La troisième semaine

For those who may think that I’m enjoying myself a little too much over here, I need to re-express my daily routine gripe. Out of the house at 8 this morning... not home until 8:30. I would complain to my co-workers, but I left them all at the office when I finally gave up on the day.

So let’s summarize: French food-Love...French woman – ultimately-cool, stylish and sexy... French wine – cheap, readily available at every corner, delicious, and cheap... French men – weenies (see the blog for full proof on that one)... French work ethic – disgustingly contradictory to their lifestyles.

On to last week’s activities; I think I updated everyone on the Obama inauguration? The night after that was my first experience with French bourgeoisie. I think the battle of the classes originated somewhere between the British and the French. I was invited for dinner at an old colleague’s house. I knew that Francois was a little better off than most, but I didn’t realize that it also meant socializing in different circles. First off, I made sure to seek advice on whether it was appropriate to bring wine to a dinner host in Paris. Advised by normal people that it was, I stopped off and picked up a very nice bottle of Mergot. I’m sure his maid appreciated it when he gave it to her later on in the evening. My 2005 paled in comparison to the multiple bottles of 1990 Burgundy he kept bringing out. Another lesson learned... never bring wine to someone that has their own cellar. Anyhow, the point is not to slag Francois... he was very kind to have invited me and he and his wife put on a great formal dinner. Aged Scotch with appetizers to start, 4 course meal, followed by retiring to the living room where the men smoked cigars and the woman cigarettes. No... this is not to disparage Francois... This is to slag his friends! The true bourgeois of Paris. It was hard not to giggle as I greeted not one but two ascot wearing guests. To be fair, they were a married couple. I wondered about the earlier conversation; “Cherie... with what shall we accessorize this evening? Cravattes or ascots? Ah, yes... it is Wednesday... it must be ascots!”. I kept my mouth shut when the conversation turned towards their membership to the society to bring back French royalty (poor, poor Marie Antoinette). I withheld comment when one woman decided that I must know that she was from a ‘grande famille’ and then asked if it was common in Canada to have family estates and were we having difficulty keeping them in the family as well. But I drew blood biting my tongue when someone asked me where I was living and responded back with “oh la la la (which is the opposite of ooh la la la ) not the Chateau D’Eau area? Yes.. Chateau D’ eau.... the metro station 50 meters from my house.

This weekend was more walking, walking, and walking. I started out in Neuilly, on the edge of the city, walked my way to the Arc de Triomphe, decided to go up it this time, then over to the Eiffel tower and a little more wandering until I found myself in the middle of a pro-Palestinian demonstration. Travel advice for you all; when you find yourself surrounded by a hundred or so riot police, it’s time to find your way home. Ok.. take some pics first, then get out of there.

Sunday’s walkabout was the result of my lazy French. I was told of a group of Canadians that organized a ‘randonn­é’ on the last Sunday of each month. Thinking that a ‘randonné” was the word for get-together I quickly accepted. Imagine my surprise to find out that it was a 20k hike. Leave it to a fucking Canadian to have organized early morning hikes in a city that barely sleeps. Regardless, it was an enjoyable day with some good , outgoing people through the French countryside. It did leave me a little homesick though, as it reminded me of how lucky we are in BC to have access to the rugged nature that we have. French farmland pales in comparison even to the North shore mountain trails. Ok.. we lack 18^th century farmhouses, but we have trees.

That’s it for this update. Cheers,

Frenchmen are weenies!

Ok... I had to rush home and write this one up. In earlier emails, I mentioned that French men are somewhat less masculine than some might hope. I was being glib. Yes, there is an overly-obvious amount of pretty boys here, balanced off with prissy, ascot wearing academics. Yes, it is true that I could find nothing but pink argyle, eggplant and mint green sweaters at the local H&M. Puce is apparently the new black. But tonight I had final confirmation that French men are in fact weenies. As I sat by the window of one of the local restaurants enjoying my steak parmesan (side note... when in a French restaurant, order French food... My steak parmesan was actually listed on the menu as Cajun steak. Somebody in this country needs to take a trip to New Orleans). Anyhow... I digress... as I sat by the window, I watched a middle aged couple that had been enjoying a glass of wine on the terrace. They stood... secured their scarves... donned their helmets and headed towards the street. At which point, the woman kick-started her 'ride' (ok.. she pushed the start button) and then the man, after securing his sacoche (let's call it a murse or man-bag - sacoche sounds so faggy) confidently placed himself on the back of her MOPED. You will not here me speak of this again. My point is made. My confidence is boosted. I will rock in this city! Unless, that is, French woman like this?

Sorry there is no pic. I'm cursing myself for not carrying my camera everywhere that I go, but I really didn't think that something pic-worthy could happen within two blocks of my house.

Obama Day

My apologies for the cynicism of my earlier email. Last night I went to the local club that I mentioned to watch the Obama inauguration. I'm not sure the reaction back home, but I was unprepared for what I saw. The only picture I could get was of the back of people's heads because the place was filled right to the doors by 6pm. A little odd watching Barack Obama dubbed into French but the message still got out. There was cheering and applause throughout his speech and then afterwards about a dozen local artists took the stage one at a time to perform and comment. From the speeches I heard I've learned that he has become a symbol of hope for an audience far bigger than the US. The talk is that this will become one of those 'do you remember where you were when..." moments. I can say that I was at the Nuit Bizz'art de Club Opus along the Canal St Martin.

Paris Week Deux

A word of warning to you all... I am going to come home from this experience fattened, beaten and battered. Work hard, play hard seems to be how the French live. They call it ‘ joie de vivre’, I call it suicide pact. The long hours of work and the late hours in the evening will take their toll on me soon enough. Last night was a pretty tame evening out with pre-dinner drinks starting at the late hour of 10, then off to another restaurant in another neighbourhood for dinner, then yet again to a new bar for after dinner drinks. Rolled into home sometime between 4 or 5 this morning.
Let me debunk yet another Paris myth... that the French hate Americans. Sure.. they hate some of them. Let’s start with George W and move our way down his administration... but they do in fact love everything American. In the metro last week I saw a man wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers cap and a NY Giants jacket. I don’t think he appreciated the irony there. I was also told of how French women love American men... oh.. and Canadian too, she said quite suggestively (well, there was really nothing suggestive in it but just let me live in my own little world here). Apparently, North American men are ‘true’ manly men in their eyes compared to the French who are quite feminine. I couldn’t be more pissed to hear this as I’ve been conditioned to attract Vancouver women all these years by being “ just gay enough”. Let’s not mention the proliferation of Starbuck outlets in the city that invented the cafe. You can see the attached picture to see the kind of lineups it gets. And then we move on to Obama. The French have rewritten the story of Creation to include an eighth day when God created Barack. His likeness is everywhere here. I’m not sure how they are writing about him back home, but the French press has him ending the war in his first week as president, solving the economic crisis in the second, then parting the Atlantic so he can make his way to Gaza to defend all the innocent victims of war by knocking down incoming missiles with his laser vision. Ok ... enough of my rant on that. A local jazz club is having an inauguration party on Tuesday and I’m not about to miss out on this. In support of stereotyping everywhere, they are also making this a hip-hop night.


Onto what I’ve been doing... work is going well. On Monday I was introduced to the routine that my female office neighbours greet me with the two cheek ‘bise’ or kiss. On Wednesday I decided that I should actually know their names. Apparently this is secondary to making sure that you don’t offend anybody by not saying good morning. Every morning between 9:30 and 10:30, there are a stream of people who walk through my office. I was naively introducing myself for the first few days thinking that everyone was coming in to say hello to me, but noticed shortly enough that no one introduced themselves back. In fact, I got a few strange looks. It seems that it is politically incorrect not to greet everyone within eyeshot on your arrival regardless of who they are. You never know who may be your next boss I suppose. Do not, though, make the mistake that I did of saying hello to someone later in the day. I came across a familiar face in the coffee room and said a polite hello and was greeted back with ‘but we said that this morning didn’t we?’
Spent the weekend as a tourist. There will be pictures posted soon. This city is amazingly small considering how big it seems. I pretty much hit the majority of the tourist attraction by foot in one day. From Sacre-Coeur, to Montmartre, to Pigalles, to the Arc de Triomphe, Champs-Elysees, Place de la Concorde, Tuileries, Louvre, walked the Seine to Notre Dame then metroed back home after having a coffee in a proper French cafe. Went home for a quick shower then headed out for the aforementioned drunken dinner (don’t think I aforementioned the drunken part but let’s call that a given for any evening that starts with 2 shots of infused rum and ends in a British pub)
Rambling on a bit long here so I’ll sign off for now. Hope everyone is doing well. Keep me posted on what’s going on these days.

First week in Paris

Sorry for the group email and hopefully your spam filters don't delete this email but I thought I would send an update after my first week in Paris. Unfortunately with work, settling into my new apartment and getting my bearings I haven't had the opportunity to do too much on the touristy front so this email will be more about the experience rather than experiences. I'm also writing this email around 6am so forgive me if it trails off at points. It would seem that I drank the equivalent of 3 vente sized espresso's yesterday so sleeping in wasn't an option this morning. Each time we went to the coffee room I would chuckle at how the machine dispensed such tiny servings. Like a pothead getting used to the stuff in a new city, I underestimated the potency and kept my regular quantities going. I'm sure at some point I must have muttered the words " I can handle this shit". Lesson learned. I can't.

My first discovery has been that speaking nothing but French all day long gives me a tiny little ache somewhere behind the temple that only seems to go away with doses of wine. I'm having less language issues and more cultural issues in understanding people. Yesterday's lunch at work was a perfect example. I understood every word they spoke but not a thing they were saying. In large groups I find myself sitting in the middle of the table grinning, nodding my head and laughing when it seems appropriate to laugh. I'm cooked if I don't figure them out before they get wise to my plan.

On the work front, I need to debunk the myth of the French work-week. Someone led me to believe that it was supposed to be 35 hours. I had images of people walking out of meetings at 4:30 because the day was done. Truth be told I was looking forward to it! Nothing could be further from the truth. I tap out at 6:30 and most people are still there. Not that I'm the best example, but I'm giving the North American work ethic a bad name here. The day starts late enough fortunately, around 9:30. In any case, I find myself on the metro home by 7 most nights. Now here's were the French work stereotype shines through. Work is only one metro stop and a few short walks away. That one metro stop has taken anywhere from 10 to 35 minutes depending on the day. It would seem that whoever runs the transit system has fully subscribed to the shortened work week. I'll stop at that because bitching about the trains is a very Parisian thing to do and I don't want to go native so soon.

On the social front, Paris appears to be one of the toughest cities to be alone in. I say that not in a self pity way, but with appreciation. My local bistros are filled to capacity until late in the evening. A friend of mine who moved to Lyon years ago claimed that it was because French television was so bad that people were forced out on weeknights. Whatever the reason, I love this aspect of the city. I stick out a bit like a sore thumb sitting alone and people watching but it's far too much fun and a part of me keeps thinking that some jocular group will insist that I join them for a drink. (I should point out that, while people watching, it's only the tables of hot french women that I hope will invite me into the group... inevitably it will happen and I will find myself at a table of German tourists complaining about the richness of the food). In passing, if anyone can explain the difference between a bistro, brasserie and a resto I’ll be forever in your debt. They all look the same to me.

Finally, a little bit about where I’m living. The apartment is great. In time I’ll get used to not having my stuff I’m sure, but for now... I miss my stuff. I miss having knives that cut and for some reason, someone here decided that a frying pan was a luxury. I’m cooking my eggs in a wok most mornings. I can’t think of a comparable area in Vancouver to describe my neighbourhood. Probably because there is no Turkish neighbourhood in Vancouver. I only bring that up because of the culture shock of getting my haircut by a Turkish barber where the finishing touch uses fire as a tool. You really don’t expect to have your ears and cheeks slapped around with a flaming wad of cotton when you go in for a trim. In general though, the area is nothing trendy, not so modern, but very safe and comfortable feeling with a strong community appeal. Maybe Commercial Drive area on steroids would be a good description.

I’m sure you’ve all read enough for now. Hopefully I have some adventures to tell in my next email and don’t have to bore you with observations of how they sell rabbit in the supermarkets and diet coke costs more than wine in restaurants.