like truffles. He likes Diet Coke and candy and big Havana cigars. Such distaste for good taste is widely regarded as unnatural in France, but Sarkozy makes no apologies. He takes pride in his candor, and if it often comes across as uncouth and uncool his attitude is: So what?

Last week there was an excellent profile of French President Nicolas Sarkozy in The New Yorker.

The parallels between Sarkozy and Obama have intrigued me since before both were elected president of their respective countries. I was here in 2007 to witness Sarkozy's election and to field questions from curious French blacks about Obama as he was starting his 2008 campaign. Both were political outsiders, excluded from their countries' elite, and yet both managed to seduce the electorate with promises of change. Now both are up for re-election in 2012. The odds look a little better for Obama than for Sarkozy, but both face an uphill battle. And in both cases, their re-election will depend on how effectively the opposition shoots itself in the foot.

The Strange Case Of My Visa

When I tell the story of how I arrived in France and finally got a visa, the typical response is That's great. I'm glad it all worked out for you. That's great as sentiments go. I appreciate the support and well wishes. But if my friends and family truly realize just how extraordinary it was that I got a visa given the current French political situation, I think I would get a few more Woooow!!!'s.

In the first place, if you didn't get a degree in France or you aren't married or related to someone in France, it's virtually impossible to get hired. Like all developed countries, there are a lot of restrictions. You generally have to be a specialist in some field and prove that you will not take a job away from a French person.

Recently it's become even more difficult. To say that the economic situation is not superb would be the understatement of the year (cf. 'Merkozy' and 'monthly summits to save Euro-zone'). There's an election coming up in five months. And no politician wants to be accused of giving French jobs to foreigners. One concrete manifestation of this trend was a circular issued this summer the Minister of the Interior Claude Guéant making it more difficult for foreign students to stay in France after their degrees and limiting the areas where foreign specialists could be admitted to the country.

A few weeks ago, I met an Algerian in a bar who was having a going-away party after seven years in France. Seven years of studies and internships--more than a fourth of his life--and yet the economic situation combined with the new restrictions made it impossible for him to extend his visa. And he's just one of many. Ask anyone who works with foreigners or has foreign friends, and he or she will tell you about at least one person in a similar situation.

Now, even talented foreigners with gainful employment are being expelled from the country. Greg Beuthin, an American computer science specialist employed with the firm Commerce Guys has been denied an extension of his visa (French). He's completely bilingual. He didn't want to leave. His company thought he did the job better than any French person would. And his job was helpful in creating other jobs in France. Not important. Visa denied.

This is the backdrop for my visa application's success. It was never, ever guaranteed or even probable. And yet it happened.

Army vs. Navy makes French news

Read in today's Direct Matin:

Yesterday in the state of Maryland, students of the American military academy West Point attended a football game in which their team was defeated by the naval academy's team 27-21. Nicknamed 'Army vs. Navy', the university match has taken place every year since 1890.

Les élèves de l'académie militaire américaine de West Point ont assisté, avant-hier dans le Maryland, à la défaite de leur équipe de football face à celle de l'academie navale (27-21). Baptisé "Army vs. Navy", ce match universitaire se tient chaque année depuis 1890.

Yes, the football game between the army military academy and the naval military academy in our country is nicknamed, wait for it...wait for it: 'Army vs. Navy'.





(The word 'nicknamed' literally means 'baptized', but is used in much broader sense than English-speakers use 'baptize'. You could maybe just say 'named'. But I translated it 'nickname' here because that's how I understood it when I read it this morning. It would make more sense if they said the OU vs. Texas was nicknamed the 'Red River Rivalry'.)

AutoLib Debuts

There they were. What once was mesh-fenced-off roadwork was suddenly road side parking for a line of small gray electric cars. Uniformed attendants stood behind the cars. No users were in sight. I was late for work, but I hopped in the bus anyway.

While walking into the metro on the second leg of my commute, I picked up the free paper to see front page coverage of the debut of the Autolib in Paris. Politicians and business leaders have gotten together to provide yet another transportation alternative to Parisians. It works almost exactly like the Vélib bike system, to which I am subscribed. You pick up a car in one place in Paris and then drive it to another station in Paris and drop it off. No maintenance. No gas. No trouble finding parking places. Well, in theory...sometimes Vélib stations are full and you have to keep searching. I can imagine the same thing for Autolib.

When I arrived at my last stop, a man stopped me randomly and asked me, "Where is the Autolib station?" I looked around. I know the area very well. I was positive I had seen a station nearby. I thought and thought. Nothing came to me. I looked around again, trying to see if landmarks would jog my memory. Where had I seen them putting up the station? Where? No luck. I was late for work. I apologized and wished him good luck finding it.

I intend to try Autolib out. Just not this week. I have to figure a few things out before I try to drive to work.

The Confused American Subconscious

(via PEG 2.0)

Scarred by History

Yesterday I went to mass at St. Pierre's, the church nearest my apartment. I pass it every day walking back from the metro, but I only realized it was a church last week.

On it's facade is written:

République Française
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité
Propriété communale

French Republic
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
Communal property

It's not every day you find a country's name and slogan on a church. Or, at least in the U.S., you don't find it on churches. We have the First Amendment to thank for that. France has had a much different history between the church and the state--an ugly, bitter war in which the state ultimately emerged triumphant.

Buildings like St. Pierre's still bear the scars of that history

Le beaujolais nouveau

It's getting to feel a lot like that time of the year again.

No, not Christmas.

Although French supermarkets already are selling Advent calendars and Christmas chocolates. Bars have Christmas beers out. And the ominous red and white of year end consumerism are slowly invading the entire city.

No, I'm referring to le beaujolais nouveau.

Every year on the third Thursday in November, bars, bistros, and wine sellers across the country release a wine from the Beaujolais region that has only been fermented for a few weeks. Signs mark the occasion: "Le beaujolais nouveau has just arrived!!" There are even small parties to mark the occasion. Yesterday, the bar nearest my house had an unusually large number of customers for a Thursday, their beer mugs temporarily replaced with wine glasses for the evening.

In the grand history of French wine, it's not that old of a tradition. In fact, it's just a few decades old. After World War II sellers of the wine were granted AOC status and rushed to Paris to put their newest bottles on sale.

Last time I was in France, back in 2006, the owner of the bistro I frequented gave my friend and me a free glass to taste it. I don't remember much, though.

So, yesterday when I was sipping my coffee and reading in a café and I noticed the signs and hullabaloo, I decided to order a glass and test this great French production once again.

Bah...it tasted like a young red wine.

Intouchables

The only French film I've seen this year got its own Economist article in this week's issue:

Based on a true story, it follows the improbable relationship between Philippe, a quadriplegic aristocrat (François Cluzet), and Driss (Omar Sy), a gregarious Senegal-born youth from the banlieues, the grim housing estates that ring Paris. On his release from prison, Driss is hired by Philippe in a moment of recklessness as a live-in help at his Paris mansion. Philippe is warned that banlieue youths have “no pity”. No pity, replies the wheelchair-bound former paraglider wryly, is just what I want.

If you have a chance to see the original before they go and make an American version, I would highly recommend it.

The curious case of Moneyball

"Moneyball" is coming to a French theater near you!






















This poster is all over the city this week. In keeping with a long French tradition, they have not translated "Moneyball" directly but made up a new, banal, and only loosely related title, "Le Stratege" ("The Strategy").

In case you didn't know, the French could care less about the Red Sox and the Yankees, let alone the Athletics. 99% of French citizens would be hard-pressed to name one rule from baseball, let alone one Major League player.

Obviously, though, someone in the office upstairs thinks this will make some money in France. It has Brad Pitt in it after all.

A Doctor's Visit

When I first arrived in Paris earlier this year, I lived for several months on a tourist visa. I got sick occasionally. I ate something bad or got the flu, but a day of bed rest and plenty of liquids always did the trick. Nothing was ever serious enough to merit a hospital visit--perhaps my parents' greatest fear: uninsured son, deathly ill, abroad.

From what I've heard, France isn't the worst place in the world to be a sick tourist. In fact, they say it's a pretty good place to be sick in general. The service is generally quite good, and the government pays the vast majority of costs (something like 3/4). In total, France pays less per person than the US (which blows all other countries out of the water despite not having universal coverage), but they still spend more than other European countries. I remember German students' reactions to the system when we were all exchange students together. There was no cost to use the student clinic and prices at the pharmacy were two, three, four times cheaper than in Germany. On the other hand, the French health system, like the American health system, costs more and more each year with no end in sight.

Last week I wasn't sick, but I decided to visit a doctor anyway. It had been almost a year since I had been to the doctor, and I'm required by the state health insurance system to establish a relationship with a "primary health care provider", as we Americans so eloquently put it.

The first step to finding a doctor, believe it or not, is to visit a pharmacy. More so than in the U.S., French pharmacies serve as a first stop for health issues. For minor issues, pharmacies will diagnose and prescribe medicines. If they aren't sure or can't handle the problem, they'll send you to the doctor. I asked for a list of local doctors and got the pharmacist's recommendation. The next day I called to make an appointment. The doctor I chose had an opening a few days later at an early enough hour for me to still to make it to work. So I took it.

The office was in a building like all other Parisian buildings, with a gigantic door and a digicode on the side. However, there was also a button to beep the doctor's office. Being the intelligent Parisian resident that I am, I pressed the correct button and the door soon popped unlock. I made my way up the dark, winding staircase (once again, typically Parisian) until the second floor and then opened the door.

It wasn't at all what I was expecting.

Somehow, in my head, I had transplanted this idea of an American waiting room into a Parisian building. I imagined a brightly colored room with chairs and a coffee table full of magazines I would never read and the TV blaring a program I normally would never watch even if I watched TV to begin with. Behind the counter (because there would be a counter), I would find a disaffected receptionist with dozens of forms for me to fill out, already nicely placed on a clipboard with a pen. But everything would be slightly smaller, because rent in Paris is not cheap.

Nope. None of it. Except the chairs.

It was quite eerie. To the left was a medium-sized room with chairs lining the walls, every last one of them empty. To the right were two doors, both closed. Nothing else. Not a human in sight. No magazines and no clipboards.

I walked up to the doors and read the name, looked down at my appointment information and back at the door. Yep. Correct name. The waiting room in my mind found a new location, just on the other side of the door. Perhaps the chairs were just excess capacity in case of patient overflow. I reached for the door handle. No. Better to knock, just in case.

Good thing I knocked. A man cracked open the door and poked his head out. "Oui?" I could see another man inside, the funny doctor's bed, the table. It was the doctor's office.

I explained that I had an appointment. He pointed back across the hall at the empty, large, dreary waiting room.

Ah! No receptionist. No TV. No coffee table. No magazines. I guess that's one way to keep costs down.

Once I was finally inside, the doctor and I discussed my health history, the French system, and the one form that I had to fill out. Yes, just one form.

For my medical history, he wrote out a notecard with my name at the top and then the date and a line of comments below, before filing it away.

Several times while we were talking, the phone rang. I asked if it was always that busy. He replied that it was unusually and frustratingly busy. Once or twice someone buzzed from downstairs and so he had to push a button to let them in.

Despite the sparse furnishings and low-budget setup, I noticed that the doctor was outfit with a nice desktop and flat top screen. Even though he preferred to write down the details of his patients' visits on a note card, he felt comfortable using some sort of medical reference online. I suppose it's nice to have the most up-to-date information at your fingertips to help you diagnose and prescribe, but it also makes me wonder about a doctor's basic level of knowledge.

Before I left, I had to pay him 23 euros. That's the actual cost of the appointment; he takes the cash himself. Once I get all my paperwork done, I will get a pretty decent refund from my 'mutuelle', the add-on health insurance I get from work.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I have excellent blood pressure.

A Tale of Two Cities

When I stepped off the train in London, the cleanliness of St. Pancreas' Station astounded me. It's hard to know if it's underpaid cleaning crews or long delayed remodels, but Paris mass transport manages to be almost universally more grimy.

It's hard not to compare the two cities. Both are world cities with long histories--political, cultural, and financial centers. Naturally, Paris carries a little more weight on the cultural side of things as London does when it comes to finance. But both were centers of worldwide empires, now significantly reduced. Both have immigrant populations from the entire world. And both attract more than enough tourists.

Of which I am one. For Armistice Day (known as Veteran's Day in certain corners of this world), I'm in London. It's my second time, but this time around I feel like I have a better feel for how to make what to do. Just a few quick comparisons:

1) The Museum of London is much better done than its equivalent in Paris, Musée Carnavalet. Really, to get a good overview of the history of Paris, you would need to visit a handful of museums, including the Musée Carnavalet, the crypt of Notre Dame, and the museum of Cluny. And even with the multiple museums, the history covered wouldn't make it up to the present day, as the Museum of London manages. While I was there, kids were swarming all over the place, enchanted by the various exhibits targeted towards them and by the specially hired museum guides for them. The treatment of slavery was honestly dealt with. In France, as is the custom, the museum turns a blind eye to that controversial subject. On the other hand, both cities manage to avoid delving too deeply into their colonial pasts and the difficult ethical questions they raise.

2) It's a lot harder to find Arabs here than in Paris. Poles are everywhere, though, and Pakistanis are also a lot more prevalent. In addition, the ethnic makeup of the city here seems to be more mixed at all socioeconomic levels. This seems to back up anecdotal evidence I've heard that ethnic minorities from France find London less racist.

3) London is a lot more spread out than Paris. If you have the scale of the Parisian metro in you head, you're liable to underestimate distances on the London Underground.

4) Also, the London Underground has smaller trains than the Paris Metro. The doors fit about one person at a time, as opposed to two or three in Paris, which might explain why the trains wait longer at stops.

5) As noted, London is cleaner than Paris.

6) In London it is easier to get run over by moving vehicles for an American. Even with the ubiquitous "Look Left"/"Look Right" signs, I still manage to forget how traffic flows in this peculiar country.

7) The English are definitely missing the spirit of the French bistro. The very design of their restaurants shows that they eat faster and pay less attention to the quality of their food.

"The city of lights is a myth"

The city of lights is a myth. All that is left is propaganda and capitalist masks. Tourists marching slowly to Paris's death parade : the squeaking of a tired accordion.

The true face of Paris is in its blighted neighborhoods. The revenge of a colonial past. I am a Moroccan youth.

I cannot go I cannot stay.

There is a struggle. Against alienation, a struggle with identity. The struggle has left the buildings and spilled out into the streets, overflowing like sewage after months of rain. The television lies, calls for complacency.

The coffee is expensive, conversation is abrupt, contact is limited to the rubbing of shoulders between strangers. The shining lights slowly fade away, the cafes board up their doors, the intellectuals go to bed. There are many like me. We are not known to the city, and it cares not for us.

I will put on my own mask, and recreate Paris.

--My friend Ali, a Bahraini architect who studied in the US, writes poetry when he's not designing buildings. He studied abroad in Paris earlier this year.

By Bus, Metro, and Bike (But Not Car)

Every day I ride the bus, the metro and a bike in order to get to work. It takes 30 minutes and I use the same card to ride all three. Swipe in. Wait four or five minutes maximum and just ride.

I haven't owned a car for ten years, and I love it.

While I was a student I either lived on campus or right next to campus. Whenever I went to a movie or a restaurant, I hitched a ride with a friend. They were gracious enough to take me to the airport two or three times a year as well. I paid for their gas sometimes or treated them to a drink or a meal, and we called it good.

Abroad I didn't need a car either. Mass transit is good enough in most other countries, it's not really necessary to buy your own automobile. Especially here in Paris, a car is just a terrible idea.

I don't have to worry about oil leaks, an empty gas tank, a flat tire, having my door keyed or my window broken. I don't have to pay for insurance or tolls. In return I sacrifice some independence and some mobility. But in my cost-benefit ledger, it's not even close. I love seeing the diverse cross-section of society I travel with every morning. I love being able to pick up a bike anywhere in Paris and leave it anywhere else in Paris. I love not having to look for a parking place.

Why would anyone want a car?

Toussaint

Yesterday was yet another Catholic holiday that French people religiously observe in their own special way. And by 'special way', I mean 'in no way whatsoever related to the Catholic faith'.

For an American evangelical like myself Toussaint (All Saints' Day) can come across as a bit strange. Evangelicals don't believe there is a spiritual bond between the dead and the living. Or if they do, it just never really comes up. When you die you'll see those who went before, but in the meantime, you're on your own. And if you want to pray to someone, The Man Upstairs is the only one worth talking to.

Observant Catholics, on the other hand, commemorate those who have died and gone to heaven, maybe even praying to them. In the case of atheistic France, this tradition is inverted: the French take the day off to spend time with the living. They often relax or buy things together.

In truth, it's the buying things that crosses the line into heresy for several French friends of mine. They remember how everything was closed when they were younger, and so react with surprise and disappointment at the large number of open shops these days. The sacredness of leisure time must be protected at all costs. Death, after all, comes to us all, and the only thing between it and us that is worthwhile will happen when we're not working.

In 2006, the last time I was living in France, I took advantage of my leisure time occasioned by this atheistic transmutation of a Catholic holiday to travel over large parts of France on a Eurail pass.On Toussaint, I just happened to find myself visiting the magnificent Chartres Cathedral. When I realized there was a mass in progress, I sat down and observed it as best as I could, given the differences in language and tradition. I went as a tourist, but ended up as more of a pilgrim.

This year, unfortunately, I missed the Toussaint mass. To assert my believing credentials, though, I stopped by a church for a few minutes after lunch to pray. I noticed a few people entering and lighting candles in the corner. I had never lit a candle for the dead before, but yesterday it just seemed like a good thing to do. I though of those with faith who had gone before me. I lit the candle. I prayed a little. I'm honestly not sure what the candle means, but that recognition of those who are no longer with us--something missing from the culture I grew up with--seemed well deserved.

After lighting the candle, I left the church and walked down the street to a beautiful corner café, where I spent the afternoon reading and sipping beer. Believers can enjoy leisure time too.

An Iraqi in Paris

Samuel Shimon is an Iraqi author who recently released his debut novel An Iraqi in Paris. He was interviewed for next month's issue of World Literature Today, produced by my alma mater The University of Oklahoma. This quote caught my attention:

SS: It is said that Paris is the city of fashion and beauty, but for me it is the city of compassion par excellence. I do not think I could have lived in any other city the way I lived in Paris.

As I mentioned in my answer to your first question, those who tortured me were security and intelligence men, working for their Arab regimes. As for the Arabs I met in Paris; they were running away from those lousy regimes. Others were immigrants who had, to a certain degree, integrated into French society. Besides the French, who were generous and kind to me for the most part, I had strong ties to the Algerian community of Paris. Here I would like to point out that many Arabs consider the Algerians to be rough and gruff, but that is not true at all.

In my experience, the Algerians are very kind and loving people. They were always very kind to me and always welcomed me into their homes, despite the fact that I am not a Muslim and am always very critical—to the point of being sarcastic—of the traditions of Islam. They were never offended even though I was a regular guest of theirs and was being disrespectful. The Algerians are principled and tend to be straightforward. They also take special pride in and care of their friendships.

A Day In The Life

I started feeing sick sometime last night.

Unusually, I woke up well before my alarm went off. A little bit of indigestion? Maybe the onions? I went back to sleep.

The nausea slowly grew in strength, but I held steady. I had invited three of my colleagues to eat with me at a restaurant called L'avant gout (Foretaste). They are always eager to find new restaurants, and so I was looking forward to their reaction.

I didn't make it through lunch.

The nausea grew to a fever pitch sometime before the starter arrived. I had deftly avoided drinking an aperitif, but eating food is generally something of an obligation in restaurants. I stared at the soup. Perhaps it would soothe my stomach. Perhaps, but I knew I couldn't make it through the entire meal. I excused myself; my co-workers graciously offered to take care of everything. And I walked up the street to the Place d'Italie metro stop.

Four minutes to wait for the train.

In four minutes there is time to reverse half a day of your eating and drinking. Unfortunately, the people who will soon by your fellow travelers are able to hear and watch it. Fortunately, however, Parisians are very good at ignoring people in their immediate vicinity.

After another trip to the toilet and hours of sleep, I am happy to report my recovery from this morning's malaise. But thanks to my afternoon in bed, I am now up at 4 A.M.

Tomorrow, or rather today, I will have a different problem to grapple with.

Nothing Seen

I have a sad announcement to make: The Parisian Sketches will be deprived of it's photographic element for the immediate future.

A certain amateur photographer briefly left his Nikon D50 unattended while hiking in the Alps last weekend, returning some minutes later to find it gone. Prime suspects include the malicious children playing nearby, older hikers suffering from camera envy, and raccoons.

A brief moment of silence for the Nikon D50, which served its owner faithfully from December 2005 until October 2011.

Thank you.

The feature "Scenes from Paris" will return once a suitable and affordable replacement for the D50 can be found.

Paris Syndrome

I've written about the disconnect between media portrayals of Paris and the actual city, but I had no idea it could get this bad...

As tourist season here in Paris winds to a close and the air once again becomes crisp, fresh, and new, we must unfortunately acknowledge that it does not end without a few casualties. Yes, this summer, like the ones that have come before it, has claimed at least 20 victims of a very particular affliction: Paris Syndrome. And though it may sound like a disease unique to freshman girls with Le Chat Noir posters everywhere, it is a serious disorder that causes tourists, especially Japanese tourists, many problems on their trip through the City of Light. And what is Paris Syndrome, exactly? Simply put, it's a collection of physical and psychological symptoms experienced by first-time visitors realizing that Paris isn't, in fact, what they thought it would be.

-- Chelsea Fagan in The Atlantic

Ink On The Finger

On Saturday night I saw a Tunisian friend of mine I hadn't seen for a while.

I told him about the various changes in my life: the new job, new apartment, new bank account. And then he replied, telling me about work and his girlfriend. And then he put his finger up and said, "I voted" with a smile on his face.

This weekend Tunisians are voting in the first truly democratic elections their country has ever had. Their president Zine El Abidine Ben Ali was deposed in January of this year, right before I arrived in Paris. Unlike in Egypt the transition to a more democratic state has proceeded fairly smoothly. The numerous Tunisian expatriate community also has the right to vote, and so my friend voted in Paris.

I have tried to follow the transition in Tunisia, but it has been difficult because of the complexity of the events. Forces which had been suppressed for years have suddenly taken form in a few months time. Rhetorical battles over the future of Tunisia have been launched. It's hard to know which direction things will go. The only major details I have been able to take away is that there are over a hundred parties and that the main Islamist party is called Nahda.

I asked my friend which party he had voted for. He told me the name, and I just shook my head. He understood that it was completely natural for me to have no idea who they were. He smiled again and said, "Not Nahda."

We shared a laugh and then clinked glasses, drinking to Tunisia and its democratic future.

"How Are You?"

One morning earlier this week, the part-time secretary of our small company entered my office and said, "Good morning. How are you?"

I was a bit shocked. It was the first time something like that had happened to me before.

If you're surprised that I was shocked, then it has probably never happened to you either.

And by 'it' I mean the shift from vous to tu. You see in French there are two words for 'you', that carry with them separate sets of conjugations and nuanced meanings about the relationship between the two people.

When I first studied in France many, many moons ago I struggled to master the distinction. I was mainly around fellow students, and so I developed the reflex of using the informal tu form with everyone.

Unfortunately, it shouldn't be the reflex. One time during a French-American Club meeting I asked the sponsoring professor a question about his opinion on stereotypes only to get dirty stares from the French students in the room. One panickingly whispered to me, "Vous, vous...not tu!"

This was obviously not the first time an American student had used the tu form with him, and so he very light-heartedly dismissed the slight to his position. But I had committed a faux pas all the same.

Since then, I have developed better reflexes when choosing which form to use with people: vous with anyone in public places I don't know, customers, and superiors (the very concept of a superior is hard for an American to wrap his mind around...) and tu with people my own age. And without exception those distinctions have stayed that way. Either we move to the tu form in the very first conversation or we stay with the more distanced vous form.

When I first met the secretary earlier this year, we began with vous. She didn't know me, and she was a few decades older than me. We didn't talk a lot and I didn't expect to go out for beers with her. So I thought it would continue that way, just as it had with all other formal relationships I had previously had.

Last week while stuffing envelopes with invoices together we had a few good laughs. One might say we even bonded. And then the next time I saw her, she walked into my office and said, "Good morning. How are you?"

Except this time she used 'tu'.

French Among Least Friendly

People in New Zealand and Portugal are among the most social of all nationalities surveyed, with more than 75% reporting at least one social contact with friends or family per week; people in Poland, France and Hungary report the lowest levels of social interaction.

The Economist discusses a recent OECD report.

This finding doesn't surprise me: French people have their family and friends--best of luck breaking into that circle.

Most of my friends in France are of foreign extraction. We share the difficulty of integration and desire people who are generally more friendly and more fun than the average French person we encounter.

When I do manage to penetrate the favored realms of French soirées, it is often the case that I am the only foreigner there. Good for my language practice, not so much as a grade of French openness.

Scenes from the 19th: Parc des Buttes-Chaumont

Paperwork

In order to open a bank account in France, I need proof of residence in France. That is, I need a rent contract or an attestation de logement, in which someone promises that he is housing me.

In order to rent an apartment you need to write a check. To write a check you need a bank account.

In order to rent an apartment you also need proof of renter's insurance.

In order to buy renter's insurance you need to know the address of your apartment. That is, you need an apartment.

Sometimes in France it feels like all the attestations and contrats that fill our time and our folders are chickens and eggs. None of them wants to come first.

Fortunately for me, my boss offered to loan me the money and pay the check for my apartment's deposit before I opened my bank account. And fortunately for me, a friend of a coworker offered me proof of renter's insurance before I actually paid him or rented the apartment.

Now, finally, after two weeks in the country, my chickens are beginning to reproduce and my eggs are beginning to hatch.

More Awesomely Cool NYTimes coverage of Paris

Here's another one to file in the "Crappy New York Times Articles about Paris" folder. The travel writer, of "Frugal Traveler" fame, begins his piece discussing how he bought an umbrella for €240.

Intriguing?
Perhaps...where else would someone charge that much for an umbrella?

Authentic Parisian experience?
Maybe. It does rain a lot. On the other hand, I don't know anyone who owns an umbrella that costs more than a few euros.

Frugal?
Not so much...

This narcissistic rambler knows the city fairly well, but, after my half a year here and with help from my Parisian network, I'd hazard to say I know it better. The article gives you almost no history or sociology or demography; it's a play-by-play of supposedly cool stuff that the guy found while wandering around. Since it's his own personal experience, a newbie to Paris doesn't benefit much at all from this sort of travel writing. If the goal is to wander around Paris and discover things you didn't know, you certainly don't need a guide like this. And if the article is supposed to introduce you to the most interesting Parisian sights, wandering around isn't the best way to find them.

After having read a lot of travel writing, I'm still not sure what the high quality kind is supposed to look like, but I'd say it probably doesn't include banalities like this

Almost everywhere I looked in Paris I found this tug between the past and present engulfing me.

...or end with this sentence:

While I discovered a lot of new places on this trip, there are several old favorites I wish I’d gotten back to.

The latter is what I might write to my grandma in an e-mail. (Yes, my 81-year old grandma reads and writes e-mails.) If I write something for publication, I usually polish up my prose a little.

This phenomenon, of course, is nothing new. For years, I've noticed that the Grey Lady's travel writers have an ideal of travel that baffles me. Their travel writing generally falls into two categories: narcissistic ramblings and unaccessible fineries. This article clearly falls into the first category, the musings of an ignorant egotist. The second deals more with artsy, expensive places available to a very small fragment of the world's population (many of who do live in Paris and New York, admittedly). The reaction of all the ex-pats and French people that I know in Paris is, "I wish I had the money to do that."

If I were writing a travel article about Paris, I would focus on three things. First, I would vastly expand coverage of sites available to an average middle class traveler. It should pass my Parisian friend test--they've actually done it and like it. Secondly, I would include more history, sociology, and demography--trying to help a reader understand why Paris looks the way it does and why Parisians act they way they do. Most travel writers can't seem to grasp just how diverse and immense Paris actually is. I seriously wonder if they have any command of French sometimes, let alone Arabic or Kabyle or Portuguese or any of the numerous other languages I regularly hear. Finally I would try to give the reader an idea of the city that doesn't revolve around the Manichean division between the poorest of banlieues and the finest the rich can afford. Trust me. There's a lot in between.

It's what most of us Parisian residents live and enjoy every day.

Scenes from the 13th

I Should Frequent the Business District More Often

Then I wouldn't miss things like the Post-It Wars.
























(photo from www.postitwar.com)

CNN reports on the phenomenon:

“We stuck Space Invader character on our window and the day after, BNP (Paribas), which is the largest bank in France, just across the way, they drew a Pac-Man,” Fabrice Cambonet of Ubisoft told CNN.

La guerre des Post-it (the Post-it wars) was on.

Collages swept across office spaces in the business district of La Défense and companies in the Issy-les-Moulineaux area of the French capital. The art ranges from simple representations of Tweety Bird or Bart Simpson, to seven-story high illustrations that use thousands of Post-it notes and complex, computer-designed plans.

(HT: DH)

Sub City Paris

Sub City Paris from Redglass Pictures on Vimeo.

Cinematographically, this is nothing extraordinary. Among other things, it seems to lack a certain coherence. However, it does an excellent job of capturing the experience of emerging from the metro. Sometimes that experience is completely banal--just people rushing by, faces in a crowd, petals on a wet black bough.

But other times, it's something quite special, perhaps a bit sublime.

Writers on the Streets of Paris

I didn't know that Ernest Hemingway and Gabriel García Marquez crossed paths on the streets of Paris.

In 1954 he was given the Nobel Prize. Gabriel García Márquez, still a journalist, caught sight of Hemingway and his wife in Paris one day in 1957 walking along the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Hemingway was wearing old jeans and a lumberjack’s shirt. He had long been one of García Márquez’s great heroes, for his myth as well as his writing. The Old Man and the Sea had hit García Márquez “like a stick of dynamite”; he was too timid to approach Hemingway but also too excited not to do something. From the opposite side of the street he called out, “Maestro!” Hemingway raised a hand as he called back “in a slightly puerile voice,” “Adios, amigo!”

Two writers writing in two languages. Two Nobel Prize winners. One city.

Splitscreen: A Love Story

I am in the United States for a couple of weeks to take care of my work visa. I was in New York City the last few days, and so I thought of this short film.

Splitscreen: A Love Story from JW Griffiths on Vimeo.

Scenes from the 13th

Scenes from the 20th

Laïcité Inch'Allah

Laïcité Inch'Allah.

Those two words, one in French and one in Arabic, are drenched in meaning well beyond their eight syllables. The first is a word marking the triumph of the secularist side in a long, bitter struggle against the Catholic Church in France. Since the 1905 French law that definitively separated church and state, it has been a principle that political discourse across the spectrum accepts without reservation.

The second word literally means, "If God wills". According to the Koran, Muslims should say it whenever they speak of future events. In Muslim countries, however, it has come to mean "maybe I will do it", "perhaps I will get around to it", or even "fat chance".

Put the two together and you get something along the lines of "Secularism, if God wants it" with a heavy connotation of "Secularism, fat chance". In two words it smashes together two vastly different cultures and worldviews, and raises a host of questions. Can the development of Catholicism in Europe be a model for Islam in Arab countries? Can an idea from France be put into practice in an Arab country it colonized? Should it? In short, the title is genius.

As of late, the Parisian metro walls have been plastered with advertisements for a new film by exactly this title. Directed by Nadia El Fani, it opens today in France. It's about Tunisia, where secularism is on much weaker footing than in France. I haven't seen the film, but I would like to. It had me at "Laïcité Inch'Allah".

Here's the trailer (French).

Scenes from the 13th: Moving

Spotted On The Metro: A Phillies Cap

Much to the chagrin of Red Sox fans, the youth of this world love to don the baseball caps of the New York Yankees. I blame Jay-Z, but that's a post for another time.

99% of the time, the iconic, interlocking 'N' and 'Y' are worn by individuals who have never watched a baseball game in their lives. They have no idea what a strikeout or a home run is, and would be lost if you started discussing storied names like Mariano Rivera, Derek Jeter, Lou Gehrig, and Babe Ruth. They don't wear the New York Yankees cap to identify with the team. They wear the New York Yankees cap to identify with hip-hop culture or, sometimes, just because it's "cool".

The other day I saw a guy on the Paris metro wearing a Phillies cap. Now, I lived in Philadelphia for two years, and I was there for their 2008 World Series win. So I was intrigued, attracted by the possibility of a fellow Philadelphian or baseball fan. To the best of my knowledge, the Phillies cap has nothing to do with hip-hop culture. So I assumed the guy was a Phillies fan, or at least had some relationship with the city.

I struck up a conversation.

"Nice hat. You like the Phillies?"

"No. I'm just wearing it."

"Oh, ok." I turned back to my book.

Is China Or Europe More Christian?

It is impossible to say how many Christians there are in China today, but no-one denies the numbers are exploding.

The government says 25 million, 18 million Protestants and six million Catholics. Independent estimates all agree this is a vast underestimate. A conservative figure is 60 million. There are already more Chinese at church on a Sunday than in the whole of Europe.

...writes Tim Gardam for the BBC (emphasis mine).

When I am not with my fellow Anglo-Saxon Protestant brethren, I attend mass in Paris's Chinatown--at Notre Dame de Chine (Our Lady of China), located just down the street from the Parisian Chinatown McDonald's (don't you just love multiculturalism?). So I have a unique perspective on this issue.

Most French churches are empty on Sunday. However, you will find immigrants, old people, and, in certain bourgeois neighborhoods, the traditionally large white French Catholic family. At Notre Dame de Chine you see a mix of those groups, but, given that it is Chinatown and not terribly bourgeois at that, Asian Catholics outnumber the others.

Say what you will about communism, but at least it didn't worship wealth and success as the greatest good. Right now, as Western-style consumerism and materialism invade China and replace the ethos of communism, Chinese leaders are struggling to cope with the societal effects. As a result some leaders are turning to the burgeoning Christian movement in order to achieve the new Chinese value of the harmonious society.

Most French people struggle to understand this. The secularized Christian tradition that they have inherited still partially restrains the type of consumerism now blossoming in cultures with much different histories. Almost all white Europeans that I know have not quite come to terms with this unwieldy fact. Despite the many European ideas, institutions, and inventions that will persist into the future, the world will not become Europe writ large. The future will be non-white, non-European, and non-secular.

Commemorating 9/11 at Notre Dame de Paris

Yesterday I attended mass at Notre Dame de Paris. It was held in commemoration of "the victims of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2011 and all other victims of terrorism in the last ten years".

Shortly after I arrived at 6 PM the last seat filled up for the 6:30 PM mass. There seemed to be some American tourists and students, but, based on the proportion of people participating in the liturgy, the mass was attended mainly by French Catholics. Some other religious leaders were in attendance, as well as Charles Rivkin, the American ambassador, and Frédéric Mitterrand, prominent sex tourist, possible pedophile, and French Minister of Culture.

In my program I found a short note from Ambassador Rivkin expressing a deep respect for French friendship and support. He concluded the paragraph by stating that the US-French friendship would endure so long as it shared the same values, giving a few examples. I found it interesting that he referenced two of the three values of the French Revolution, liberté and fraternité, but not égalité. Although both are products of Enlightenment culture, our two countries have taken different paths: Americans don't have a problem with inequality as long as there's a theoretical way for the poor to improve their plight.

The first Scripture passage was read in English by a priest in training. The disjuncture between his serious intonation and his awful French accent was so hilarious I couldn't help letting out a chuckle. I looked around, expecting reprimanding stares. I was not the only one laughing.

The gospel reading came from Matthew 18. A master forgave his servant his debts, but the servant did not forgive the debts of a fellow servant. The moral is God has forgiven us so we must forgive others (including members of al-Qaeda). The archbishop of Paris André XXIII picked up on this theme in his homily. It paralleled Pope Benedict XVI's much misunderstood 2006 Regensburg Address, in which the Pope argued that religious dialogue must be guided by reason, particularly a belief in God's rationality. Otherwise it can descend into violence, a blasphemous act against the God who created us all.

The entire mass was unabashedly Catholic. The mass included a recitation of the Nicene Creed, including the Filioque, despite the presence of an Orthodox priest. And there were plenty of references to the divinity of Christ despite the presence of Muslim and Jewish leaders.

As someone coming from a Protestant (and specifically evangelical) tradition, I still struggle to wrap my mind around the spectacle and pomp of a Catholic mass as well as Catholicism's rigid hierarchy. But I am more than happy to take part in any commemoration that proudly asserts its beliefs and tradition while encouraging people to forgive, use reason and avoid violence.

Scenes from the 19th

It's Not Terrible

One of the most tempting dangers in learning a language similar to your native tongue is to calque. This involves taking a word from your native language and assuming it means the same thing in the second language.

The most embarrassing example is likely when an English-speaking woman tries to employ the Spanish word "embarazada". You would think that both 'embarrass' and 'embarazo/a' come from similar Latin origins and so mean the same thing. But they don't! A young American lady in an awkward situation might be tempted to say, "Estoy embarazada." But she would be wrong: "Estoy embarazada" means "I am pregnant". After trying the word out with her Latin American friends she would likely be even more embarrassed.

A reverse calque also exists, where you assume a word means the same thing as it does in your native language. Recently I have struggled to wrap my mind around the French phrase "C'est pas terrible." Each time I hear it, I assume it comes from the Latin 'terribilis' ('scary', 'frightening') and so means "It's not terrible", or, in other words, "it's good".

Unfortunately, in common French usage, it doesn't actually mean that. The French word "terrible" began much as the English word 'terrible'--a bad, scary, awful thing. However, at some point along the line, French people started using it to mean 'awesome' or 'rad' or 'sick'. The last word, in fact, provides a good parallel. 'Sick' is a bad thing normally; no one wants to spend the day in bed, puking his or her guts out. But when some college student from California says, "That's sick!" that's not what he has in mind; he means quite the opposite--"it's cool".

That's what has happened with the word 'terrible'.

The French have another linguistic tendency--to praise things by negating a generally negative word rather than using a positive word. The French say, "C'est pas mal!" ("It's not bad") all the time when Americans would say, "It's great!"

And so it was inevitable that the French would begin to say "C'est pas terrible!" when something is not that great.

If this blog post seems a little long, at least now you have an idea of the gyrations my mind goes through everytime a French person says 'c'est pas terrible'.

C'est pas terrible.

Scenes from the 20th: Oscar Wilde's Grave

A Rather Unromantic View

Early this morning, after a night out in Montmartre, three of us ended up with a bottle of wine on the steps of Sacre Coeur.

It was drizzling, and the usually spectacular view of Paris was decidedly muted. I squinted trying to make out any of the usual Parisian landmarks through the rain. The steps, usually full of tourists, were empty except for a couple at the far end huddling together in fruitless resistance against the crappy weather. Only a few minutes after we arrived, they gave up their attempt at a romantic moment and scampered away to drier, warmer pastures.

Down below there was a group of men surrounding a lone woman near a car. There appeared to be some sort of conflict, but we couldn't make out the nature of their argument. The only clue came when their voices escalated and one of the men shouted at the woman, "Arrete de faire la meuf!" ("Stop being such a chick!") Not too long afterwards they also walked away.

A little later two Arabs arrived at the top of the steps and started drinking and smoking. We continued chatting and shivering. The smell of hashish wafted towards us.

The other American in our group looked out on the darkened and rainy city and smiled. "We live in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world! Every neighborhood is a different universe. Isn't it amazing?"

The lone French person in our group replied, "I'm French. My view is more nuanced. Paris is completely different from the rest of France."

He replied, "It's completely different from the rest of the world. You can meet people from everywhere in the world here."

"But Paris is just too big and too dense. There's too much stress. It's never quiet. It's an ok place to be when you're young, but I don't want to stay very long."

A few minutes later our fatigue and the weather overcame us as well. We stood up to leave, beginning the long trek back to our warm homes on the other side of Paris.

Scenes from the 8th: Parc Monceau

DSK and French Jews

Dominique Strauss-Kahn returned to France today. Along with his wife Anne Sinclair, he arrived at Roissy Airport this morning after a four-month long fight against rape charges in New York City.

Just today in the newspaper Le Parisien, there were separate articles about the former IMF president's arrival in Paris, about the couple's departure from the airport of Roissy, about their return home to the Place des Vosges, about their media silence all day, about his continuing legal issues, about fellow Socialists' mixed views of his arrival, about the rival UMP's snarky commentary, and about his intentions to stay at home this afternoon. Those are only some of the Le Parisien articles about DSK from this afternoon.

Shortly before DSK's arrest for attempted rape in New York City, he admitted that his presidential ambitions would be hindered by three things: he's rich, he's a womanizer, and he's a Jew. At the time, it seemed as though his wealth would be the big stumbling block for the potential Socialist candidate. The possible champion of the working classes had been photographed stepping into a Porsche, raising questions about the suitability of a rich banker as the Socialist candidate for president. In retrospect, it wasn't his wealth so much as his womanizing that effectively ended his candidacy before it ever began.

Of course, there's no need to beat a dead horse. We've heard all too much about DSK's pecadillos. So let's skip the skirt-chasing and go straight to his Jewishness.

When I first heard him list those three impediments, it surprised me that he was Jewish. I guess the last name should have given it away, but when you come from a melting pot nation, you don't always pay attention to last names--they rarely mean anything anymore. I'm a 'Schaefer', for instance, but no one in my family speaks German.

What surprised me even more was that there were any Jews left in France. Maybe it's just my American bias yet once again, but I had assumed that the French, with their history of anti-Semitism, had shipped off all their Jews to concentration camps during the German occupation. As it turns out, French and German cooperation managed to kill off only 20% of the Jews living in France (76,000 of the approximately 350,000). Also, after decolonialization, many Jews living in Arab countries came to Metropolitan France to escape growing anti-Semitism (caused by, among other reasons, the creation of the state of Israel and by earlier Jewish collaboration with the French colonialists).

With that influx and natural population growth, there are now are over 480,000 Jews in France, DSK being only one among many. In Paris they can be found concentrated in certain neighborhoods, particularly in the 19th. Take a stroll through the Parc de Buttes-Chaumont on a sunny Saturday afternoon, and of the hundreds of people you will see relaxing on its hilly terrain, the majority will be Jews, most dressed up in their synagoge-best. DSK's home (which he won't be leaving today) is located in the Marais, another popular Jewish neighborhood.

Even if Parisian Jews have managed to escape past French anti-semitism and North African anti-semitism, their life is not perfect. Periodically there are conflicts between Arabs and Jews. In the last few years, some Jewish youths have been tortured and killed by Arab gangs. Heightened tensions between Israelis and Palestinians often produce mirror conflicts in Parisian neighborhoods where Arabs and Jews rub shoulders. And sometimes individual Jews cause problems for themselves...like when they bang hotel maids in foreign countries before grabbing lunch with their daughter and catching a flight back to their home sweet Parisian home.

Scenes from the 15th

Re-entering Daily Life

It's 6:30 PM. I'm straddling one corner of a stroller in the middle of the tram. I can feel six or seven people touching various parts of my body. My legs are spared this invasion of my personal space. And then, suddenly, a 4-year old decides it will be a good idea to turn my legs into the first stage of an obstacle course. Uhp--now all four of my limbs are being touched by other people.

All summer I have taken Tram B across the south of Paris at this hour, and it's never been like this. I wonder, "What is going on?"

And then it dawns on me: it's la rentrée.


For the uninitiated, la rentrée (the re-entry) is when France returns home from vacation, throws its dirty laundry in the washing machine, applies aloe vera to its sunburn, and goes back to whatever it was doing before.

Many, many years ago, little French children had to help their elders in the fields. And so considerate French teachers allowed the children to leave school for a few months, after which they picked their books back up again. This is how les grandes vacances, or summer vacation, got rolling.

Things change, though. France, like the rest of the developed world, now requires only a fraction of the farmers it used to. But once you get something started, it's always hard to close it down. That's why the atheistic French are the most fervent observers of Catholic holidays.

It was discovered that children need someone to supervise them if they aren't going to be working farmland. And so the French decided to give parents a few weeks of vacation as well. (Only the first step in the long fight to attain true parent-child equality.) Such family vacation time allowed relaxing, family bonding time, and economic stimulation in French beach towns.

So every year in July, Paris slows down a little and then in August it more or less dies. That's why I had a comfortable tram commute previously--all the Parisians had left for someone else.

At the end of August, however, people begin filtering back into town. Parents start working again. University students move back in and begin choosing classes. And the young'uns start school, scheduled this year for next Monday, September 5.

This mass resumption of the boring parts of life requires a corresponding resumption of normal every-day consumerism (as opposed to vacation consumerism). Thus, stores put out all sorts of books, movies, school supplies, clothing that you require to resume your regular life. In particular, most books in France are published in the months between August and November, a period which has come to be called la rentrée littéraire.

If you're American, you may say, "Jeez. That sounds a lot like back-to-school in the US."

It is, but here it's bigger. (Sorry Texas.)

Scenes from the 13th

The Curious Case of French Service

I pushed the button to request to enter the Societé Générale branch. No response.

"Oh, it's closed between 1 PM and 2 PM," I noticed.

When I returned, the woman at the nearest desk buzzed me in. I stepped inside. The woman was on the telephone. She made no effort to recognize my presence. I looked around. There were three other offices with three other employees. None of them came to greet me either.

I looked around again. Nothing changed. Still no response from any of the bank employees. Fortunately, I had lived in several developing countries. So I was used to similar service. I wondered if they were trying to put me in my place before requesting a bribe too. It's doubtful, I thought.

I waited.

A few minutes later a tall man with jet black hair walked out of one of the offices. "Bonjour."

"Bonjour," I replied. "I will need to open a bank account soon, and I just wanted to find out what documents are necessary."

"So you would like to make an appointment?"

Truth be told, I was really just hoping that he could give me a brochure with all the details about opening an account, the types of account, and their limitations. That sort of thing.

"Uh, I just need a few pieces of information."

At that point another man walked out of his office and approached us. Things were improving. I was going from absolutely no attention from the bank's staff to attention from half of their employees.

He shook hands with me and then said, "Vous voulez vous renseigner?" ("You want to get some information?")

I replied in the affirmative.

Not saying another word, he just turned toward his office and put out his hand. Apparently he wanted to discuss in private the secretive workings of opening a bank account. I walked in and sat down. The terse man followed, very, very slowly entering the office, closing the door, ambling around his desk, and sitting down.

When he had finally accomplished those tasks, he folded his hands together and said, "Tell me your situation."

I repeated the exact two sentence summary of my situation I had given his co-worker.

He seemed confused. He posed a serious of questions. Yes, I may possibly want to open a bank account here. No, my office will be in the 13th, not in the 15th. Yes, I was living near here. No, I might open the account there. (I had thought that even if I didn't open an account with this branch, he might be interested in helping another branch of his company get my business. And perhaps naively, I was still hoping for that brochure.)

When he finally concluded that I might possibly be a worthy candidate for a bank account, he proceeded to explain, at an auctioneer's clip, the five pieces of documentation needed. I have a pretty good memory, but unfortunately I couldn't retain that much information at that pace. I looked around. No brochure in sight. I did see some note paper next to the computer.

I asked if he could write down the required documentation for me. He took one of the Post-it-sized gray pieces of paper and handed it to me. He then repeated the list at the same pace. After two or three requests for repetition, I finally had all the information down.

I thanked him and got up to leave. He also stood up and calmly strolled around to my side of the desk and shook my hand as silently as he had asked me to enter his office.

"Have a nice day," I said, leaving the office. A lifeless reply wafted back from his general area.

I left the office brochure-less but possessing the desired information. Stepping out the door and onto the street, I thought to myself, "Fascinating. This is how French banks attempt to attract and maintain clients."

Scenes from the 13th

Paris and the Arab Spring

When I arrived in Paris on February 1 of this year, I thought I was leaving the Arab world behind me for good. In Morocco where I had been living, there was little talk of revolution or reform, but Tunisia had just ousted their long-time president Ben Ali, on-going protests were pressuring Mubarak in Egypt, and Yemen, Syria, Algeria, and Libya all seemed to possess similar revolutionary potential. Those movements and peoples seemed to belong to another world, though, and not to the city of the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Sorbonne.

That assumption, however, was wrong.

On the bus from Orly airport to Paris proper, I couldn't help but notice that the three young men sitting behind me were speaking Arabic. So in typical Arabic (and decidedly un-Parisian) fashion I turned around and started chatting with them. I understood most of what they were saying, so I assumed they were from somewhere in Morocco or Algeria. As it turned out they were returning from Tunisia. They explained the euphoria surrounding Ben Ali's departure, their hopes for the future, and their dislike of the Western-coined "Jasmine Revolution".

Two weeks later I was sitting in a café at Chatelet (in the center of Paris), reading and occasionally looking out over the Seine towards the Eiffel Tower, when I received a text messages from a Moroccan relaying the news that Mubarak's presidency had come to an end. A chill went through my body. I stopped reading and proceeded to exchange more text messages with other Arab friends. Our shared mood was that of cautious but exuberant hope.

Since then my Arabic and my smattering of Berber have got me free coffee, free wine, and generally lower prices throughout the city of Paris. And, perhaps most importantly, they have indirectly helped me to get a job.

A large number of Parisian restaurants are run by Kabyles (an Algerian Berber people). Halal butchers exist in almost every neighborhood. I play soccer with a group of North African friends every weekend. One cannot understand Paris today without understanding its large minority of Arabs and Berbers. And yet with the exceptions of the 2005 riots in the Parisian suburbs and the prayers in the street, American coverage of Paris focuses on the Parisian fine dining and high culture unavailable to most North Africans.

This weekend I was at the same café at Chatelet where I was when Mubarak fell. As the sun began to set over the Seine, I left to catch the metro only to notice a protest with Syrian flags in the plaza. There, in the heart of Paris, I stopped and talked with one Syrian protester. He explained their hopes for more Western pressure on Assad. In return, I showed him a poem I had written in Arabic to express my hopes for their future. We exchanged a few words of Arabic and returned to French.

The next day I showed a Syrian friend of mine the document I had been given and we discussed further developments in the Arab Spring: Qaddafi's imminent fall, Israeli-Egyptian tensions, and difficulties in his home country.

The Arab Spring has stretched into summer, and Paris is the perfect place to follow it.

Sketching Paris

When I moved from Morocco to Paris earlier this year, I started receiving inquiries. Again and again I was asked if I would be replacing my Moroccan Dispatches blog with a new blog focusing on my Parisian adventures.

My answer was always a tentative 'no'. I wasn't sure how long I was going to be in Paris. It was possible I wouldn't find a job or perhaps wouldn't get working papers. And one particular anxiety haunted my thoughts: writing about Paris would be different from writing about Meknes, Morocco. You see, it's kind of been done before.

More and more, though, it appears that the City of Light wants to keep me around. So, it's the least I can do to try to return the favor. My goal is to put my personal experience of Paris into words and images for my readers around the world.

Hope you enjoy.