Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
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.)
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.)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
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."
"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."
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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.
The Arab Spring has stretched into summer, and Paris is the perfect place to follow it.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
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.
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