Summer Changes

Summer brings changes. I suppose it isn't really that everyone actually changes all that much during the summer. It's more that everyone runs off to their different vacation destinations or summer camps or quoi ce ça soit during the summer, then we don't see one another for several months, and once fall comes, we all are very aware of the differences in one another.

In high school, everyone came back to school with bleached hair, white teeth, brown skin. I spent plenty of time spraying lemon juice in my hair, covering my teeth in Crest Whitening strips, and lotioning my legs, arms and face with selfless tanner in preparation for those back to school days.

Now, with the women in my class, the changes are entirely different.

After not having seen the women for almost three months, I feel shocked at how much their lives have changed.

Here's an example:

This week, one of my women, Fatima flew into class and just started shouting, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!” over and over again.

My heart dropped to my shins, because I thought that she was saying that her friend (incidentally, also called Fatima) had died. I finally got her to slow down and tell me what happened. Eventually, she found the words she was looking for and told me that Fatima's husband, not Fatima, had died.

This was still a huge shock to me. I've been over to Fatima's several times, and each time, her husband had greeted me at the door, inquired after my family, and wished me health for the future. He had always seemed in much better health than his frail wife.

Fatima explained that her friend's husband hadn't even been ill, but that during Ramadan, everyone finished their nightly feast, and then, they all had lain down on the floor together. Fatima's husband had lain next to the grand fauteuil, she said.

“The big armchair?” I asked.

She nodded. “Grand, grand, grand armchair.”

“The couch?”

“Yes, that's it...the couch.”

She went on to explain that Fatima had tapped him on the shoulder and tried to wake him when it was time to head off to work, but that he wouldn't move. She'd started screaming his name, and all the kids poured into the room, tried to revive their father, and realized that he was dead. They called the urgences but it was too late. He had died during the night.

I was absolutely stunned by this news, and Tuesday after class, I headed over to Fatima's apartment with the other women I work with. We brought along a bag of gifts. My colleague had gone to a Moroccan shop and asked what we would be expected to give a grieving Moroccan widow after the death of her husband.

“Sugar,” the man at the shop said. “Everyone will be stopping by to pay their respects, and she'll be expected to make tea or coffee for everyone who comes. So, in Morocco,” he said, “we bring sugar when someone dies.”

So, we brought along sugar, nuts, and dates (which the shop keeper assured us weren't too festive).

We walked to Fatima's apartment and her son answered the door. When we came in, she was just standing there in the middle of the living room, dressed from head to toe in white, holding a silver tray with nothing on it. Huge, wet tears were sliding silently down her face. I wondered how long she'd been standing there like that.

We all walked over to her and took turns giving her the bise. Instead of the two kisses on each cheek that she gives normally, she gave us a million kisses on just one single cheek and held us so tightly to her that it was painful.

Seeing her like this got me choked up, and I couldn't help crying too.

We all sat down on the couches and exchanged formalities—we asked after her children, after their grades in school and if they'd been blessed with children. She choked through her responses. We gave her the sugar which she took to the kitchen. And as we'd been told she'd do, she emerged from the kitchen minutes later with coffee and trays of nuts and dates.

We spent two hours with her. She told us about her trip to Morocco, how she left her husband's body there, how he was buried in the ground not far from his hometown. She told us that everyone she knew had come over the Saturday she arrived back in France and that they'd all slept over until Sunday. Her older daughters and sisters were taking turns staying with her. She assured us that she wasn't too alone.

But when we left, her sister walked us out to the front gate, and I watched Fatima walk back to her room, open the door, and slip inside. She looked so lonely then.

She won't be back to class for four months, she said before we headed our separate ways. She'll stay in the house.

I was disappointed to hear this, because I leave in three months. I won't have her in class anymore.

Hmmm.

I've decided once again that I don't like change.

I read somewhere that the only people who like change are wet babies wearing diapers. I suspect that's true.

Sporting some Moroccan Fashion

By the way, I just wanted to briefly note that this school year began in one very typical way : back to school clothes.  Here I am wearing a dress that one of the ladies in class brought me back from Morocco.
What's the verdict?
Too Christmas angel?

And since I'm uploading photos, here's one more for you.  I saw this poster still up in the RER.  Thankfully, they're still advertisting the Christmas Village in Reims that took place November 20 through December 27, 2009.
Yes, that's 2009.
Just in case anyone wanted to agonize over having missed the festivities...



And with that, I wish you all a good night.

Back to the job hunt

Monday, classes started up again. I taught during the day, and then, Monday night, I was back over by Sacre Coeur with my favorite unmotivated, Sri Lankan pupil.
I panted up to her sixth floor apartment (summer had done nothing to keep me in shape), and as soon as I entered her apartment, I had a premonition that something wasn't quite right.
First of all, she answered the door wearing an oddly decorated shirt. Oddly decorated, I'm telling you—embroidery all over the collar and sleeves and cuffs and botton holes. They were a multitude of uneven stitches in various patterns.
“I got a new sewing machine!” she told me. She pulled it out and showed me all the features. Finally, she pointed to the top of the machine and showed me that it stitches almost any pattern you could possibly want on your clothes.
“You see?” she asked, pointing at the cuffs of her shirt.
She'd used every different stitching pattern possible on her shirt. I then looked around her room and saw that suddenly, everything bore a new border—the curtains, the pile of clothes sitting on her bed, her bedcovers. Everything had been decorated.
“You've been busy,” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “I stitch all my clothes.” Suddenly inspired, she said, “You want stitch on you?” She pointed at my shirt. She seemed to expect me to yank my clothes off right then and there so she could cover it in stitches.
“Um...well...no.” I said, hoping not to hurt her feelings.
She took it well. She nodded, and then began pointing at all of her new handy work. Second sign that not all was right: her walls were newly covered in homemade crafts. There were beaded potholders hanging from the window and woven doilies hanging from the wall. She'd printed black and white pictures of herself off the computer and colored them in by hand.
“You like?”
I said yes. I told her that it gave the apartment some personality. I thought it looked original.
“And you notice that my house is clean?” she asked.
I had noticed. Usually, all of her possession are poured out over the floor. Monday, everything was in its place. The floor was mopped. The bed was made. The pots and pans were put away.
I didn't want to discourage her sudden domesticity, but I felt like I needed to ask, “Is everything okay with you?”
“Yes,” she said with a huge smile. “Ca va.”
“Work is okay?”
Immediately, her face fell.
“Well...”
“What happened?” I asked.
“No money for two weeks,” she said.
“You haven't been going to work?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I go to work everyday, but boss says he cannot pay me.”
As it turns out, her boss ran out of money, continued having his employees work, but then didn't pay them in return. After two weeks without pay, she stopped going to work.
“Now, I sit home all day and work from home,” she said, pointing around her room at the potholders and doilies and decorated curtains. “No problem.”
“Well, how are you going to pay for your apartment?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I find new job one day,” she said. “I cook Indian food for someone else.”
I agreed that this was a good idea, and we had French class together. After, she insisted on cooking a cadeau—a gift.
She boiled couscous, added orange food color, raisins, powdered sugar, and butter, and gave me a heaping plate of this. We both ate until we felt sick, and she kept bringing the pot round, trying to refill my plate again and again.
“But you must eat!” she said.
I told her I was more full than I'd ever been in my life, and that, as much as I wanted to, I just couldn't eat anymore.
She seemed saddened by this, and scraped the rest of her creation into my lunchbox so I could finish at home.
I've decided she has to find a new job...and soon. This isn't just for financial reasons. This is also for completely selfish reasons. I can't eat enough food to please her, and I don't want all my clothes embroidered.
She's assured me, however, that Operation Job Hunt started Tuesday.
Let's keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.

The Purple Sludge Debacle of 2010

I live in the basement of a house that's been converted into an office building. Have I ever mentioned that? Well, I do. That's where I live, and I have a room at the bottom of the stairs. I like to call it my studio, but it isn't, because, of course, I have to climb the stairs to use the kitchen, use the bathroom, enter or exit the house. The living situation isn't altogether convenient, but it is affordable.
It's odd living in an office. It's odd hearing everyone parade in at 9 every morning. It's odd having a day off when they're all working. It's odd seeing signs posted everywhere. Some of the signs are your normal, run of the mill, signs (there's one of the garage door that read 'Please do not take garbage out of the garage as it attracts cats.' There's another beside the toilet that says, 'Please hold lever down well--4 or 5 seconds if necessary—to clear the basin.' There's another by the sink that reads 'Please wash and dry your dishes. Keep team life sweet.') Some of the signs are a little passive agressive (there's another one beside the sink that reads on one side, 'Don't use this sink unless you want to clean up crap off the floor.' This has been crossed out, and on the other side, someone else has written, 'Sink: out of order'). See what I mean? Living in an office is odd, and while I hate the idea of finishing my 2 year contract and leaving France in 3 months, I am very ready to have my own place.
So, what spurred these thoughts?
Today, I woke up early and ran a load of laundry. It took almost three hours which struck me as odd. I took out the laundry, and my clothes were covered in purple lint and still soaking wet. The machine was still filled with water. Not a good sign. I ran a “Vidage”--emptying--cycle, but the water remained.
Once the office staff was in, I walked upstairs and reported the broken machine. The accountant followed me down, and said, “It sure does stink down here, doesn't it?”
I hadn't really noticed, but as we neared the laundry room, I had to agree. It smelled of hair dye.
To make a long story short, the accountant opened up the basin where the water was draining from the machine. The basin was filled with purple sludge. Purple stinking sludge. Someone had washed a purple, shag rug in the machine.
I spent the rest of my morning scooping purple sludge out of the basin with a kitchen spoon. All the while, I thought, 'I'd really love to have my own place'—I'd love to know exactly who's using the washing machine and to know what they're putting in it. Is this a little controlling? Maybe.
But for now, I live in an office. I live in a bedroom across from the stairs. And, of course, it does have its benefits. The office staff had a lunch today (I was invited. I went. I ate better than I have in weeks.), and they had leftover cheese and baguette. Now, rewarding myself after this sludge-filled day, I'm eating Brie, baguette, and drinking my Fruits de Verger tea.
Life isn't so bad after all, is it? Everything has its perks.

Not Quite Kindergarten

Last night, I had a meeting at church. My church perpetually has meetings—meetings to determine when we should have further meetings, meetings for individual ministries, meetings for the church as a whole, meetings for people involved in this, and meetings for people thinking about possibly, at some time in life, being involved in that.
And every meeting is dealt with with extreme seriousness.
Last year, I worked in the nursery, I played music Sunday mornings, and I taught children's church.
This year, I got three separate emails: we would need to have a nursery meeting, a music meeting, and a children's church meeting.
Yesterday was the nursery meeting, so I met with the other women who work in the nursery.
Subject: should we really call the nursery The Nursery.
We had supporters on both sides.
Me: Well, calling it the nursery has worked so far. Does the name really matter?
Another Women: But wouldn't we like something more soothing, more loving? Something like the Cabbage Patch?
Yet another Woman: Maybe it would be nice to call them The Fleas?
Another: We should probably avoid anything that would make the children feel like animals.
The meeting stretched on.
All the others seemed intent on changing the nursery's name, because after all, some of the children are now going to preschool, so we wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea and think we're calling them babies.
So, the suggestions came: The Cabbage Patch, The Fleas, The Children's Corner, The Teddy Bears, etc.
At one point, I was asked if I had a suggestion.
“Hmmm...” I said, looking at my notebook where I'd written nothing down, but instead had been turning my pen back and forth to form squiggles. “Erm...well...yes, a name.”
They all watched me as I squirmed.
I suddenly had an idea and sat up straight, proud to have though of something. “How about The Lion's Den?”
They all sat silent, not wanting to immediately shoot down my idea.
“It's nice, but...” They decided it was too negative, and that it wouldn't do at all to call the nursery The Lion's Den.
So, the discussion continued.
We left two hours later, having decided to call the nursery The Children's Garden. We'd then take pictures of each child and post his or her photo in the middle of a flower.
Stephan came and picked me up that night. I recounted the experience to him, and he said, “You know, you might as well have called it Kindergarten.”
Hmmm. No wonder The Children's Garden sounded so nice. I guess we weren't so creative after all. But then, what is creativity if it isn't the reformatting of something we've already seen?

The Joy of Elevators

I feel like I've been a little hard on the French lately—accusing them of forming clumps and not lines and detailing the horrors of my particular experience with French banks. But let me take a moment to tell you something that I find extremely admirable chez les Français, because for all their quirks, I do love the French. (I did, after all, choose to live in France.)
Public transportation in France is a great thing. I don't have a car, and aside from the weekends when my fiancé travels home from school and drives me around in his tiny, neon green Nissan Micra, I exist solely on buses, trains, trams, and metros. I can go anywhere I need, nearly whenever I need to go there.
However, when I look around, I notice that public transport can be really difficult for anyone with a physical handicap, with a child in a stroller, or with luggage. Sure, some stations are equipped with elevators, but many aren't. The stations that aren't handicapped accessible have a whole lot of stairs to climb, and believe me, when you're lugging a suitcase around, navigating these stations can be pénible.
But here's the good part of living in France: all those perfectly coiffed French men whizzing past you in their black suits and thin ties heading to or from work will often wordlessly bend over, grab the edge of your baby carriage or the handle of your suitcase, and help you maneuver those stairs. You'll shout merci at their backs, but they'll keep walking. It's all in a day's work.
The other day, I took a train from Nogent to Pontault. I was traveling in the middle of the day, and there were only a handful of people on the train. I got off at my stop and vaguely noticed another three people get off at the same stop, all of them wheeling along their luggage.
We came to the stairs, and it was just me and these three people and their inordinate amount of luggage. Our three friends were attempting to make it down the stairs with three large suitcases, one dog in a carrier, and if we're being honest, lots and lots of body fat.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched them for a second. I felt bad, so climbed back up the stairs and offered my help. They eyed me dubiously, but one of the group, an older woman, handed me her suitcase and said “Merci.”
I grabbed the handle and started walking the suitcase down the stairs. What I didn't take into consideration was the fact that the stairs had been recently cleaned and were still quite wet. Also, I was wearing my tiny black ballet flats that slide on any wet or dry, inclined or flat, natural or man-made surface. So, not surprisingly, only a few steps down, my foot slipped, and I slid down the stairs.
I landed on my back just outside the turnstiles, wriggling around like a beetle. The woman who's case I was still holding came flying down the stairs after me, calling, “Are you all right? Are you all right?”
I was fine. A little humiliated, but fine.
She took my arm and helped me up. She said, “Oh dear. Now that isn't how you carry a suitcase.” She shook her head, “It isn't how you do it at all.” She righted the suitcase, took the handle, and demonstrated. “You need to lift from your legs, not your back.”
I took the suitcase, mimed her movement, and she nodded.
I dragged the suitcase through the turnstiles and waited on the other side for the woman and her fellow travelers to make it through. The two women made it through just fine—pas de problème—, but the man waited on the other side with the remaining suitcases and the dog. He reached the dog over the turnstile and dropped it on the other side. The dog howled. The ladies screamed and rushed over to the animal carrier.
“Why would you do that?” one yelled. “You just dropped him!”
“Oh,” he said. That was it. Just “oh.”
One woman picked up the dog and then there was a lot of shuffling and arguing and pushing until the suitcases and the man passed through onto the other side. We divided the luggage between us and staggered up the last set of stairs, onto street level. Once there, the vocal lady of the group said to a security guard standing by the gate, “A town of this size should really have an elevator.”
“We do,” he said, pointing to the opposite exit. “Over there.”
All of them turned to look at me, and I blushed. “I didn't know,” I said. "I promise I didn't know." I apologized and hurried off home.
Next time I'll know, though, because, you see, France is a wonderful place, full of public transportation, helpful, well-coiffed Frenchmen, and at times, even elevators.

Immigrant Tales of the Bank

I pretty much hate my bank. Each time I go, something horrible happens, and I leave crying about how imbecilic, awkward, and unFrench I am.
Last year, I opened an account for a variety of reasons. For health insurance reasons, I needed an account. For tax reasons, I needed an account. For pay check reasons, I needed an account. So I went in, sat down with the banker, and understood about 14% of what he said (I did catch, “How in the world do you live on this little money?!) And a few months after this meeting, once my French level was a little higher and I started receiving bank statements in the mail, I realized I'd signed up to open all sorts of things that day. Quelle surprise!
A while after, I went to the bank to try and figure out how to transfer money from my debit account into this newly discovered savings account. The teller at the front desk was a young girl, very pretty, nice clothes...someone you'd expect to see in Paris. So, I patted down my hair, straightened my shirt, and walked up and told her I'd like to transfer money. Of course, I have the impression that my request wasn't as clear or direct as I'd hoped. I imagine it was more of a, “Good day, lady, I think transfer money be good idea.”
She laughed at me, took my card, typed in some information, laughed some more and then asked me a question I didn't understand at all.
I told her I didn't understand.
Agitated, she repeated the question, not slower, only louder.
I lowered my head and explained that I still didn't understand. She shouted the question this time, and by this point, everyone in the bank was looking at me. Then she said that typical French phrase that every French person I know says on a regular basis, C'est pas possible ça! (In France, you see, everything is either not possible or not normal.) I left the bank that day, determined to wean myself off money and never go to the bank again. Later that day, I went to the bank once all the employees were gone and checked my account information from the self-help machine. There was only one euro in my account. The accountant had forgotten to pay me. No wonder she'd laughed.
So, after this (and after another embarrassing debacle where I was so surprised to see money in my account that I ran all the way home and forgot my debit card in the machine. You can imagine how excited the teller was to see me wander back in, head lowered, and say, “Me lose card”), Stephan, my then-boyfriend (now fiancé!), and I hatched a brilliant plan. We'd stagger our entrances into the bank—I'd go in first, he'd count to ten and come in and wait in line after me. I'd do something completely ridiculous, the teller would yell at me, I'd wander out humiliated. Then, Stephan would walk up to the counter, and in his perfect, native speaker French, he'd say, “Well, I had considered opening an account here today, but after seeing how you treat your clients, I'm afraid I'll have to look elsewhere.” It was, admittedly, one of our better formed plans, but we never got around to it. Unnecessary trips to the bank aren't really my style.
A week ago, I got a very official looking envelope in my mailbox. Something very French governmental looking. I opened it and found a tax return inside. The check's arrival was bittersweet.
I put the check on my desk, in my To Do pile, and left it for a day. I looked over at it occasionally but never made any move to do anything about it.
I'd never received a check in France before. What was I supposed to do with it? In the States, I could deposit a check blindfolded. I could even cash the said check blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. In France? Well, my track record at the bank has never been so good.
Eventually, I got up my courage and walked into the bank, head bowed, embarrassed as always. But when I got to the desk, I noticed that there was a new teller. She was older than the other teller, less fashionable, but then, this is the Paris area, so let's face it: she was looking good.
I put the check on the desk, explained that i wanted to deposit it in my account, but wasn't sure how to go about doing this. I waited for her to tell me how abnormal or impossible this was.
But she didn't. She asked me to write down my account number and to sign below. I did. And then, she said, “Merci. Have nice day.” I stood there, didn't leave, and finally said, “That's all?”
“Oui,” she replied, “That's all you have to do.”
So, that was it. A pleasant trip to the bank. No humiliation.
I passed by everyday last week to look in and see who's working. My banking nemesis hasn't been back. I'm left to wonder: is this vacation? Or is this a permanent vacation?
I can't say I'm terribly broken up about her absence.
However, I'm hesitant to get too optimistic. My banker called Friday. He wants me to come in this Friday to discuss my banking needs. What banking needs? I'm not sure. But I'm hoping for the best, and I'm listening to all my “Pronounce it Perfectly” CDs in the hope that my bank humiliation is over forever.

Keeping it Real

It's been a long-term goal of mine to go to Ireland one day, and would you know, last week, that dream came true. I booked a Ryanair flight and flew off to see the world (or rather, a part of it). I spent a day in Galway and two days in Dublin. While I was there, I had many a cup of tea, saw Galway's St. Nicolas Church, Galway Cathedral, Lynch's Castle and Spanish arches. I walked the promenade and sat by Galway Bay, feeding the swans. In Dublin, I visited Trinity College where I got a peak at the Book of Kells, that illustrated copy of the four Gospels written by monks in the 8th century. I saw Christ Church Cathedral and Kilmainham Gaol and visited the Dublin Writer's museum.
It was a perfect three-day trip.
But what's funny is that, even in Ireland, I didn't quite lose the French people.
My second day, I arrived at the Galway bus station about a half-hour early to board my bus and to head back to Dublin. As the Irish arrived, they lined up one by one behind me, quiet and unassuming.
Then this group of backpackers arrived, pushed past everyone, and camped right next to the bus door. They looked at each other and, wonder of wonders, started speaking French.
I had to laugh.
In my experience, I've noticed that the French don't really know what a line is. When you go to the préfecture, they wrestle their way to the front of the lines. When I was at a crepe party at church, I stood back at what I thought was the end of the line, and everyone elbowed past me. Eventually, a friend of mine said, "If you don't shove your way to the front, you'll never eat." At the airport, making it past security is a nightmare with everyone forming clumps instead of single-file lines.
But then, C'est la Vie. That's the French.
It's good to see the French keeping it real.

Life with Levy

I've recently launched an effort I like to call “Operation: Read More Books in French.” I've been in France for a year and a half and have read exactly three books in French. Two of the books I've read are Pierre Bellemare books made up of two-page unsolved mystery type stories. The other book, I learned (much to my chagrin), is a translation of an already existing English book. So, not only am I gaining no new French vocabulary words (with the exception of fouiller. The policemen in Bellemare's books are perpetually fouiller-ing through other people's things), I'm also learning nothing about French culture.
So, this past week, I decided to aborde that problem (oh wait, look at that: another new French word) and start reading a novel by France's most widely read author, Marc Levy. Levy, on a side note, wrote the novel that was adapted into Reese's Witherspoon's movie, Just Like Heaven. So, I started with Levy's La Prochaine Fois, a book that looked reasonably short. It's the story of two people on a mission to find a toile. Problem: I bought the book at a book stand in the train station and started reading on the way home. I didn't have a French dictionary with me and couldn't figure out what a toile was or why these two would-be lovers were looking for one. Eventually, I asked my fiancé, had him read the back and explain the premise of the book to me, and all the puzzle pieces fell into place. (“Ohhhhh...they're searching for a missing painting...”)
Ever since I've started reading Levy, I've felt a certain camaraderie with Marc Levy readers everywhere (and believe me, they are everywhere). My first day reading La Prochaine Fois, I noticed a woman in the train reading a Levy book. She smiled at me, held her book up so I could see the cover, and I nodded politely but cooly, as if to say, “Nice, but no big deal. I read Marc Levy all the time.”
My entry into the Marc Levy world also seems to gain me entrance into the normally very closed and private French life. I was taking a class in Nogent last week, and a women from class picked me up from the train station. She saw La Prochaine Fois in my hand and said, “Oh, such a good book. Really helped me through a messy breakup.” She then proceeded to give me all the details of that relationship gone wrong.
And Marc Levy has expanded my vocabulary—not only from reading his literature, but also from discussing his books with people around me. A friend of mine saw the book sitting on my desk in class and said, “Marc Levy, huh? He's interesting but his stories ne sont pas trop Catholiques.”
His stories aren't too Catholic?
I looked up the phrase pas trop Catholiques in my dictionary, and found that the expression means a little bit fishy, not quite right. Apparently the phrase can be applied to foods, to actions, and to Marc Levy plots. So, I've started using the phrase as often as possible.
At lunch the other day, the cook brought out slabs of sausages rolled inside zucchini. I leaned over to the girl next to me and proclaimed the meal not too Catholic. When listening to a friend describe an interaction with the civil servants at the prefecture, I assured her that their behavior wasn't too Catholic. And later, I was reading in an old newspaper about some scandalous activity between monks and nuns. This too I deemed not too Catholic.
But now, I've finished La Prochaine Fois, and unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my library just got a shipment of Lorrie Moore books in English. So, I might have dropped “Operation: Read More Books in French” for the moment. Although, on my way home today, I saw the cover of Levy's Toutes ces choses qu'on ne s'est pas dites, and I think it's time to get back into Levy mode. No one in France seems to know Lorrie Moore. And frankly, I miss the friendly Levy-lover faces on the train.