Two in One

Paris and I have come up on some tough times recently. It was love at first sight, and now it's deteriorated to a love-hate relationship, more manic than... well, let's just say more manic than I am when I'm PMSing - and if you know me, you know the waves of contradictory emotions can be pretty damn ginormous. Let me take a few steps back.

My mom came in last Friday, and after I took a bitch of a midterm during which I'm relatively sure I permanently damaged the muscles in my hand (writing for three and a half hours straight can do that), we set off for Bruges. We missed our first train because the cabbie took the long way (and didn't even help with bags, the bastard), and then the ticket distributor decided it didn't want to read my card. I only learned later, after waiting in line for 15 minutes, that the machines don't take American cards, which makes perfect sense, considering that was the card I bought the tickets with online and nowhere on the site did it say the machines wouldn't accept them at the station. But I digress. The woman at the counter found a way for us to get on the next train, which we almost missed because it took her so long, and three hours later, we were in fucking freezing, but beautiful, Bruges. Oh man, if you thought Parisian drivers were crazy... The city was beautiful, even though it rained the WHOLE time. We went to the chocolate museum, walked around a lot, and bought lace. It was so relaxing to get out of Paris for a weekend, like I've said before, so I won't say it again. But when we got to the hotel, as I threw myself onto the bed, I said, "Man, I don't want to go back to Paris." Because when you're in Paris, you tend to forget that life exists outside the Periphérique, that the world goes on and on, and that just a three-hour train ride away, people don't understand you if you say "quatre-vingts-dix" for 90, and people manage to get by without big boulevards and an efficient public transportation system.

Which brings me to the hate part of the love-hate relationship. When we got back into Paris, it was pouring, which I really didn't care about that much, but it was cold, and it was obvious that winter had just dropped itself on the city like an unwelcome obnoxious friend that just drops by unannounced and wants to crash for a few weeks while he gets his life back on track, subsequently eating you out of house and home, using all the toilet paper, never putting the toilet seat down, leaving windows open, and just being a general nuisance that you would really rather just kick out onto the street. So. Paris. Monday and Tuesday were uneventful days, but everyone seemed a little more stressed than usual, as the whole city was preparing for the massive transit strike, like the one a few weeks ago that resulted in absolutely no changes to Sarkozy's policies, only this time the grève was going to go on for an "indeterminate" amount of time. So Wendesday, instead of catching the metro at 9 in the morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 7 and went to get a Vélib at 8, not knowing how many there would be left, or how long it would take me to bike to school, which is a little over 4.5 miles away. I know, 4.5 miles on a bike is not that long, but in sub-freezing temperature, early in the morning, biking through Paris, as much as I love it, is the last thing I want to do. Anyways, to shorten this ridiculous story, I had to bike home, too, on Wednesday and Thursday.

This strike is absolutely ridiculous. And similarly to last time, it's not a complete strike. Certain unions are on strike, which means some trains are still working, but not at a constant rate. No. In the morning, most trains are running at some reduced capacity, from one every five minutes, to one every hour. But later in the afternoon, only a few lines might be working. So you never know how you're going to get where you need to go, often resulting in fights over Vélibs (I witnessed 3 on Wednesday) and extremely crowded streets, as well as two-hour long taxi lines (I know because I waited in one last night with my mom).

Now, I understand why these people are on strike, but I still think it's absolutely ridiculous. France is so resistant to change, to modernization, that it's being left in the dust by every other Western country that actually realizes and accepts the potential that modern technology and policy can bring. And this fucking grève is such a pain in the ass. It's not like the one twelve years ago, which apparently went on for a month, but it's severely pissing everyone off. It essentially immobilizes the city, but in a totally useless way. Come on, we already knew how important public transportation workers were. We didn't need them to all go on strike to prove that. Jesus Christ, just go to work and stop pissing us off. We get your point, but not driving the metros - which only consists of pushing a couple of buttons, by the way - is not going to get you anywhere. Or us, for that matter.

Originally, people were predicting this would be like the strike of '95, or whatever year it was, and that it would cripple the city. Well, it hasn't been as bad, but still not great. Additionally, the unions' goal was to keep it going until Tuesday, when civil servants are striking - that's teachers, the gas company, the post office, water, sanitation, and G-d knows who else. Now THAT is a crippling strike. There may be power outages, lack of water, and other disagreeable side effects. WHAT COUNTRY AM I LIVING IN?! It's a good thing I don't have anything to do on Tuesday, so I can just stay in with all the work I have to do, maybe by candlelight, if necessary.

I can't tell you how many times I've uttered some version of the phrase "I hate Paris" in the last week. It's true, the city is beautiful, and there is no place like it, and I love living here, but I hate it. This French bureaucratic bullshit is really getting to me. Three documents to get a cell phone? Chest x-rays to get a visa? A reservation to get into a library? What the shit is that? Every time I think about it, I get angry. I want to yell things, very bad things, to people I see in the street. Mostly to middle-aged women in the 16th and the 8th that look me up and down, like they're wondering what I'm doing in this city. Oh, story:

Mom and I went shopping. Well, we tried. Tuesday and Friday were my days off, and I haven't really been shopping since I've been here, for two main reasons: first, I'm poor, and I've learned not to be so frivolous with my money like I was last time; second, and also something I learned from last time, they just don't make clothes for fatties in Paris. They make them for older women with either no taste or too much, and no 22 year-old could afford any of it. But I thought I'd check out the one or two brands in the grands magasins that I knew carried larger sizes, and I really needed a new pair of shoes (no, really, my old ones have holes), so we ventured into the sea of women and their emasculated husbands and boyfriends, but ultimately came up empty-handed. In the Galeries Lafayette, there are two brands with larger sizes, both for older women and astronomical prices; in Printemps, only one, which is also at Lafayette. We decided to eat at Printemps, in the restaurant under the cupola, one of my favorite architectural spots in the city. So, this restaurant is a very trendy spot, apparently, for all the business people in the area, which I did not know. And most of the tables, like in many Parisian cafés and restaurants, are very close together. Alright, enough description. The point is that there was this elderly woman eating by herself, next to us, that kept staring at my mom and me the whole time, in a very judgmental way, and the woman on the other side of us did the same thing - and when we left, I was trying to be nice and move the table back, and she basically dismissed me, saying "bye bye," even though I was speaking to her in French. I don't know why, but it was the first time I've actually felt bad and aware of the fact that I am a FAT American in Paris. I mean, yeah, I notice it all the time. I look at the things women wear and think, "that would look so stupid on me," or, "that only works on skinny girls," mostly with boots. Damn my meaty calves! But generally, I haven't really been overly self-conscious like I used to be, maybe because I just stopped caring about it, or because I'm so busy thinking about other crap that I haven't had the time to sit down and actually give serious thought to what I look like in relation to everyone else. And I also haven't been getting harassed by men on the street or regularly discouraged when I go try things on, because I've stopped doing that. I don't know... it's just that since Tuesday, every time I notice someone looking at me, I can't help but think they're being judgmental or feeling sorry for me, and even that they just don't like me, simply because I'm fat.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Anyways, Friday, I gathered my sources for plus-size stores in Paris, and found a gem of a boutique in the 17th, not far from where I used to live. We spent more money than I'd care to disclose, but I got some very key items, including a pair of knee-high boots that actually fit and don't kill my feet (see remark about 2 hour taxi lines above). I wish I had friends to tell about that store, because it was so great. The woman was helpful and nice, not to mention patient. Sure beats the mechanical stick figures at the grands magasins who don't know their own stock. There are a lot of women in Paris who could use a store like that, because after all, French women DO get fat.

Thus ends the bitching for this week. Tune in again next week when we'll discuss: neon-orange dog shit on the streets, unhelpful police officers, the nonsensical absence of plastic bags in supermarkets, washing machines that take two hours, and other aggravations of the City of Lights.

Thursday morning?

Life is pretty much back to normal. School has loosened up a little, and I'm back to being just one and a half readings behind and not having started the book I was supposed to have read for yesterday. Well, I'm on page two, so that should count for something. Anyways, my friend came in on Friday, and then her friend who's staying in Germany right now decided to meet us here (and subsequently crash at my place, which was a little presumtuous of him to think he automatically could, but he turned out to be relatively nice, so it wasn't that bad). We didn't get to do everything I wanted, but that's ok, because it was her visit, and after we did the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, she was ready to go. I didn't get any work done over the whole weekend, but I figured it was alright, considering how much work I'd done during the weeks before. And now this entry is turning into a yawn-fest, so I'll just keep moving on...

Some friends and I went to the Comedie-française on Monday night to see Le Mariage de Figaro, which was pretty damn good. The guy playing the count was the same guy who I saw play Cyrano a year and a half ago, and he was simply amazing. Figaro overdid it a bit, but the Countess was good. It was nice to get out, go to the theater and laugh a bit. We should all try it and get used to it, considering that writer's strike may fuck up your TV plans, and you may be forced to seek alternative diversions to books, conversation, and - gasp - the work you're supposed to be doing in the first place insteead of watching TV. It'll probably be a good thing for me, since then there really won't be anything for me to do on my computer to procrastinate, and I'll have to actually buckle down and do work. But trust me, I will be the first one to curl up in a little ball of cold sweat and shivers in withdrawal of my favorite shows. No more Office? Grey's? UGLY BETTY?! Please, I'm already starting to feel nauseous, let's not start thinking about it just yet.

My mom is coming in tomorrow, and we're going straight to Bruges for chocolate and lace. Hopefully I'll get some reading done on the train, because I have 500 pages of Zola that aren't going to read themselves.

I think I'll come back to this sometime next week when I haven't just woken up and don't know exactly what I'm writing. But at least I'm writing, right? I don't get much time to do anything except work or procrastination - and that does not include writing - so I guess it's alright if this is just rambling. It's warming up my fingers for the good stuff.

That sounded incredibly dirty, didn't it? Ah well. Occupational hazard.

Une pause

Well, it's been a while. And the sad part is not much has happened since the 18th.

Every semester there's that week or two where all of a sudden you have mountains of work to do and it seems like you'll never get out alive, and the only hope you have, the only thing that lets you see the light at the end of the tunnel, is knowing that as soon as it's over, you can party, sleep in, or do whatever it is you do to celebrate the end of Hell Week. Well, my friends, my Hell Week has just ended. I had two huge exposés to do on Wednesday, and thankfully, it is now Friday, which means Wednesday - and my exposés - have come and gone and I don't have to read anything more about Haussmann or Don Juan. As yesterday was Toussaint (a Catholic holiday which is also a national holiday here - so much for Church and State, right?), I was really looking forward to sleeping in until who knows when, maybe taking a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes, and generally just chillaxing until ultimately having to start the behemoth of a novel that is "Au Bonheur des Dames." But then I remembered I'd agreed to work on the translation of the play, so I did that for four hours with another girl instead of seeing how long I could spend in bed before I really got sick of staring at the ceiling.

After that, I caught up on Californication and headed out to watch Superbad - Supergrave in French - with some friends. I don't really understand how this works, but the French people laughed more than the Americans. Maybe it was the mistranslation/omission of half of the dialogue (which was kind of interesting to read in subtitles), but the French thought it was hilarious! They didn't get the awkwardness, though, like when that creepy guy goes "Are you Jimmy's brother? Because you look like him. You really do. ..You really do...." or when Evan says "samesies", which is perhaps my favorite line in the movie. Well, no, it isn't, but still funny. Anyways, I just thought it was interesting that a movie that was so blatantly American managed to be a success in France. Especially since they like to pride themselves on the fact that what they do is "art" and what we do is "business." Please. Like France doesn't have rich movie stars and producers? Excuse me - Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil, Guillaume Canet, Vincent Cassel, Monica Belucci, Jean Dujardin, Marillon Cotillard. And need I mention the movies Les Bronzées 3, Taxi 1, 2, and 3, OSS 117, and Camping? Come on, France. Let's be a little more hypocritical, shall we?

So today I'm going to try to clean up my place a little, since an old friend is coming to stay for the weekend. Hopefully my jeans, which I washed two days ago, will be dry by then, along with the towels I still have to wash. I have this weekend all planned out - the perfect first Paris visit. This tour includes, but is not limited to visits to: the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Sacre-Coeur, the Luxembourg Gardens, l'As du Falafel, the Champs-Elysées, and the fashion district. Also included: partying (perhaps on the Seine), and a pub quiz where we will win a bottle of wine like we did last week. But truthfully, the part I'm most looking forward to is the falafel. It's been a month since those golden, crispy balls of chickpeas have entered the vacuum of an orifice that is my mouth, and I'm starting to have withdrawals.

Also, I wanted to talk about the Opera being on strike, but I think just saying it sums up the ridiculousness of the statement. Come on. The fucking OPERA is on strike. An artistic organization, in FRANCE, is on strike. Come the fuck on!