Back in the summer of ’06 I briefly considered applying for a Fullbright to study the South Asian immigrant population of Paris. I nixed this idea for numerous reasons; however, I remain interested in the topic. There are sizeable Tamil, Sri Lankan, and Bengali populations in Paris, none of which to my knowledge have been documented to any significant or useful extent. The other day I decided to wander towards the one Hindu temple in Paris (I'm almost positive there is only one, though I find this surprising), in search of I suppose some sort of ethnographic muse. I found the temple; it is crammed into a shabby building at the back of an alley. Signs anounce in French and Tamil that it is open to all, (which is not the case for many Hindu temples.) Inside it is filled with altars dedicated to different deities, each topped with gilded murtis (religious statues) and garlanded with flowers. It essentially has the feel of a typical Hindu home’s personal altar, yet on a larger scale. While I was there a few people came in and paid their respects to the deities, and a brahman (priest) hung out in the corner reading the paper until someone called on him to chant from the Vedas. The temple’s primary community is Tamil-speaking (from south-eastern India); as this is not a language or region with which I am particularly familiar I felt a bit out of my element, but the trip was worthwhile nonetheless.
On my way back from temple my eye caught a flower shop sign written in Bengali, (a language and region with which I am relatively familiar). I paused to decide whether or not to go in—I really had no need for flowers, but I could not just walk past a BENGALI shop in PARIS—for me this is like the intellectual equivalent of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream, COOKIE DOUGH and DOUBLE FUDGE BROWNIE; how can you pass it up? I wandered in to find five guys cleaning and sorting through dozens upon dozens of roses. I stalled for time by staring at all the roses trying to “decide” which ones to buy; really I was trying desperately to recall how to say anything practical in Bengali. I ultimately had a mildly productive conversation in a language I like to call Frengalindi. I found out the rose guys are all from Bangladesh, there are around 10,000 Bangladeshis in Paris, and that they don’t appreciate people walking into their shop, looking around for 15 minutes and then asking to purchase a single rose. Go figure. I would love to head back there from time to time and see if I can strike up some sort of friendship with the rose guys, though I think it would be hard to do so, and I don’t know if it would be a completely self-indulgent effort or actually produce something of value/interest to the rest of the world. We’ll see how many roses I can fit into my weekly budget.
24 October, 2006
Paper Jam Nationalism
French copy machines are just as bitchy as American copy machines. Yet somehow...it’s even more frustrating because I can’t help but feel like the machine is being anti-American.
Beauty and Ugly
Last weekend Rach and I did some leisurely exploring around the 6eme arrondissement. We happened upon some of the few Roman ruins remaining in Paris. We were somewhat surprised to find kids playing soccer in them, but then noticed a sign marking the area as an official municipal recreational field. Attached to the Roman ruin playground was 
another playground sitting in what looked like the highly manicured courtyard of a French countryside chateau. I thought my childhood playground made of wooden 2x4’s was snazzy… It appears French kids don’t have to worry about getting splinters up their ass.Near the antique play-places is the Jardin des Plantes, or Garden of Plants. This name is meant quite literally; the place is full of beautiful flowers in orderly rows, and lined with trees trimmed hedge-style. All in all a little over-regimented for my taste, but impressive
nonetheless. A sweet stegosaurus stands by the entrance to the Museum of Natural History. (It bothers me a little bit that my elementary school intellect remembers exactly what a stegosaurus looks like yet has forgotten most of the details about the Articles of Confederation.)
nonetheless. A sweet stegosaurus stands by the entrance to the Museum of Natural History. (It bothers me a little bit that my elementary school intellect remembers exactly what a stegosaurus looks like yet has forgotten most of the details about the Articles of Confederation.)Next I convinced Rach and our friend Aly to wander over to check out the Bibliotheque National 
de France (BNF). Honestly, I wanted to the see the BNF because in my favorite book on Paris, Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik writes about how it is an absolutely preposterous monument—a total ego project by François Mitterand, complete with pentagon-like security measures and a whole lotta ugly. I believed Adam, but wanted to see for myself. Indeed I dragged poor Rach and Aly along to see a depressing monstrosity of a library. There are a few attempts at welcoming organic life-forms to the dreary campus—one might term them “courtyards”—but they reminded me
mostly of the velociraptor cages from Jurassic Park. Somehow the picture makes it look a lot nicer than it really is; I'm just that good of a photographer... If anything I'd give it credit for being imposing. The bridge to the other side of the Seine is cool though.
de France (BNF). Honestly, I wanted to the see the BNF because in my favorite book on Paris, Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik writes about how it is an absolutely preposterous monument—a total ego project by François Mitterand, complete with pentagon-like security measures and a whole lotta ugly. I believed Adam, but wanted to see for myself. Indeed I dragged poor Rach and Aly along to see a depressing monstrosity of a library. There are a few attempts at welcoming organic life-forms to the dreary campus—one might term them “courtyards”—but they reminded me
mostly of the velociraptor cages from Jurassic Park. Somehow the picture makes it look a lot nicer than it really is; I'm just that good of a photographer... If anything I'd give it credit for being imposing. The bridge to the other side of the Seine is cool though.A New Cast of Characters
Meet Rachel: Super-Texan, super-liberal progressive, and thus defying all (particularly French) stereotypical conceptions of Bush-toting Texans. Passionate about scuba diving, skateboarding (specifically longboards), smoking pot, and geography (did you know Venezuela means something like “little Venice”?).
Meet Saul: Raised in Oregon, but French enough to carry a French passport (thus avoiding all the administrative bullshit the rest of us are going through) and French enough to speak and understand French far better than I. Has a whole posse of honest-to-god French friends thanks to the French half of his family. Kindly invites me and Rach along to hang with said French posse, so we get a readymade Parisian social life. Word.
Saul is currently crashing with a French friend, Fabien, who lives a few blocks away from me, and Rachel is currently crashing with me until she finds an apartment, so the three of us have found it convenient to consume loads of wine, cheese, and weed, with the occasional dinner party, park outing, or bar thrown into the mix.
Incidentally, Fabien cheats at jenga.
Meet Saul: Raised in Oregon, but French enough to carry a French passport (thus avoiding all the administrative bullshit the rest of us are going through) and French enough to speak and understand French far better than I. Has a whole posse of honest-to-god French friends thanks to the French half of his family. Kindly invites me and Rach along to hang with said French posse, so we get a readymade Parisian social life. Word.
Saul is currently crashing with a French friend, Fabien, who lives a few blocks away from me, and Rachel is currently crashing with me until she finds an apartment, so the three of us have found it convenient to consume loads of wine, cheese, and weed, with the occasional dinner party, park outing, or bar thrown into the mix.
Incidentally, Fabien cheats at jenga.
09 October, 2006
Nuit Blanche
My cell phone rings. It’s Jake: “Hey, aren’t you having a party tonight? I’m at your apartment with some other assistants but you don’t seem to be home.” “Oh yeah, I am” I reply, “but not ‘till 10:30; I’ll be back in half an hour.” Jake says they’ll go bar-hopping and come back.
Hmm, I guess people are actually coming over.
I had invited about 15 people over to pre-game before going out on the town for Nuit Blanche, a city-wide all-nighter when generally underappreciated modern artists fill the streets with installations and Parisians drunkenly wander about pretending to get it. I had only heard back from about 5 people saying they were coming and would bring some cheap wine.
By midnight my relatively spacious but surely not cavernous flat is filled with around 30 people, mostly Americans but a spattering of French guys who are friends of a friend. Wine is flowing generously. So generously in fact that I spill a bit of red on the pristine white canvas dining room chairs. Shit. Ally recommends using white wine to get out the red wine. Keith recommends re-upholstering the chairs. Jen does some quick internet research and decides the thing to do is to concoct a precise solution of Dawn and hydrogen peroxide. Finally, I remember that I threw a Tide to Go pen in my carry-on. It seems to at least dull the red out a bit. I decide to hide all remaining white things…from myself.
Emma walks in at the height of the impromptu festivities and stops dead in the entryway, a look of absolute denial on her face. I quickly scamper over and assure her I will “take care of everything.” She nods suspiciously. Luckily the stained chairs are blocked from view by the mass of bodies. I hope this isn’t the end of our short friendship/housing arrangement.
Once I’m sufficiently full of wine I start encouraging everyone to head out for Nuit Blanche.
The full list of Nuit Blanche attractions is far too overwhelming to digest, but there is one installation I want to see for sure: a gigantic skull made of Indian dishes. I drunkenly set of on my mission, followed by around 10 people trying to keep up with my New York walking pace. The skull is about twice as far from my flat as it appears on the official Nuit Blanche map. But it is pretty cool. Naturally I enjoy any excuse to blab about India, so I eagerly point out all the different shapes and sizes of tiffin (Indian lunch boxes) that form the 10-foot-high cranium. I am awesome.
Post tiffin-skull we basically wander around northern Paris from 2am to 5am in search of anything cool or fun, but finding little. We come across 1 or 2 other bits of perplexing art. I wander into this fabulous Middle-Eastern pastry shop full of jelabees, and I vaguely recall excitedly telling the owner that I had eaten jelabees in India. I don’t think he cared. I bought something yummy with dates in it. I wish I could remember where that shop was…
By the time we actually get to where some of our friends are allegedly hanging out it is nearly 5:30 in the morning, I am tired and sober, and the metro is running again. My will to Nuit Blanche is gone. I half-heartedly wave goodbye to my wandering buddies and sleepily head back towards home.
I use up my last remaining bit of energy loading the dishwasher with all the empty wine glasses and putting the furniture back in order. The Tide to Go has worked magic; the only traces of the red wine are some extremely bleached patches on otherwise aged white fabric.
I sleep like a baby, confident in the knowledge that my accidental party was way more fun than Paris’ intentional modern art-fest.
Hmm, I guess people are actually coming over.
I had invited about 15 people over to pre-game before going out on the town for Nuit Blanche, a city-wide all-nighter when generally underappreciated modern artists fill the streets with installations and Parisians drunkenly wander about pretending to get it. I had only heard back from about 5 people saying they were coming and would bring some cheap wine.
By midnight my relatively spacious but surely not cavernous flat is filled with around 30 people, mostly Americans but a spattering of French guys who are friends of a friend. Wine is flowing generously. So generously in fact that I spill a bit of red on the pristine white canvas dining room chairs. Shit. Ally recommends using white wine to get out the red wine. Keith recommends re-upholstering the chairs. Jen does some quick internet research and decides the thing to do is to concoct a precise solution of Dawn and hydrogen peroxide. Finally, I remember that I threw a Tide to Go pen in my carry-on. It seems to at least dull the red out a bit. I decide to hide all remaining white things…from myself.
Emma walks in at the height of the impromptu festivities and stops dead in the entryway, a look of absolute denial on her face. I quickly scamper over and assure her I will “take care of everything.” She nods suspiciously. Luckily the stained chairs are blocked from view by the mass of bodies. I hope this isn’t the end of our short friendship/housing arrangement.
Once I’m sufficiently full of wine I start encouraging everyone to head out for Nuit Blanche.
The full list of Nuit Blanche attractions is far too overwhelming to digest, but there is one installation I want to see for sure: a gigantic skull made of Indian dishes. I drunkenly set of on my mission, followed by around 10 people trying to keep up with my New York walking pace. The skull is about twice as far from my flat as it appears on the official Nuit Blanche map. But it is pretty cool. Naturally I enjoy any excuse to blab about India, so I eagerly point out all the different shapes and sizes of tiffin (Indian lunch boxes) that form the 10-foot-high cranium. I am awesome.
Post tiffin-skull we basically wander around northern Paris from 2am to 5am in search of anything cool or fun, but finding little. We come across 1 or 2 other bits of perplexing art. I wander into this fabulous Middle-Eastern pastry shop full of jelabees, and I vaguely recall excitedly telling the owner that I had eaten jelabees in India. I don’t think he cared. I bought something yummy with dates in it. I wish I could remember where that shop was…
By the time we actually get to where some of our friends are allegedly hanging out it is nearly 5:30 in the morning, I am tired and sober, and the metro is running again. My will to Nuit Blanche is gone. I half-heartedly wave goodbye to my wandering buddies and sleepily head back towards home.
I use up my last remaining bit of energy loading the dishwasher with all the empty wine glasses and putting the furniture back in order. The Tide to Go has worked magic; the only traces of the red wine are some extremely bleached patches on otherwise aged white fabric.
I sleep like a baby, confident in the knowledge that my accidental party was way more fun than Paris’ intentional modern art-fest.
Couscous
I am on my way from Issy les Moulineaux, where my school is, to Nanterre, where I have a rendezvous with an archaeology professor. After much lively debate on the matter, I have been advised to take the tram, which loops around the western bank of the Seine linking the southwestern and northwestern suburbs. As I am sitting on the tram enjoying the relatively scenic view I find myself surrounded by a group of oldish men wearing matching tweed blazers and slacks—some sort of French Lyons Club outing perhaps. One of the men asks to see my ticket; I notice the French metro logo embroidered on his lapel. Aha, I had heard they go around checking tickets from time to time, but I never imagined they’d be so well-dressed! I confidently pull out my Carte d’Orange, which is a monthly metro pass. Metro man, even more confidently, informs me that my pass is for zones 1 and 2 only, and the tram is in zone 3 territory. Oops. I pull the “I’m a foreigner” card, which saves me from whatever the ghastly punishment for evading metro fare might be, but they insist that I get off at the next station to buy a ticket. They also insist on waiting with me, all 6 of them; I begin to feel a bit left out without a snappy blazer.
At the station the 7 of us have a nice chat while waiting for the next train. One of them wants to hear all about the New York subway system. We end up concluding that it’s pretty similar to the Paris metro. He then asks me, as I’ve been asked a million times since moving, what New York has that Paris lacks. I pull out my default response: “In New York you can have any type of food you want delivered to your apartment.” This generally seems to impress Parisians. Metro man needs some clarification. “Even couscous?” he asks. “Yes,” I respond, “Even couscous.” Now he’s impressed. He wants to know when the best time of year to visit New York is. Seems he can’t wait to order some couscous to his hotel room. I am amused.
At the station the 7 of us have a nice chat while waiting for the next train. One of them wants to hear all about the New York subway system. We end up concluding that it’s pretty similar to the Paris metro. He then asks me, as I’ve been asked a million times since moving, what New York has that Paris lacks. I pull out my default response: “In New York you can have any type of food you want delivered to your apartment.” This generally seems to impress Parisians. Metro man needs some clarification. “Even couscous?” he asks. “Yes,” I respond, “Even couscous.” Now he’s impressed. He wants to know when the best time of year to visit New York is. Seems he can’t wait to order some couscous to his hotel room. I am amused.
Irony
The past few days I have been sitting in on English classes getting a feel for the level of the students and the general pedagogical method over here. In general I’ve been surprised to find that the kids don’t speak English any better than your average American high schoolers speak French. I definitely had this hyper-self-critical notion that American schools were so much worse than the rest of the world at teaching language, but now I’m hearing that at least among European nations France is also known for is language-teaching deficiencies. I suppose it’s hardly surprising that the two most self-aggrandizing nations in the Western world don’t bother teaching their youth “useless” foreign tongues.
I spent the first half of the classes I attended introducing myself in simple English and responding to students’ questions. Questions ranged from the simple—Where are you from? (being from New York consistently elicited mild awe)—to the seemingly simple yet really quite unanswerable—Where do you plan to live the rest of your life?—to the outright complicated particularly in simplified English—What did you study in school? (“Anthropology and South Asian Studies” received blank stares, “culture and India” worked a bit better, “digging up dead people in India” was a crowd-pleaser).
The second half of class I simply observed, and man were these classes boring. In one class a study-guide question relating back to a short story was, “What adjective does the father use ironically? Using the context and its formation, deduce its meaning.” This of course launched the teacher into a 10-minute lecture on the meaning and use of the word “irony” itself, which seemed to me impractical for a bunch of 16-year olds who have trouble forming a proper statement in English let alone discerning literary devices. Then, to make matters even more hopeless the teacher asked the students to properly intone this ironic line of dialogue (which incidentally was more sarcastic than ironic to begin with). I’m not sure what she was going for being as I don’t think there is a standard in English for proper ironic intonation, but she inevitably asked me, the native speaker, to demonstrate it for the poor kids, so I just went with an over-the-top sarcastic voice. I’m sure the kids went away with a significantly diminished respect for American English…
I spent the first half of the classes I attended introducing myself in simple English and responding to students’ questions. Questions ranged from the simple—Where are you from? (being from New York consistently elicited mild awe)—to the seemingly simple yet really quite unanswerable—Where do you plan to live the rest of your life?—to the outright complicated particularly in simplified English—What did you study in school? (“Anthropology and South Asian Studies” received blank stares, “culture and India” worked a bit better, “digging up dead people in India” was a crowd-pleaser).
The second half of class I simply observed, and man were these classes boring. In one class a study-guide question relating back to a short story was, “What adjective does the father use ironically? Using the context and its formation, deduce its meaning.” This of course launched the teacher into a 10-minute lecture on the meaning and use of the word “irony” itself, which seemed to me impractical for a bunch of 16-year olds who have trouble forming a proper statement in English let alone discerning literary devices. Then, to make matters even more hopeless the teacher asked the students to properly intone this ironic line of dialogue (which incidentally was more sarcastic than ironic to begin with). I’m not sure what she was going for being as I don’t think there is a standard in English for proper ironic intonation, but she inevitably asked me, the native speaker, to demonstrate it for the poor kids, so I just went with an over-the-top sarcastic voice. I’m sure the kids went away with a significantly diminished respect for American English…
05 October, 2006
Puns and Statistics
I walked past a hair salon the other day called ATMOSP'HAIR. This interlingual pun works because the French word "atmosphére," (which shockingly, means atmosphere) has that accent on the 'e' and thus indeed rhymes with the English word "hair." I am amused.
Le Figaro (rightist newspaper) yesterday had an article about integration of minorities in mainstream American and French culture in which the president of the French High Counsel of Integration quotes the following statistics: "74% of French non-Muslims and 71% of French Muslims do not feel that there is much confict between Islam and the modern world." Really? I have my doubts. Will investigate further...
Le Figaro (rightist newspaper) yesterday had an article about integration of minorities in mainstream American and French culture in which the president of the French High Counsel of Integration quotes the following statistics: "74% of French non-Muslims and 71% of French Muslims do not feel that there is much confict between Islam and the modern world." Really? I have my doubts. Will investigate further...
03 October, 2006
20 Rue la Bruyère: Ma chambre
Going clockwise:
I believe the fireplace is purely decorative...
Over the fireplace: Ikea plus A.C. Moore equals cheap magnetic wall art. (I'm sure I find this far more exciting than is warranted; sue me)
Saris on the wall naturally (hung nail-free with blue tack, thank you Tahmid)Also, can you tell the big bed is bullshit? It's two singles united by a common fitted sheet. Therefore, plenty of room for visitors!
FIN20 Rue la Bruyère
Staircase and mini-lift (shoulder-width).
Kitchen to the immediate right of the entrance.
Looking back towards the entrance from the common room. The open doorway leads towards the entrance and kitchen. The closed doorway is a bathroom.
Common room.Haven't taken many pictures yet...
02 October, 2006
Fight Club, Facebook and Fasting
Saturday I went to a literary gathering called Festival America out in Vincennes (imediately outside of Paris). I suppose it might seem a little odd to go to a literary festival consisting entirely of North American authors when in Paris, but I figured it would be interesting to see what such an event consisted of in light of a supposed general atmosphere of anti-Americanism. To be more honest, that was my high-falutin intellectual rationalization for going. Mostly I went because Chuck Palahnuik, author of Fight Club, Choke, and other piercingly hilarious novels, was set to speak, as was Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid's Tale among others) and Johnathan Safran-Foer (Everything is Illuminated).
The more literary events I attend the more I am struck by the inability of authors to speak nearly as well as they write, but Chuck did not dissapoint. He celebrated the ability of authors to push the envelope even further than film or TV directors can because books are so much cheaper to produce and are therefore less market-driven. When asked about the immense cult-like popularity of Fight Club he said, "People tell stories in order to process experiences that are too complex to be immediately assimilated into their identity. In the case of a successful story, such as Fight Club, society at large assimilates the story by creating lesser and lesser copies of it--films, then video games, then T-shirts." He also read an incredibly disturbing short story that caused one guy in the audience to faint (apparently it often has this effect on people). "Writing should not only touch people intellectually and emotionally, but also physically," says Chuck. Mission accomplished.
Yesterday I utilized the (new? I can't keep track any more) Facebook feature where you can hunt down people in your gmail contact list to see if any of my new fellow English assistant friends had profiles. Of course many of them did, and I proceeded to friend them all. I must say this is an instance of Facebook's indisputable utility for post-college socialization. In college Facebook generally merely reified existing social groups--dorm halls, sports teams, Ukranian egg-makers, etc.--rarely was it truly the only way of tracking down someone on campus. Now, for better or worse, it can be the difference between being friends with someone or not. I've met so many Americans wandering around Paris this past week, and I have not been keeping a running list of people's contact info. Those who are on Facebook may well be invited to my upcoming flat-warming. Those who aren't may not for no other reason than I have no way of contacting them (short of inviting all 100+ American assistants and hoping only the ones I like show up). It would also be nice if everyone switched to transparent gmail addresses so if I know your name I know your email. How the hell am I supposed to figure out who gigglysquashstr47@yahoo.com is??
Today was glorious Yom Kippur. The Jews of Paris were out en masse to attone for their many sins (why all the burning of perfectly good cars?). The service I ended up at was largely orthodox--women separate upstairs and in Hebrew only--but I was struck by the lack of a dress code. I figured it would be the normal orthodox deal for women--long skirts and long sleeves--so I borrowed a skirt from Emma and tried to look the part of a humble, sexless mourner. Turns out the Parisian women were wearing everything from short skirts to jeans, and were probably wondering who the drab orthodox redhead was. I hope God appreciated the gesture...
The more literary events I attend the more I am struck by the inability of authors to speak nearly as well as they write, but Chuck did not dissapoint. He celebrated the ability of authors to push the envelope even further than film or TV directors can because books are so much cheaper to produce and are therefore less market-driven. When asked about the immense cult-like popularity of Fight Club he said, "People tell stories in order to process experiences that are too complex to be immediately assimilated into their identity. In the case of a successful story, such as Fight Club, society at large assimilates the story by creating lesser and lesser copies of it--films, then video games, then T-shirts." He also read an incredibly disturbing short story that caused one guy in the audience to faint (apparently it often has this effect on people). "Writing should not only touch people intellectually and emotionally, but also physically," says Chuck. Mission accomplished.
Yesterday I utilized the (new? I can't keep track any more) Facebook feature where you can hunt down people in your gmail contact list to see if any of my new fellow English assistant friends had profiles. Of course many of them did, and I proceeded to friend them all. I must say this is an instance of Facebook's indisputable utility for post-college socialization. In college Facebook generally merely reified existing social groups--dorm halls, sports teams, Ukranian egg-makers, etc.--rarely was it truly the only way of tracking down someone on campus. Now, for better or worse, it can be the difference between being friends with someone or not. I've met so many Americans wandering around Paris this past week, and I have not been keeping a running list of people's contact info. Those who are on Facebook may well be invited to my upcoming flat-warming. Those who aren't may not for no other reason than I have no way of contacting them (short of inviting all 100+ American assistants and hoping only the ones I like show up). It would also be nice if everyone switched to transparent gmail addresses so if I know your name I know your email. How the hell am I supposed to figure out who gigglysquashstr47@yahoo.com is??
Today was glorious Yom Kippur. The Jews of Paris were out en masse to attone for their many sins (why all the burning of perfectly good cars?). The service I ended up at was largely orthodox--women separate upstairs and in Hebrew only--but I was struck by the lack of a dress code. I figured it would be the normal orthodox deal for women--long skirts and long sleeves--so I borrowed a skirt from Emma and tried to look the part of a humble, sexless mourner. Turns out the Parisian women were wearing everything from short skirts to jeans, and were probably wondering who the drab orthodox redhead was. I hope God appreciated the gesture...
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