Who's got the dunce cap?

You know, after almost two years of being immersed in French academic life, I still can't figure out their system of education. Any American student that has ever taken a class at a French university will probably agree with me when I say that it seems like the system here is made to set people up to fail. In a way, it's a genius Darwinian plan - it weeds out the idiots and the slackers and leaves room only for the elite few that deserve to progress in their quest to be part of the pretentious French intelligentsia. Ok, so maybe I'm being a little harsh. But when I get French translations back with a grade of 6/20 and am told that's fairly normal for this professor, I start to wonder: if the educator's job is to educate and facilitate the student's academic journey, why does he do everything he can to shoot the student down and make her feel like a complete and total moron? I really don't understand what the harm is in congratulating a student for a job well done or using a tone in class that doesn't seem like the professor thinks everyone is a mentally disabled chimp. He goes over translations, and 90% of the time, he goes off on why choice A is bad, and choice B is worse, and why choice C isn't even possible in French, but half the class put it down anyways. Rarely does he commend a student for an interesting proposition, and never has he commented positively on my or my friend's French. Alright, ego trip, I know. But seriously - I know we don't speak perfect French, but when everyone else we meet says we have a bon niveau de français, I expect to hear it as a little bit of encouragement from my professors, instead of a mini lecture after class about how this class is practically useless for us and how we need to work on our French. Also, he said he would grade us as if we were French people translating into English. And now I understand why French people suck so much with English.

It's the same with basically anything. Because of the system they've set up, where all you need is a 10/20 to pass, and the highest you can possibly get is an 18 - and even that would be like Stephen Hawking winning gold for the high jump - they've basically constructed a Petri dish of mediocrity. No one cares enough to do well, just well enough. Here, they say that the best student will get an 18, the professor would get 19, and only God would get a 20. And they grade things on such an arbitrary scale, too. How can you grade a translation on a conversion chart? One point off for a misconstrued idea, a half point off for being too inventive, another half point for using the wrong tense. They get mad at you for using calques (verbatim translations), but if you try to be a little more interpretive, they tell you you've strayed too far away from the original text. How can you get anywhere with that? Jesus, France. Loosen up a bit and let me have some ideas of my own!

And with that, I must return back to my weekend of translation. We're nearing the completion of the first draft of the Stoppard translation, finally. My job for the next few weeks pretty much consists of proofreading everything and making sure not too much got lost along the way. Did I mention this play is 91 pages long and includes page-long tirades involving 19th century pre-revolutionary Russian philosophy? Yeah, I know - you so wish you were me right now. I also have a presentation to do for Monday, one of those bitches of a translations for Tuesday, and a plan for my thesis for Wednesday, as well as some other various busy work. I went out last night with some friends, and tomorrow half my day is consumed with the translation meeting, so I don't think I'm going to make it to pub quiz, which is finally back this week. I've been looking forward to it for literally 6 weeks, which sucks.

Man, I'm so ready for the real world already.

I drink your milkshake.

I just got back from seeing There Will Be Blood (finally!), and damn, I forgot how much I love movies. Ok, that's not true. I think about movies all the time - in class, while eating, and especially on the metro. But that movie... It just reminds you what a movie's supposed to be, you know? At the end of it I was like, "oh right! I remember now." It just really made me love movies. And want to write (ta-dah!). I do have to say, all of the big movies this year have done that to me, but I guess because it's been such a long time since I've seen a movie in the theater (more than a month, I think - relatively, that's like Kate Moss going three days without cocaine), it affected me more. I don't even know where to start with Daniel Day-Lewis. I mean, really. Why isn't he in every movie ever made? I sincerely believe that if he had been cast in the title role, Bubble Boy would have done some serious damage at the Oscars. And he seems like such a good guy, too. Intense, for sure, and I definitely wouldn't want to piss him off in a bar, but also humble, kind, and extremely talented. Seriously, the guy's a cobbler. An attractive straight man who makes shoes? Wrap him up in a pretty pink bow and deliver him, please. And Paul Dano - even though he screams like a girl/tortured pig and creeps the living shit out of me - is amazing. Why did it take me so long to see this movie? Oh yeah, because I signed my soul away to academia. Got it.

I've really been making the rounds this week. I saw two plays - one really great, the other extremely mediocre. Wednesday was a three-hour-plus marathon of Les Ephemères, directed by the legendary Arianne Mouchkine, who is the least theater-looking person I've ever seen in my life. The play was very modern: a series of short scenes with some overlapping characters, all about how life is constantly changing, and how in a moment, everything can get flipped upside down. Trite much? Yes. But it was beautifully directed, and the scenes were very touching. I think I'm going back next weekend to catch the second half. I know, put together that's a whopping seven hours of theater. But what can I say? I'm just that dedicated. The next night was this adaptation of Henry IV, which really didn't hold my attention much. I guess it didn't help that I hadn't read the text, but it just wasn't a great show. It reeked of pretension, and after going to a discussion with the director today, I understand why. She's one of those theatre people. She hates television and thinks it's the downfall of society. She "hates" elitism but said that the students at the discussion were in a different class than her own students at a different university in Paris. Oh, bite me. She talked about how she hates it when people come to the theatre to see whatever "star" is in the play, instead of the play itself, but not five minutes later spoke about plans of doing a show with Dominique Pinon (well-known film actor - Amélie, A Very Long Engagement, etc.). Please insert generic rant about French hypocrisy here. And some cuss words. Feel free to use as many "ass clowns" as you'd like. I'm pretty fond of that one.

Also, the weather. What the fucking fuck, Paris? Last week it was sixty degrees and sunny, and people were rollerblading and biking in short sleeves, and I even thought about shaving my legs (if you saw my shower you'd understand why I don't). Now it's like living in a schizophrenic freezer, complete with sub-zero (Celsius) temperatures and ice. But not all the time. And not all day. Just in the morning, when you're walking to the metro and can't get your umbrella open against the wind and tiny kamikaze raindrops attack your face like someone shooting needles through a machine gun, or when you're desperately willing the bus to come so you don't have to walk and your hands feel like - well, they don't feel like anything, because it's so damn cold. So, it seems I blew my load of springtime cheer a little prematurely. But give me fifteen minutes, I'll be back in a jovial mood and ready to go for round two. For real this time.

Lastly, I finally have a flight home! I'll be back in California June 25, just in time for birthday celebrations and graduations galore! Well, I'll have missed the graduations, but my family will all be there and there will be festivities anyways! Exclamation points! So far I'm trying as hard as I can not to focus on the fact that I'll be locked up in the house until August, writing my memoir and feeling bad for not watching as many movies as I'd like to. (I'm still on my quest to watch all of the AFI's top 100 films.) Right now I'm just looking forward to watching a mildly-edited version of Californication on M6, because I've been working my ass off all week and I think I deserve some naked David Duchovny and classic LA scenery. And with that, I bid you adieu, faithful readers. Until the next time I feel so inclined...

Sláinte!

Is it possible to die of a chlorophyll overdose? Because I just ate a lot of green beans. I mean, a LOT. More green beans than any one person should physically be able to eat in one sitting. So if my skin mysteriously turns green tomorrow, like that guy who turned blue because of his medication, that will be why. But can you blame me? They were so delicious and fresh and... delicious!

Anyways, speaking of green things, spring is here! It was sixty degrees outside yesterday! I forced myself out of the apartment to go in search of a couple of plays I need for my essay, which of course were nowhere to be found. At least it got me out of the apartment, because I spent the rest of the day toiling away inside so I could justify going out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We went to this Irish place (there are probably a thousand pubs in Paris) in Saint Germain, and I didn't realize till I got inside that I had, in fact, been there before and that I had, unfortunately, puked there before. (I confirmed this when I went to the bathroom and ended up in the same famous stall I barely made it into before hurling on the blue-tiled floor.) It was just as crowded and hot, but not as smoky, as I remembered it. You will not be at all surprised to know that I had a Guinness, but you probably will be surprised to know that I a)finished it to the last drop and b)was the first one done! Seriously, it was an historic night. And on top of that, when we left to find another bar that actually had some vacant seats, I had yummy sangria, and I didn't get sick! I know, I'm still in disbelief.

So at this bar, I had a very classic Allison Superiority Complex Moment. There were five of us, and we were sitting in the corner next to a LOUD group of Americans - undergrads, of course, which we all spotted the minute we sat down. I guessed from the uniform hairstyles, fake tans, Blackberries and Lacoste shirts that they were from New Jersey, or at least some place on the East Coast, which they were (NJ and Philly). One of the guys asked me where we were all from, and that started a short conversation, but when it got to where we went to school, and one of the girls replied that she had a lot of friends in "our program," I had to specify that we were grad students, thus implying that we actually live here and aren't just "abroad" and really do speak the language and aren't just interested in going to bars and picking up scrawny, sketchy Frenchmen in glasses with horrible taste in music. I know, I know, don't be judgmental, Allison. You were there too once. Ok, but I was never loud and obnoxious in tiny bars where you get elbowed in the ass as you try to get back to your seat and can tell what religion some guy is just by brushing up against him as you find your way through the throng of drunkards sipping sangria. I never once uttered (read: yelled) the phrase "OH MY GOD I'M SO DRUNK!" or "Oh, everyone has Blackberries these days, even in France." For the record: I have seen maybe three non-American people with Blackberries or Blackberry-like objects in Paris.

Also, what is it with 35-year-old men hitting on 20-year-old co-eds? Gross. My friend and I were waiting by the jukebox while her boyfriend was in the bathroom, and this guy (please refer back to description of picking up guys in bars) came up to us, thinking he was being real smooth, and feigned ignorance as to how the jukebox worked. Please. A chimp with no eyes could figure that one out. My friend said something to him, to which he replied in English, so I thought I would be a bitch and keep talking in French, because - well, just read that whole last paragraph again. I really do hate being confused with junior year abroad kids who are just there to drink wine and get laid. Anyways, he thought I was French, which was pretty cool. And then he ignored me and kept hitting on my friend. When her boyfriend got back, he pretty much ditched us and went for the AUP kids (American University of Paris), and the only other thing he said to me was "You make line?" when I was waiting for the bathroom. Yes, motherfucker, on fait la queue. You can practice your English with kids that don't speak French. Jackass.

Tonight is our hopefully triumphant return to Pub Quiz. I haven't been for about a month, with my dad visiting and midterms and whatnot. I'm looking forward to forgetting about school for a while and hanging out with cool people, and maybe, just maybe, finishing another pint of Guinness. Or two. But let's not get too crazy there. I may just have to keep to my usual cider and call it a night.

It's the thought that counts

Yesterday at the grocery store I was standing behind a couple about my age who were being fairly affectionate, but not nauseatingly so, when I realized that the entire contents of their purchase was a chocolate bar and a box of condoms. Now THAT is what I call a "night in." If there are any potential suitors out there, take note: this may be the best Valentine's Day present ever.

Apparently in China (or is it Japan? Shit, I can't remember, but please don't think I'm one of those people that thinks that Asia is a country, because I am definitely aware of the many, many countries that make up the CONTINENT of Asia, but I honestly just can't remember which one my friend told me it was, but I think it was China... anyways!) "Valentine's Day" doesn't exist (surprise, surprise), but there are two different days - first a day where girls give guys chocolate, and later another where guys give girls candy. And while I very strongly feel that it should be the other way around, I do think it's cool that there are two separate days, thus forcing everyone to give something to someone. Well, maybe not everyone, but there are, like, a billion Chinese people, so I'm guessing that's a lot of chocolate and candy given out every year.

That's about all the interesting stuff going on right now. I burned myself on my pseudo-oven that I still can't completely operate, I found a company I want to work for when I go home, the woman on the first floor who I thought had died because I never see her anymore and because a couple of days ago I came downstairs and there were four men outside and a weird smell is apparently still somewhat alive and asking me questions and having me open jars for her in the middle of the hallway and telling me "que Dieu te garde" (may God keep you/watch over you), midterm week is almost over, and school is still sucking my lifeblood. I've resigned myself to the fact that from now until I leave, I will probably not have any free weekends, random shopping days, or spontaneous trips to hidden wings in the Louvre. But on the bright side, I think I really like what I'm doing my essay/thesis on, and I'm really going to enjoy doing the research - that is, apart from the standing in line for an hour to get into the library. I just wish I could go outside and enjoy some of the unseasonable sun we've not been having but will soon be having because spring is coming!

I forgot to mention something in my last post. On Friday night when I came home, I noticed the mat outside my door was crooked, which isn't a big deal - my neighbor's door is inches from mine and someone might have just slipped on it or something, but when I opened the door, my toilet paper was sitting on a kitchen chair and my couch had been moved slightly. After my initial reaction that someone broke in was quickly tamed by the fact that nothing was taken from the kitchen and my room was in the same post-hurricane status it always is (so really, I wouldn't have been able to tell anyways) and what would anyone want with my toilet paper - the light bulb went off and a bell chimed. I ran to the bathroom to discover... a wooden wall surrounding the pipes! Finally! After nearly five months of musty, dank, gross exposed pipes, it's closed! Sort of... it's still open at the top and bottom, but it's a hell of a lot better than it was. I just wished someone had told me or called me or warned me in any other way, shape, or form so I could've cleaned up a bit. But, you know, that would've required more than the minimal effort. They had to climb up five flights of stairs with equipment, so obviously picking up a tiny cell phone and calling me would have been far too much to ask of them.

That's about all I have for now. Last, but not least, please take a look at SASSY, a new blog written by, about, and for SASSY/sassy women. My first post is up tomorrow, so check it out!

I think I can, I think I can

I think that Apple should rent out its think tank or engineers, or whatever you call them, to other companies and government agencies that could really benefit from some of the genius that Steve Jobs makes billions off of. I'm not even talking about the MacBook Air here, although I have to admit, that's pretty damn cool, as in space age cool, as in, holy crap we're all going to be floating around in Delorians in twenty years cool. No, I'm talking about the eerie ability of the iPod to read my mind and play the exact song I want to hear when it's on shuffle songs. I mean, really, on more than one occasion, I've been sitting on the metro thinking, man, I could really go for some old school Rufus Wanwright, and then - bam - Poses starts playing. Crazy, right?

I was in the mood for some Rufus today. After sitting through two and a half hours of nonstop lecturing on the history of publishing in France, I had to meet with my memoir adviser, who basically told me I suck and my memoir is going to be shit. She said "this is going to get written late, I can feel it." Fuck you, I have until July 31. If you guys wanted it earlier, you shouldn't have given us all that time. And yes, I do understand that we get a grade for our presentation in May, and I do understand that I need a different plan for that than I do for my memoir, and I do understand that I need to start writing in May. I understand all of this because they told us in September, and I'm not an idiot. I did manage to get into grad school, remember, so chances are I can probably store away some very crucial details about the memoir that will make or break my academic career (which, incidentally, I'm pretty sure will come to a voluntary end after this year). Tell me to go faster, fine - I know I'm a slacker, and even though I'll just argue with you that it'll all get done somehow because it always does (seminar papers, anyone?), I'll appreciate it more if you have a personality when you say it instead of passive-aggressively telling me I'm a horrible student and I don't know what to do and my memoir is going to bore you. Do you even realize that the only reason they assigned me to you is because they felt bad for not including you in the whole memoir process from the start? Hey, wait. Actually, that makes me feel kind of crappy too. Well, it's not like it's the first time NYU has treated me (and the other grad students) like second-class citizens... but that's a story for another time when I'm not so enraged by my micro-managing, personality-negative bitch of a memoir adviser.

Oh, Dublin was great, by the way. We saw all the major stuff, though I didn't get to see the writers' museum like I wanted to, and I drank my weight in Guinness, which is a pretty large feat to accomplish, so I think I deserve some applause or a medal or a garish plaque to put on my wall or something. Being in Ireland was such a well-needed break from the severity of this place. It was so nice to be amongst jovial people - people that don't unabashedly look you up and down in the metro, people that smile willingly and often, people that CLEAN UP AFTER THEIR DOGS. Seriously, Paris, if I have to tell you one more time to pick up after your yappy little emasculated poodle, I'm going to do something very bad to you, most likely involving a baguette, a rump roast, and salad tongs.

This semester is going by way too fast. We only have two more months of classes left, and I probably only have 3 or 4 months left here. And the worst part is that I don't really know how I feel about that. I'm sure I'll go on and on about it in every post until I leave, but I'll sum it up thusly: I'm ok leaving Paris, but not leaving it forever. Some of my best thinking is done on the metro, when I'm plugged into my aforementioned telepathic iPod and zoning out into my own little universe; at some point last week, and I don't remember the thought process that went into it or what triggered it, but something happened and I said to myself, "I have got to go back home. I do not belong here." And I think I'm ok with that. And I feel like I'm an adult for being ok with that, and I think I'm ok with that too. Why am I still chasing a dream that is clearly never going to come true? I don't want to use absolutes or say never, but Paris is doesn't seem like it's ever going to be the life of sweater dresses and Chloé bags and late-night soirées at dimly-lit brasseries and sleepy Sunday brunches that I hoped it would be. I am simply an American in Paris. No French men have swept me off my feet onto their scooters, no one's offered me a life-changing, well-paying career or a cushy apartment in the Marais, I haven't magically dropped 50 pounds like that French Women Don't Get Fat woman suggested I would, and generally I'm just no longer as ecstatic about living in the City of Lights as I once was.

And I'm ok with that.

For now.