(via PEG 2.0)
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
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:
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
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
Friday, November 18, 2011
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.
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:
If you have a chance to see the original before they go and make an American version, I would highly recommend it.
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.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
"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.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
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.
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.
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