Everybody Hates the Man…or My Weekend in the North

There couldn’t have been a better weekend for us to get out of Paris. The overwhelming theme of the past week for me has been The Strike That Never Ends.

I spent Thursday night with a friend in Paris, and we all had our traditional strike-weekend, grown-up, poor people dinner comprised of scraps for Natalie’s host mom’s kitchen and our meager purchases from the Monoprix.

Friday we spent mainly in pajamas watching movies until my usual, and much-anticipated, weekly babysitting/English lessons at Louis and Paul’s. This week was especially fun because I brought my speakers so they could listen to American music and made them a batch of sweet tea. They had a hard time grasping the concept of cold, sweetened tea, and they hated it! Louis said it was too strange and Paul, the 7 year old, said tea was only for big people. The dad didn’t even try it.

I also played some Dixie Chicks for Louis because I have been trying to explain a Southern accent to him without having to mimic one myself. He listened to it for a minute and said he thought it was really funny, but did I have anything without an accent he could listen to?

Friday night my friend Natalie and I decided to head back to Arcueil because I live, for once, a very short distance from our meeting point for the bus to Northern France on Saturday morning. We made the trek to catch the bus out to my little suburb at Place d’Italie, and realized there was a good chance there wasn’t one coming. We wandered between bus stops, and got ready to order a cab, when the last bus of the night pulled up. We were pretty much the only people on it but it was a major stroke of luck!

8:15 on Saturday morning we left for the bus, which finally rolled away at 8:50. Only about 16 of the 23 or so people in the program went on the trip. First stop was St. Malo, a beach town in Bretagne where I have been before. The weather was cold, but beautiful, and I had not forgotten how stunning it is. It was the home of Chateaubriand, the resting place of Jacques Cartier, and was famous for pirates and corsairs. (I think the word in English is privateer. See: the French Sir Walter Raleigh.) We also found numerous references, in the form of dog statues and street names, of the old St. Malo tradition of releasing starving, man-eating dogs every night at midnight outside the city walls to protect the city and guard its curfew. The local church still rings a special bell at midnight to respect the tradition of the old midnight curfew.

St. Malo is surrounded by a high wall and a beautiful, boat-packed harbor on almost all sides. A more modern city has grown out around it, but hardly close enough to destroy the view. During WWII the city was occupied by Nazis and much of it was destroyed by American bombing. It has been rebuilt to resemble an 18th century style, but with much wider streets making it easier for tourists and boutiques. It has a rich maritime history, and some of the shops really use that pastime in a charming way. There was one or two that made me feel like I was in Myrtle Beach, though – so, a little less charming. While we were there, there were some old men singing French sailor tunes in the square. I also discovered its famous caramel that changed my life. Yes, I am bringing some back to America with me.

After our free roaming time, aka our “Eat all the candy you can stomach and buy some for your parents” time, we made our way to Maison St. Francois, for our room and board. The second we walked into the beautiful granite structure I said it felt just like our old church retreats – like Kanuga or the Gravatte Retreat. Everyone laughed at me and said that was ridiculous. Then, when we got to our room, what do you think we found over our doors? A crucifix! There was a statue of the Virgin Mary in the common room, and the whole place was run by nuns. I win.

The food was terrific, the rooms comfortable, and the nuns surprisingly easy-going.

Sunday morning we got back in the bus at Oh God Early and headed to Mont-St-Michel, another beautiful location I have previously visited, on the coast of Normandy. Mont-St-Michel is only about an hour and a half or so away from St. Malo, and is equally as beautiful. Built on a mountain in the middle of a flat beach along La Manche (the English Channel), Mont-St-Michel is an existing medieval town that has been renovated, but the heart of it has not drastically changed since it was built in the 11th century.

The abbey situated at the top of the mountain, once an ultimate and treacherous finale for thousands of Catholic pilgrims, has lost some of its original color, but does not leave any confusion about why it is such an important landmark for the French. The city itself, which develops around the abbey, existed during the Hundred Years War and the saga of Joan of Arc, so she is a major figure there, as well. The entire mountain, which rises out of nothingness almost, is sometimes viewed as a metaphor for heaven. Pilgrims must cross dangerous quick sands of La Manche to get to Mont-St-Michel with a guide (a journey led by St. Peter) to ascend up the abbey (heaven). The tallest point of the whole mountain, at the center, is a statue of St. Michael above the abbey, which I learned was placed there by helicopter kind of recently.

I had been praying for snow, which would have made the whole experience beautiful and surreal, especially since the town was not very busy, but instead we got rain. Really heavy, freezing, constant rain. It is difficult to take away the beauty of Mont-St-Michel, but it was almost miserable. We figured it didn’t help that in was November, in the North of France, in a medieval church. Last time I was there it was July – and still cold. Luckily, I brought an umbrella and big coat so I survived just fine.

We finally warmed up in the greatest restaurant at the base of the town, near the main fortified door, called the Mouton Blanche (the White Sheep). I had amazing salmon pasta and an apple tart thing for dessert.

Finally, the 6 hour bus ride home, extended by the heavy traffic coming back into Paris. My host dad picked up my friend, Leah, who lives nearby, and I, and we headed home. When I got home, I realized my host parents had done some serious work in my guest house. The linens were washed, the bathroom cleaned (again – I had cleaned it myself like 2 days before), extension cords added, heaters fixed, towels and washcloths restocked, and dish sponges aplenty. It was really sweet of them. On a weird note, I went inside for dinner with my host family, and to present them with the truly delicious present of St. Malo candy I bought, and my host mom said she’d put my favorite boots (the ones that Grandma bought me) in the basement. Why? She said she thought they smelt bad and I could keep them in the basement every night from now on if I wanted. She also said she thought my socks smelt funny and I should have her wash them all.

Here’s the deal, folks. I have yet to forget to give her a pair of socks I need washed, because I don’t have many, they don’t take up any room in the thumbnail circumference of their washing machine, and I always have dirty ones – and I still haven’t figured out why she wants me to keep my boots in my basement. But I seriously can’t smell anything in the room and now I’m paranoid. I’m also incredibly thankful that I cleaned up my guest house before the host ‘rents decided to do a clean sweep.

Anyway, it has been an eventful week and it’s only going to get crazier. This strike is NOT helping my insanely busy schedule. I had to leave for class 2 hours early, it took me 2 and a half hours to get home, and I had to skip out on a theater thing tonight because I knew it was too hard to do. It is the first cultural event I have missed and I’m not happy about it. Tomorrow is “Everyone Hates the Man Day” in Paris. Professors, students, the RATP, hospital attendants, and the Post Office are all on strike tomorrow. Why? Who even knows anymore. Why not?

The French (or at least those who oppose Sarkozy - including my host family) say they will support the strike as long as they have to. If they give in, then they will have to give into Sarkozy in the future, and the government needs to know its actions are unacceptable. The government won’t back down, so it’s just a stare down contest until somebody flinches. Official negotiations are scheduled for Wednesday, so I’m praying things will be back to normal by Thursday, because that is the big day of my super duper-important, un-missable carte de séjour visa appointment that makes the difference between me being a legal university student and an illegal alien in this beautiful country I am so lucky to live in.

Although, not everybody is disgusted with Sarkozy. My friend Kate (who has a strange knack for attracting angry French people), was discussing the strike with our friend, Sarah, while walking through Montmartre the other day. Kate, eloquently expressing her personal opinion, said to Sarah, “I am so sick of Sarkozy’s shit!” And a French woman walking ahead of them turned around, pointed her finger at Kate, and said in English, “You’re the only one here that is full of shit!”

So, on that note, that’s the end of this long post. I will try to put up some pics as soon as possible. And the best news, my friend Aaron from GWU is getting here on Friday!! I hope he feels like walking. A lot. Especially to Jeffrey’s, where we’re eating dinner on Saturday night.

Back in the Old Days...

Just a quick update on what has quickly become the bain of my existance: Strike Season.

This week, as I mentioned, there is another strike starting tomorrow night. All traffic on the RER B is suspended, as is the vast majority on the RER A (the other line I use to get to Paris X) and 1 in 10 metro trains are functioning. This is apparently supposed to go on until the 21st.

This means that tonight is my last night in my own bed for awhile, and I have to no steady place to stay for the next week. I assume I'll be hopping around friend's houses.

My friend Natalie and I were talking earlier about the first day of our first strike, when I had a steady place to stay. I remember waking up at Natalie's with a couple of other stranded friends, we all wished each other a Happy Strike Day, make a terrific brunch, and awaited the exciting, class-free weekend. (Pardon the pun.)

I don't know if we were just innocent, dumb Americans or what at that point, but I really wish we could get back to that place. Because it was a lot more fun than imagining my future as a temporary bag lady.

That's all I wanted to say today. At least this week will definitely be an adventure - and this time I'll be prepared with toothpaste and a change of clothes.

RATP (Rentrer Avec Tes Pieds)

Again, I wish I were blogging more in the last couple weeks or so but honestly it hasn't been that exciting. However, the next few weeks until Christmas break are quickly turning into a roller coaster of exciting adventures, so I'll hardly be strapped for material.

So, a little update on my weekend.

My friend Natalie had friends in town for all over the continent, so I got to meet new great people on Thursday and Friday night. Once again, I am at the mercy of the metro system (which closes very early). On Friday night, we hung out on the Pont des Arts, overlooking the Institut de France and the Eiffel Tower. In sort of a less glamorous Cinderella way, I knew it was midnight and I had to go when the Eiffel Tower started to twinkle. That was pretty great, as party-killers go.

Last night, my friend Koa and I decided to have a very French afternoon. It all started because both of our parents have been giving us a hard time about taking our Christmas card photos in front of the Eiffel Tower, so we made it our mission yesterday evening. In the end, we ended up taking some great ones. Afterward we had a relatively expensive dinner on the Champs-Elysees and then decided we would see a movie. After purchasing tickets, we realized that the zany French sex comedy we chose would be in French, without subtitles.

After buying really reasonably priced movie snacks at concession (who knew?) we got settled, expecting to be a little lost during the film. In the end, we had not only understood the movie, but we got the jokes, the slang, and recognized one of the actors in it from another French film! Actually, the true story is that we stood up and I said, "Hey, we understood the whole movie without subtitles!", we high-fived, and the Parisians behind us laughed at us.

On another interesting cultural note, the whole movie was about infidelity. Two couples know each other, and everybody knows that the husband of one couple is sleeping with the wife of the other. The rejected spouses get together to win back their loved-ones, and end up falling in love. In fact, not once was there a scene along the lines of "I can't believe he/she would ever do that to me! How awful! I'm leaving!" Not one time! It was immediately, "The love has gone out of our relationship. What can I do to win them back." Infidelity was totally portrayed as just something that happens when someone is bored in a marriage that you have to deal with. I don't think that would have flown in American films. (or would it?)

Along that line, my friend Koa is an aspiring writer. Her French friend, Cedric (or Castle Boy), recently asked to read some of her work, so she sent him a piece she wrote about an older man and his much younger girlfriend walking together through the street. Much of the piece is his thoughts about his fears of being seen with her by his colleagues, and the effect on his reputation. When Cedric read the peice, he emailed Koa and said that he liked it, but he just didn't understand what the big deal was. Why was this a bad thing for the old man to be seen with his young girlfriend? Anyway, I'm still laughing about it.

Oh! AND -- the big news. There is another RATP strike! Yes, the 14th until the 21st. This means that I will be an outcast for a week. A poor, homeless wanderer, bouncing from friend's home to friend's home. I have already started planning my Greve Emergency Kit Bag and I think I'm going to stock up on unrefridgerated food. (The loose translation of Rentrer Avec Tes Pieds -- You're Walking Home.)

AND, the University students are on strike this week. I actually don't know what they want, but all the students at Paris IV and, I believe, Paris I just aren't going to class. Something makes me think that my Portrait class is still on, though.

Before I go, a quick breakdown of my exciting European life until Christmas (by weekend):
Weekend 1 (this upcoming): St.Malo and Mont-St-Michel
2: Aaron (good friend from GWU) is in Paris! Also, dinner with Jeffrey on Saturday.
3: Roma!
4: Barcelona!
5: Madison (no introduction necessary) in Paris all week!
6: Free weekend to study for finals. Goody.
7: Home for Christmas!

Oh jeez, the Mama Drama is starting again downstairs. Gotta go!

Sleepless in Paris

I know, I know. It is Tuesday, which means I haven't written in almost a week. I promise this is not a let down or a deep slide into blogging obscurity. You guys just don't know my struggle.

I'm probably being dramatic. But, still. After the Halloween party on Wednesday night I knew I didn't have anymore time to play around and got to work on the four papers, project, massive miscellaneous homework, and Flaubert novel that I am supposed to have completed this week. Normally, it would be all my fault that I didn't use the three weeks in between receiving the assignment and doing it, but this time it is different. Every one of these papers and projects (save one...ok, two) were assigned only a week ago. Starting with the 7 page theatre paper, single spaced, in French.

Anyway, there has been many an occasion this week that I have pulled up the blog and begun to write, and then realized that I am only using it as a means of procrastination. Then I have a verbal war with myself, and get back to work.

Plus, the only interesting update pertaining to this week is probably that my room is a natural disaster area, I have very prominent black circles under my eyes, and my hair is a catastrophe. Tonight, I have a large packet to read on religion, a 4 page paper, and a project on the layout of the Courbet exhibit at the Grand Palais. Ironically, after Thursday, the dust magically clears and I return to some form of normal human existance.

Last night we went to the Salle Pleyel again, which is always such a really wonderful experience. It is modern, but the classical music peices are beautiful. We sat behind the stage again, which I love because I can watch the conductor the whole time. This particular concert, though, was played by the Los Angelos Symphony Orchestra, so almost every one of the musicians was American and probably over half the audience. Every voice I heard was American. Ironically, two of the girls in our program are from LA and the conductor is my friend Caitlyn's neighbor in Laguna. She was so excited, and kind of exasperated, that she really had never talked to him but sees him all the time, and here they both were in Paris.

A quick story about before the concert. I can't remember if I've really talked about it on the blog, but my host sister and host mom tend to fight a lot. It is an awkward situation because I never quite know what to do. It usually happens at dinner, and is usually contained to just Francoise (mom) and Camille (sister). The worst is when the dad gets involved, which is when Quentin (brother) and I just stare into our plates.

Well, last night, I ran home and had half an hour to change and eat dinner. So I'm raiding the kitchen when my host mother bursts in and tells me that there are extra tickets, and they are going to! So, she starts an impromptu dinner, calls the family, and all is well. I alert them that I am going to change, then I'll return and we can leave together. I'm gone 10 minutes. When I come back to the house, Quentin and Francois (dad) are sitting at the dinner table, quiet and awkward. Suddenly, I hear mass hysteria happening upstairs. Crying, yelling, screaming, stomping, some choice profanity that I understand clearly - a particularly bad mother-daughter face-off.

Francois told me to go ahead to the concert, which I did, and had a lovely time. My host family actually sat behind us in the concert hall and all seemed well. Afterward, I ran into my host mom and dad coming back from the metro. When I asked where Camille was, they said that she had left for a friend's house and how incredibly upset they were with her. That's the last I know. It's difficult because I feel like this problem with them also keeps me from bonding with Camille. She always has negative things to say about her mom, and I don't have any place getting in the middle of that.

Anyway, time for class! I miss you guys! Next weekend, I'll be in St. Malo and Mt-St-Michel, so lots of great blog updates to come after my boring couple of weeks!