"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast."
-Ernest Hemingway
The French know how to say their goodbyes.
It’s always à bientôt (see you soon), à demain (see you tomorrow), or the slightly more vague à plus tard (see you later). If you know when you’re seeing the person again, you specify it in the goodbye (“A cet après-midi!”). To take the most final of goodbyes, au revoir, literally, it translates to something along the lines of “’Til we meet again.”
There’s hope in these goodbyes, a linguistic proclivity to maintain a relationship. And so to Paris, this city that I love so much and I am leaving tomorrow: a most fervent au revoir. It’s been a wonder.
December 18, 2008
Les grèves: revisited
About a month ago, I commented that it seemed the dramatics in the French strike had disappeared. I was wrong.
I woke up this morning to a distant angry thrum of voices. There was chanting of incomprehensible slogans, yells, and whistles. For the first few minutes as I lay in bed, trying to pick out words, I was scared; we all remember the horrors that took place in Mumbai so recently, and bombs were discovered in a popular Parisian department store earlier this week. The American Embassy sent out a warning to all Americans in Paris to watch out. Fear was not a good feeling to wake up to.
But then, slowly, comprehension trickled back. My older host sister was going to skip school today, because the lycéens (high schoolers) were striking, protesting a law that would severely change the French education system, cut out most of the arts and languages, and downsize teaching staff. Ever resourceful, the students stole the big garbage bins around the quartier early this morning and are now using them to block off the school - barricade-style. I can still hear them shouting, whistling, and screaming; after all, the school day is only beginning.
Oh, someone's using a bullhorn to address them - a police officer, I guess? It's really bizarre to be sitting inside and hearing all of this. I need to venture out of the apartment in two minutes to get on with my last day in Paris, so maybe I'll have more to report on later.
I woke up this morning to a distant angry thrum of voices. There was chanting of incomprehensible slogans, yells, and whistles. For the first few minutes as I lay in bed, trying to pick out words, I was scared; we all remember the horrors that took place in Mumbai so recently, and bombs were discovered in a popular Parisian department store earlier this week. The American Embassy sent out a warning to all Americans in Paris to watch out. Fear was not a good feeling to wake up to.
But then, slowly, comprehension trickled back. My older host sister was going to skip school today, because the lycéens (high schoolers) were striking, protesting a law that would severely change the French education system, cut out most of the arts and languages, and downsize teaching staff. Ever resourceful, the students stole the big garbage bins around the quartier early this morning and are now using them to block off the school - barricade-style. I can still hear them shouting, whistling, and screaming; after all, the school day is only beginning.
Oh, someone's using a bullhorn to address them - a police officer, I guess? It's really bizarre to be sitting inside and hearing all of this. I need to venture out of the apartment in two minutes to get on with my last day in Paris, so maybe I'll have more to report on later.
December 14, 2008
Didn't your maman teach you manners?
It’s the final crunch of the semester, and I’ve been in massive need of caffeine. This morning I made a quick trip to a little boulangerie down the street from me for a cup of coffee. There was a rather long line, as is typical of this particular place, and the man in front of me kept impatiently jiggling his leg as the queue inched forward.
“Une baguette,” he said brusquely when he arrived at the cash register.
The woman behind the counter raised her eyebrows. “Mais, bonjour, quand même!” she said in a loud bark. (The sentiment of, “Say hello, at least!”)
The man quailed a little under her glare, meekly mumbled “Bonjour, madame” and then repeated his request for a baguette. She gave it to him begrudgingly, muttering “This isn’t Starbucks here” in French loudly enough for all of us to hear as she slid the bread into a paper sack. He practically fled from the boulangerie, not meeting anyone’s eyes. I didn’t feel too sorry for him. He was French; he should have known better.
One of the biggest compliments in France is to say someone is bien élevé. It has to do with manners and a good upbringing, but also encompasses all sorts of social graces. The opposite could probably be most closely translated as a mixture of rude and ignorant, and sometimes takes on more political undertones: while our current president coined the term “Axis of Evil,” Jacques Chirac called enemy countries mal élevés. Grumble as you will about slow service in Parisian restaurants, the French take their politesse extremely seriously.
So when I finally stepped up to the counter, I put on my friendliest smile and launched into the polite formula I’ve been using without a second thought whenever I order anything in French.
“Bonjour, madame. Je voudrais un grand crème, s’il vous plait. Merci! Bonne journée!”
She smiled at me serenely as she handed me my drink.
“Une baguette,” he said brusquely when he arrived at the cash register.
The woman behind the counter raised her eyebrows. “Mais, bonjour, quand même!” she said in a loud bark. (The sentiment of, “Say hello, at least!”)
The man quailed a little under her glare, meekly mumbled “Bonjour, madame” and then repeated his request for a baguette. She gave it to him begrudgingly, muttering “This isn’t Starbucks here” in French loudly enough for all of us to hear as she slid the bread into a paper sack. He practically fled from the boulangerie, not meeting anyone’s eyes. I didn’t feel too sorry for him. He was French; he should have known better.
One of the biggest compliments in France is to say someone is bien élevé. It has to do with manners and a good upbringing, but also encompasses all sorts of social graces. The opposite could probably be most closely translated as a mixture of rude and ignorant, and sometimes takes on more political undertones: while our current president coined the term “Axis of Evil,” Jacques Chirac called enemy countries mal élevés. Grumble as you will about slow service in Parisian restaurants, the French take their politesse extremely seriously.
So when I finally stepped up to the counter, I put on my friendliest smile and launched into the polite formula I’ve been using without a second thought whenever I order anything in French.
“Bonjour, madame. Je voudrais un grand crème, s’il vous plait. Merci! Bonne journée!”
She smiled at me serenely as she handed me my drink.
The most wonderful time of the year
The timing was perfect. As I rounded the corner onto the Champs-Elysées last week, I heard Nat King Cole’s voice through my earphones, swooping spectacularly on the phrase “Chestnuuuuts roasting on an open fire…”. The Champs-Elysées was festooned in holiday finery, and the smell of fresh sapin (Christmas tree) was wafting over to me from every direction. It is Christmastime in Paris, and I am in love.
I was in Strasbourg on Friday, self-described as the “capitale de Noël,” for the legendary Christmas market. Between taking pictures of the magnificent decorations and the Santa-clad band playing in front of their famous cathedral, I barely managed to feel the cold.
Strasbourg might take the prize for overwhelming Christmas spirit, but Paris isn’t doing too shabbily, itself. My walk home takes me past the Notre Dame cathedral every day, which means I was present for the erection and subsequent decoration of the enormous Christmas tree out front, which has become the backdrop for every tourist’s photo as they start to arrive in droves for a holiday season in Paris.
Everywhere you look you can see Parisians in their winter uniforms of highly stylish peacoat and scarf hurrying down the streets to avoid feeling the nipping cold. As soon as they enter the warmth of a café, their shoulders fall and relax. Maybe it’s just my own Christmas-fuddled imagination speaking, but the holiday mood seems to have mellowed out this city’s residents. There are more smiles from strangers, more people holding open doors for you as you leave the metro after them.
If I have to say goodbye to Paris so soon (five days, I can’t believe it), at least the Paris I'll be leaving is the one I most want to remember.
I was in Strasbourg on Friday, self-described as the “capitale de Noël,” for the legendary Christmas market. Between taking pictures of the magnificent decorations and the Santa-clad band playing in front of their famous cathedral, I barely managed to feel the cold.
Strasbourg might take the prize for overwhelming Christmas spirit, but Paris isn’t doing too shabbily, itself. My walk home takes me past the Notre Dame cathedral every day, which means I was present for the erection and subsequent decoration of the enormous Christmas tree out front, which has become the backdrop for every tourist’s photo as they start to arrive in droves for a holiday season in Paris.
Everywhere you look you can see Parisians in their winter uniforms of highly stylish peacoat and scarf hurrying down the streets to avoid feeling the nipping cold. As soon as they enter the warmth of a café, their shoulders fall and relax. Maybe it’s just my own Christmas-fuddled imagination speaking, but the holiday mood seems to have mellowed out this city’s residents. There are more smiles from strangers, more people holding open doors for you as you leave the metro after them.
If I have to say goodbye to Paris so soon (five days, I can’t believe it), at least the Paris I'll be leaving is the one I most want to remember.
December 10, 2008
Legible handwriting: the great French art form
The French education system puts a great deal more emphasis on neat handwriting than the American one does. I remember glancing at the notes of a boy next to me in one of my first classes here and feeling my eyebrows nearly touch my hairline: his handwriting was equivalent to the 'Palace Script' font on Microsoft Word, and coincidentally three hundred times neater than my own. It was a little unsettling after years of boys handing me the pen to write things down in group projects on the sole merit of being the girl. After all, I grew up with a father whose scribbled writings sometimes more closely resemble hieroglyphs than the English alphabet. (I say it with love, Daddy).
So it was with a great deal of amusement that I noticed some graffiti on the side of a building as I walked home today, calling for the end of Roi Sarkozy ("King Sarkozy"). It wasn't the content of the message that caught my attention - putting down Sarkozy is daily sport for Parisians. What made me snicker was the fact that it was written in the typical, flawless French cursive teachers here insist upon so strenously. The 'y' of Sarkozy was an especially curly delight.
Kind of takes the edge off the statement, doesn't it?
So it was with a great deal of amusement that I noticed some graffiti on the side of a building as I walked home today, calling for the end of Roi Sarkozy ("King Sarkozy"). It wasn't the content of the message that caught my attention - putting down Sarkozy is daily sport for Parisians. What made me snicker was the fact that it was written in the typical, flawless French cursive teachers here insist upon so strenously. The 'y' of Sarkozy was an especially curly delight.
Kind of takes the edge off the statement, doesn't it?
Louvre: check
I'm going to the Louvre this morning. This is not, in and of itself, at all unusual - I go to the Louvre a lot. It is also not particularly advisable from an academic standpoint, as I have an exam this afternoon. I can't quite bring myself to care that much, seeing as I have nine days left in Paris - how did this happen, people?! - and I refuse to be cooped up studying all day when there are still things on my list to see and do.
What is unusual about this particular visit to the Louvre, then, where I'll be heading off to French paintings of the 18th and 19th centuries, is that afterwards, I will have seen every section of the Louvre. There will be no new wings to uncover. When I return at some point in the future, I will already be at least cursorily familiar with all the permanent exhibits at the museum.
That is crazy, guys. I haven't been able to fully wrap my mind around leaving this city, but I can process this.
What is unusual about this particular visit to the Louvre, then, where I'll be heading off to French paintings of the 18th and 19th centuries, is that afterwards, I will have seen every section of the Louvre. There will be no new wings to uncover. When I return at some point in the future, I will already be at least cursorily familiar with all the permanent exhibits at the museum.
That is crazy, guys. I haven't been able to fully wrap my mind around leaving this city, but I can process this.
December 2, 2008
"I've never seen so few books in my life!"
Remember that part in Beauty and the Beast when the bookshop owner is all, “Hey, Belle, so you’re basically the only literate person in this town. Instead of concentrating on keeping my business afloat, I’m going to give you this book you like so much that makes up the entirety of your customer loyalty – for free!”? Or how about that unforgettable moment when the Beast tells Belle that his library is all hers? (Best. Present. Ever. I’d totally marry the Beast for a library like that.) Didn’t you kind of get the impression that the French were ridiculously nice and generous with their books?
Well, my friends, Disney lies.
Okay, fine, I’ve been in Paris long enough to know that Parisians don’t stick their heads out of windows and start shouting “Bonjour! Bonjour!” to the passerby on the street come morning. And clearly the corporation that brought us High School Musical tends to tweak reality a little. Alright, tweak reality a lot. But still! You’d think Parisian libraries would be open for more than an average of four hours a day. Or not make you pay to access a halfway decent collection of reading. Or at least allow you to take out books, for goodness' sake.
Yes, that’s right. Excepting the collections of municipal libraries, which have about as many books to choose from as those sad little bookstores at the airport, books are intended for in-library use only. As a student studying in Paris, you have to suck it up and get prepared to copy a lot of notes at the library.
Today I did just that and scurried off to the Bibliothèque Saint-Genevieve in the 5th, notebook and student ID card in hand. When I walked in, I felt a surge of bliss. It looked like the Hogwarts library in the Harry Potter movies! One beady-eyed woman be
hind the info desk even reminded me of Madam Pince! Was this it? Had I actually found a library in Paris that would work for me as well as the fantastic Miller-Olin-Bixler library trio of Colby?
Um, no.
My excitement dribbled away as I had to wait an hour for them to retrieve the five books I wanted from the upper landing’s bookshelves, off-limits to library patrons. Now, last time I checked, I was still able to climb stairs; and did I just imagine that there was a guy named Dewey who invented a decimal system to make finding books take minutes instead of hours? After a long afternoon painstakingly copying out the most pertinent information I needed, I finally succumbed to exhaustion, returned all my books, and tried to leave. A swipe of my brand-new library card on the turnstile’s sensor, and a button flashed red.
“Are you trying to take a book outside the library?” the beady-eyed librarian hissed at me.
Exhausted and rather frustrated, I managed to convey that no, I was not a book thief (I politely refrained from mentioning that normally taking out books is the point of libraries.) She directed me to another desk, still eyeing me suspiciously. This desk sent me to another one across the way. They sent me back where I came from. Eventually – half an hour later – the three desks were able to figure out that a clerical error had been made and that yes, indeed, I had returned all my books like I’d said. With no small measure of relief, I got through the turnstile, scary-librarian’s eyes on my back as I left. She was probably waiting for me to whip out a priceless original from my pocket and escape hollering with glee.
It was an awful afternoon. And the thing is, I really, really, really love libraries. Libraries, after all, are about broadening your knowledge and your love of literature in a hassle-free way. Which makes me wonder: how on earth do Parisians read with libraries as disorganized and inaccessible as this? No wonder Belle was so excited about the Beast’s book collection.
Well, my friends, Disney lies.
Okay, fine, I’ve been in Paris long enough to know that Parisians don’t stick their heads out of windows and start shouting “Bonjour! Bonjour!” to the passerby on the street come morning. And clearly the corporation that brought us High School Musical tends to tweak reality a little. Alright, tweak reality a lot. But still! You’d think Parisian libraries would be open for more than an average of four hours a day. Or not make you pay to access a halfway decent collection of reading. Or at least allow you to take out books, for goodness' sake.
Yes, that’s right. Excepting the collections of municipal libraries, which have about as many books to choose from as those sad little bookstores at the airport, books are intended for in-library use only. As a student studying in Paris, you have to suck it up and get prepared to copy a lot of notes at the library.
Today I did just that and scurried off to the Bibliothèque Saint-Genevieve in the 5th, notebook and student ID card in hand. When I walked in, I felt a surge of bliss. It looked like the Hogwarts library in the Harry Potter movies! One beady-eyed woman be
hind the info desk even reminded me of Madam Pince! Was this it? Had I actually found a library in Paris that would work for me as well as the fantastic Miller-Olin-Bixler library trio of Colby?Um, no.
My excitement dribbled away as I had to wait an hour for them to retrieve the five books I wanted from the upper landing’s bookshelves, off-limits to library patrons. Now, last time I checked, I was still able to climb stairs; and did I just imagine that there was a guy named Dewey who invented a decimal system to make finding books take minutes instead of hours? After a long afternoon painstakingly copying out the most pertinent information I needed, I finally succumbed to exhaustion, returned all my books, and tried to leave. A swipe of my brand-new library card on the turnstile’s sensor, and a button flashed red.
“Are you trying to take a book outside the library?” the beady-eyed librarian hissed at me.
Exhausted and rather frustrated, I managed to convey that no, I was not a book thief (I politely refrained from mentioning that normally taking out books is the point of libraries.) She directed me to another desk, still eyeing me suspiciously. This desk sent me to another one across the way. They sent me back where I came from. Eventually – half an hour later – the three desks were able to figure out that a clerical error had been made and that yes, indeed, I had returned all my books like I’d said. With no small measure of relief, I got through the turnstile, scary-librarian’s eyes on my back as I left. She was probably waiting for me to whip out a priceless original from my pocket and escape hollering with glee.
It was an awful afternoon. And the thing is, I really, really, really love libraries. Libraries, after all, are about broadening your knowledge and your love of literature in a hassle-free way. Which makes me wonder: how on earth do Parisians read with libraries as disorganized and inaccessible as this? No wonder Belle was so excited about the Beast’s book collection.
December 1, 2008
The Final Countdown, or Lisi starts feeling nostalgic
I have three weeks left in Paris.
I’m at home here. I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve gotten to the point that checking my map has become secondary. And it’s terribly, achingly bittersweet, knowing that I’ve got to say goodbye in less than a month.
After all, it is partly thrilling – I’ve missed all of you so much, and I cannot wait to settle back into lovely, chilly New England – but it is also terrifying, as I STILL HAVE SO MUCH TO SEE. There are hundreds and hundreds of side streets I haven’t stumbled upon yet, countless monuments and historical sites to discover, and yet instead of going out and exploring I’m stuck inside studying for finals for at least another week. Staying holed up in my bedroom is harder than you might think. Beyond all the temptations of drizzly but lovely Parisian streets just begging to be walked through, my host mom will knock on my door enticing me with some new cheese she’s just bought, or say, “We got you a pain au chocolat for breakfast!”, and every shred of concentration flies out the window. Oh, French food. I blame you for my so-so scholastic performance here.
I’m going to miss so much of this wonderful, complex city. I’ll miss the questionable color of the Seine and the exquisite lamp posts; the mix of Haussmann-style buildings and remnants of older, cramped medieval architecture. I’m going to miss the people who, time and time again, have disproved the snooty Parisian stereotype with gestures of true kindness. I’ll miss the graffiti in the metro tunnels and the cheesy advertising. I’ll miss speaking in French, the walk home to my apartment by Notre Dame & Berthillon ice cream, and the presence of at least one boulangerie on every other street. I’ll miss the museums. I’ll miss the long, winding walks and the unexpected, hidden parks. There’s a sort of thrumming magic to Paris, and God knows I’m going to miss it, too.
There’s so much I still have to do here, explore, tug out. But as awful as it is to stare at the assignments in my agenda written in red ink, sucking away my free time – it’s almost exhilarating, too. Complacence is not the way of Paris. This is a city meant for impassioned and proactive journeys, whether there’s time for them or not. And after all, the drizzle of Parisian rain never feels better than if you’re procrasti…I mean…exploring the city as it’s meant to be explored: with an oh-so-French joie de vivre.
I’m at home here. I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve gotten to the point that checking my map has become secondary. And it’s terribly, achingly bittersweet, knowing that I’ve got to say goodbye in less than a month.
After all, it is partly thrilling – I’ve missed all of you so much, and I cannot wait to settle back into lovely, chilly New England – but it is also terrifying, as I STILL HAVE SO MUCH TO SEE. There are hundreds and hundreds of side streets I haven’t stumbled upon yet, countless monuments and historical sites to discover, and yet instead of going out and exploring I’m stuck inside studying for finals for at least another week. Staying holed up in my bedroom is harder than you might think. Beyond all the temptations of drizzly but lovely Parisian streets just begging to be walked through, my host mom will knock on my door enticing me with some new cheese she’s just bought, or say, “We got you a pain au chocolat for breakfast!”, and every shred of concentration flies out the window. Oh, French food. I blame you for my so-so scholastic performance here.
I’m going to miss so much of this wonderful, complex city. I’ll miss the questionable color of the Seine and the exquisite lamp posts; the mix of Haussmann-style buildings and remnants of older, cramped medieval architecture. I’m going to miss the people who, time and time again, have disproved the snooty Parisian stereotype with gestures of true kindness. I’ll miss the graffiti in the metro tunnels and the cheesy advertising. I’ll miss speaking in French, the walk home to my apartment by Notre Dame & Berthillon ice cream, and the presence of at least one boulangerie on every other street. I’ll miss the museums. I’ll miss the long, winding walks and the unexpected, hidden parks. There’s a sort of thrumming magic to Paris, and God knows I’m going to miss it, too.
There’s so much I still have to do here, explore, tug out. But as awful as it is to stare at the assignments in my agenda written in red ink, sucking away my free time – it’s almost exhilarating, too. Complacence is not the way of Paris. This is a city meant for impassioned and proactive journeys, whether there’s time for them or not. And after all, the drizzle of Parisian rain never feels better than if you’re procrasti…I mean…exploring the city as it’s meant to be explored: with an oh-so-French joie de vivre.
November 29, 2008
J’aime mon quartier, mais je ne ramasse pas
A book came out not too long ago called A Year in the Merde. It was about an American’s year living in Paris, and his not-so-pleasant encounters with dog poop on the sidewalks. It’s definitely a problem. There’s a little sign right by my apartment that says, J’aime mon quartier, je ramasse (“I love my neighborhood, so I pick up [after my dog]”). Heh. Really? Things have gotten better since the city started imposing very heavy fines for those who don’t bag, but if you don’t keep an eye on the ground in front of you as you walk, before long you will find a very unpleasant surprise on the bottom of your shoe.Of course, keeping your eyes trained on the ground means you miss out on seeing Paris. I’ve perfected a darting-up-and-down movement of my eyes as I go so I don’t miss anything. I might look vaguely like I’m about to have a seizure, but hey, at least my shoes are clean.
November 27, 2008
Thanksgiving the French way: no, there's no football
The place? A living room stuffed to bursting, crammed with every table and chair that can be found in the house. The people? Thirty of diverse ages and accents. The menu? Smoked salmon on sliced baguette, followed by a hearty cassoulet, and finished up with cheese platters, clafoutis d’automne, chocolate cake, apple tart, and boxes and boxes of chocolate. And don’t forget the bottles of red wine.
Welcome to the Fête de Famille, 2008 edition.
It’s the time of year when the enormous clan I call my family gets together ostensibly for lunch and spends the next six hours trying to get in as many words as possible into conversation. Tables groan under the weight of the food platters, and just in case we need the encouragement, Mamy Luce flutters around, urging seconds. Obama is topic of the hour, especially as the American branch of the family is actually present for the annual family celebration for the first time in four years. My mother and my uncle Benoit prowl around the room, gleefully snapping candids with their long-lens cameras.
In effect, it’s our French Thanksgiving. Of course, we don’t usually celebrate it anywhere near the end of November; the last Fête I attended was four years ago in August. With two European parents, almost all my family lives overseas; Thanksgiving, for me and my parents, is a holiday of three people and a capon, the turkey’s smaller cousin.
It’s always difficult knowing you’re an expensive plane ticket away from birthdays and funerals, always hard to watch your cousins grow up in photographs and not in person. Which is why it was truly wonderful to celebrate the Fête de Famille on the weekend before Thanksgiving for the first time that I can think of. It’s the closest I’ve come to having the typical American Thanksgiving experience.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope you’re all enjoying the break, eating too much, and getting some rest in!
Welcome to the Fête de Famille, 2008 edition.
It’s the time of year when the enormous clan I call my family gets together ostensibly for lunch and spends the next six hours trying to get in as many words as possible into conversation. Tables groan under the weight of the food platters, and just in case we need the encouragement, Mamy Luce flutters around, urging seconds. Obama is topic of the hour, especially as the American branch of the family is actually present for the annual family celebration for the first time in four years. My mother and my uncle Benoit prowl around the room, gleefully snapping candids with their long-lens cameras.
In effect, it’s our French Thanksgiving. Of course, we don’t usually celebrate it anywhere near the end of November; the last Fête I attended was four years ago in August. With two European parents, almost all my family lives overseas; Thanksgiving, for me and my parents, is a holiday of three people and a capon, the turkey’s smaller cousin.
It’s always difficult knowing you’re an expensive plane ticket away from birthdays and funerals, always hard to watch your cousins grow up in photographs and not in person. Which is why it was truly wonderful to celebrate the Fête de Famille on the weekend before Thanksgiving for the first time that I can think of. It’s the closest I’ve come to having the typical American Thanksgiving experience.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope you’re all enjoying the break, eating too much, and getting some rest in!
November 25, 2008
Desperately Seeking Syllabi
There’s a moment I cherish at the beginning of any semester at Colby. To the musical rustling of crisp sheets of paper, the professor distributes a three or four page document of gloriousness. What percentage of my grade does participation count for? How many exams in the semester? What are page requirements for papers (double-spaced in Times New Roman font, of course)? Look no further. The class syllabus has it all.
Before you consider me too much of a Hermione Granger, “I just read through letters K to M in the dictionary for fun!” type, take a moment to imagine the horrors and chaos of life without syllabi. Unclear assignment requirements! Homework that springs up on you! No explanation of the edition of the textbooks you should get, so your page 16 is the professor’s 78! Makes you shudder, right? What kind of country’s education system would eschew the organization and centralization of a syllabus, a commodity as necessary to a student’s life as internet and running water?
Welcome to the French classroom.
I probably should have guessed it from the moment I found out French universities still don’t have online course registration, but I blithely assumed that at least when it came to printed paper the French had mastered basic classroom documentation. I assumed wrong. Instead, ten minutes at a time in each class are devoted to a review of the assignments: “What do you mean, you forgot you had to buy this obscure study packet unavailable at almost all Parisian bookstores?” the professors will ask us. “Didn’t you catch the offhand comment I made at the end of class three weeks ago?”
Perhaps worst of all – and here, I’ll allow any Hermione Granger comparisons – I consider the syllabus to be a contract. If I fail to do an assignment in the syllabus that was my responsibility, I deserve the consequences. Similarly, if a professor decides to lump in an extra exam with one week’s notice, I’m miffed. So it was with astonishment that I witnessed various students in my history class at the Sorbonne raise their hands and ask the teacher: “Do you think we can move the due date for the essay? To read all three books you’ve assigned will take a while.”
Any Colby professor would have raised the syllabus in the air with the implicit understanding of tough luck; you should have gotten started on your work sooner. Any Colby student would have at least known to phrase a request for an extension in different wording than a critique of the workload.
And that’s the beauty of the syllabus. It keeps both parties accountable for their part, and it fosters a genuine respect for the learning process you don’t find in a system where you can bargain your way to easier assignments. The challenges of the class should be about genuinely mastering the new material, not about trying to decipher exactly what line spacing and margin sizes the professor is expecting on the term paper.
Before you consider me too much of a Hermione Granger, “I just read through letters K to M in the dictionary for fun!” type, take a moment to imagine the horrors and chaos of life without syllabi. Unclear assignment requirements! Homework that springs up on you! No explanation of the edition of the textbooks you should get, so your page 16 is the professor’s 78! Makes you shudder, right? What kind of country’s education system would eschew the organization and centralization of a syllabus, a commodity as necessary to a student’s life as internet and running water?
Welcome to the French classroom.
I probably should have guessed it from the moment I found out French universities still don’t have online course registration, but I blithely assumed that at least when it came to printed paper the French had mastered basic classroom documentation. I assumed wrong. Instead, ten minutes at a time in each class are devoted to a review of the assignments: “What do you mean, you forgot you had to buy this obscure study packet unavailable at almost all Parisian bookstores?” the professors will ask us. “Didn’t you catch the offhand comment I made at the end of class three weeks ago?”
Perhaps worst of all – and here, I’ll allow any Hermione Granger comparisons – I consider the syllabus to be a contract. If I fail to do an assignment in the syllabus that was my responsibility, I deserve the consequences. Similarly, if a professor decides to lump in an extra exam with one week’s notice, I’m miffed. So it was with astonishment that I witnessed various students in my history class at the Sorbonne raise their hands and ask the teacher: “Do you think we can move the due date for the essay? To read all three books you’ve assigned will take a while.”
Any Colby professor would have raised the syllabus in the air with the implicit understanding of tough luck; you should have gotten started on your work sooner. Any Colby student would have at least known to phrase a request for an extension in different wording than a critique of the workload.
And that’s the beauty of the syllabus. It keeps both parties accountable for their part, and it fosters a genuine respect for the learning process you don’t find in a system where you can bargain your way to easier assignments. The challenges of the class should be about genuinely mastering the new material, not about trying to decipher exactly what line spacing and margin sizes the professor is expecting on the term paper.
November 18, 2008
"GRÈVE! GRÈVE!" "Keep your voice down, somebody might actually care!"
It was during the first week of orientation, way back in September, that some intrepid student battled jet lag enough to raise her hand with a question. “What do we do if there’s a strike?” she asked.
The Educo staff looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Well, let's hope that there aren’t any. They’re quite inconvenient.”
“But what if it’s the metro?” the girl persisted. The rest of us started to wake up a little, six-hour time difference be damned.
“You walk,” the president of the program said, giving us an understanding grimace. We stared back at her, agog.
For those who aren’t familiar with the time-tested French tradition of the strike, and maybe imagine, like me, that scene from Newsies where all the paperboys start dancing in the streets and ripping up newspapers, it’s such a common occurrence here that you almost have to wonder how the Parisians get anything done. (And then the subject of the 35-hour work week comes up). I wasn’t quite sure when I’d experience my first strike, but I had no doubt there’d be one. Please: world-wide economic collapse? Widespread French dislike for Sarkozy, who has fared especially badly amidst all the Obamania? Might as well put on your paperboy hat and dancing shoes now and get your strike on.
Of course, you might encounter a little problem: not realizing there’s a strike going on in the first place.
Yesterday afternoon, all the students in my literature class on the Algerian War waited for the teacher to show up for almost half an hour. When she didn’t come, we chalked it up to an emergency or last-minute meeting, and left. I found out today that there was a strike by the professors – but only some professors, and just for that one day, and who’s really paying attention, anyway?
Then today, a friend came into history class and announced, “The SNCF workers are pushing the strike back to Friday night. It was announced in Le Monde.”
My first reaction was confusion – had this strike been common knowledge? (No, she just has a French boyfriend). My second was horror – the SNCF is the public transportation system in France, which includes the train’s grandes lignes out of Paris to places like Toulouse (where I’ll be this weekend with my visiting parents). If the workers’ strike extended to Sunday, my parents and I would be stranded miles and miles from Paris, train tickets useless. That would be one long, costly, and eco-harmful rental car drive back to Paris.
A quick search on the Le Monde website shows that yes, indeed, the SNCF workers are going on strike for 24 hours (luckily, the strike ends before our train back to Paris on Sunday). Yes, the brief article states, the strike was originally planned for Tuesday night but was changed to Friday at 8pm (the reason was apparently not relevant to the article). Yes, of course the strikers have demands to be met, listed below in tersely worded French. No massive headlines, no analysts' opinions needed. Just a simply-worded understanding that you'll be shilling out your taxi money this weekend.
The fact that a grève (“strike”) would be so nonchalantly announced to the press ahead of time, and so calmly distributed to the French public, took me aback at first. But then I did a little Google search with keywords ‘grève, SNCF, 21 novembre’ to try and find out more details. Up popped pages and pages worth of articles. I looked at the dates.
In 2005, 2007, and now this Friday in 2008, the SNCF workers have chosen to strike on the 21st of November. As far as dramatics go, the Parisians seem to aim for quantity over quality. This is the second strike by the SNCF this month, one article told me; I didn’t even notice the last grève, though Le Monde assures me there were, indeed, a few perturbations. Disruptions, sure...but only of a hassled, resigned inconvenience. Not disruptions that led to photos in the paper with screaming mobs or a Gavroche-like street urchin raising his fist to the camera defiantly.
It was about at this point that I shut my computer, sighed, and let my theatrical image of the strike fade away.
(All this strike discussion is made even more ironic, of course, by the fact that I’m seeing De Gaulle en mai on Thursday night, a theatrical production about the famous month of May in ’68 where students and ouvriers put up barricades in the Latin Quarter and demanded reform. Apparently this is the extent of strike-related dramatics I can expect to see in 21st century Paris.)
The Educo staff looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Well, let's hope that there aren’t any. They’re quite inconvenient.”
“But what if it’s the metro?” the girl persisted. The rest of us started to wake up a little, six-hour time difference be damned.
“You walk,” the president of the program said, giving us an understanding grimace. We stared back at her, agog.
For those who aren’t familiar with the time-tested French tradition of the strike, and maybe imagine, like me, that scene from Newsies where all the paperboys start dancing in the streets and ripping up newspapers, it’s such a common occurrence here that you almost have to wonder how the Parisians get anything done. (And then the subject of the 35-hour work week comes up). I wasn’t quite sure when I’d experience my first strike, but I had no doubt there’d be one. Please: world-wide economic collapse? Widespread French dislike for Sarkozy, who has fared especially badly amidst all the Obamania? Might as well put on your paperboy hat and dancing shoes now and get your strike on.
Of course, you might encounter a little problem: not realizing there’s a strike going on in the first place.
Yesterday afternoon, all the students in my literature class on the Algerian War waited for the teacher to show up for almost half an hour. When she didn’t come, we chalked it up to an emergency or last-minute meeting, and left. I found out today that there was a strike by the professors – but only some professors, and just for that one day, and who’s really paying attention, anyway?
Then today, a friend came into history class and announced, “The SNCF workers are pushing the strike back to Friday night. It was announced in Le Monde.”
My first reaction was confusion – had this strike been common knowledge? (No, she just has a French boyfriend). My second was horror – the SNCF is the public transportation system in France, which includes the train’s grandes lignes out of Paris to places like Toulouse (where I’ll be this weekend with my visiting parents). If the workers’ strike extended to Sunday, my parents and I would be stranded miles and miles from Paris, train tickets useless. That would be one long, costly, and eco-harmful rental car drive back to Paris.
A quick search on the Le Monde website shows that yes, indeed, the SNCF workers are going on strike for 24 hours (luckily, the strike ends before our train back to Paris on Sunday). Yes, the brief article states, the strike was originally planned for Tuesday night but was changed to Friday at 8pm (the reason was apparently not relevant to the article). Yes, of course the strikers have demands to be met, listed below in tersely worded French. No massive headlines, no analysts' opinions needed. Just a simply-worded understanding that you'll be shilling out your taxi money this weekend.
The fact that a grève (“strike”) would be so nonchalantly announced to the press ahead of time, and so calmly distributed to the French public, took me aback at first. But then I did a little Google search with keywords ‘grève, SNCF, 21 novembre’ to try and find out more details. Up popped pages and pages worth of articles. I looked at the dates.
In 2005, 2007, and now this Friday in 2008, the SNCF workers have chosen to strike on the 21st of November. As far as dramatics go, the Parisians seem to aim for quantity over quality. This is the second strike by the SNCF this month, one article told me; I didn’t even notice the last grève, though Le Monde assures me there were, indeed, a few perturbations. Disruptions, sure...but only of a hassled, resigned inconvenience. Not disruptions that led to photos in the paper with screaming mobs or a Gavroche-like street urchin raising his fist to the camera defiantly.
It was about at this point that I shut my computer, sighed, and let my theatrical image of the strike fade away.
(All this strike discussion is made even more ironic, of course, by the fact that I’m seeing De Gaulle en mai on Thursday night, a theatrical production about the famous month of May in ’68 where students and ouvriers put up barricades in the Latin Quarter and demanded reform. Apparently this is the extent of strike-related dramatics I can expect to see in 21st century Paris.)
November 13, 2008
Not to go too Gossip Girl on you or anything, but...
Spotted:
A quite elderly woman crossing the street at Place St. Michel, even though the little man was red. She was walking slowly and deliberately, a cigarette in hand, and the drivers facing a green light were clearly itching to hit the gas pedal. She was almost finished crossing when one frustrated driver honked. She stopped in the crosswalk, turned to face him, and took a long, deliberate drag of her cigarette before taking the final steps to the other side.
Ah, Parisians.
A quite elderly woman crossing the street at Place St. Michel, even though the little man was red. She was walking slowly and deliberately, a cigarette in hand, and the drivers facing a green light were clearly itching to hit the gas pedal. She was almost finished crossing when one frustrated driver honked. She stopped in the crosswalk, turned to face him, and took a long, deliberate drag of her cigarette before taking the final steps to the other side.
Ah, Parisians.
A Little Math Equation
This:
+
tight jeans,
gelled hair,
questionably shiny shirts & jackets
x
10
=
An American girl's life in Paris.
+
tight jeans,
gelled hair,
questionably shiny shirts & jackets
x
10
=
An American girl's life in Paris.
November 12, 2008
"Quand un Obama en France?"
It's a topic that's come up around my host family's dinner table a few times and that I've seen scrawled in neon spray paint on the metro. Quand un Obama en France? 'When an Obama in France?'
NYTimes just published an article on the issue. As a visitor in France of all of two months, I'm not really in a position to form my own conclusions on the claims and nuances of latent racism here. But I can hear and notice the French reactions, which have been flowing freely since the Obama victory.
One black man on a metro started a tirade against the 'lazy blacks' who weren't doing their part to combat French racism. My host mom's boyfriend started talking to me about the possibility of electing a black president in France, and then got distracted by logistics: "Well, he would have to be métis (mixed race), like Obama," he said thoughtfully. "Black black, he'd never get elected. A black black president will take much longer."
(Side note, but I love when topics from my Intro to Cultural Anthropology class pop up around me in real life. The fact that Obama is always described as, well, "black black" rather than mixed race is a perfect example of the Hypo-Descent Rule in American culture, where for a person to be considered black they need only one black ancestor. In the South, this rule became known as the "one-drop rule", i.e., one drop of black blood makes you a racial minority. Contrast that to the comment above and you can see the principle going the other way, at least for one French man. Okay, excited anthropology student speech over.)
I was having this conversation with my bestie Hannah last night, that for us students who voted Obama, we weren't really all that conscious of his race: we were far more interested in his message of hope and change and his kick-ass speeches. It's a little staggering, then, to be in Paris where it's Obama-le-président-noir all over the place. Oh well. If his election changes things around the world and not just the way thing are done in the U.S., I'll be even happier with how I voted in my first presidential election.
NYTimes just published an article on the issue. As a visitor in France of all of two months, I'm not really in a position to form my own conclusions on the claims and nuances of latent racism here. But I can hear and notice the French reactions, which have been flowing freely since the Obama victory.
One black man on a metro started a tirade against the 'lazy blacks' who weren't doing their part to combat French racism. My host mom's boyfriend started talking to me about the possibility of electing a black president in France, and then got distracted by logistics: "Well, he would have to be métis (mixed race), like Obama," he said thoughtfully. "Black black, he'd never get elected. A black black president will take much longer."
(Side note, but I love when topics from my Intro to Cultural Anthropology class pop up around me in real life. The fact that Obama is always described as, well, "black black" rather than mixed race is a perfect example of the Hypo-Descent Rule in American culture, where for a person to be considered black they need only one black ancestor. In the South, this rule became known as the "one-drop rule", i.e., one drop of black blood makes you a racial minority. Contrast that to the comment above and you can see the principle going the other way, at least for one French man. Okay, excited anthropology student speech over.)
I was having this conversation with my bestie Hannah last night, that for us students who voted Obama, we weren't really all that conscious of his race: we were far more interested in his message of hope and change and his kick-ass speeches. It's a little staggering, then, to be in Paris where it's Obama-le-président-noir all over the place. Oh well. If his election changes things around the world and not just the way thing are done in the U.S., I'll be even happier with how I voted in my first presidential election.
November 9, 2008
"Look, honey! A Frenchman with a baguette is scowling at us! Let's take a photo!"
Dear Obnoxiously American Tourists,
Please stop embarrassing me when you come to Paris. The fact that everyone around you is speaking another language does not mean they are mentally handicapped or incapable of understanding you when you insult "that funny French guy's borderline-gay scarf." I’ll give you another hint: if the Eiffel Tower is getting smaller as you walk, you’re going the wrong way. I wish I were exaggerating. Pardon is the same word in English and means exactly the same thing. Learn it, love it, live it.
And in the name of all that is holy, please stop buying those berets with PARIS in block letters on the front. You look ridiculous. French people make fun of you. Just stop.
Most Sincerely,
Annelise
Please stop embarrassing me when you come to Paris. The fact that everyone around you is speaking another language does not mean they are mentally handicapped or incapable of understanding you when you insult "that funny French guy's borderline-gay scarf." I’ll give you another hint: if the Eiffel Tower is getting smaller as you walk, you’re going the wrong way. I wish I were exaggerating. Pardon is the same word in English and means exactly the same thing. Learn it, love it, live it.
And in the name of all that is holy, please stop buying those berets with PARIS in block letters on the front. You look ridiculous. French people make fun of you. Just stop.
Most Sincerely,
Annelise
November 6, 2008
WIRELESS, or Obama upholds his promise of change
MY HOST FAMILY’S APARTMENT HAS WIRELESS AGAIN.
After six weeks without internet, I am absolutely OVER THE MOON about this development. In fact, I’m so excited about it I might start writing nonsense blog entries just for the joy of being able to connect to the internet whenever I want. Maybe I’ll stagger sentences in individual blog entries in a poetic, artsy-fartsy fashion, such as:
Post 1: I am
Post 2: in
Post 3: Paris, city of
Post 4: LIGHTS.
No. But seriously. You have no idea how pumped I am about this. No more trudging through mud and rain at 7:30 in the morning to the nearby park with wireless to get my emails! No more missing out on news from home because I can’t use Skype! No more foregoing the pleasures of Tina Fey’s SNL skits because in the time the video takes to load, my allotted free internet time has run out!
(Seriously, city of Paris, why in God’s name do you need to put a time limit on the free internet you provide me with at those few, very select locations? I am the only person who ever goes to that godforsaken little park with its weed-infested flower beds and one bar of internet connection. There is nobody else with a need for internet there but me. Why the 45-minute limit? WHY?!)
For the past two days, whenever anything good has happened, my host family and I have been chanting "O-BA-MA!" (Such as, "Our television is working!" "O-BA-MA!" "We're having chicken and frites for dinner!" "O-BA-MA!" "My teacher was sick and didn't come into class today!" "O-BA-MA!") So I'd like to fervently thank our President-Elect for the magic he has worked on the family wireless. It is much appreciated, Barack. You can carry on with all that other secondary stuff you're working on now, like choosing your staff and planning how to run the country.
Expect many – MANY – more blog posts to come. Probably with meaningful line spacing and links to SNL skits on YouTube. I’d write more, but I need to go waste a couple hours of my life catching up on the archives of EW.com.
This is glorious.
After six weeks without internet, I am absolutely OVER THE MOON about this development. In fact, I’m so excited about it I might start writing nonsense blog entries just for the joy of being able to connect to the internet whenever I want. Maybe I’ll stagger sentences in individual blog entries in a poetic, artsy-fartsy fashion, such as:
Post 1: I am
Post 2: in
Post 3: Paris, city of
Post 4: LIGHTS.
No. But seriously. You have no idea how pumped I am about this. No more trudging through mud and rain at 7:30 in the morning to the nearby park with wireless to get my emails! No more missing out on news from home because I can’t use Skype! No more foregoing the pleasures of Tina Fey’s SNL skits because in the time the video takes to load, my allotted free internet time has run out!
(Seriously, city of Paris, why in God’s name do you need to put a time limit on the free internet you provide me with at those few, very select locations? I am the only person who ever goes to that godforsaken little park with its weed-infested flower beds and one bar of internet connection. There is nobody else with a need for internet there but me. Why the 45-minute limit? WHY?!)
For the past two days, whenever anything good has happened, my host family and I have been chanting "O-BA-MA!" (Such as, "Our television is working!" "O-BA-MA!" "We're having chicken and frites for dinner!" "O-BA-MA!" "My teacher was sick and didn't come into class today!" "O-BA-MA!") So I'd like to fervently thank our President-Elect for the magic he has worked on the family wireless. It is much appreciated, Barack. You can carry on with all that other secondary stuff you're working on now, like choosing your staff and planning how to run the country.
Expect many – MANY – more blog posts to come. Probably with meaningful line spacing and links to SNL skits on YouTube. I’d write more, but I need to go waste a couple hours of my life catching up on the archives of EW.com.
This is glorious.
Parisian Reactions to the Obama Victory
In Libération, a Parisian newspaper (translated):
“Yesterday we celebrated the victory of a man who represents the pariahs of American history, the arrival of a messenger of a new age...[a man who is] of mixed race, globalised and aware that the West is not the center of the world. We were a hundred times right to support him.
…The planet is waiting for the New Deal of this century, for a utopia that will work. Is Obama capable of fulfilling this destiny? He definitely has the talent. Yes, he can…”
Scrawled over an advertisement in the metro:
Quand un Obama en France?
(“When an Obama in France?”)
“Yesterday we celebrated the victory of a man who represents the pariahs of American history, the arrival of a messenger of a new age...[a man who is] of mixed race, globalised and aware that the West is not the center of the world. We were a hundred times right to support him.
…The planet is waiting for the New Deal of this century, for a utopia that will work. Is Obama capable of fulfilling this destiny? He definitely has the talent. Yes, he can…”
Scrawled over an advertisement in the metro:
Quand un Obama en France?
(“When an Obama in France?”)
Yes, we CAN!!!!
Because of the time difference, it was at 5am my time yesterday morning that I refreshed the New York Times poll results webpage and saw “President-Elect” under my candidate’s name. Since I’d been refreshing every five minutes since 1 in the morning, it took about two minutes to sink in that we’d WON and another half hour before I could stop bawling from happiness.
Metros opened up again at 5:30am, so I walked over in deliriously tired joy from my friend Julie’s hotel room where we’d been following the results. I had to stop myself from grinning too widely – tends to invite unwanted attention from the French men – and controlled my urge to inform everyone around me that “Obama a gagné!”
Then, from outside the metro, I heard voices; a soft murmur at first, then practically a roar. A large group was parading through the streets chanting “O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma! O-BA-MA!”
I refrained – with some difficulty – from joining in, but I have to say I have never, ever felt so proud to be an American.
Metros opened up again at 5:30am, so I walked over in deliriously tired joy from my friend Julie’s hotel room where we’d been following the results. I had to stop myself from grinning too widely – tends to invite unwanted attention from the French men – and controlled my urge to inform everyone around me that “Obama a gagné!”
Then, from outside the metro, I heard voices; a soft murmur at first, then practically a roar. A large group was parading through the streets chanting “O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma! O-BA-MA!”
I refrained – with some difficulty – from joining in, but I have to say I have never, ever felt so proud to be an American.
November 1, 2008
If you ever need incentive to study abroad...
On Thursday night, I went with a group of friends to see a match of the BNP Paribas Men's Masters, and SAW NADAL PLAY LIVE.
This weekend, I am in Prague for the first time, snapping pictures of everything and eating far too much for my own good.
Study abroad is the BEST.
October 23, 2008
Famous last words...
I’m contemplating a French experience fraught with danger and huge consequences. It’ll probably take months to undo all the damage, and who knows how I’ll manage day-to-day with it hanging over my head.
I’m very seriously considering getting a haircut in Paris.
Since growing out the rather disastrous bowl cut of my early childhood (what were you thinking, Maman?) I’ve never done anything special with my hair. It’s hung a bit past shoulder-length for almost fifteen years. What better place to go wild with layers and side bangs for the first time in my life than Paris?
That said, I’m planning to bring along a dossier of vocabulary and key phrases, such as “Please don’t make me bald” and “I want side bangs, not a pixie cut.” I’m bracing myself for a showdown with the hairdresser worthy of the makeovers on America’s Next Top Model (maybe I’ll cry as they snip off a few inches of my hair, to keep the comparison going).
It’ll be epic and dangerous and I’ll probably regret it. But I’m going to do it anyway.
You’re all fully entitled to say I told you so.
I’m very seriously considering getting a haircut in Paris.
Since growing out the rather disastrous bowl cut of my early childhood (what were you thinking, Maman?) I’ve never done anything special with my hair. It’s hung a bit past shoulder-length for almost fifteen years. What better place to go wild with layers and side bangs for the first time in my life than Paris?
That said, I’m planning to bring along a dossier of vocabulary and key phrases, such as “Please don’t make me bald” and “I want side bangs, not a pixie cut.” I’m bracing myself for a showdown with the hairdresser worthy of the makeovers on America’s Next Top Model (maybe I’ll cry as they snip off a few inches of my hair, to keep the comparison going).
It’ll be epic and dangerous and I’ll probably regret it. But I’m going to do it anyway.
You’re all fully entitled to say I told you so.
A Morning with Eugene
This morning, I ambled along the Seine to arrive at the Louvre before it opened at 9am. Educo provided us with cartes jeunesses when we arrived that allow us to visit the Louvre whenever we like, as many times as we like, for free. This was my third visit to the Louvre this fall, and I’m planning to go many, many more times.
My approach is quality over quantity, because I have the luxury to do so! I pick a time period or a few rooms to visit each time, and I don’t stay for more than two hours. I can walk at my own pace, take in every piece of art, and know that I’ve got a couple more months ahead of me to really get to know this museum.
I started with Greek & Roman antiquities. I’m much bigger on paintings than sculptures, so that went by pretty quickly. Then I walked through the apartments of Napoleon III (famous Napoleon’s nephew, who ruled as emperor from his coup d’état in 1852 to his capture by the Prussian army in 1870. According to his apartments, he was just nuts about velvet). My second visit, I was a dutiful Dutch daughter and wandered through the paintings from Holland, Germany, and Flanders, and fell in love with Rubens along the way.
This visit? I finally graduated to the French paintings!
Since I got to the Louvre before it opened and didn’t have to wait in line to buy a ticket, I was able to scurry right over to the French paintings. No one was there. It was amazing. There are usually a hundred people milling through, whether they’re tourists making the mad dash between the holy three (Mona, Venus, and Victory) or groups of bored, chatty French students ignoring their guide.
I spent a solid fifteen minutes alone with Delacroix and Géricault before the first tour group came trotting in, and let me tell you: this is the only way to visit the Louvre.
My approach is quality over quantity, because I have the luxury to do so! I pick a time period or a few rooms to visit each time, and I don’t stay for more than two hours. I can walk at my own pace, take in every piece of art, and know that I’ve got a couple more months ahead of me to really get to know this museum.
I started with Greek & Roman antiquities. I’m much bigger on paintings than sculptures, so that went by pretty quickly. Then I walked through the apartments of Napoleon III (famous Napoleon’s nephew, who ruled as emperor from his coup d’état in 1852 to his capture by the Prussian army in 1870. According to his apartments, he was just nuts about velvet). My second visit, I was a dutiful Dutch daughter and wandered through the paintings from Holland, Germany, and Flanders, and fell in love with Rubens along the way.
This visit? I finally graduated to the French paintings!
Since I got to the Louvre before it opened and didn’t have to wait in line to buy a ticket, I was able to scurry right over to the French paintings. No one was there. It was amazing. There are usually a hundred people milling through, whether they’re tourists making the mad dash between the holy three (Mona, Venus, and Victory) or groups of bored, chatty French students ignoring their guide.
I spent a solid fifteen minutes alone with Delacroix and Géricault before the first tour group came trotting in, and let me tell you: this is the only way to visit the Louvre.
October 16, 2008
Language frustrations
The first week of orientation, I did well enough on my placement exam to be excused from taking a requisite French grammar or phonetics class. Instead, I signed up to meet one-on-one with a French tutor twice this semester. I had my first meeting this morning. She had this to say:
I’m still thinking in English.
It’s an unbelievably frustrating thing to admit. I’ve changed the language on Facebook to French. I’m reading French books. I’m trying – though I know I can do much better – to speak in French with my friends in the Educo program. And yet I keep using Anglicisms, I find myself messing up French prepositions because I think of the English (and usually more general) equivalents, I’m getting flustered when I speak and reverting to basic grammatical mistakes I learned to avoid years ago.
I know the quasi-French language immersion is working in some regards: when I speak English, I’ll find French words popping into my head. I need to stop and think for a second about the English equivalent. But it’s not enough.
I guess a part of me thought that studying in Paris would be the magic ‘on’ switch for French fluency. It’s just so frustrating. It feels like the more I’m exposed to the language, the less I know.
I’m still thinking in English.
It’s an unbelievably frustrating thing to admit. I’ve changed the language on Facebook to French. I’m reading French books. I’m trying – though I know I can do much better – to speak in French with my friends in the Educo program. And yet I keep using Anglicisms, I find myself messing up French prepositions because I think of the English (and usually more general) equivalents, I’m getting flustered when I speak and reverting to basic grammatical mistakes I learned to avoid years ago.
I know the quasi-French language immersion is working in some regards: when I speak English, I’ll find French words popping into my head. I need to stop and think for a second about the English equivalent. But it’s not enough.
I guess a part of me thought that studying in Paris would be the magic ‘on’ switch for French fluency. It’s just so frustrating. It feels like the more I’m exposed to the language, the less I know.
October 12, 2008
French Dialogue in Literature, or, Description is overrated
I’ve been dwelling a bit more on the text translations I’ve been reading recently (and wrote about in the blog entry below). As a writer, it’s interesting to see how a different language can change the sense of the text. No French translation, after all, can capture all the complexities and double meanings in practically each word of Shakespeare’s writings. And no English translation can give a text the same poetic fluidity of the French language. No matter how good the translator, you miss out by reading a translation.
One major difference I noticed while reading the French translation of the Twilight series was the presentation of dialogue. In the U.S., obviously, we use quotation marks; your only real restriction is to give each speaker their own line when they say something new. But the dialogue can start practically anywhere in the new line. The line could obviously begin,
“The sky is blue, and the grass is green,” Susie said. She was smiling.
But it could also start like this:
Susie smiled. “The sky is blue, and the grass is green,” she said.
The benefit to the latter, of course, is that you have a sense of how Susie's feeling about what she's saying - before she says it. It's like the upside down exclamation point in Spanish that's put at the beginning of a sentence to warn you that there will be an inflection at the end of it.
I’m pretty liberal with description when I write, so those small additions before a piece of dialogue are very important to me…they can change everything about the tone of the conversation. So I was a little taken aback when I saw the French literary depiction of dialogue:
Susie smiled.
– The sky is blue, and the grass is green, she said.
Since there are no quotation marks, just the long line indicating spoken text, you obviously can’t start with anything but the spoken words. While putting the "Susie smiled" in its own line above works in this case, within a conversation it would probably break up the flow of the dialogue. And as it's such a small detail, does it even merit its own line? I think most writers would cut it completely.
And adding the description of Susie's smile after the spoken words doesn’t avoid confusion, either:
– The sky is blue, and the grass is green, she said. She was smiling.
In the phrase above, while ‘she was smiling’ makes the most sense as part of the description, there’s no guarantee that Susie didn’t just jump onto a new train of thought in her spoken text. With the formatting of the above sentence, we are obliged to assume that random Susie says ‘she was smiling’ aloud.
Translating from English, the French translator for the Twilight series decided to put some of the description related to the dialogue in parentheses (a little jarring for someone who has been told by English teachers for years to stop relying on parentheses so much. Oh, oops…). So a longer description might look like this:
– The sky is blue, she said. (She was smiling widely.) And the grass is green.
I've got to agree with all those English teachers - parentheses look pretty weird in an official text. And how much description can you really fit inside there without irritating the reader?
It’s a small difference in dialogue format, but it must change the writing style here – I know it would change mine if I were writing in French. Less description means more “talking heads,” and a more subjective view of the conversation by the reader. The French writer’s characters get to escape from the author’s control, a little bit.
One major difference I noticed while reading the French translation of the Twilight series was the presentation of dialogue. In the U.S., obviously, we use quotation marks; your only real restriction is to give each speaker their own line when they say something new. But the dialogue can start practically anywhere in the new line. The line could obviously begin,
“The sky is blue, and the grass is green,” Susie said. She was smiling.
But it could also start like this:
Susie smiled. “The sky is blue, and the grass is green,” she said.
The benefit to the latter, of course, is that you have a sense of how Susie's feeling about what she's saying - before she says it. It's like the upside down exclamation point in Spanish that's put at the beginning of a sentence to warn you that there will be an inflection at the end of it.
I’m pretty liberal with description when I write, so those small additions before a piece of dialogue are very important to me…they can change everything about the tone of the conversation. So I was a little taken aback when I saw the French literary depiction of dialogue:
Susie smiled.
– The sky is blue, and the grass is green, she said.
Since there are no quotation marks, just the long line indicating spoken text, you obviously can’t start with anything but the spoken words. While putting the "Susie smiled" in its own line above works in this case, within a conversation it would probably break up the flow of the dialogue. And as it's such a small detail, does it even merit its own line? I think most writers would cut it completely.
And adding the description of Susie's smile after the spoken words doesn’t avoid confusion, either:
– The sky is blue, and the grass is green, she said. She was smiling.
In the phrase above, while ‘she was smiling’ makes the most sense as part of the description, there’s no guarantee that Susie didn’t just jump onto a new train of thought in her spoken text. With the formatting of the above sentence, we are obliged to assume that random Susie says ‘she was smiling’ aloud.
Translating from English, the French translator for the Twilight series decided to put some of the description related to the dialogue in parentheses (a little jarring for someone who has been told by English teachers for years to stop relying on parentheses so much. Oh, oops…). So a longer description might look like this:
– The sky is blue, she said. (She was smiling widely.) And the grass is green.
I've got to agree with all those English teachers - parentheses look pretty weird in an official text. And how much description can you really fit inside there without irritating the reader?
It’s a small difference in dialogue format, but it must change the writing style here – I know it would change mine if I were writing in French. Less description means more “talking heads,” and a more subjective view of the conversation by the reader. The French writer’s characters get to escape from the author’s control, a little bit.
Gimpy says bonjour
After three days of lots of lying around doing nothing, my ankle is doing much better. I’m looking decreasingly like Igor when I walk (always a plus), and I’m down to one painkiller a day (which makes me more optimistic that I won't become one of those sad sad stories about a girl who left to study in Paris for a semester and came back a drug addict).
My older host sister, who just turned 16 about a month ago, left a note and a huge stack of books outside my door for me to find on Thursday morning. She had to run to school, but she wanted to make sure I didn’t get bored as I lay around recovering, and left me about a third of her rather impressive book collection to get through the day.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been so entertained.
These are the books she probably read when she was about 12 or 13, but since my French proficiency is obviously lower than hers she left them for me to read as a 20-year-old. I forgot how hilarious “Youth Reading” can be. Idealized romantic interests, enemies in the form of mean girls at school, easy endings…it’s glorious. They’re teenage fairy tales.
She also lent me the French versions of the first three Twilight books. For those who don’t know the series, it’s an absolutely terribly written but hugely entertaining – wait for it – vampire love saga. Yep. It’s swept through the United States as a kind of teenager’s equivalent of Nora Roberts. I've highly enjoyed reading them, at first because I was hugely entertained by the concept, and eventually because – as awfully written and mind-blowingly ridiculous as they are – I just can’t help myself.
Anyway, the books here (translated as Fascination, Hésitation, Tentation, and the soon-to-be-released Révélation) seem to be as hugely popular with the female set as they are in the United States. My host sister is counting down the days for the release of the fourth book, which came out in August in the U.S. It’s easy to forget that so many other countries don’t get to enjoy the newest English-language releases right away like we do – they had to wait months for each new Harry Potter, for example.
It’s interesting to read through the translations they have to wait so long for. As far as I can tell there are minimal changes to the text itself. The translator for the Twilight series, however, seems to have taken it upon himself to translate aspects of American culture as well. At one point, a character mentioned Las Vegas, and a little footnote symbol appeared next to the words. I looked down to the bottom of the page, and saw in French, “A place in the United States where Americans go to get married quickly.” These footnotes are all over the text, clarifying everything from comic book superheroes to metal detectors in high schools. It’s an interesting insight into the things we Americans take for granted as common knowledge…
Well, my homework calls. I can only put off my actual reading for so long by reading youth fiction, after all! Hope everyone is enjoying the fall weather, and keep in touch!
My older host sister, who just turned 16 about a month ago, left a note and a huge stack of books outside my door for me to find on Thursday morning. She had to run to school, but she wanted to make sure I didn’t get bored as I lay around recovering, and left me about a third of her rather impressive book collection to get through the day.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been so entertained.
These are the books she probably read when she was about 12 or 13, but since my French proficiency is obviously lower than hers she left them for me to read as a 20-year-old. I forgot how hilarious “Youth Reading” can be. Idealized romantic interests, enemies in the form of mean girls at school, easy endings…it’s glorious. They’re teenage fairy tales.
She also lent me the French versions of the first three Twilight books. For those who don’t know the series, it’s an absolutely terribly written but hugely entertaining – wait for it – vampire love saga. Yep. It’s swept through the United States as a kind of teenager’s equivalent of Nora Roberts. I've highly enjoyed reading them, at first because I was hugely entertained by the concept, and eventually because – as awfully written and mind-blowingly ridiculous as they are – I just can’t help myself.
Anyway, the books here (translated as Fascination, Hésitation, Tentation, and the soon-to-be-released Révélation) seem to be as hugely popular with the female set as they are in the United States. My host sister is counting down the days for the release of the fourth book, which came out in August in the U.S. It’s easy to forget that so many other countries don’t get to enjoy the newest English-language releases right away like we do – they had to wait months for each new Harry Potter, for example.
It’s interesting to read through the translations they have to wait so long for. As far as I can tell there are minimal changes to the text itself. The translator for the Twilight series, however, seems to have taken it upon himself to translate aspects of American culture as well. At one point, a character mentioned Las Vegas, and a little footnote symbol appeared next to the words. I looked down to the bottom of the page, and saw in French, “A place in the United States where Americans go to get married quickly.” These footnotes are all over the text, clarifying everything from comic book superheroes to metal detectors in high schools. It’s an interesting insight into the things we Americans take for granted as common knowledge…
Well, my homework calls. I can only put off my actual reading for so long by reading youth fiction, after all! Hope everyone is enjoying the fall weather, and keep in touch!
October 9, 2008
An American Gimp in Paris...
Last night I had the unique opportunity to be carried down stairs by three strapping French men, ride in a French ambulance, go to a French ER, and to witness two people getting arrested, all thanks to a slippery staircase and poorly designed shoes.
Said slippery staircase is in the Institut Charles V, where I take two of my classes. I was leaving my French theater class with a large group when my flats – with their laughable excuse for traction – hit the slippery stairs the wrong way and I suddenly found myself sliding oh-so-elegantly on my butt down the rest of the stairs to the landing of the first floor (second floor to Americans). I immediately felt pain in my ankle and knew I’d sprained it. Everybody from class was so incredibly nice; running to get ice, supporting my foot, and calling for Professor Tufts, my theater professor whose class I had just left.
Prof. Tufts called the French pompiers (firefighters) to take me to the hospital for an X-ray, and three of them came up to bring me to the ambulance. I got to wear a super attractive puffy leg brace, and they put me in a little chair that they then carried down the last flight of stairs. One of my friends snapped a couple photos of me being carried down like a princess. I am very much looking forward to showing my future grandchildren photographic evidence of the time Grandma got literally picked up by three French firefighters.
Then it was off to the emergency room at the Hôtel Dieu, punctuated with the jokes of the pompiers that there we no choice: they'd have to amputate my whole leg. Professor Tufts and I then got the – privilege? – of witnessing firsthand a French emergency room. Within the first five minutes we saw a man being taken away in handcuffs (he left screaming in French, “But I’m not a member of al Qaeda, you know!”). As we saw more of the other patients in the hospital we saw that this was by no means an odd occurrence; it looked like I was the only one there for a non-drug related reason. Everywhere I looked, there were people on hospital gurneys with IV’s apparently sleeping off drugs. By the time my x-ray was being taken (a few hours after we arrived; French ER’s are no more time-efficient than American ones, apparently) we saw another man escorted out by police officers in handcuffs. As Prof. Tufts said, “Welcome to another Paris.”
X-rays and a multitude of doctor visits confirmed what I knew from the beginning; my ankle was sprained. I was discharged with a still pretty painful ankle, lovely painkillers, and – my personal favorite – a super-dorky fashion statement in the form of an aircast for my ankle. Luckily it’s not a boot and I can wear shoes with it. But yes, that’s right…for the next three weeks I get to hobble around Paris in a bright-green ankle brace. How super-chouette.
Said slippery staircase is in the Institut Charles V, where I take two of my classes. I was leaving my French theater class with a large group when my flats – with their laughable excuse for traction – hit the slippery stairs the wrong way and I suddenly found myself sliding oh-so-elegantly on my butt down the rest of the stairs to the landing of the first floor (second floor to Americans). I immediately felt pain in my ankle and knew I’d sprained it. Everybody from class was so incredibly nice; running to get ice, supporting my foot, and calling for Professor Tufts, my theater professor whose class I had just left.
Prof. Tufts called the French pompiers (firefighters) to take me to the hospital for an X-ray, and three of them came up to bring me to the ambulance. I got to wear a super attractive puffy leg brace, and they put me in a little chair that they then carried down the last flight of stairs. One of my friends snapped a couple photos of me being carried down like a princess. I am very much looking forward to showing my future grandchildren photographic evidence of the time Grandma got literally picked up by three French firefighters.
Then it was off to the emergency room at the Hôtel Dieu, punctuated with the jokes of the pompiers that there we no choice: they'd have to amputate my whole leg. Professor Tufts and I then got the – privilege? – of witnessing firsthand a French emergency room. Within the first five minutes we saw a man being taken away in handcuffs (he left screaming in French, “But I’m not a member of al Qaeda, you know!”). As we saw more of the other patients in the hospital we saw that this was by no means an odd occurrence; it looked like I was the only one there for a non-drug related reason. Everywhere I looked, there were people on hospital gurneys with IV’s apparently sleeping off drugs. By the time my x-ray was being taken (a few hours after we arrived; French ER’s are no more time-efficient than American ones, apparently) we saw another man escorted out by police officers in handcuffs. As Prof. Tufts said, “Welcome to another Paris.”
X-rays and a multitude of doctor visits confirmed what I knew from the beginning; my ankle was sprained. I was discharged with a still pretty painful ankle, lovely painkillers, and – my personal favorite – a super-dorky fashion statement in the form of an aircast for my ankle. Luckily it’s not a boot and I can wear shoes with it. But yes, that’s right…for the next three weeks I get to hobble around Paris in a bright-green ankle brace. How super-chouette.
October 4, 2008
"I can, you can...Yes we can!"
Thursday night, a large group of us headed to Carr's Pub in the 1e arrondissement to watch the VP debate. CNN International was projected live onto a huge screen, and the pub was completely packed – mostly with college students studying abroad. Of course, because of the time difference, we had to wait til 3:00 in the morning for the debates to start (let no one say us college kids aren't invested in the political future of our country).
I thought
it would be very hard to be across the ocean from all the pre-election craziness and excitement no doubt going on at Colby, but France is more invested in the U.S. election than you might think. The first week I was here, a construction worker working on our old apartment pulled me aside for a fifteen-minute discussion about Obama versus McCain when he realized I was American.
The French are very aware of and look very favorably on Obama. He even appears in the local advertising here (see left)! My host sister was telling me that whenever the verb conjugations of “can” come up in her English class, all the students chant “Yes we can! Yes we can!” McCain is another story…the same host sister thought the race was between Hillary and Obama!
I thought
it would be very hard to be across the ocean from all the pre-election craziness and excitement no doubt going on at Colby, but France is more invested in the U.S. election than you might think. The first week I was here, a construction worker working on our old apartment pulled me aside for a fifteen-minute discussion about Obama versus McCain when he realized I was American.The French are very aware of and look very favorably on Obama. He even appears in the local advertising here (see left)! My host sister was telling me that whenever the verb conjugations of “can” come up in her English class, all the students chant “Yes we can! Yes we can!” McCain is another story…the same host sister thought the race was between Hillary and Obama!
Of course, they look on the last eight years with rather less enthusiasm:
October 1, 2008
“Mais ils sont fous ces romains!”
Right around Paris VII’s campus, placards in the shape of cartoon speech bubbles have started popping up on road signs and sidewalks. They’re there, as far as I can tell, for no apparent reason other than to give me SO MUCH JOY day after day as I trudge from the metro to Paris VII for my classes.
The signs are quotes from a popular bande dessinée (comic book) called Asterix et Obelix. The BDs are pretty different from the American comic book; they're often bound hardcovers, and since all French children read them they don’t carry quite the same dork stigma as in America. I read lots of them growing up: Asterix, of course, but also Tintin, Yakari, Les Schtroumpfs (you know them as Smurfs), Marsupilamis, etc.
Asterix et Obelix is one of the most popular, partly, I’m convinced, because it features some of the most hysterically awful facial hair you’ll ever see in a comic book. It was even made into a live-action and hilariously campy movie starring (who else?) Gérard Depardieu as Obelix. The movie almost singlehandedly doubled the European audience for French films.
Asterix et Obelix features the inhabitants of the only Gaulish village to resist the Romans. They do so with the help of their druid, who brews a potion that temporarily gives them extreme strength – enough to defeat, story after story, the invading Roman troops. The Romans naturally never learn, prompting Asterix or Obelix to exclaim, Mais ils sont fous ces romains! (“But they’re crazy, those Romans!”)
The signs are quotes from a popular bande dessinée (comic book) called Asterix et Obelix. The BDs are pretty different from the American comic book; they're often bound hardcovers, and since all French children read them they don’t carry quite the same dork stigma as in America. I read lots of them growing up: Asterix, of course, but also Tintin, Yakari, Les Schtroumpfs (you know them as Smurfs), Marsupilamis, etc.
Asterix et Obelix is one of the most popular, partly, I’m convinced, because it features some of the most hysterically awful facial hair you’ll ever see in a comic book. It was even made into a live-action and hilariously campy movie starring (who else?) Gérard Depardieu as Obelix. The movie almost singlehandedly doubled the European audience for French films.
Asterix et Obelix features the inhabitants of the only Gaulish village to resist the Romans. They do so with the help of their druid, who brews a potion that temporarily gives them extreme strength – enough to defeat, story after story, the invading Roman troops. The Romans naturally never learn, prompting Asterix or Obelix to exclaim, Mais ils sont fous ces romains! (“But they’re crazy, those Romans!”)
All the quotes posted around Paris VII are immediately recognizable to anyone who read the BD growing up. It’s a great feeling to be privy to a cultural understanding like this; it makes me feel like a real Parisian!
September 30, 2008
Arrêtez de massacrer le français!
We French-speaking American students are in high demand as babysitters for parents who want their children to be immersed in English. It’s a popular sentiment. The metro hallways are plastered with ads for English language instruction. It seems that wherever you look you’ll see posters of various cheerful blonde women proclaiming that “YES! I speak WALLSTREET English!” My favorite ad has an extremely battered-looking British guard looking at the camera and holding up his hands in terror under the heading, Arrêtez de massacrer l’anglais! (“Stop massacring English!”).
The French have always favored accuracy in language; it started as a means to unite a very culturally and linguistically diverse country and was codified by institutions like l’Académie Française. It’s a rather bittersweet side effect of the globalization of the English language that it’s managed to root its way so firmly into a country that places such a high value on its native language.
After all, as one of my friends was joking the other day, if there was a little beret-wearing & cigarette-smoking Frenchman on a metro sign begging us Americans to “stop massacring français,” he’d probably be on his deathbed. We’re all trying to remember the faux amis (“false friends”) that don’t translate so well into French. I tried to describe my approach to cooking as a procès the other day and my host mom thought I was talking about a trial. Translating “I’m excited” to Je suis excitée means you’re, ah, excited in another sense.
And please, avoid the mistake I made a few nights ago at the dinner table with my host family. “Ah, je suis pleine!” I said, leaning back in my chair and patting my stomach. My host family stared at me and then at my stomach. Let’s just say my direct translation of “I’m full” to French didn’t quite carry over across the language barrier. They thought I’d announced I was full with a baby – and had chosen a rather awkward moment to share the news with them!
The French have always favored accuracy in language; it started as a means to unite a very culturally and linguistically diverse country and was codified by institutions like l’Académie Française. It’s a rather bittersweet side effect of the globalization of the English language that it’s managed to root its way so firmly into a country that places such a high value on its native language.
After all, as one of my friends was joking the other day, if there was a little beret-wearing & cigarette-smoking Frenchman on a metro sign begging us Americans to “stop massacring français,” he’d probably be on his deathbed. We’re all trying to remember the faux amis (“false friends”) that don’t translate so well into French. I tried to describe my approach to cooking as a procès the other day and my host mom thought I was talking about a trial. Translating “I’m excited” to Je suis excitée means you’re, ah, excited in another sense.
And please, avoid the mistake I made a few nights ago at the dinner table with my host family. “Ah, je suis pleine!” I said, leaning back in my chair and patting my stomach. My host family stared at me and then at my stomach. Let’s just say my direct translation of “I’m full” to French didn’t quite carry over across the language barrier. They thought I’d announced I was full with a baby – and had chosen a rather awkward moment to share the news with them!
September 22, 2008
Au revoir, l’été!
Two weeks in, I feel I'm settling nicely into Paris. I've been wearing my scarves and flats, jostling people around on the Metro, and I attended my first two classes today (both interesting, but both the unfortunate standard French length of three hours...I've been spoiled by Colby's 50-minute morning classes!).
It's suddenly, and dramatically, become fall in Paris. I went to Giverny, Monet's home & garden, this past Saturday, and I couldn't have picked a better day: absolutely gorgeous weather, not too many crowds because of the time of year, and an all-around beautiful change of pace from city life.This past weekend was the Patrimoine, so most museums and cultural sites (like Giverny) were either free or dramatically cheaper. It also meant that certain government buildings were open. A couple of us tried to get into the Palais L'Elysée, but when we arrived the police officer there kindly told us that they'd stopped letting people in to see it because the line to get in right now was approaching eight hours. Apparently Parisians like Sarkozy more than they let on, if they're so determined to see his digs.
Of course, while we were there, I realized how fully it's become fall; especially after my very summer-like adventure on Saturday in Giverny, it was startling to see that the leaves are changing here. It's a good reminder as to how little time I have to explore here, though!
I'll try and write more entries soon...there are tons of things I've been meaning to post about, I just haven't had time!
Bises,
Annelise
September 9, 2008
Write a thesis, live in a box
I'm safe and sound in Paris! I'm all settled in at my host family's apartment in the 3eme arrondissement - though that settling in will last only about a week, as we're moving to the 4eme on the 15th. I'm very excited about our new location - it's about a block from the building where I'll be taking two of my classes this semester, and only a five minute walk from the beautiful Place des Vosges.
This is week one of orientation, which means super intensive information sessions, grammar and "Civilization" classes, lectures on aspects of French culture, and starting next week, the all important walking tours of Paris.
I'm in the advanced grammar class for orientation, and the last few days have been spent getting instruction in writing the French paper (when we're not conjugating the passe simple that is...apparently we're expected to know how to write it here and not just identify it...heh...). The French model is so, so different from a U.S. paper. Since elementary school, we Americans have been trained to think of a thesis and find arguments to support that thesis. You work to put down anything that disproves your point; you express an opinion.
So most of the class was having a very hard time dealing with the idea of the French paper. "Your opinion doesn't matter," our French teacher told us (in a very nice tone of voice, but still). "The French education system doesn't judge. If you really want to prove a point, then pursue un doctorat and defend your thesis in front of other experts." Our professors want to see papers that demonstrate we have a well-rounded knowledge of the entire subject. You evenly and neutrally discuss the pros and cons of a subject; if you pick just one side to defend, it's perceived as plain laziness.
It'll be hard to adjust to - after all, I've been very well-trained in the American model (thanks Weston), and thinking in thesis-format comes naturally - but I think I'm having an easier time than others. One girl in my class almost got into an argument with the professor about this format. First bit of culture shock, I guess. It says a lot about the two cultures, of course, that one is trained to pick a side and defend it to the death, while the other insists on a full knowledge of both points of view.
I'll write more soon, once orientation craziness dies down. Bonne soiree!
This is week one of orientation, which means super intensive information sessions, grammar and "Civilization" classes, lectures on aspects of French culture, and starting next week, the all important walking tours of Paris.
I'm in the advanced grammar class for orientation, and the last few days have been spent getting instruction in writing the French paper (when we're not conjugating the passe simple that is...apparently we're expected to know how to write it here and not just identify it...heh...). The French model is so, so different from a U.S. paper. Since elementary school, we Americans have been trained to think of a thesis and find arguments to support that thesis. You work to put down anything that disproves your point; you express an opinion.
So most of the class was having a very hard time dealing with the idea of the French paper. "Your opinion doesn't matter," our French teacher told us (in a very nice tone of voice, but still). "The French education system doesn't judge. If you really want to prove a point, then pursue un doctorat and defend your thesis in front of other experts." Our professors want to see papers that demonstrate we have a well-rounded knowledge of the entire subject. You evenly and neutrally discuss the pros and cons of a subject; if you pick just one side to defend, it's perceived as plain laziness.
It'll be hard to adjust to - after all, I've been very well-trained in the American model (thanks Weston), and thinking in thesis-format comes naturally - but I think I'm having an easier time than others. One girl in my class almost got into an argument with the professor about this format. First bit of culture shock, I guess. It says a lot about the two cultures, of course, that one is trained to pick a side and defend it to the death, while the other insists on a full knowledge of both points of view.
I'll write more soon, once orientation craziness dies down. Bonne soiree!
August 26, 2008
Bonjour!
I've created this travel blog to fill you all in on my goings-on while I'm studying in Paris this fall. I'll try to write often with updates, stories and photos!
Please keep in touch while I'm away; you can always email me, call me using Skype (my account is 'annelise.wiersema'), or if you're really hardcore send me snail mail (60 rue St André des Arts, 75006 Paris, France). I leave September 6th and return December 20th.
Bisous!
Annelise
Please keep in touch while I'm away; you can always email me, call me using Skype (my account is 'annelise.wiersema'), or if you're really hardcore send me snail mail (60 rue St André des Arts, 75006 Paris, France). I leave September 6th and return December 20th.
Bisous!
Annelise
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