getting lost

vendredi 11 avril 2008

Trying to be as active as I can during these two months without tennis, I make an effort to walk to class everyday.  The keyword is effort.  My class is in the 9ème arrondissement, which is a 25-30 minute walk from home.

Navigating through the streets of Paris isn't exactly the easiest thing, even with my handy "Paris Pratique" which maps out every street in Paris, because lots of these streets are centuries old.  Sure, there are the huge, wide avenues and boulevards, but there are also the narrow rues (streets).  One could start out on a boulevard, walk into a street, turn around the corner into another street, and then get lost in a seemingly unending maze of streets that come one after another.

Or maybe it's just me.  I do have a habit of getting lost while driving; just ask Jeni, she has received too many calls from me at random times asking for directions.

Anyway, during the first two weeks of class, I think I got lost about five or six times, usually as a result of thinking that walking into a particular street would lead to a shortcut.  Eventually, I ended up where I needed to be, and in the process I traversed yet a couple more unknown streets in Paris.

So then, getting lost might be a good thing.  One of the first things Elisabeth said to me was that it's necessary to get lost in Paris.  As a doctor, I've always felt that getting lost is the worst feeling to have when you have a concerned patient or parent sitting in front of you; the entire purpose of medicine is to find the solution as quickly as possible, as directly as possible.  There is no room for error, just ask any lawyer.

If my brain has been wired that way, how am I going to reprogram it to accept change, to embrace getting lost?  Like they say, practice makes perfect; I'll have to force myself to get lost more often (not to be confused with someone telling me to get lost).  I think I am going to take the metro, get off at a random station, walk around while avoiding stepping on the brown trails of dogs which one can find every few steps in Paris, get lost (that is sure to happen), and not consult my Paris Pratique until 2 hours later.  Certainly I'll have my camera with me.  Now if only the weather will cooperate my plan.

Will this work and allow me to embrace changes, spontaneity, getting lost?  I don't know, but it's a step.  Knowing me, I'll get lost trying to get lost.  Even better, as long as I end up there.

tongues (des langues)

mercredi 9 avril 2008

So, tongues, what could I be talking about?

Last night I was watching a porgram on TV, something like a talk show but called Magazine in French.  There are many of these on French TV every night, but they offer no resemblance to American talk shows.  On a typical French talk show, there is one host who talks to several guests about current events in the world, anything from politics to book releases and entertainment.  Some of these include "On n'a pas tout dit" (We haven't said it all), "Ce soir (ou jamais ! )" (Tonight or never), and "C'est à dire ? " (That is to say?).  Yes, much more intellectual than Oprah giving away gifts or Ellen dancing on stage.

I was surfing through the channels and came across a blond woman speaking perfect French; ten seconds later, I realized it was Jodie Foster.  I had no idea she speaks perfect French, with just a very little accent (to my ears at least).  I knew that she graduated from Yale, and a classmate just old me that she had majored in French literature.  Ok, I'm ignorant.  She was in France promoting her new movie "L'île de Nim," starring also Gerard Butler and Abigail Breslin.  One of these three stars is cute.  Guess which one I'm referring to.

This morning in class we talked about food in different cultures (again, I know - but you do know that the French love talking about politics, food, and sex, right?)  Someone brought up cow tongues (it wasn't me).  Not surprisingly, most people made a face when it came up, even more of a reaction than to grasshoppers and wasps.  It's just a muscle, people!

Tonight a Chinese friend took me to a Chinese restaurant specializing in "la mien" (pulled noodles).  The noodles were good, but the most surprising moment of the evening was hearing a song that seemed very familiar but surely a version I hadn't encountered.  It took me 15 seconds to realize it was Jackie Cheung's (not to be confused with Jacky Chan who can't sing) "wen bien" (kiss goodbye), but sung in English by an unfamiliar voice.  My friend told me the song was redone in English by a singer whose name he couldn't remember.  So there I was, eating noodles from northern China, listening to a song in English, originally sung by a guy from Hong Kong (no, don't even start with the "HK is China" thing), in Paris.  Super, hein !?

working hard

lundi 7 avril 2008

Over the weekend, Didier, his friends Alim and Patrick, and I went to a restaurnt in Le Marais called Au P'tit Canaillou.  P'tit is short for petit, meaning little.  Canaillou is a word from familiar language (you probably won't find it in a French-English dictionary) referring to a mischievous boy.  The awning of the restaurant features a cartoon drawing of a little boy making peepee like you would see in a fountain.  Lots of restaurants in France utilize non-standard words that either have familiar, literary, or historical origins.  So much more character than what one would see in the U.S., n'est-ce pas?

The restaurant was full that night, meaning the waiter was busy with about 10 tables of 30 customers.  That's right, I wrote "the waiter," not "waiters."  I don't think one would ever see that in the U.S.  All the customers spent at least two or three hours dining, with very few complaints, at least not verbally that we could hear (yes, my French is that good that I can distinguish complaints from 20 feet away).  Even though one doesn't need to leave a tip (un pourboire - literally "for a drink"), the waiter still worked very hard to please every customer.  He even remembered what everyone at my table ordered.  Quite impressive.

D'ailleurs, j'avais un autre rendez-vous avec un correspondant. Il s'appelle Falilou et il vient de Guinea. Il est en France depuis 2002 et il habite dans la banlieue parisienne avec sa femme et leur fille qui a cinq mois. Il m'a dit qu'en mars et en avril, tout le monde qui travaille dans les affaires est très occupé parce qu'il est la fin de la période fiscale.

Sa femme et lui, ils tous les deux travaillent très dur. Il faut que son anglais s'améliore parce que les gens qui peuvent parler l'anglais gagnent d'habitude plus d'argent que ceux qui ne le parlent pas. Il a dit que typiquement il n'étudie pas l'anglais souvent parce qu'il regarde le foot à la télé ou il est trop fatigué de le faire après une journée trop tongue au travail, mais ma persévérance d'apprendre le français le motive à étudier l'anglais plus intensément. Par contre, je crois que c'est lui qui me motive à travailler plus. Sa dédicace à sa famille me touche beaucoup.

déjà?

samedi 5 avril 2008

Has it already been a week since my arrival in Paris?  C'est pas vrai ! Hard to believe.  The week went by quickly except for the days when I was fighting both jetlag and a cold, definitely not a good combination.

I am finally feeling better and what I looked forward most today was to see my good friend Julien again.  I first met Julien and his very elegant mother Martine two years ago, really a very nice family - as the French would say, super sympa.  Julien invited me to his home in Bry Sur Marne, about 10 minutes by the RER (a network of trains) outside of Paris proper, for lunch with his girlfriend Hermine, Martine, and his uncle Pierre-Jean.

Europeans in general truly do not enjoy the luxury of large spaces as many Americans do.  I guess I shouldn't complain about my 625 square-foot (58 m2) apartment when most of the apartments I've seen have been less than 50 m2.

Julien is a typical Frenchman, meaning he complains about everything, and I mean everything.  He knows it too.  Actually, I haven't heard him complain about Hermine yet, so perhaps not everything.  He studied architecture and spent some time working as an architect, but now he does recruitment for an architectural firm.  I think he enjoyed his current job initially, but not any more.  For him, Paris is a depressing, cold city deprived of live and energy (at the same time depriving him of both these things).  He longs to live in the mountains.  If one day he moves there, maybe I'll visit him like Heidi.  I wonder if I'll get to milk goats.

I had seen pictures of Hermine, but when I met her in person, I could see why JuJu was crazy about her.  Neither he nor I can understand why she's with him.  To each his (her) own, I suppose.

I told JuJu he should start a new career as a chef after tasting his cuisine.  Just as an example of a Saturday French lunch (I know I've talked about food already, but you know how much I like to eat) - for entrée, we had bread (yes, a baguette) with one of my favorite discoveries from last trip - les rilletes.  It's basically a mix of pork, duck, or goose, with lots of delicious animal fat; it is most often served as a pâté.  The plat was a Braizilian fish stew (amazing) not too unlike a ratatouille.  He calls it la moqueica de peixel.  To finish things off, JuJu served for dessert a type of pudding with pears called un clafoutis aux poires.  If I were a judge on Iron Chef (the original Japanese version, not the stupid American version), I would be using words like "ah, the subtle aroma of the fish blends perfectly with the delicate texture of the tomatoes, everything is just so good, I could eat this everyday."

After lunch, we all went to a nearby mall (centre commercial) to check out the French version of this American import.  Not too different, except the parking spaces are much smaller here.  We visited FNAC, the French equivalent to Borders, where I looked for "Le Petit Nicolas" by Sempé (children's literature).  With just simple pictures, words, and sentence structures (we're talking fourth grade level here), Sempé hilariously depicts the lives of young French children.

Wanting me to read something more appropriate for my age, JuJu gave me Amélie Nothomb's "Métaphysique des Tubes."  She is one of the hottest authors in France now, and apparently she too uses simple language that even I can understand.  Simple is good, always very good for me.  I guess I like books like "Le Petit Nicolas" and "Le Petit Prince" because I like the simple things that children experience, how the easiest things could seem so complicated to six-year-olds.  At least that's my excuse for avoiding more "mature" (i.e., boring) topics like politics and the economy.

As an adult (yeah, I know I hardly behave like one), I can look at situtations that appear to be super complicated for kids and smile (actually, more like reading and laughing uncontrollably during work in between seeing patients) at the intricately constructed simplicity of their lives.  By comparison, when I become wise at the age of 70, I will probably look back at my struggles now and smile at my own naiveté and ineptitude.  And when I struggle with things at 70?  Who's going to laugh at my mistakes?

I guess I can always do that myself.

what is a tourist to do?

mercredi 2 avril 2008

I met a very interesting woman for language exchange today, Elisabeth Schubert.  She is an artist focusing mostly on sculpture.  We spent nearly three hours in a café chatting about her work and les français in general.  However, she wasn't quite confident with her English, so we conducted our conversation mostly in French.  Surprisingly, I understood most of what she said.  Even more so, she understood what I said.

One of the many topics we discussed was the French people's seeming unfriendliness, or at least that of the Parisians.  For example, when there is a tourist standing at the corner of a busy intersection on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, he could be there for hours with an open map in his hands and a desperate look on his face, and no one would offer to help him.  The key word here is offer.  Accordingly to Elisabeth, the French do not like disturbing other people, and to offer to help would be to suggest that the tourist doesn't know what he's doing (even though it is apparent).  But if the tourist were to ask for help (even better if he were to address someone with a simple bonjour), most Parisians would be glad to assist.  However, the tourist may not understand directions in French or in English with a very heavy French accent (incomprehensible to some, but super cute to me).

Au contraire, Elisabeth tells me she was once in New York, and when she was lost, a heap of strangers immediately came up to help her.  That surprised her a bit.  Too bad she didn't understand that they said.

Regarding cafés, a very welcoming change is the disappearance of the fog, I mean smoke.  In the past, whenever I approached a café or restaurant, the first thing that struck me was not the aroma of pastries or coffee, but the odor of cigarettes and the cloud of smoke just waiting to engulf me and seep into every fiber of my body as soon as I opened the door.  Luckily, as the French would say, ça n'existe plus (it doesn't exist any more).  Since 1er janvier 2008, the smokers can only gather outside these establishments.  Therefore, the classic images of a chic Frenchwoman sitting outside a café with a cigarette in her hand and a ring of smoke in front of her can still be found.

who's a fool?

mardi 1 avril 2008

The most important thing to do today was to get a monthly coupon for my carte orange (a metro ID card with my beautiful picture on it from my trip two years ago).  For about 54 Euros, you have unlimited rides for all public transportation within Paris, not bad at all, considering Paris has arguably the best metro system in the world.  Supposedly, you can always find a metro station within 500 meters from wherever you are in the city.  I haven't tested this out myself, but I have no doubt it's true.  If you don't believe it, just bring a measuring tape on your next trip to Paris.

There are 14 lines, one of them automatically operated.  I did ride on this line during my last trip, quite impressive.  Perhaps there are more automatic lines by now, I don't know - will find out during the next two months.

Hier soir, j'ai eu mon cours du soir de 19h à 21h. Nous étions neuf étudiants avec le prof Stephanie un. Elle était Stephanie un parce qu'il y a deux prof qui s'appellent Stephanie. Je lui ai demandé pourquoi elle n'était pas Stephanie une puisqu'elle était féminin. Elle m'a dit que j'avait raison. Comme toujours.

Dans ma classe, une femme est arrivée très tard. Elle parlait le français avec un accent très fort. Quand elle est arrivée, on devinait la nationalité, la profession, et les loisirs de chaque étudiant. C'était à son tour, l'étudiante en retard. J'ai immédiatement deviné qu'elle était italienne à cause du accent qui me semblait italien et des gestes des mains quand elle parlait. Mais j'avais tort, Natalia était russe. Je me sentait mieux à la fin du cours quand un étudiant italien m'a dit que lui il a aussi pensé au début que Natalia était italienne. Les stéréotypes ont toujours jusqu'à un certain point de vérité.

oh say can you see?

lundi 31 mars 2008

First day of classes.  probably not unlike a United Nations meeting with Nicolas Sarkozy at the podium, insisting on speaking French.

About 30-40 students gathered in the morning, waiting to be split into groups according to the level of our French.  The principal instructors stood in front of the class to explain the logistics of the school.  I believe every continent had at least one representative among us, and of course the common language used when chatting among ourselves was English.  I didn't participate since I arrived late (I got lost, as usual), and also since I would rather just speak French.  Perhaps I am the Nicolas Sarkozy here.

I was placed in the group avancé, with other students from New York, California, the UK, Brazil, Germany, New Zealand, and Italy.  Our first lesson was to talk about our countries including the national anthems, symbols, and our likes and dislikes of them.  Too bad there wasn't anyone from the red states.  George Bush's name came up often, always negatively.  It would have been interesting to hear the opinion of someone who might like him or at least hate him a bit less.

Any interesting question was how we could recognize our compatriots in a foreign country.  It appears that if you're loud and wear shorts, then you're American.  If you're very loud and allow your children to run around, or if you wear certain shoes that are easily recognizable, then you are Italian.  I have no idea what these shoes might look like since I am not Italian.  The Germans have a certain way of dress, and the British like to wear sunglasses and hats.  Apparently, no one likes tourists from their own countries.  Maybe it's just tourists in general.  They/we go to a foreign land, act our usual ways, not paying respect to local customs, thus easily stand out in every way possible without the least concern.

Another issue was how we are proud or shameful of our countries.  As expected, the two Germans discussed the Holocaust, but they had slightly different points of view.  One guy felt that the actions of Hitler and his people decades ago do not reflect who he is but that one needs to remember these events so that they are not repeated.  The other guy stated very strongly that even though he wasn't alive decades ago, all Germans are still responsible for what did happen and need to live with the burden of past sins and somehow improve the world in any way possible.  Two guys in their twentis, obviously different views.