PARIS VI

After spending Christmas in Washington with all the Johnsons, Xavier and I flew back to Paris to spend New Year's and the week after with the Joly family and Marguerite, of course. Marguerite is a crack up. She is hyper-wordy and intensely mimi (cute, in french, and this is also how she says my name). She loves pronouncing all the things people say around her. But she is extremely polite with her words and body; she has immediately picked up the French tradition of saying 'pardon' each time she passes someone (or something, in her case). While zooming past her blocks on the floor with her wagon, she says 'pardon' directly to the blocks. She almost shouts "pee-pee" and "ca-ca" when someone steps toward the bathroom. And every meal is accompanied by her survey of the current amount of food – the final conclusion is consistently: “Y'a plu" (Il n'y a plus = there’s no more).



Christmas chez la famille Joly is full of new traditions for me. One of the most novel rituals was la galette des Rois (the big cookie of the kings - and that translation is direct from Xavier). The 6th of January, for the French, is the day of celebration for the three Kings who visited Christ after his birth (Gaspard, Balthazar and Melchior). They celebrate their stopover with a ritual that revolves around a cake made of pastry pie, filled with frangipane (almond and pastry crème). The ritual went something like this: Louise (8) hid under the table. Her mom, Marie, cut the cake into even slices and as she served each slice on a plate, she asked Louise whom the piece was for. Louise would call out a name and continued doing so until each person had a piece in front of her. La fève (literally the fava bean) was hidden in one of the pieces. (The server makes sure that la fève is in the piece of one the youngest members of the family). So, after Louise had crawled out from under the table and was eating her piece, she cried out in disgust, “there is something hard in my cake!” (All the while, I sat watching, not knowing what to expect). Since Louise found la fève in her piece, she got to choose her queen (or king). She chose me and placed the traditional paper crown on my head (the crown comes with la galette des Rois when you buy the cake in la patisserie).

This is the point where most French families stop. It is simply an honor to be the queen or the king for the day and to eat the scrumptious cake. However, the Joly family takes it one bizarre step further. Once the crown was on my head, everyone got out of his or her seat and Marie filled my glass of water to the top. All eight Joly’s surrounded me closely and Marie instructed me that no matter what happened I needed to keep drinking the water in my glass until it was gone. (A reassuring preamble for what was to come). The minute I touched the glass to my lips, all eight of them started screaming repeatedly, as loud as they could into my ears: “La Reine boit” (The Queen drinks!). The queen who is able to continue drinking her whole glass without interruption is supposedly a good, focused one. Having grown up in the Johnson house, I made a splendid queen.



I was also lucky enough to participate in a Joly family game of Trivial Pursuit – French version, of course. As in most games we play, I am considered a severe handicap for my team. The first time we went to Baugé (where their family home is), just after I arrived in June, Xavier recommended we play pictionary, reasoning that, it is, after all, a drawing game. How wrong he was. It is most definitely a word-based game. Since no one else wanted me on their team, given my historical aptitude for games in French, Xavier and his dad got stuck with me for Trivial Pursuit. And I most definitely proved to be a total wreck for their team. You see, I am past the point of patience in French – I no longer just shut up and listen to what is going on around me. Bored easily, I need to interject. However, I was up against this: Après le défaite de 1870, qui dirigea le gouvernment provisoire de la France? (After the defeat of 1870, who directed the provisional government of France?) and A quelle occasion le Comte de Lauzun devint-il Duc? (On what occasion did the Count of Lauzun become Duke?) and Qui était Fulgence Bienvenue? (Who was Fulgence Bienvenue?). These questions were well out of my range of knowledge (on a number of levels). But the French make everything their own. Rather than a "Sports" category, the French version of Trivial Pursuit included a "Leisure" category - including numerous questions about chefs, restaurants and the occasional Formula 1 driver; sports really are not their thing. A good example of a question from this category: Quel jouet est soporifique? (What game is sopoforic? [Yo-yo]).

Upon our return back to Paris after the holidays, I finally received my carte de séjour – well sort of (I mean I had obtained a ‘receipt’ for the visa, which allowed me to work, but had not yet obtained the actual card to stay). After a complicated and long process (I arrived last June, after all), we were finally sitting in front of the woman who would ordain me legal in France, legal to work and legal to stay. We carefully sorted the expansive folder of required documents and as she asked for them, I handed each over to her gingerly. She explained what was required for me to continue my stay in France: "You must renew annually for three years, at which point you can apply for citizenship." Hearing this, Xavier querried, "Is the renewal process any less complicated?" The woman squinted her eyes at him and tilted her head as she responded with a sincere sounding question, "Complicated?" - as if he'd just asked an absurd question.

It's getting better all the time. In the beginning of February I will begin teaching English at the “Wall Street Institute.” The institute is a large organization and pumps out a huge number of French students who can speak (as the institute claims) “Wall Street English.” I have no idea what that means, being a native speaker myself. I certainly hope that as an instructor I will not be required to employ a lexicon of stocks and bonds. They will be sorely disappointed if so. Most of my students will be business people, whose companies have sent them there to perk up their English skills.

More excitingly, I will be teaching for an American study abroad program here in Paris accredited through the University of New Haven, starting in June. I actually have to create the course I am teaching (which is quite cool). The course will be focusing on women expat writers here in Paris during the Belle Epoque and Interwar years: Edith Wharton, Gertrude Stein, Djuna Barnes and some other such beauties.

I enjoy French more and more. Expressions that amuse me thoroughly:

- Xavier’s mother to her 8-year old granddaughter Louise: "Tu ne laves pas une casserole, tu brosses tes dents!" (You are not washing a pan, you are brusing your teeth!)

- In Le Monde after the Iowa Primary: La blogosphere est quasi unanime sur Hillary: quand on est annoncée incontournable et qu'on prend un gadin, ca sent le sapin. (The blogosphere is pretty much unanimous on Hillary: when someone is announced unstoppable and then they are defeated sharply, it smells like a pine tree. The reference is, of course, to coffins.)

And then cultural things every day that I just don’t decode in a ‘natural’ way: for example, how very specific childhood smells. Xavier approaches me and says, “close your eyes and smell this.” It smells sweet, it smells sickly sweet to me. It is Colle Parfumée (almond glue). That is his childhood in a smell. But it is certainly not Elmer's Glue.

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.