Scenes From The 6th

After the storm

"And with this?"

"Et avec ceci?"

In France that's how they indicate the same idea Americans do when asking "Anything else with that?" or "Will that be everything?"

Literally, it means "And with this?" which has always sounded a bit on the presumptuous side to me if not a little insulting: 


Now that you mention it, yes I had wanted an extra four croissants and a pink macaron to go with my  baguette! I just forgot to mention it the first time around. Now that you have verbally enabled me, I am empowered to order everything I actually wanted! Gratitude overflows from the source springs of my soul. See, look. It's emanating from my eyeballs. 

Right.

So supposing I had forgotten to order everything I wanted...it's entirely possible, human memory being the surprisingly porous thing that it is...supposing I had forgotten something, would this phrase help bring it to mind?

"Et avec ceci?"

"And with this?"

"Beer" is the first thing that comes to mind when I hear a question like that. A nice pint of Leffe would go down well with a baguette, it would go well with a sandwich, it would go well with one of those gooey almond croissants. Yes, I want a beer "with this", with them.

Except they don't serve beer in bakeries.

A day on the beach in Hawaii. A winning lottery ticket. A massage. There are always other things I would like with my order. But none of them are actually on sale by the person asking me what more I want "with this". And so in the end it just serves as a reminder for all of my unfulfilled longings unattainable in a bakery. I am left with nothing more than a wistful smile and the baguette I ordered in the first place.

Today, after I ordered my sandwich, she asked me "Et avec ceci?" 


I politely responded, "Juste quelques serviettes, s'il vous plaît." 


"Just a few napkins please." 


They're free, and they might actually come in handy. 

Sandwich Sharing

I ran out to get a sandwich, or rather two, once my brain made the connection between my wandering mind and my empty stomach. It was almost 3.

On my way back, a woman with ratty clothing and indecipherable speech approached me. All I gleaned was that she wanted money to eat.

My first sandwich had not survived the two block walk back to the office; it was lying in my hand in plain view of the hungry beggar. So I broke it in half. Or rather I broke off a piece, because it wasn't exactly half. In fact, it was a good deal less than half. With flashbacks to childhood arguments over portion size, guilt crept over me. Was I being fair?

I extended my arm towards her with the less-than-half sandwich. She took it, continuing to mumble. This time I caught what she was saying, "Money for..."

I said "no" and continued my return trip, the guilt wiped clean.  

Spring in Paris

The rain came down hard in the days leading up to the election. And then they voted.

"I'm happy that Francois Hollande came out with the most votes, but I'm disappointed with my country. Marine Le Pen managed 20%!"

Or "I can't believe Jean-Luc Melenchon didn't make the second round! It's politics as usual. Nothing ever changes."

Or "Sarkozy is almost gone!"

And the rain continued. We have had only glimpses of the sun in the past three weeks. Parisian parks were crowded to overflowing four weeks ago in a celebration of sunny spring, but the joy was short-lived.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy finds himself facing an uphill battle to be re-elected. No one much likes him. Business knows he'll be kinder than the Socialists. We can assume his children still like him. German Chancellor Angela Merkel thought he would be better for Europe, but her interventions on his behalf didn't work out so well. So they came to a halt almost as soon as they began. Apparently the French don't want to be like the Germans. Who would've thought?

The former Trotskyist Melenchon spoke intelligently and honestly, and the French, educated in revolution and class upheaval, rallied to his message. Those who disliked the internationalist turn of recent French history, whether Brussells' power or immigrants' presence, turned out for Marine Le Pen. Francois Bayrou, a three-time Presidential candidate lost somewhere in the middle of a polarized France, fell well short of his 2007 score. The French weren't charmed by his discourse of "telling the truth" and "avoiding extremes". So now, as the second round approaches, it comes down to Hollande and Sarkozy, a replay of the 2007 election for Hollande's children, except this time the four are working to elect their father instead of their mother.

The sun came out for an hour or so today. Not too long. There was a downpour for about 10 minutes, but that stopped too. Mainly it's just overcast. Melancholy and overcast.

The spring marches on...

The Paris Marathon 2012

A few years ago when I was a graduate student in need of release I ran the Philadelphia Marathon.

I vividly remember scrambling down the Ben Franklin Parkway towards City Hall trying to stop shivering that freezing November morning. Those tens of thousands of adrenaline-charged bodies all felt a common purpose: not to die of hypothermia.

By the time we reached the National Constitution Center, Liberty Hall, and that long strange building of a hallway the Liberty Bell calls home, the shared bodily need in question had shifted from creating heat to something more...well, different. As an exercise in historical fiction, I tried to imagine what Thomas Jefferson would have thought had he seen those men (and women!) dropping their pants and emptying their bladders near, on, and by national landmarks.

This last Sunday I had the privilege of observing such universal human needs expressed in a different setting. This time around it was not Liberty Hall, but the Louvre. Imagining what Louis XIV might have done to those marathon runners brought a smile to my face. Aren't we all glad the divine right of kings is a thing of the past?

Truth be told, I had never intended to run the Paris Marathon. I had even been out at a party until 2 that morning.

And yet there I was near the Arc de Triomphe, shivering, waiting for all those other bag-covered sardine-packed runners to just get a move on it already.

The registration closed last year right as I was starting a new job, moving into a new apartment and decidedly not thinking about training to run 26.2 miles. My friend Daniel had tried to convince me and many others to run with him. No one else wanted to. Over the months that followed, I trained with him off and on. And by "trained" I mean "I ran parts of the routes he ran four or five times with him".

Then on Sunday, I found myself shivering on the Champs d'Elysees on the other side of a 10 foot high fence from him and all the other marathon runners who had paid. Daniel had suggested I run part of the marathon with him after the first mile or two, where I could easily join him. I was undeterred. I wanted to start from the beginning. So I crawled under the fence and wandered around aimlessly looking for one familiar face in a sea of strangers.

Among those strangers was a very large contingent who were somehow convinced that by finishing the marathon they would save Tibet. White, brown, black faces...no, actually in truth, they were like 99% white...bravely facing the elements with Tibet paraphernalia in hand. You could almost feel the Chinese Politburo quaking in fear from Beijing.

I eventually found Daniel and we eventually began the race. Before long we encountered the first of many bands playing music. They were interspersed among friends and relatives and running enthusiasts who cheered us the entire length of the race.

Now the problem with not training for a marathon is that you're not prepared to run a marathon. It's a difficult conundrum, and there's no easy way around it. After considering it at length, I believed that I had come up with a brilliant solution.

The path of the marathon led from The Champs d'Elysees to the Rue de Rivoli and the Louvre to the Bastille and then a lap around the Bois de Vincennes, passing within one block of my apartment, before returning all the way back to the other side of Paris.

When I saw the 11-mile marker of the marathon just in front of the street leading to my apartment, I ran onto the sidewalk and turned to Daniel. I surveyed the wonder of shared masochism, the band music, the cheering crowds. I drew in a deep breath of air, and I shouted, "Je rentre chez moi. Bonne continuation, tout le monde!" (I'm going home. Best wishes and enjoy the rest of the marathon!)

I slowed to a jog and then a walk. I stretched some, took a shower and then a nap. Later that day I returned to the other end of Paris to see the finish line, meet some other friends and greet Daniel as he finished the whole thing.

Elections and Conspiracy Theories

There it was.

Written on the walls of the Saint Michel metro stop in the heart of Paris:

Toulouse Complot

Toulouse Plot

In two words of graffiti scrawled across an ancient cement wall, the belief of many skeptics was succinctly summarized. Believers include a large number of immigrants, often of North African origin, but also some on the French left. They just can't believe that French security could have allowed last week's shootings in Montauban and Toulouse, that a Muslim born in France would do something so horrific.

Always fans of conspiracy theories, Arabs resent the portrayal of Al-qaeda in the Western media. They point out that radical Islamicists were once in the pay of the U.S. government. They served as a useful bulwark against the U.S.S.R. during the Cold War, and those ties didn't just die once the Berlin Wall fell. Thus when they hear that suspected killer Mohammed Merah was associated with al-Qaeda, they can't help but think of the possible (but unverifiable) connections he might have had with Western governments.

Mr. Sarkozy is struggling in his battle to be reelected. A law-and-order politician, he made his reputation during a school siege back when he was mayor of the rich Parisian suburb Neuilly-sur-Seine. He would look stronger in a national emergency and turn the campaign back to a subject he feels comfortable with.

It's impossible not to speculate. He had the power. It is easy to blame the Arab Muslim--Westerners believe they are behind all bombings and shootings. It would have benefited him...surely he did it.

Westerners, non-Muslims, in their ignorance and hate of Muslims, they just don't understand. Maybe a cry in the dark will shock them into seeing the truth.

Maybe a few words left in the center of tourist Paris will shock them into seeing the truth.

David Sedaris Agrees With Me

Comedian David Sedaris is now jumping on the bandwagon. After my musings a few months ago about my first doctor's appointment in Paris, Mr. Sedaris felt compelled to chime in with his two cents.

Writing for some publication called The New Yorker, he says:

One thing that puzzled me during the American health-care debate was all the talk about socialized medicine and how ineffective it’s supposed to be. The Canadian plan was likened to genocide, but even worse were the ones in Europe, where patients languished on filthy cots, waiting for aspirin to be invented. I don’t know where these people get their ideas, but my experiences in France, where I’ve lived off and on for the past thirteen years, have all been good.

While Mr. Sedaris' reputation for exaggeration might cause one to question his description of French medicine, I can assure my readers of the impossibility that exaggeration and hyperbole might cross the pages of my blog.

Cost burden and sustainability aside, one thing is sure whoever you trust and however you look at it: there's no way escaping that French health care really isn't all that bad.

Women Came to Paris Too

The postwar odyssey of American men in Paris, from Hemingway to Wright, is as familiar as a ride on a bateau mouche. For the women of the same generation, no matter what their ultimate destinies, the traces of their experience are harder to convey.

More on those women from Alice Kaplan’s Dreaming in French: The Paris Years of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, Susan Sontag, and Angela Davis.

Doing My Civic Duty

Yesterday I walked into the Center of Public Finances and, with a bold look of resolve, I said to the man, "I want to pay my taxes."

He replied, "Oh, you can't do that here. You have to talk to my colleague." He pointed out the window. "Cross the street, go through the mall, veer to the left, and there you will find the other Center of Public Finances."

And so I went out the door, crossed the street, went through the mall, veered to the left, entered the other Center of Public Finances, and, with a bold look of resolve, said "I want to pay my taxes."

The woman replied, "Oh, you can't do that yet."

And I said, "Oh."

"It will be at least May before we send out the paperwork for taxes." She pulled out a form. "This is the 2010 form. You fill out your marriage status, income, and housing situation. Then you send it back to us and we send you another piece of paper that tells you how much taxes you owe."

In a profound voice I replied, "Ok."

"You need to hold on to your "Declaration of Revenue" form that your company gave you. You will need it in May. Now, that's the income tax. Then in October we will send you a form telling you how much you owe for the Housing Tax."

"Ok, merci," I replied this time in an only slightly less profound voice.

Then I went to work.

What European Blogosphere?

A year ago, Cecilia Atrios started a blog. Since she was the ex-wife of French President Nicolas Sarkozy newly transplanted to New York City, I figured it would be interesting. So I started following her.

Two weeks later I gave up.

Her posts were like political press releases, full of blather and lacking in any serious content. Also, for no apparent reason she put large parts of her posts in bold, sometimes repeatedly in the same sentence. Given the total lack of hyperlinks, I was convinced she had just not yet mastered the sina qua non of blogs, the 'insert link' button.

But no...as it turns out, Cecilia's blog is little different from the rest of the European blogosphere:

As Ronny Patz noted in a recent post (hat tip to the European blogs aggregator bloggingportal), European blogs are still very much “unconnected”. That is, they use hyperlinks far less than their American counterparts or do it and in a way that doesn’t create two-way debate. In brief, Europe has bloggers, but no blogosphere: it lacks a living ecosystem to exchange and debate. Of most leading European blogs, only 1 in 5 were linked to other online content. This is a pretty striking number but one that is somewhat consistent with the use that Europeans make of blogs (ie. just another media but not an interactive one).

It's a sad statement about European democracy. The blogosphere is about one of the only places where Europeans of all nationalities could realistically get together and debate the troubled but worthwhile European project.

Us vs. Them

It's become so normal for me now.

On Friday night I had dinner with an American, a Tunisian, a Venezuelan, and a Dominican. On Saturday night I went out with the Tunisian again. I work with a Moroccan, a French man from Martinique, a French woman born in Paris, an American, and an Englishman. During the one block walk from the metro to work, I pass by shops run or staffed by Kabyles, Tunisian Arabs, Romanians, and Syrians. When we go out to eat for lunch the ethnic foods available within walking distance include Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Laos, Italian, French, Turk, and American (that is to say Subway and McDonald's, if that counts).

Like New York and London, Paris is a world city. You can find someone here from almost every corner of the world. Very few people are actually from here, and those that are keep to themselves. Most French people in Paris were not born in Paris, so even if they share the French culture, they share the feeling 'I'm not from here'. Most places in the world, the locals outnumber the non-locals. Everyone remembers a time when they were the locals and also when they left home and became the non-locals. In Paris, though, that sense of 'us vs. them' is virtually nonexistent. Because, when it comes down to it, we are all them.

Women Are Heroes

Today it felt like spring

Today it felt like spring.

What that is exactly and how wonderful it feels...I can't really explain. But I do know that opening my shades to a shining sun is a bizarre and yet utterly pleasing abnormality. The winter is not cruel in Paris, but, much like its inhabitants, it is not exactly welcoming.

Perhaps after two Moroccan winters I have developed irregular seasonal expectations. Paris is not Siberia, after all. It dropped below freezing for only a couple of weeks.

After breakfast I headed to work. With a smile on my face and a skip in my step, I left the apartment courtyard into the great urban outdoors.

I immediately had to hunch my head into my jacket, for I had no scarf. I might have even shivered. And then I looked up at the misleading sky.

We're getting there, but we haven't arrived yet.

Coffee and a Newspaper

I'm not quite sure why, but reading Le Monde over a shot of expresso in a cornerside café is a Parisian ideal I cherish.

As with many ideals, though, in my daily life I am far from attaining perfection .

Today, however, was an exception. :)

Puritanism and Sex-Shops

Unlike the enlightened French, Americans are prudes, hung-up about sex and unduly influenced by religious ideology. Religious groups interfere in the public square, getting in the way of open, rational talk about sex. This is what I am told incessantly in the French media and by my French friends.

And rightly so. Yesterday, for example, a sex shop was fined by a court and will be soon closed. A petition had been started by a Catholic group that was concerned that the sex-shop was too close to a school. The court agreed, citing a 2007 law in protection of the family.

Oh, wait...that didn't happen in the U.S.

That happened in Paris yesterday.

What I Don't Miss

People often ask me what I miss most from the United States. While there are some intangibles such as optimism, volunteerism, and friendliness that are harder to find in countries like France, the truth is that the things I don't miss are more tangible and more visible.

I think one of the reasons I have ended up living in Europe is that it's easier to find good food and decent public transportation here than it is back home. Yesterday I returned from a week and a half vacation in my homeland, where I was struck by the absence of both yet once again.

Here in France there is a bakery on almost every corner; fresh bread is cheap and plentiful, even if it's not as whole grain as in Germany. Fast food has a growing market share, but even people in a hurry are likely to grab a sandwich made with all fresh ingredients from the local bakery as McDonald's. Meals are a programmed part of life, a time to savor something in good company, not a necessary time constraint to have energy to keep functioning. The word "foodie" doesn't exist in French; only in American culture do we need a word to describe someone who actually appreciates cooking and eating.

Also, I can get almost everywhere without a car. If there's no metro, there's a bus or a bicycle. It's a pleasurable experience to walk from point A to point B. One night during my vacation, I tried to walk to Walmart to pick up a few things for the next day. I ran straight into an interstate with no footbridges or other means of crossing and had to return to the hotel. In the morning my friend took us the short distance in his car.

I used to resist when foreigners mocked Americans for being fat. I said, "Look at me. I'm anything but fat. My whole family is like this. Most of my friends too." But as I look at the photos of high school friends on Facebook and as I observe my fellow Americans on trips back home, I can't help but agree with the critics: maybe America is undergoing an obesity epidemic. Based on the American culture of food and transportation, it makes perfect sense.

I love the American emphasis on practicality and convenience in so many domains of life. But when it comes to food and transport, if nothing else, I much prefer Europe.

French Anti-Americanism

If you aren't already following The Browser's "Five Books" series you should. They ask an expert about his or her subject by way of five books, and the expert explains how each book sheds light on the subject.

Today's post is an interview with historian Richard Kuisel about one of my favorite subjects: French anti-Americanism. Describing Philippe Roger's "The American Enemy", he states:

If you go back to the 18th century there is an expression of cultural superiority. French intellectuals saw America as a rude country of immigrants lacking any cultural eminence. So there is a Gallic condescension operating here. Even to this day there is a belief that the French are the guardians of culture and we [Americans] are the purveyors of some kind of cultural pap. Roger is trying to ridicule this discourse which he finds biased, hypocritical and uninformed. He is trying to remove a toxin from French intellectual life.

I will never forget my oral exam on the French foreign language exam I took after my year of studying abroad here in France. (Both the oral and written exams were fascinating examples of French chauvinism and anti-Americanism.)

The subject was cultural preservation in a changing world, and the professor basically told me that Americans don't have a real culture. We are just a mix of many different cultures.

The French, of course, have a real culture.

No need for me to rail on about the subject. Check out the interview and maybe even read the books. Lots of good stuff there.

William Carlos Williams and Paris

Many moons ago, William Carlos Williams, H.D., and Ezra Pound were students together at the University of Pennsylvania. Like me, Pound never finished his Ph.D. in Romance Languages at Penn. Williams became a doctor. His self-portrait still hangs in the rare book room of the Penn library. Later they all went on to become recognized masters of the poetic craft.

Williams' life, however, diverged from the others. He remained in the United States while the others chose to live in Europe. His poetic choices paralleled that decision. And his relationships were affected as a result. As I read these anecdotes from a recent New York Review of Books article, I couldn't help but think of that dynamic:

The most painful experience of insecurity, Leibowitz shows, came in 1924, when Williams and his wife left Rutherford, New Jersey, for a trip to Paris, then the world capital of modernism. The whole time, Williams was certain he was being scorned by people like Ezra Pound and H.D., his old acquaintances from the University of Pennsylvania, and he reacted with preemptive anger. “I ground my teeth out of resentment,” he wrote, “though I acknowledge their privilege to step on my face if they could.” Invited to a premiere, Williams deliberately wore a ratty tuxedo: “It was intended as a gesture of contempt and received just that.” Told that the writer Valéry Larbaud wanted to meet him, he responded self-abasingly, “Who is this man Larbaud who has so little pride that he wishes to talk with me?”

But the major focus of Williams’s resentment and insecurity was undoubtedly Eliot. A chapter of Williams’s Autobiography is titled “The Waste Land,” but it contains only one paragraph about Eliot’s poem: “Our work staggered to a halt for a moment under the blast of Eliot’s genius which gave the poem back to the academics. We did not know how to answer him.” Williams, who went directly from high school to medical school, was put at a disadvantage by Eliot’s show of erudition. With American avant-garde writers generally, Williams claims, “literary allusions…were unknown to us. Few had the necessary reading.” Late in life, he confessed in an interview that he was “insanely jealous” of Eliot, “who was much more cultured than I was.” (Rather movingly, Leibowitz writes that Williams, invited to share a stage with Eliot’s admirer Allen Tate, “armed himself against possible attack by reading George Saintsbury’s A History of English Prosody, vowing not to be humiliated or viewed as an ignoramus.”)

Scenes From The 13th: The Perils of Being a Vélib

Best Wishes January

January has to come to an end. I can't tell you how happy I will be to move on into February.

What do I have against the first month of the year?

Nothing, really. Nothing at all against January. Rather it's a certain annoyingly French tradition that happens in January.

In every culture graced with a calendar, a cultural tradition of wishing others the best as the new year begins. In the U.S. for instance, when the clock strikes midnight, the ball drops, and the kisses begin, we exchange "Happy New Year"'s with anybody in our near vicinity.

And then we let it be.

Maybe...just maybe, we carry over into the next day. If you wake up early enough to leave the house and see someone, that is.

In France they have another way of doing things. During the entire month of January, if you see someone for the first time in the new year, it is polite to exchange best wishes. Phone calls and e-mails also fall under the purview of this cultural practice.

When I arrived back at work on January 2, my inbox was flooded with best wishes from everyone from my co-worker 10 feet away to the accountant to the president of the company. Each time I contacted a client for the first time in the year, their replies would come back prefaced with a message like "I present to you my best wishes for the new year. All happiness and joy and good health and romance to you in 2012."

One time, a man I had never spoken to in my life began his inquiry with the longest "best wishes" I have ever encountered: Best wishes to you and your family with great health and happiness and success and the reaching of your dreams and soul-filling love and great orgasms and financial riches beyond your wildest imagination and no cancer--cancer is awful--and advancement in your company and true contentment in life. (I exaggerate but not by much.)

After the staccato beat of his best wishes halted, there was a long pause. He expected me to rip off a litany of best wishes too apparently. It would have been polite after all. A bit flummoxed I merely replied, "And to you as well." And then I waited for him to bring up his real concern.

Later the secretary helped me prepare a nice reply I could offer in reply: "And in turn I present to you my best wishes." Short and simple, but well worn-out.

At the end of this month, there is a small flurry of best wishes from the procrastinators in the bunch. There's time to extend best wishes--it's still the first month of the year.

To that I say: best wishes and good riddance, January. May you never come again until 2013, and then may you be short, warmer than this year with less rain, and filled with short, genuine greetings.

But mostly good riddance.

Goods Do Not Meet Requirement...

I received a book from Amazon.com this weekend. Some things you just can't get in French bookstores or even on Amazon.fr. So I sucked it up and paid the $7.98 shipping for a book only slightly more than that.

On the box was a yellow sticker that read

Goods Do Not Meet The Requirement Of Article 9 and 10 Of The Contract For The Foundation Of The European Community

Kind of ominous, right? Was I breaking Article 9 and 10 by importing a book unavailable in France? Or did the book not fall under Article 9 and 10 and thus manage to break through the customs barrier? Would secret customs agents burst into my apartment as soon as I opened the book?

To calm my doubts and fears I did what I had to do. I googled. First on the list: The Treaty of Rome, which got the ball rolling with the European Economic Community way back in 1957. Articles 9 and 10 were not too hard to find.

Article 9 1. The Community shall be based upon a customs union covering the exchange of all goods and comprising both the prohibition, as between Member States, of customs duties on importation and exportation and all charges with equivalent effect and the adoption of a common customs tariff in their relations with third countries.
2. The provisions of Chapter 1, Section 1 and of Chapter 2 of this Title shall apply to products originating in Member States and also to products coming from third countries and having been entered for consumption in Member States.
Article 10 1. Products having been entered for consumption in a Member State shall be deemed to be products coming from a third country in cases where, in respect of such products, the necessary import formalities have been complied with and the appropriate customs duties or charges with equivalent effect have been levied in such Member State and where such products have not benefited by any total or partial drawback on such duties or charges.
2. The Commission shall, before the end of the first year after the date of the entry into force of this Treaty, lay down the methods of administrative co-operation to be adopted for the application of Article 9, paragraph 2, taking due account of the need for reducing as far as possible the formalities imposed on trade.
Before the end of the first year after the date of the entry into force of this Treaty, the Commission shall lay down the provisions applicable, as regards trade between Member States, to goods originating in another Member State in whose manufacture products have been used on which the appropriate customs duties or charges with equivalent effect in the exporting Member State have not been levied or which have benefited by a total or partial drawback on such duties or charges.
When laying down such provisions, the Commission shall take due account of the rules for the elimination of customs duties within the Community and for the progressive application of the common customs tariff.

If you skimmed that like I did the first time, you didn't miss much.

I'm no lawyer, but the best I can make out is that one book doesn't get charged tariffs on import through the mail.

Scenes From The 13th: Place d'Italie

An Unusually High Grocery Bill

I looked at my receipt: €86.20.

A bit high for a grocery run. But I did stock back up on soap, toothpaste, olive oil, tea, and cheese, after having let my stocks slide to nothingness these past few weeks. And I also had recharged my phone for the next few weeks. Still, €86.20 was a bit high.

The groceries for the next person in line started sliding down towards my sacks. I had to go.

After the one kilometer walk back home, I looked at the receipt again. The cashier has scanned multiple items twice! It was wrong!

I stormed back to Monoprix, preparing an angry diatribe for the cashier and the manager as I went. "In civilized countries...this is unacceptable...it's bad enough I have to..." Having a decent familiarity with French service, I feared for the rest of my evening. Would I get my money back? Would I get my evening back?

I walked straight up to the cashier (well actually I missed her the first time, so I had to double back, but that's beside the point) and I thrust the receipt in her direction, saying "Bonsoir" in a remarkably amiable fashion.

"Oh," she said, "just go to the welcome desk and they'll take care of you."

So I walked up to the welcome desk with the same determination and strength of purpose. I prepared my lines again. But no, the attendant was on the phone. Ah ha! Taking long personal calls on company time! Not the first time I had seen that in France.

Oh no, it was a customer. Never mind.

I showed her the receipt and explained the problem. I was about to begin on the philosophical principle that it is unjust to pay for items you do not receive nor want. I was going to explain that even if the French aren't big fans of capitalism, it's only fair, since they've accepted the system in practice. I was going to...

"May I have your debit card sir?'

I pulled it out.

She scanned it.

A new receipt with the correct amount came out.

"There you go."

"Ok...thanks. Good evening."

The Possibility of European Identity

The Italian medievalist, critic, and author Umberto Eco recently shared his thoughts about European identity with The Guardian:

"The university exchange programme Erasmus is barely mentioned in the business sections of newspapers, yet Erasmus has created the first generation of young Europeans. I call it a sexual revolution: a young Catalan man meets a Flemish girl – they fall in love, they get married and they become European, as do their children. The Erasmus idea should be compulsory – not just for students, but also for taxi drivers, plumbers and other workers. By this, I mean they need to spend time in other countries within the European Union; they should integrate."

His words ring true. This is the sort of milieu I frequent. At the parties I attend, I can easily find young citizens of at least four or five different countries. Their horizon is not limited to their own language or their own culture. They would feel constrained if limited to only the cultural objects and people of their own country.

When I studied in Limoges, it was much the same thing. The Erasmus dynamic is unlike almost anything else, a sentiment best captured in the 2002 film L'auberge espagnole. It's an identity practicing Christians and Muslims didn't feel entirely comfortable in for reasons having to do with sex and alcohol. But there was a unity and a shared identity that could be observed there.

The Spanish and Italians shared a special connection. After a few months together, they could easily speak the other language. And the French and the Germans had a love-hate sort of relationship. The Germans were more knowledgeable about French culture and language than the French were about the Germans, but they were also constantly reminded of things they liked better on the other side of the Rhine. In the end, whatever dissensions or discomforts existed, they paled in comparison to the wars that raged between their two countries for the hundreds of years leading up to a generation or two ago.

While I find Eco accurate in his analysis of the problem of European identity, I have to wonder how feasible his solution really is. There is less money to go around these days and less enthusiasm for the European project. The French have turned inwards, as can be seen by the popularity of the anti-Europe Marine Le Pen. A true European identity isn't a pipe dream, but it also doesn't seem quickly forthcoming.

What Did You Do With Megaupload?

It's enough to remind one of the Bush years.

It's now been a week since the FBI closed down Megaupload, thus depriving millions of people around the world of the ability to stream American TV series for free. The closure haunts me, an American abroad. I have been accosted at parties and questioned in cafés.

Why did you close Megaupload?

Make the FBI bring it back please.

Where else can I stream for free?

Scenes From the 5th

People Watching

When you sit down in a café with some reading and a Leffe, it's impossible not to look around once in a while. Merely to lift the Leffe to your lips requires a change in concentration that inevitably becomes an observation of your environment. In a café that means people-watching.

There in the corner two teenage French girls work intently in front of a white Macbook. The only question is if their project is for lycée or for the fac.

Next to you, three Arabs converse with one white girl. They smoke and sip coffee, but there's no alcohol. Like almost any café in Northern Africa. Except here, one of them--the one continually asserting his dominion with his right arm--has a European girl.

The two girls across the way just finished shopping: a glass of wine to cap off an afternoon of "doing the stores", as they say in French.

There's a couple, but it's hard to tell what stage their relationship is in. Did she just have a bad day? Is he indulging her by listening to her complain? Perhaps their relationship is just based around something very serious.

And then there are the loners:

The attractive young woman near the door has two empty beer glasses in front of her. The other must be taking a quick bathroom break before leaving. You are curious, though, does that second glass belong to a man or a woman?

The older woman over there is reading Vogue and smoking a cig, also finishing up a day of purchases (the café is next to a mall, of course). Maybe she is waiting for someone. Or does she just not want to go home yet?

Is that other woman near her grading papers or reviewing proposals?

Is he reading Le Monde to while away the time waiting for a friend or does he just prefer reading in a café?

And why is that guy sitting alone, sipping that beer and writing, on a Friday night?

Through A Café Window

I could see him through the café window and across the street.

It was drizzling on and off. Dozens of people emerged from the metro every minute. They pulled out their umbrellas or hunched down, making a beeline for their destination. Most likely home. It was 8 PM, after all.

And there he was. Dancing. Lifting legs. Kicking. Shaking his head skyward. Waving arms and wrists. Dancing.

I wanted to read more, but I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

He didn't ask for money. He didn't seem to tire. He didn't care.

I smiled a halfway grin and stared.

Scenes From the 8th

Visiting Paris

The American journalist and blogger Rod Dreher posted that he would be visiting Paris with his niece in April. He asked for suggestions from readers. This is the response I posted:

Dear Mr. Dreher,

It's a pleasure to hear that you and your niece will be visiting my current hometown in a few months.

It's a fascinating city--I certainly chose to live here for a reason. But once you spend more than a week or so here, it's hard not to miss those aspects which complicate the typically romantic American view of the city. On my blog, I've written a number of posts trying to give a fuller, more well-rounded view of the city--trying to fight against the New York Times travel section's view of the city, since most of us can't afford that trip anyway (links below).

It's impossible to see everything in Paris, even if you live here. So here are just a few general suggestions.

1) Visit the main tourist sites: the Louvre, Musée d'Orsay, Montmartre, Notre Dame, etc. Even if you want to get off the beaten path and even if Paris is so much more, you have to start with the basics.

2) Try to help your niece grasp the French concept of laicité and how it is different from American secularism. A good place to start is St Etienne de Mont Church and the Pantheon. There she can learn about St. Genevieve and grasp the extent of France's Catholic heritage. But then she will walk across the street to the Pantheon and learn that during the revolution that grand edifice was re-appropriated for republican saints. She will hear the story of what happened to the relics of St. Genevieve and think back on the ornate tomb she just saw, and perhaps she will comprehend at least a small part of the dynamic between the church and the state here.

3) Show her the immigrant side of the city. In most restaurants, regardless of the type of food, the cooks are from Sri Lanka. Most cafés are now owned and run by immigrants from northern Africa, particularly the Kabyle (it's worth pointing out that one famous (half?) Kabyle of long ago was none other than St. Augustine) The 13th district is full of great Asian food. You could also take her to Barbes and walk around the market there, observing the large number of Arabs and sub-Saharan Africans. Remind her that France, unlike the U.S., is not traditionally a country of immigrants. Have someone teach her a bit of Verlain, the French equivalent of Pig Latin, that has moved from the immigrant banlieues into the average adolescent vocabulary.

4) Paris is and has been a city of students. Take her to the Latin Quarter and explain to her what being a medieval student was like. In April if the weather is nice enough, the quais of the Seine will be packed with students picnicking. Grabbing a kebab or some wine and cheese from a grocer and dining with your feet hanging over the Seine, watching the world go by.

5) Paris is a literary city. And not just for French letters. Many of the great Latin American writers of the Boom lived in Paris during the 20th century. I don't even need to start about the Lost Generation. Many writers of the African diaspora live in or around Paris. Visit Shakespeare and Co. just across the street from Notre Dame. You might even try stopping by a café that hosts readings by aspiring writers.

6) Lastly, it's entirely possible that you will be here during the first round of the French presidential election, which takes place April 22. French democracy functions much like ours at times, but there are significant differences across the board.

I hope that's of some use. I'm happy to provide more suggestions or answer questions as the case may be.

Scenes From Between the 12th and the 13th: Morning Metro Ride

In Honor of St. Genevieve

Yesterday I was sitting in a pub just across the street from the church St. Etienne de Mont in the 5th arrondissement, when I noticed a group of men carrying a large pot into the small plaza in front of the church. Several police officers followed. A police car pulled up the steep and narrow road next to the church with its lights flashing.

Obviously something was happening.

We puzzled over it. Could it be a Sunday feed-the-poor event? Probably not, this was the pricy student district, after all. A protest? Then why the large pot?

Then they marched in.

Some were carrying candles. Others Parisian flags. A group near the front had a large banner which read "Patrimony of Paris. Hommage to St. Genevieve". Suddenly it made a little more sense. St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, is buried in St. Etienne de Mont Church. The Pantheon, which now functions as a secular mausoleum, was originally intended to house her remains and her relics.

A man on a loud speaker led the crowd in some chants and then they set off some small fireworks. Smoke filled the plaza. After a quarter of an hour, the crowd formed a line to get whatever was in the big pot. About the same time I left the pub to go home. I discovered the solution to at least one mystery: the pot contained mulled wine, to warm and cheer the fans of St. Genevieve.

Afterwards, I found this website Paris Fierté (Paris Pride), which advertises and explains the march:

Like every year, on January 8, 2012, Parisians will descend into the streets, more numerous that last year, in order to pay homage to their patron saint and proclaim their pride in their history and their identity.
Because this march for St. Genevieve is much more than just a simple symbolic commemoration. It is also an intense moment of communion and hope for the future.

[C]omme chaque année, le 8 janvier 2012, les Parisiens vont descendre dans la rue, plus nombreux qu’à l’édition précédente, pour rendre hommage à leur sainte patronne et proclamer la fierté de leur histoire et de leur identité.
Car cette marche pour Sainte Geneviève est bien autre chose qu’une simple commémoration symbolique, c’est également un intense moment de communion et d’espoir pour l’avenir.

Some mysteries remain. For an American evangelical, it's doubly and triply hard to understand these sort of events. For starters, unless you're from a city with a big Irish, Italian, or Latin American population, most Americans have never seen marches to honor saints. I know growing up in various cities in the West, I never saw one.

Secondly, it's hard to know what sort of people are involved in the march. The language on the website resembles the coded language of the far right--honor and pride in the past with reminders of a white Christian past which is less and less present. It's always hard to know how to separate pride in the past with a desire to return there.

Thirdly, it's hard to know what they're hoping for. French laïcité is so firmly grounded in culture and politics now, it's hard to imagine going back to the pre-Revolution past before they burned up St. Genevieve's relics, let alone rolling back the waves of immigration and cultural change of the past half-century. It's just not clear to me what these sort of groups want. A more Catholic France? A whiter France? A miracle to get out of the Euro crisis? Better history teaching?

Scenes From the 13th: Tolbiac Metro