Dirt and dust.

Xavier has been gone for a week, traveling for work. A fine time with the little ladies. Parenting a 3 and 1-year old alone can make a weekend feel long. We explored new parks and sort of made a rule that we would eat as few meals at our house as possible (lots of picnics - big fans of cherry tomatoes). I realize when I am alone how smothered I feel by prepping, cooking and cleaning up a meal. Give me endless baths, stories, swings, playground potty crises, pushing a stroller up 50 hills, diapers, everything but cooking. Glad for Xavier's newfound devotion to it. If we ever break up it would be my biggest inadequacy.

Being alone with the girls heightens perception. Children are so miserable and glorious. Every onerous part of the experience is counteracted by an equally blissful force. So sometimes, you end up just neutral, but the undercurrent that gets you there is so wild.

One thing I love about parenting is the physicality of the experience. I've always been affectionate. Pushing it a bit far some might say - licking people, for instance. I love handling little roly-poly bodies - necks right up against my nose. The best smell. Dimpled hands, always grabbing. Hot breath - exhaling laughter. Dirty feet - shoelaces, sandal straps. Four dress changes in a day - with every swap, closeness. So, tonight, when I found myself being licked by my "baby cats", Colette and Romy, I didn't for a minute try to wipe the slaver away.

We get away from that as adults - not licking, specifically, but touching people we don't know well. We have our own outposts - gaps between each other. I love the girls for sweeping me closer. Even when it is dangerous. Romy has taken up biting. When I took away a screwdriver she had discovered and picked her up, she shrieked and turned to my cheek to take a bite today. Animalistic. I sympathize though.

Crazy how it all feels so permanent - set in concrete. The hysterics feel like veritable impasses. Then I go and look at some images I took from 6 months or 2 weeks ago and realize it is ephemeral dust. Blowing away.

Colette. One year.

The end of a pregnancy makes you feel like you smell bad. People offer you their seat in the metro, but they are frightened by your body. They scoot away - they avoid eye contact, especially in the city. You are no longer regarded as a woman; you become the thing you are carrying. At work, it was: "What are you still doing here?", even though I took almost a full month off before my delivery. In yoga classes, the spaces next to me were the last remaining unoccupied zones. I was a brewing peril.

Part of the alienation is self-imposed. I was so hyper-focused on what I was becoming, the unstoppable brunt of the thing inside of me, I was hard to relate to. I was dominated by it, particularly since Miss Colette stayed on days after her due date passed. I wore down the days of waiting by waiting and I couldn't do otherwise. After false labor on two different nights the waiting grew thick with uncertainty and insecurity.

And then it began. I heard pause in her voice when we called the midwife to let her know I had progressed to the point of coming to the hospital. She said she didn't have space for me where I had enrolled to have a natural delivery – in the birthing center of the hospital. Xavier and I seriously shrank what those words would mean for us. I ended up laboring in the chaos of triage a total of 8 hours because there wasn’t room in the birthing center. At some point, my midwife appeared. She was otherwise like a chimera about whose existence I increasingly had doubts. Her voice was soothing, but the narrative belied the tone:

“Triage has a policy. 2 hours maximum. You are way past that. There is still not room for you in the birthing center. I want you to have that experience. [Heavy pause]. You could go to Lincoln Center – there are nice public bathrooms there. Or you could go to a hotel for a few hours. You have to leave though, or else we will have to admit you to a standard birthing room and the birthing center is out.”

“Lincoln Center?!” cried Xavier, the Frenchman. Total outrage. “A hotel?! Barbarism.”

I was halfway dilated. The trip to the hotel felt like I was being quartered. The trip back was an impossibility. Finally a room had opened up in the birthing center, but the midwife was still astray (she helped birth 3 other babies that shift). At 9 centimeters – hours later, vomiting port colored blood, I ended up with an epidural and in it, found my cognizance again. The room went from being totally blurred to a blinding clarity. The rest of the story is too recognizable – struggling with three doctors, each a specialist in something – vacuum, forceps, cesarean sections – to insist (and hear Xavier repeatedly insist) on them letting me try to push without any intervention. The contractions that had ripped through me were suddenly invisible. Now I needed them to know when to push. I searched Xavier, the midwife and the three doctors’ eyes fiercely to understand when. With all of my force that seemed to evaporate into the numbness of my body, I pushed. 15 minutes passed and then her head appeared, soon her eyes – closed like a listless doll, her hair – curly and white with wax, and then her little body slithered out.

I wasn't remade by her until we went home. Then, it was all her.

It was painful when people visited the first couple of weeks – even my dear friends. They brought with them a wonted world, of which I was no longer a part. That world felt injurious. I was so tender – we were so tender. Words felt like they made dents in my skin. I would close the door behind them and travel back to the land of Colette – my baby, fold myself inside and wish for nothing else, completely fulfilled by simply nuzzling my nose softly against her neck. She seemed to me the most tragic being. Just looking at her made my stomach fall. A walk outside felt treacherous and made my mind race with all the clouds of menace in the world.

About a month after Colette was born a blessed friend came over to do a ‘body talk’ session with me. She hovered her hands above the injured parts of my body – not the literally affected parts, but those emotional portals to the soul – my abdomen, my eyes, my skull, my sternum, my mouth, my hands. She forced me to revisit each of the biting elements of the birth experience. My head and body throbbed. She traced circles above my line of sight to follow and work through the memories ocularly. I cowered in the face of the trauma I still felt after the birth and I asked myself, why? I had been so insistent on a natural birth, on the power of my body to birth a baby, on my strength. The trauma stemmed from my perception of failure and the magnitude of how little control I felt. It is only now, one year after the birth, I can think about it without crying.

I have a new range of view. Now I see babies everywhere. On the orange and yellow squared seats of the A train: babies. They are wrinkled, wearing mustaches and glasses, converse all-stars – they are long-haired and sweaty, but they are all babies. I stare up at skyscrapers and am in awe of their ballast; I stand open-mouthed that babies have built it all.

I think for me, the act of birth and the pain I experienced was the dawn of a new form of emotional intelligence, one where history is now a story of babies and the empathy I feel makes me an altered human. Colette’s birth was my entryway to the oldest and most epic of love stories.

This is the story I didn't want to tell for a year. Lying on that table was precisely the less-than-ideal circumstance that I described when struggling to find the right care provider for the birth (when I went back and read my writing, I cringed at its prescience). So, I am still not sure what to do with it and am dumbfounded when considering what kind of care choices I might make the next time around. Where I was convinced and assertive (and full of hubris) about the question of birth before it happened, I am left stunned and unsure.

I’ve thought a lot about why people want to have children since Colette was born. Yes, I wanted a baby before she came – but I didn’t even know what a baby was. I read this paper recently: “What Mary can’t expect when she is expecting” – on decision theory and choosing parenthood. It describes what happens to a person when they become a parent brilliantly: Mary is in a black and white room and it is only when she leaves and is exposed to red can she “know” what the color is. Her epistemic position is transformed. So motherhood or fatherhood is: completely transformative.

Most importantly: Happy birthday, Miss Baby.

She is - to me - love incarnated in the most bewitching form.


(Shell shocked with 1-day old Colette)

If you are looking down, why don't you see me?

The 10th arrondissement of Paris is what many French people would still call "populaire" - which means a "working class" and diverse area. Our street from the very first day was a fascination to me. Each day there were groups of young guys standing around. They didn't speak French and they seemed to be from somewhere in the Middle East. They never seemed to work, yet they were all working age (18-35, or so it appeared). They were never aggressive and mostly huddled together, talking and floating in and out of the phone booths on the street with calling cards in their hands. After a bit of time living in the neighborhood, it became clear that they were Afghan refugees and they were waiting for visas and refugee status in France, or waiting to get to another country.



I spent the day with them today. For a long time I've wanted to hear their stories. A few times I've approached a huddle of these guys and asked if they spoke English or French - on those occasions they didn't. Today, I passed by and stopped to ask again. This time I was extremely fortunate and fell upon one gentleman, Massoud (this is not his real name and he requested not to be featured in any photos here), who had been a translator in Afghanistan and another young man who had worked as a translator in Greece on his way to France as a refugee.

At first, I asked simple questions, like, where do you sleep and do you have enough to eat and are you able to work? These questions opened up a conversation that lasted all morning, into the afternoon and almost until the sun set. Here is what they told me:



They are political refugees. They all agreed that they would rather be in Afghanistan if it were possible. Massoud said, "There are three levels of problems for humans: normal, medium and serious. Every one of these men's problems is serious. We cannot return to our country because it would mean our lives."



"We sleep under the bridge of the canal; at 7am the police come and wake us up. They put lights on your eyes and stand above us and they bring fire station water to put out our fire. We used to sleep in the park, but the police guard the park and won't let us in after sundown now."



"If there weren't charity associations, we would have nothing to eat. We have nowhere to permanently keep our things, they are often confiscated by the police." There is a refugee camp in between Porte de la Chapelle and Porte de Clignancourt named after the famous French soccer player Zinedine Zidane, but they said there is always a waiting list and it is not possible to sleep there every night. "There are charity associations who feed us; this one (he points in the direction) gives us breakfast two days a week and the man inside answers thousands of questions every day. Everyday he responds kindly. He is not the government though."

Massoud's story was unbelievable. He was a translator for the Americans and the British in a rural province in Afghanistan. A member of the Taliban infiltrated his company and became close to Massoud. When Massoud found out the man was from the Taliban it was too late. He had no choices left. The man threatened him that he would either do what he instructed, acting as plotter for the Taliban against the people he worked for, or he would die. This man told Massoud that if he suddenly disappeared (fled) his entire family would be a target. He decided with his family that he should flee regardless. Since he left, he has not been able to have any contact with his family as the numbers he calls are disconnected. He lives uncertain if his family has been killed in his wake.

Thanks to Massoud, I was able to hear many other stories. Unceasingly, every person we spoke to asked the question, "What should we do?" "What can we do?"

Massoud asked me if I wanted to see where they sleep and live. I did.



The canal is made of a series of locks and bridges. This is where they live. We walked under bridges where lines of sleeping bags bordered both edges of the concrete walls.



We walked further along the canal - a place where I often run or walk and can only site carelessness as an explanation for never having seen these places before. Under a particularly thick and wide bridge is the largest place. We walked toward it and I saw laundry hanging on the metal grate and a small square hole by which to enter. They invited me to come in.









They come from all over Afghanistan - but mainly from the rural areas of the provinces. Over and over again I heard tales of how they came to France - often a one-year voyage through Turkey, Greece, Italy and finally France - on foot, by train, boat and car. They once thought Paris would be their "entry to Europe," but now that they are here they don't know why they have come. They cannot work without refugee status. Only 2 out of the almost 50 people I discussed with today had actually obtained 'refugee' status in France. The process is long and difficult. Some had already tried in England and Italy only to be deported back to Afghanistan (and then to re-escape and find their way to another country, France this time).



One of them said: "I spent five years in England and then I was deported back to Afghanistan. The Taliban killed my father, my brother and shot me in the shoulder. It was my second escape after that. I feel that I could make the voyage with my eyes closed now."



He went on to implore Mr. Sarkozy himself: "Have I done something to Sarkozy that he doesn't accept me here? In Persian Sarkozy means someone who looks down. If he is looking down why doesn't he see me?

But it is the same in all European countries and American and Canada."



Another young man (he was maybe 18 years old) told me how he had left Afghanistan with the equivalent of 600 euros and had not spent a penny of it except to call his mother. "She cries when I call her and tells me she is fasting for me. This is such a beautiful place," he said as he looked over at the canal, "but I cannot see the beauty without my family." He had only 100 euros left.



At some point, I pulled out my camera and asked if I could take some photos. Some of the guys reacted defensively, saying that every time a journalist comes and takes photos, they are harassed by the police soon thereafter. Others asked me to take their photo "to show it to the Americans" and showed me places to take other photos of the place itself. I tried to be as respectful as possible and only use the camera when someone requested. We sat and talked for a long time. I listened to their stories and soon we were laughing despite the gravity of what they recounted.



One of the guys asked if he could take a photo and I handed him my camera. He shot the group of people among whom I was sitting. I laughed when I saw the picture. Throughout the day I never felt an ounce of bad will or aggression from any of these men. When I first arrived and sat down on the ground one of them immediately said to another, "You don't know how to treat a guest, get her something to sit on." Soon they apologized for not having tea to offer me. I shook my head overwhelmed by their humanity: in a place where they had been received with so little hospitality, they had lost none of this quality.



"Nobody helps Afghans in this world. Even at the French charities they ask us to wait at the back of the line."

"We are also human - we have relatives and family - but we are treated worse than animals."



In the end I asked them, who would you want to hear your stories?

"A person who cares about us. A person who will do something for us. If they need a refugee, we are real refugees. No way is possible for us."



"I promised my family I would come back for them, that I would take them with me. I have no contact with them. Imagine that, if you lost your family."



They told me they knew many of them would be deported back to Afghanistan. "We will have to be hand to hand with the Taliban - this is the only way to return. If we return, we have no choice but to go back to Afghanistan and join with the Taliban. No other way is possible."

These men as refugees are clearly more than a social inconvenience for countries like France or England or the United States, they are also a political liability. More than any of that though, spending the day with them made see that they are very very human. I've spent the past year walking past them in the street outside my apartment and today is the first day I saw them.



Here is a link to a related article in the NYTimes from this summer.

And another at change.org.

And another about Afghan refugees' rights in the UK (abominable).

A blog on the situation in Greece.

Je dis bonjour.

Bonjour. Yes, that simple word is the subject of this post. You may think the translation of bonjour is hello. How wrong you are. You see, bonjour is so much more than that. Bonjour is not just a simple greeting.

Bonjour is your ticket into any shop (it is compulsory at the threshold), it is the the way to properly enter a waiting room full of people at the doctor's office (if you fail to say bonjour there is a very palpable feeling of tension), it is the only way to ask for directions, and it is the absolute first thing to say to neighbors when you see them (you cannot skip the bonjour and go directly to ça va, for instance): it is loaded with value, this word.

When one forgets this omphalic word, two things generally occur:

1. The person at hand takes the time to teach you that you must always say bonjour before any other utterance.

2. The person continues to say bonjour (up to five repetitions may be necessary) until you repeat it back (at which point a great deal of straining and confusion for both people ends: confusion that you don't know very basic rules of behavior (her), confusion that a person would go on repeating themselves in such a silly way (you), straining to get you to say the word (her), straining to understand what the problem seems to be (you)).

Everyone knows this. I mean, it is very simple. Very. That is why it is so perplexing that after three years I still manage to forget it. When I walk into a shop and ask very nicely for, say, a croissant and am met by a stern bonjour rather than bien sûr, how can I still be confused?

What I mean is that it is requisite. More than requisite, it is the first basic rule of France. When children are taught how to be polite, they are always instructed to say bonjour in a very deliberate way. It is as important as merci or s'il vous plaît. Parents in France teach bonjour exactly as parents where I come from teach please (as is evidenced by this worksheet from a third grade French classroom).


(TO BE POLITE: When I am polite I say bonjour when it is day and bonsoir when it is night. I say s'il vous plaît to get what I would like. When I am polite with my mouth I smile and say merci).

I was having lunch with my friend Emma (British) today who seems to have the same forgetting spells as I do. She had forgotten her bonjour earlier in the day. In her case, the result was response #1. She had been instructed like a 6-year old (her words) for getting straight to the point at the boulangerie. "It is just a bit much, this aggressive bonjour-ing, isn't it," she proclaimed and I smiled and wrote the phrase down. Aggressive bonjour-ing. Very funny and very befitting.

Marguerite.

I've had this unique experience of being the step-parent of a foreign child from the time she was a baby. First, a cross-cultural relationship/couple is already a continual process of another culture and set of assumptions being unveiled. Then, experiencing a child who is not your own, but who shares your life in the same way your own child would is perhaps even more instructive. Xavier has sort of acted as the porter and gatekeeper of French culture and Marguerite has been the person who has turned the key and let me in. You see, it is very subtle with children. The people around them don't see it happening. Marguerite, little by little, before my eyes, has turned into a French person.

As she plays in the bathtub and serves me tea and meals with her plastic orange tea set, within their proper structure and time, she is French: "Est-ce que tu veux prendre ton thé à l'heure du goûté, Mimie?" (Do you want your tea at the snack hour? Le goûté is 4pm in France, where kids have their appointed snack time).

She is French in her facial expressions. The way she blows air out of her mouth in that certain way when she doesn't believe something. I've never seen an American kid do the same thing. The way she uses the long drawn out "baaah oui!" (evidenced below in the Marguerite on the phone video). Even the way she elongates her mouth and forms her words - all of it is her already imprinted French acculturation. It makes me laugh when we speak English because she often has a little French accent when we first learn words. Soon enough, it goes away after we repeat and repeat the word, but just a few short years mark little people.



She is French when she instructs me as if I were another French child. "Ne mets pas tes doigts dans le nez Mimie." (Don't put your fingers in your nose, Mimie). "Il faut pas dire ouais, il faut dire oui." (Don't say 'yah,' you should say 'yes'). "Il faut pas marcher pieds nus, Mimie." (You shouldn't walk barefoot, Mimie).

Perhaps none of this is revelatory. Maybe it even seems obvious. Yet, it wasn't to me. It is the classic nature/nurture discussion. I have watched this little person being made French. I might be a mitigating factor, something that throws a wrench in the process from time to time in just how French Marguerite may become. But I must say, Marguerite is the best evidence I've ever seen of how culture and language and facial expressions get passed along. Basically, how culture is done.

I am grateful to Marguerite because she wholeheartedly lets me in. Adults have a harder time doing this in any culture. I suppose a kid doesn't know you are meant to be outside, so they start with the assumption that you are in. There are times when she cocks her head and looks at me strangely, when I've missed some very obvious reference to her in the discussion or activity at hand. In those moments I think I've given myself away and she'll put me in a place apart - the way it so often happens when you are the foreign person. Then she smiles and clips along as if nothing happened, and if it did, she doesn't care.

Relay.

Midnight. I start outside the southern perimeter - the edge/maker of Paris: the péripherique. Over the bridge - the cars swarm below. Then the city swallows me. Light flooding everywhere heedless of the time. Soft, yellow light, reflecting off the stone surfaces of the buildings. I ride and I ride.

It is always a race and I usually win, even at this time with the clear roads; the stop lights give me the advantage. The cars sit and idle, puttering their impatience. I fly past - the red is only meant for them. Some of the lights are necessary - big intersections where the traffic flows heavy, forming a barrier in front of me. Here, the white lines of the pedestrian crossing become a starting line and even at midnight there are many competitors. Most of us are on the communal bikes, the vélibs. Others, the top competitors, sport their own bikes and often ride with their hands in their pockets and their heads higher in the air, like the streets are somehow more theirs than ours with our borrowed wheels and bulky frames.


(googlemaps)

Then we are off, across Pont Michel. Notre Dame is hovering bright in the night to the right. Down Boulevard du Palais and breaking free again on Pont au Change. Paris sprawls out and extends in both directions here, splayed along the water. The buildings lean over to gaze in the water. And I am ahead because I am a Johnson and competition is thrilling and it pushes me and the French boys regard me with disdain. I can feel their gazes and hear their heavy breath behind me in a desperate attempt to pedal ahead of this irreverent girl who cut them off, swerves in between the cars and rides in a skirt.

All about us cars are rushing by - like swimming in the ocean facing the shore and the rhythm of the water is faster than your body - they flow by unaware that they share the road with those of us who pedal our way. The buses are more aware because they have to be; we share their lane. Buses are like the wild things who gnash their terrible teeth and roar their terrible roars, and I am Max on my bike. I tame them and they sound their bell - the bell that sounds like a charm - and they ride with me and then I send them off on their way. They don't frighten me.

The other bikers are on my tail and I have to stop in front of Tour St. Jacques for the flow in front of me. They pull up and we look at each other in the eyes - a direct challenge. I watch the light and take off before the green has appeared - in the gap between the red and the green and I surge ahead feeling very spry.

French Femininity and Elsa Joly.

Meet Elsa Joly.

Elsa is Xavier's cousin. Elsa is, quite obviously, magnetically beautiful. Impressively, her personality is equally pulling. Elsa is the most accurate apotheosis of French femininity I know of. Personally. She does it so well.

French femininity has always eluded me. From the day I arrived in France I bristled against the depictions of women everywhere - the classic issues of feminine representation: impossibly thin, perfectly sculpted, ridiculously seductive - all of it looked like simulated femininity to me - the gross production and reproduction of some myth. These images are everywhere - not just in France, but there exists a special institution surrounding these images here. I didn't understand why French girls don't play sports (then I realized that French boys don't either). I was amazed that gender roles have been left untouched, despite the fact that so many women are in the work force. I was astounded that when I mentioned the word 'feminism' French women would immediately respond with distance. Most of all, I had the distinct impression that femininity had very few forms in France.

All of this is complicated by the fact that in many ways, I fit a classic representation of femininity myself. It has always been a squirmish struggle for me - how I do gender. I hate the idea that a feminist has to look bedraggled. But I also hate the idea that a woman must look femininely beautiful in a prescribed way to be a woman. I was fascinated in France that liberation for women has never involved stripping femininity of its meaning, as it so often has in the Anglo-American context. I've personally always just wanted an expanded version of what the notion of femininity meant - a greater stretch of possibilities in expression and performance...of how gender is 'done,' in the classic Judith Butler-ian sense. French women seemed, to me, to be so reigned in by femininity in its most time-honored form.

When I was a student at Brigham Young University I spent time as the president of the feminist club there. One of the issues we took up was the long line of beauty queens donning the walls of the Wilkinson Center (student center). We wanted the portraits down. The problem wasn't so much that they were hanging there, but that they were some of the only hanging women at Brigham Young University. I remember the pursuing conversation - the printed editorials in the papers that claimed that I and the others must be fat and ugly to take issue with the beauty queens...that it was an issue of jealousy. I was highly amused by this take, but it was symptomatic of the running belief that anyone who is a feminist must be a woman who simply can't do femininity.

So, in a country where femininity is embraced and patrolled, above all, by women themselves, I've been fascinated to exhume what exactly it means in France and whether it is discordant with emancipatory politics for women.

Hence, I turned to the best representative of French femininity I knew: Mlle. Joly.



This summer we spent time together in the south of France and I remember a specific conversation about a woman whom Elsa described as being not feminine. In fact, according to Elsa, it was her chief deficiency. I was absorbed by Elsa's description just of this woman's hair. Hair, as Elsa described it, is the root of a woman's femininity. It is the soul of her femininity - how she uses it, plays with it, has it cut. There were other things too - this woman's insecurity, her unease with her body, etc., which all added up to equal this woman's lack. For Elsa, femininity is not on a continuum with masculinity - the girl was by no means masculine either.

So, after this conversation, I decided to sit down and ask Elsa about the subject. I went to Elsa's house last night to chat (where her new baby puppy was such a splendid distraction).

I think the most fascinating part of what Elsa described when she talked about femininity is that there was never any tension between a very traditional idea of femininity - of difference between men and women - and equality. Elsa opened her story of feminity with an insistence that being a woman is something inherent, something deep inside. She said that women give life - and that this quality is instinctive in their interactions well beyond birth itself. She also said there is something carnal, even animal chez les femmes. She went on to say that women are sensitive beacause they understand the true nature of things and also because they are weak - they have weakness. In her weakness she also finds her strength, said Elsa.

Then we moved on to beauty. Elsa claimed that fashion and makeup - tools of beauty - are a huge advantage for women. My eyebrows raised when she said this, having heard so many times the divergent view that these things are harnesses women bear.

Her idea of femininity and its uses were based on inherent and well accepted differences between men and women. So much of the feminist struggle (at least in Anglo countries) has been about denying or minimizing or explaining away these differences. Difference has often been seen as the justification for unequal treatment or for injustice. In contrast, the French, like French Elsa, have not denied difference. Femininity in France has the same definition today as it had in the 1950's or 60's. Interestingly the connection between difference and inequality has not been conscripted as the problem.

So, here is Elsa and her version of femininity. Here am I, sitting across from her, listening to her words. I like Elsa's take - shockingly, it amuses me. I can find too many examples of women and men who don't fit into these descriptions to embrace it wholeheartedly, but her telling is compelling.

I am most amused when I ask Elsa how she found women in New York while she lived there. She replies, 'masculine - very sexy, but masculine.' She also says that most French men think that these women will eat them. They are not sufficiently playful, subtle or submissive in their femininity.

So, I haven't solved the quandary. Femininity, to me, remains baffling and thorny in France, equally so in America and most of all in me.


(The top photo is from Elsa's collection. The other two I took of her last night).

Locked out.

Back in Paris. Back in my apartment. Loving the waves of light (even if a bit gray with the rain) through the window onto the brick red of the tomettes. Not loving the utter and complete mess strewn everywhere. Back from Istanbul and what a mess I've made. Xavier is in New York, so no pressure from him to get tidy. Then, suddenly, I feel the impulse. I want to clean it all up and wash the tomettes and everything. Frantically I start throwing clothes around hoping that transferring piles from here to there will produce the result I am looking for. So far, nothing.

I'm hot. I throw off my dress and throw on a pair of shorts. Before I get to the shirt, I look over at the garbage. It needs to go. No shoes, no shirt, but the garbage needs to get out into the hallway. Priorities. I grip the top of the plastic bag and heave. Out my front door and onto the landing outside. Plunk the garbage down. Look over at the window in the hall. It needs to be opened. Turn the handle and a gust of wind flies in.

SLAM. Behind me, my door slams. Slams. My door in France has no exterior doorknob, so when it slams, it is locked. I stare at the door. Hard. How could you do this to me? No shirt, no shoes, shorts. Nothing else. No keys, no phone. Laughter. Hysterical sort. What a predicament. What a predicament. I'm giggling and trying to cover as much of myself as possible while knocking on the girls' apartment upstairs. No one. They have hung an unlikely in-the-hall laundry line though. Thankfully. Full of bedazzled Beyoncé-inspired clothing. I'm giggling much more. Yank - the cobalt blue one with diamond angel wings. Stunner. Fly down the stairs. Knock. Knock. Frantic. Knock. No one. Personne. Why? Why? Why? August. Paris. August. My whole building has evacuated the city. Half giggle, half sob.

In the tiny courtyard, feet immersed in the soppy/dank puddles of pouring rain. Lighting. Thunder. Out the long corridor into the streets of the 10th arrondissement. Afghan boys. 15 of them despite the rain. My street is their congregation. They always hang out here. They see me. No shoes, bedazzled shirt, ragamuffin shorts. Looking frantic. I look up and down at the closed shops (again, August in Paris). Which direction? They huddle round me. Ask me what I'm doing. I ask them if they have phones. Negatory. They don't even have visas, they tell me. Merci, ciao.

Right. I head up. The Moustache bar is pounding music. Chairs flipped erect on top of the bar. Big burly mustache looks at my sick feet with a cringe. I cringe back. I scream over the music: désolée, je suis votre voisine. Neighbors, eh? I guess not according to him. My door closed behind me, I explain, my keys are in my apartment. He rolls his eyes and saunters over to the dial on the radio. Twists. Quiet. I re-explain. He cuts me off and picks up his phone, dials a number and tells my story way better than I did. Dans une petite heure. Oh no, not that. Une petite heure means a really long time. My smile forms a square on my face. I am trying. Thank you, thank you for calling.

Re-enter the rainstorm. My Afghan friends await me at the entrance of my building. Re-hi. Punch in the code. Stand in the doorway, my big toe propping the door open. Hoping une petite heure might this one time be literal. Nope. Start talking to the Afghans. Fascinating boys. They pull out scraps of paper. I gather they are asking me in Farsi at which metro the address they are pointing to is. Not much English, not much French. I tell them I think it is George V. Why? The Canadian Embassy. Oh, you want to go to Canada? Yes. First it was Greece, now France, their goal: Canada. They sleep in the park. They show me scars on their hands where the Taliban cut them with knives and burned cigarettes into their skin. I cringe. I tell them Canada will be better. I hope it is true. France doesn't seem to be. The rain pours. I feel sheepish for thinking about my locked door.

He finally arrives. Little man. Looking at me suspiciously. Dirty feet, wet girl, 'fancy' blue diamond shirt, surrounded by 20-something year old dudes (at least they are wearing shoes). He asks me what seems to be the worry. I locked myself out of my apartment, of course. Why on earth would I call him otherwise? He accepts this. Will we need more than 'la radio?' he asks. What? La radio? Why the heck is he talking about a radio? An x-ray. An x-ray. He pulls an x-ray out of his briefcase. Yes! I tell him. I am certain we are going to need more than that to open my locked door. He shakes his head. We are going to try with la radio first. Great.

He kicks. He pries with his fingers. He shoves the x-ray violently into the crack in the door. Forces it upward. Shoves. Squawks a little. And wins. The door opens. An x-ray? Who knew? I squawk several times in thanks. Then watch his eyes to make sure they are not sizing up the belongings in my house. Xavier is convinced these guys come back to steal. I don't know.

He leaves with his x-ray and I rip the Beyoncé shirt off my back, make sure keys are in the pockets of my ragamuffin shorts and run out to return that useful thing to its place on the close-line.

The most ironic part of this tale is that on our way back from Istanbul, my bag was 'lost' at the airport in Paris. I wouldn't have cared except that my keys, yes my keys, were in it. We waited for 5 hours at CDG for that bag and those keys, only for me to return to Paris to perform this little stunt. Bravo Emilie.

Canal de l'Ourcq

On a run a while ago, I discovered the Canal de l'Ourcq in Paris, which is just an extension further along of the Canal St. Martin (right by where we live). Well, this part of the canal gets much better because the sky opens up and you feel like you are no longer in Paris. The buildings are bizarre, a total departure from Parisian architecture elsewhere. The canal is wide and there are people boats, I mean, they live on them full-time. Here, you are also in the 19th arrondissement and, refreshingly, away from noses that only pivot toward the sky. This arrondissement is overtly considered a 'quartier populaire', which depending on who makes the proclamation, could be a pejorative way of telling someone to stay away from the area, or could also be a way to express that the area is cool and full of all-sorts of people. The latter is my take. People are décontractés = cool. You might actually speak to someone as you sit along the bank of the canal. Two human strangers speaking. A real Parisian possibility here, otherwise unknown in vast portions of the city.

Consequently, I really love to go there. I love to lay down right by the water, take off my shoes and sometimes dip my toes into the greenish water. So I am there.

Behind me, under the shield of the trees, gazing out at the reflection of the water is a 20-something guy in cargo pants with deep black hair, sitting directly next to an old man in a bowler hat and a wheelchair. The old man is well-dressed, but decrepit. He looks kind of like a hundred-year-old tortoise, with his head ducked down into his shirt collar, like he is actively shrinking. The turtle stares down at his hands and studies his fingers. His young partner sends text messages and in doing so, looks at his hands too, glad that they are still unripe. I watch them for a while and wonder what they say to each other and who they are for each other. At some point the sonny releases the heavy feet and legs of the old man from his stirrups in the wheelchair and the old man tests his strength, pushing on the arm rests of the wheelchair and his legs at the same time. Nothing happens.

West African teenagers pass by, dressed in bright yellows and reds, one on a bike, the other frantically chasing him on foot, trying to grab his backpack from behind. Whooping and cracking up.

A proud French girl saunters, in her black suede moccasins, fringes shaking, her red belt synched tight around her waist.

A classe de college (a middle school class) tromps past. Tight jeans all the way down to their ankels, mostly a putty-gray color. Converses. The girls are gangly, their hair stringy. The boys are awkward and wishing they were taller. There are cliques of girls who see only each other. There is the straggling boy at the end of the line, not knowing what to do with himself, his hands, his head, even his feet. His classmates, painfully, know what to do with him.

The dude is parked along the canal - the one with long hair and a cigarette, one after another, too old to be a backpacker, but he's maintained the look. A beer in the middle of the afternoon. He dips his toes in the water too.

The one snooty French lady (there had to be one, even here) peers down at me disdainfully through her black lenses, walking with her daughter and baby and her orange cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders in that oh-so-french way. My stance is far too casual, not at all feminine. I wish I were a boy to avert gazes like these. They take a seat not far away, but on a bench, of course. Not two minutes later, a splash, a golden retriever in the water. He circles breathlessly. He pulls himself back onto the bank and heads straight for their bench. I applaud wholeheartedly with my eyeballs. Shakes and vibrates all of the water in their direction. They are incensed. "Mon bébé!" But the baby seems delighted. The dog's shaggy owner chortles. In another area of the city, he might have to apologize. They scamper.

A guy in a white-collared shirt takes their bench, hooks his arms over the back like crooked chicken wings.

Bike riders roll past, all the fat on their body agitated and jittering to the tune of the cobblestones underneath them.

A young Chinese man shuffles past with his father, whose gait is much younger than his son's, even with the G-Star Raw t-shirt.

A pirate comes and plunks down next to me. I am laying down, squinting at the sun and from that perspective, he looks pirate-like. He's tied a white shirt around his head like a turban, a pirate turban. He is spry and frisky and asks if I want to join them for a game of pétanque. I consider the offer and tell him I don't know how to play. He doesn't mind. OK. I jump up and walk barefoot onto the gravel strip that runs parallel to the canal. No one chides me (Am I still in France? I ask in my head. No, I am in the 19th arrondissement). The pirate draws a circle in the gravel. I stand in it and throw the little hot pink ball (le cochonnet) like he says to. 1 silver ball surfaces from his black bag- 2, 3, 4, 5, and then 6 balls. 3 are shiny silver. 3 are matte. A couple even have the pirate's initials on them. He is proud. I get two, his friend without a shirt gets two, and he gets two. I lance my ball without any idea of how far it will go. Ça va. The next time better, closer to the little pink ball. The pirates are killers. Even when my ball is right next to the little one, they aim and shoot directly at it, knocking it far from the pink one. And even when their balls are far from the pink one, they knock them back toward the cochonnet. The pirates are fort. I get bored and prance back over to the water. They say warmly, 'chiao fanny!' 'Fanny' is someone who loses big time.

The Wondrous BHV

BHV is an institution here in Paris. It is really just a big, rather dumpy department store, but it is also something else. I mean something surprising and vexing at once. For example, BHV has a huge hardware store in its basement. While we were finishing our apartment we made weekly trips to the basement of BHV to get saws and paintbrushes and then would stop at the perfume counter on the ground floor on our way out. Surprising. In the very middle of the city, a Home Depot of sorts - with high-end lingerie and perfume.

Vexing: Nothing new. This revolves around the simple fact there isn't customer service in France. The French would agree with me here and would pride themselves on that fact. No need for the capitalist customer to decide how an employee should do her job. OK. Fair enough. Fresh, new perspective, right? Except when you want buy and return something at a large store like BHV. Simplicity become complexity.

I wanted to buy some paper products (because, yes, BHV has a huge arts section as well). I chose my paper and approached the cashier. Nope. Apparently there was a "paper counter" I had to go see first, who would quantify and package my paper products before they could be purchased. Over to paper lady. She was busy. I mean, really busy. She had four other paper orders before mine to fit into plastic BHV bags - I mean, her task was, as it seemed, overwhelming. After a long wait, during which my eyes were opened so wide that they started to hurt - I was shocked that she would be so staunchly inefficient without even a glance in my direction - paper lady eventually gave in, counted my paper and gave me a ticket to take to the register. There was that.

Later on in the day, I realized I had purchased the wrong size paper for the project. Oh, no - I really thought to myself, BHV twice in one day with a return involved. This spells trouble. To the register. I present my receipt and explain that I just need to exchange the paper bought earlier for a different size.

"This is becoming complicated," the dear cashier-ist pronounces.

"On the contrary, this is very simple," I retort, trying to just keep it cool, bracing for what is next.

"But, no, Madame. You see, you have to go back to the original person who checked you out," she clarifies.

"What?"

"You have to find the cashier who performed your original transaction."

"I don't even understand how that is possible. I don't know the people who work at BHV," I am lost. What is she talking about?

"Well, let's see. Here is her name on your receipt. Adeline," she says.

"Who is Adeline? Where is Adeline? What does Adeline have to do with my exchange? This is not personal," I try to reason with her.

"Let me get my manager."

Excellent idea.

...10 minutes later...

Manager appears and these words float out of her mouth as a definitive statement: "Adeline is on her lunch break."

How are we still discussing Adeline? "OK, but I still do not understand her role in this. All I need is an exchange for something I purchased this morning."

"Right, and Adeline was your cashier," she insists.

I concede, hoping she will move on: "Yes, Adeline was my cashier." It comes out like a confession.

"So, what do you need?" she asks.

"I just need to return this paper for paper of a different size," I say, losing hope that it will happen.

"Ehh, uhh, well I will need to void the earlier transaction and charge you for everything again. Yes, I will need to cancel the entire transaction from this morning and start all over again, since Adeline is at lunch. "

That is a non-sequitur. A real customer service logical fallacy.

"Whatever you need to do is fine," I reply.

The worst thing was that even after she figured out how she would manage without Adeline, she insisted that I go back to the paper lady to sort out the sizes and then come back again after all of that. Through the mazes of aisles, to the paper lady, who has at least 7 pieces of paper to put in 7 different bags this time, waiting waiting, and then I have to explain the mess to her. And all I could think of was, Where is Adeline when I need her?

Loyalty

I feel like such a traitor.

First, some background: every neighborhood in Paris is serviced by a really excellent market. It is an aspect of Parisian life that I increasingly relish...the experience of mulling over the three types of cheeses you will select, of going from one little vendor to the next, for your fish, for your flowers, for your fruits and vegetables, even for mending your clothes. Last week, Xavier and I went to the covered market closest to our house for all of these things. We bought fruit and vegetables from one of the very nice fruit/vegetable vendors, who, at the end, gave us raspberries and strawberries as little goodies to try. He handed them to us gingerly and with care. He was very sweet.

Yesterday, I went back to the market and wanted to buy some more vegetables. I approached the same stand, but couldn't see the nice guy anywhere. It just so happens that there is another fruit and vegetable stand directly next to his. I mean almost touching. And there were two guys there who told me to come over to taste one of their strawberries. So, while still looking over my shoulder for my missing guy, I gave in to the draw and then, naturally, I also started selecting my avocados, endives, eggplant, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, apples and oranges. Well, of course, not more than 3 minutes later he returned. I tried to avoid his gaze, because I could feel the heat of it from where I was inspecting the avocados. Eventually I couldn't help it. I looked at him with a sorry sort of grimace. He literally shook his head. This is not done. No loyalty. I've said it before, but sometimes I feel like I live in a little village in France.

Color Hearing

I still teach English to a few of my Wall Street students privately. This morning, Katia (who is Russian, but has lived in France for 15 years) came over for a lesson/conversation. I always enjoy talking with Katia because she is a musician who teaches at the one of the conservatories in Paris. Her husband is also a musician - a great conductor. She was telling me about her 16-year old son today. I knew he was an impressive violinist from previous conversations, but I didn't really understand the extent of his genius.

She told me an incredible story. It started when he was a little boy - 2 and 3 years old, he would hear music playing and go over to their piano and plunk out what he was hearing. She was pleased with his obvious talent, but there was a lot of musical influence in their house since both she and her husband (and her parents) were professional musicians.

When he was around 4 years old, she gave him a tiny violin and he started playing. Immediately his talent was evident. She knew where he was headed as a musician, so she would spend 3 hours a day in those very young years practicing with him.

While they were practicing, he would often ask her if she could hear the colors. "Mama, it is blue. Can you hear it?" She had no idea what he was talking about and dismissed it at first, but he continued to 'hear colors' and talk about those colors as if they were a normal way of perceiving sound.

So, like many good musicians, this kid has perfect pitch. He can name the key of any song that he listens to. He can sing an F# without any reference point. But hearing a tonality for him also elicits the perception of a color. So, a tone signifies something totally different for him than for most people, even people trained in music.

When she first started talking about it, I was perplexed. I felt like it was kind of like the question my brother Paul likes to ask people: "On a scale of 1 to 10, who is your favorite actor." Mixed mediums.

She said that when she made the full realization of what he was experiencing, she was concerned that his ear would be debilitating. He lives his life hearing these tones and hearing colors - if the window is open and he hears the cars and the traffic out on the street - he attaches tones to all of those happenings and perceives colors. However, for him, all of this is simply automatic and always has been.

So, indeed after thinking about it, one can make an effort to associate colors, (in a sense, moods), to keys of music. Something written in C is generally cheerful, and vibrant - so the color is probably red. For me, this would not be a concrete association; it would of course also be influenced by timbres, tempos, melodies of a composition. But, I can see the sense in color association.

But for this guy, it is not thinking through and finding colors to attribute to sounds or tonalities. It is literally just involuntary perception. So, I looked into a little bit. People who automatically experience a duality in perception have what is called synaesthesia. This can take all sorts of forms.

Some people see colored numbers and letters. They see a number and simultaneously see a color. A 7 is always red or a B is always blue. Reading is colorful.

Some people see numbers in maps, involuntarily. They hear or see a number and they perceive it in a larger numerical-spatial design.

Some people taste words. When a word is spoken it evokes a taste in their mouths. Crazy.

(Props to Rothko above).

Josephine

Our illustrious neighbor, Josephine, charms our “Juda” from time to time. Seen here, she is doing a great job fake-vacuuming as she glances furtively at the conversation of the neighbors above (whose door was gratifyingly open).



Now, I am fully aware that this photo may be classified as typical Josephine-like voyeurism. This is absolutely true. You see, her ways are communicable, catching. Xavier and I peep out of our Juda to catch her spying on us and on others.

I stopped writing about Josephine. I was trying to just ignore her entirely. It worked on many levels. I became perceptive to when she typically went out in the morning for bread and avoided leaving the apartment around that same time. I listened for her shuffling in her apartment while I would wait for the elevator to rise up the building. If I heard the shuffle of her slippers, I would rush down the stairs, two at a time to the sound of her door opening in wonder above me.

Sometimes she would catch me. She would foxtrot out of her apartment at the exact moment I had entered the elevator. She would stand there, still sporting her floor-length t-shirt, holding me captive in the elevator by keeping the door from closing (with the help of her considerable form).

These moments weren’t as bad as they might sound initially. She would usually start by reporting the activity she had monitored going in and out of my apartment, any strange sounds that she had heard from within; all of which was incredibly lackluster information. I live there.

She would eventually peter out; there was a general lack of rousing events streaming in and out of my apartment, and yet she would always manage to report it all to me as if I were a stranger to the place and as if she were letting me in on a huge secret. I would insist on the fact that I was late and then she would release me, telling me that I should come over anytime to sit and have tea with her, that she generally has nothing to do (a real eye-opener).

You see, I had a real visceral aversion to Josephine after our beginning episodes when she sabotaged my bike-riding life in Paris. After that, Xavier officially killed her plant, a leafy fern that sat innocently potted outside her door. He urinated into it for a week straight. I am certain that she was peering out of her Juda watching him and didn’t say a word because she found it so engaging. (As you can see in the photo, she has found a suitable replacement).

So, back to the picture. We have become like her. We peer out of our Juda. We listen for her heavy steps, for her shrill voice as a warning not to exit the apartment. I shut the windows and shades that face her apartment. We take note of, even snoop in, her life; albeit with a dissimilar motive to hers.

And yet, it isn’t just her peering that is contagious, it is also Josephine herself. I think I might take her up on her offer to tea.

climatisation

I am back in Paris after a stint in the US to be with family for our national holiday. And back to work - actually my last month teaching English (proclaimed with glee - a big, fat smile on my face. One can teach auxiliary verbs, contracted forms, pronunciation, etc. only so long before she feels rather downcast and futile...not to mention before she begins to use misplaced prepositions and spellings in her own language, absorbed by her French students...). I begin my new job, teaching for an American study abroad program in Paris, in September.

Bref, I arrived at work yesterday and was given a very lovely, exclusively French surprise. A manager at the center handed me a white envelope in the same shape as other envelopes, which have, in the past, held good and bad news. So, I was curious. I looked at her as I opened it and she watched me with anticipation. Weird. I could never have expected what was inside: 10 certificates totaling 100 euros to be used at various shops around Paris. I thought to myself, I arrive at least 15 minutes late for my prep hour, I am rather apathetic about this place and its money making objectives, in fact, the only time I am enthusiastic is when I am standing in front of students (which, by the managers, is never even noticed), surely I am no candidate for some strange form of a bonus...

But no. It had nothing to do with me. It was a gift from la France - the country for the worker. The 100 euro prize was doled out to all employees who had worked at the center without air-conditioning. I was delighted, but couldn't help feeling totally confused. First of all, is it stipulated in my contract that I would work in an air-conditioned environment? And more pressing, the temperature in Paris has yet to hit 80 degrees this summer (it is currently 70 degrees and raining, comme d'habitude). Lucky me.

The protection of the worker is really an important theme in France. Hiring and firing is a thorny process for French companies, since most contracts include at least three months of guaranteed pay regardless of the reason for being fired or for leaving. As a worker, you also have to give two months notice to quit - so, in June I approached the center director to deliver the news that I would like to quit and be finished by August. I handed him the letter I had written for the occasion. He shook his head no. He informed me that I needed to send my letter of resignation by mail. Where? I asked confounded. He was standing in front of me. I could touch him if I extended my arm. I jabbed the letter into the air, attempting to place it into his hands again. He added that it needed to be sent recommandé, which means certified. I just stared at him until I finally said, No.

He took a deep breath and went into an explanation of how this process helps to protect workers in France. If there is a documented trail of the letter and a signature for it, no employer could claim he had not received the resignation letter. What boss would claim that? I demanded. I insisted that I just wanted to give him the letter (after all, we remember that the women at the post office are not fans of mine or of me). After he had briefed me entirely on the risks of not sending the letter by certified mail, he took the letter and wrote a formal, 'I hereby declare that I have received the resignation letter of Emilie Johnson on June 1, 2008,' asked me to make another copy of the letter, wrote the same words, signed and stamped it and gave the copy to me ceremoniously. Frenchies.

PARIS V

Last weekend Xavier and I ran a race, from Paris (starting under the Eiffel Tower) to the Chateau de Versailles (which is 16 kilometers south-west of Paris). I’ve run in a few races in the past in the US of A, so I sort of have a sense of race/running culture. The mixture of French culture and race culture made for an amusing day. The smell of body odor was incredibly potent for the entire 16 kilometers. At the start, we were squashed together (21,000 people ran the race) under the Eiffel Tower and I think 20,900 of these people had refrained from bathing for the past few days. Pungent and sharp. Xavier’s comment: “Ca sent le poney ici.” (It smells like pony here!)

We got going and I comforted myself by thinking that within a few kilometers the pack would thin out. Unfortunately, there was a total lack of organization to begin with (which lasted and amplified itself at the end with a 30-minute wait time to cross the finish line…[these frenchies, they love lines – after running that hard, they had earned their right to stand in one!]).

To my consternation, the whole race proved to be a series of people pushing ahead, using their hands and saying ‘pardon,’ while wiping their sweaty hands, arms, and other random parts all over me. I kept feeling the impulse to say, “It’s not a race!” And then I kept reminding myself that it totally was.

There were neat things also – at the kilometer markers, there were a few stations with oranges, prunes, and sugar cubes. Yes. Prunes and sugar cubes. A nice French variation on the water stop. A strange and pleasing adaptation…but also whole water bottles, which, in a long race, is harebrained because people took two sips and then threw the bottle in the road. We were tripping over thousands of bottles, 3/4 full.

Xavier kept the whole thing comical though. There was a guy running next to us at some point who started repeatedly shouting ahead, “Allez Robert!” (Go Robert!) Then Xavier began exclaiming: “Allez Jacques!” “Allez Bruno!” “Allez Jean-Pierre!” Different names over and over again. His volume was the best part. He was roaring the names. The runners around us relished his little performance.

…So, otherwise, I’ve been reported by many to be homesick here in France. I’ve spent some time thinking about this and I’ve come up with a different explanation for my bouts of tenderness here: it comes down to a personality problem. I have a different (and, sometimes, at odds) personality to the national French one. Me: indecorous and strident (all the while smiling); the French: proper, measured, pursed-lips.

No, but seriously, I think it might have something to do with that little personality formula. It can look like this:

Me bum cheek clenching.

The women in the streets who look down their long noses at me as I eat part of a baguette while walking and say to me, ‘bon appetit’ in a snotty and reproachful tone. I giggle a little. It is funny to think that it offends them if I eat bread in public. Still, it makes me uncomfortable.

Or the lady at the Prefecture de Police (where I will eventually get my working visa at some point in the next 20 years) tells me after waiting in line for 3 hours, “No, it is not possible. I can do nothing for you.” She says this with glee on her face. Literally. She is elated to tell me no. Not just ‘no,’ but no with a certain ‘you’ve wasted a whole lot of time coming here’ ring. Just tickled.

Sometimes when I stand at my kitchen window, watering my lavender, I hear from the adjacent window, “Ooh la la! Non – ce n’est pas possible comme ca!” (Oh, no, no – this is not possible!) It is Josephine (yes, our lovely neighbor still plays her part in our lives). The water dripping from the base of my pots is far too much. Clenching begins. She commences with her long lecture (without any eye contact at all, mind you). Out her kitchen window, her bossy, blaring words travel through the air over to mine. I quietly pull the two halves of my window together and fasten the latch to curtail her tirade.

I go into a shop with a paper cup of tea in my hand. I’m browsing nicely – touching things here and there. A gentleman approaches me and says in English, “I will take your cup until you are finished.” No thanks – I’m fine, I reply in French. “No, no, it is not for you. I will take your cup until you are finished.” Right. There they go again - clenching.

But then there are the lovely ones and the lovely things that would never occur, for instance, in New York:

The funny policemen who take themselves very seriously and pull me over on my bike. “Why do you think I’ve stopped you, Miss? (Not waiting for a response) It was because that light was red.” “It was yellow,” I respond. “No, it was orange,” he retorts back (because lights here aren’t ‘yellow’, they are ‘orange’)…so I win – he’s agreed with me after all and then we have a good laugh and he tells me lightheartedly to have a nice day, almost patting the back of my bicycle as I ride away.

The lady in the chocolate shop who demands recognition. I walk in with an American friend in the middle of a conversation. We don’t stop talking to respond to her initial “bonjour.” It comes back again, louder, perforating our discussion. “Ahem, bonjour!” I turn to her and respond. Then she asks, in French, if we’d like a taste of chocolate (I guess assuming we wouldn’t know what she is saying). When I respond in French that I’d love a morcel, she says with surprise, “Ah, but you speak French!” Then she is just lovely and lets me try 3 little pieces of dark, rich ganache chocolate, her eyes brightening when I smile and tell her what a treat they are. She goes into a charming overview of the little chocolate company and tells us about their stores in Provence.

And truly, the best French people of all are Xavier’s family. His sister, Marie, encourages me with her eyes when I speak. His mother tells me to call her when I am sad (perhaps not realizing that self-expression is the source of my gloom). His dad, handsome guy, tries out all of his American expressions on me as he chortles. Jules and Louise – my niece and nephew in-law, love me unreservedly, language downright aside. Jules’ enthusiastic high-fives, just for me. Louise’s many cadeaux (gifts) – ceramic trinkets she’s created, pictures drawn, and ‘American’ hugs. And, of course, my little step-one, Miss Marguerite...my favorite little being in Paris. She is only smiles and delight with her little words, formed with her already french mouth, and the open way she laughs with me.

PARIS IV

Last week, I had the strange, somber and culturally instructive experience of attending a traditional Catholic funeral in France. The funeral was for Xavier’s uncle, only 68, who was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer and who, within a month’s time, went downhill, could no longer eat and whose body succumbed to the illness and died. Since Xavier and I only arrived in France in June, I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to meet all of his extended family. The funeral was thus a series of introductions at something of a sad and inopportune moment. His aunts and uncles greeted me with tears in their eyes, each of them kissing me ceremoniously on both cheeks. The French never miss this ritual. Xavier’s father is from a family with 7 children and thus, the bisous were plentiful.

Xavier’s father, Vincent, is an enchanting man. His smile is luminous – mostly stemming from his eyes. He is vibrant and charismatic, and he always holds himself in a dignified way – one hand to a cuff of his opposite sleeve, perfect posture and yet at the same time, not at all stuffy. He is warm with me – generous – he confers his generosity by listening carefully to my slow sentences as they make their way out of my mouth and he puts the pieces of my word salad together. A gift from a French man. He takes the time to explain things as they happen and he encourages me each time he sees me in my little plight here, saying “Language takes time, but what progress you’ve made!”

At this moment, however, Vincent is unrecognizable. He is engulfed by grief. His eyes don’t shine; they look very tired, almost dull, and his posture betrays his usual poise. We enter the church – a mass of people. Vincent stands to read the words of his sister, Christine, who could not be at the funeral. He gets up. He stands in front of the 200 people in the gothic church, in front of the wooden casket laid out in the center aisle. He is unable to read the words. He hands the paper to the priest, who, in his somewhat benign and condescending manner recites the words on the page. Vincent repositions himself in his seat in one of the front pews.

The silences are filled by the priest. He sings and the congregation joins him. Although most people in France are Catholic by birth, few attend church more than for occasions like this one. And yet, despite rampant secularism, when the hymns are sung, people know the words. Xavier’s mother knows the words by heart. Xavier sings the words and recognizes the melodies. The priest asks the family to stand. Xavier, his sister and mother stand with the rest. They file out slowly into the center aisle and approach the casket one by one, shaking a gold baton filled with oil over the wood. The oil glistens on its side. Every person in the church, individually, performs the same ritual. The church is heavy – the air feels like it.

We file out silently and go to the cemetery. Cemeteries in France are peculiar to me. Like most things cultural, I don’t even notice the particular way an American cemetery is set up until I see how vastly different it can be. The rows of graves aren’t headstones – they either lay completely flat on the ground or, more commonly, they are small houses – sanctuaries, I guess. The houses are made of stone – they line the “streets” of the cemeteries with front doors and small stain glass windows. Candles usually burn within. In the big cemeteries of Paris (le Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise or le Cimetiere de Montparnasse) there are literally maps – exactly like a street map, with street names and grave houses marked on the plan.



The casket is wrapped in white plastic and is essentially dumped in the grave with a crane - an odd juxtaposition between something antediluvian and something strictly modern. I feel unease with this; I look around and it is clear my sentiment is shared. Yet, the casket in the ground lightens the mood somehow and people start opening and up and talking more freely. They turn to me.

Pause: I must take a minute to explain my language situation at the moment. I feel like I am in a fog. I am sure plenty of people in a similar circumstance have described it in exactly those terms. Fuzzy. Hazy. Vague. Imprecise. Even when I understand all the words in a sentence, if I miss the tense of just one verb, the whole thing is transformed and I am disoriented and adrift with my own little account of what I think is being said. Often, I feel the impulse to reply to something only to find that the conversation has moved on entirely. I am too late. Seventy-five percent is clear and the remaining twenty-five percent is left to my imagination: idiomatic expressions, colloquial terms, jokes based on semantics, and sometimes “verlan.”

Verlan is a popular way of speaking in French – something light, even fun, stemming from youth in the banlieues (the neighborhoods bordering Paris, usually impoverished). Speaking “verlan” means inverting the syllables of French words. For example, “chez moi” (at my house) becomes “chez oim”; “bizarre” becomes “zarbi”; “vas-y” (go there) becomes “zyva”; “fete” (party) becomes “teuf.” For a girl just trying to make it with her standard French vocab, trying to anticipate what is essentially pig-latin in French becomes a bit tricky. (As a side note: the fact that verlan has crept into common usage in France is miracle. There is a whole national assembly of language preservation police who determine what words can be officially “French” or not. And the French are racist toward the Arabs who inhabit les banlieues, so it is truly wacky they allow these youths to invert and twist their beloved language. And then they actually feel comfortable using the morphed words).

They turn to me. They ask me how I find Paris. “I find Paris wet,” I respond. (Paris has had 46% more rainfall this summer than average). “Yes, yes,” they agree, but they continue by providing the many reasons Paris is a star. (And she is a star – even I would agree).

One more language note: the French and their pronouns. Because everything is gendered – either masculine or feminine, part of my confusion in French stems from people always throwing around the pronouns “he” and “she.” While speaking of Paris, a French person might say – “she is lovely, she is luminous, she is vibrant.” Then I, having missed the initial antecedent (Paris), think to myself, “I would love to meet this person – she sounds captivating,” only to find it is the city being discussed. This problem is ubiquitous for me; Xavier, speaking of chair we just bought, says, “she is round, red and heavy.” I ask aloud, “Who are you talking about?” I find myself in a little world full of characters described in the strangest ways. I have to get used to the fact that a candle is a “she” and my “cell phone” is a he (…don’t forget to bring him).

So, yes, Paris is wet. And then the characters of la famille Joly show up. Vincent’s youngest sister, Gaby appears. She looks exactly like one of those stacking Russian dolls (the set of dolls placed one inside each other, increasing in size). Her eyes are like Vincent’s – warm and encompassing. She gets you in her gaze. Xavier introduces me, because we have not yet met, and she looks at me intently and says with big, wide eyes and perfect sincerity, “You’re lucky I’m not a man, Xavier, I’d have such a crush on this one.” She pronounces this with an open face, humor, but completely seriously. If she were a man, it would have felt creepy. As it were, I just felt flattered.

Next, it’s Remi. Remi is Xavier’s hippy uncle, who lives in the South of France and who came to the funeral despite being firmly against such events (death, I guess). Remi looks at me and says, “Are you sure she’s American? I always picture Americans having the heads of hamburgers.” (Les tetes d’hamburger, quoi).

Heads of hamburgers. Right. I laughed for a full 5 minutes after that one. And then he thought I did, indeed, have the head of a hamburger.

My mother always had a problem with her children. We were far too critical. Like Xavier, we would describe people in unnecessarily mean ways. She always tried to re-appropriate the given insult by sprinkling a compliment on top of it. Classic example…Us: “She is so stupid and fat.” Rosie: “She has lovely, shiny hair.” I’ve always sort of relished my critical view, my attitude of slight superiority. My siblings and I used to sit in church and have a roaring time comparing people to animals, finding blunders in the way they spoke, essentially general criticism for all (my dad would even participate occasionally). However, I have entered a country where everyone I meet plays this same game. And they are generally better at it than I. They play it with their eyes in the metro, with their words as you walk down the street, with their body as they speak to you (with permanently pursed lips) and gesticulate. It is not as enjoyable as I thought it might be (my mom would be pleased with the lesson I am learning). Xavier, first and foremost, peppers my existence with his running critical commentary:

- “You look like an egg in that dress.”
- In reference to my hygiene: “I believe the balance you’ve found is interesting.”
- And in reference to my progress in French (said with enthusiasm): “And it’s not like you sound retarded anymore!”

And while I actually smile and laugh at his commentary of me, because he really does offer it jokingly, it would be funnier if he extended his observations to himself. But, alas, no – the French are not extremely self-reflexive people. He is, by contrast, self-congratulatory.

- Most recently: “I’m so much faster than everyone else.” (Said with total sincerity and as if it were really germane)

Xavier read that last part and claims it is a bit mean…perhaps true; however, I’ve not edited it out because it is true and funny and I write it with a smile.