So last night I think I truly understood the importance of the double-entendre in the French phrase "je me sauve," which the French use as a colloquial form of saying that you're heading out/splitting/whatever. It's not vulgar or anything, just fairly informal. And of course literally it means "I'm saving myself."
Last night had all the trappings of being awesome. I had a ticket to the new Bartabas show, Darshan. The deal with Bartabas is that he's this dude who's obsessed with horses and he created a specific type of performance called "théâtre équestre" (equestrian theater). What the hell is théâtre équestre, you ask? Well, just what it sounds like...theater centered around horses, haha. He runs a theater troupe called Zingaro, and it's a whole team of actors/horse trainers. I saw another show he did back in 2006, at the Avignon theater festival. That show was called Battuta, and it was nothing short of awesome. It was in this big circular theater outside town (obviously, if you're traveling with tons of horses, you need room, haha). Seating was done in a circle, and the show took place in the middle. The horses would run around the inner circle while the actors did all sorts of crazy stunts. We're talking impressive circus acrobatics here--jumps and flips and even doing dances on the horses' backs while the horses are galloping at breakneck speeds. All while telling a story (admittedly a not too complicated one, since half the spectacle was the acrobatics). But Battuta did indeed have a storyline involving a gypsy caravan. It was particularly awesome because it had all sorts of fun gypsy music. The whole thing was just super uptempo and lively. Perhaps not the highest form of theater, but it sure was impressive.
Anyway, with all that in mind, you can imagine my excitement at finally getting a ticket to see their new show, this time in their home base at the Fort d'Aubervilliers, just outside Paris. I bought this ticket back in January, that's how booked they are! So I've been waiting for four years to see the next Zingaro production, and once it finally arrived I had to wait four months to get a ticket, haha.
So I got to the fort yesterday and was optimistic that the awesomeness would continue. The entrance is a restaurant, kind of like that other show I went to a few months ago (the théâtre du soleil). There were all sorts of really cool decorations on the wall from previous performances, and the whole place was like a shrine to horses. Very powerful and also majestic and beautiful. So far so good.
They took us in groups to our seats, and in an interesting twist, the seating was in the center, with the show happening in a circle around us. The seating looked like a giant cone with like ten rows of seats, if that makes sense. Again, so far so good, that was clearly rather cool.
Then the show began. And that's about when I started wanting to die of boredom. The pacing was painfully slow, and the most disappointing part of all is that most of it was behind these sheer curtains ringing the space. There were some cool parts with shadows, but for the most part it was just excruciatingly boring. Also brings new meaning to the phrase "being bored to tears." I wanted to die. You didn't even get to see many horses, they didn't come out much at all. It was waaaaay different from the last show, where the horses were so clearly the stars of the show. This time around it was supposed to be a form of visual art, I would guess, but it was repetitive and just plain boring.
The other thing that bothered me was the orientalism of the show. The title, Darshan, comes from Sanskrit, and the whole thing involved all sorts of stereotyped images of the silk route--all the orientalized images of central asia, etc. Nomadism and general solitude, the force of nature in the desert, you name it, they used it. Hell, there was even a whole part with chopsticks, as if they hadn't hit you over the head hard enough with the stereotypes already. They also projected images on the sheets, all sorts of "native" designs depicting exile and wandering, etc. In short, it was the Quai Branly museum turned into a horse show. "Let's go gape at the noble savages and impose our Western gaze on something by defining it according to our own terms!"
Since I had a lot of time to think during this show (since god knows I couldn't stare at the same images going round and round and round), I realized that perhaps this troupe likes their stereotypes, since the last show was pretty chock full of gypsy stereotypes too. Caravans, particular music, etc. From there, that led me to ponder the fact that it didn't bother me at the time. And why. Was it because I was less nuanced of a spectator four years ago? Perhaps, but I'm not convinced. And that's when I started to wonder if perhaps it's gypsy culture itself, that we're all so wrapped up in the stereotypes already that it didn't even hit me. Or maybe it was because that show was just plain fun. In any event, all I cared about at the end of this show was getting the hell out. I thus "me sauver"-ed, both literally and figuratively. I split and saved myself, all at once.
Unfortunately, everyone else in the audience appears to have felt the same way. I'm not sure I've ever been to a show before where the applause died down BEFORE the actors ever came out! haha. People had to start clapping again politely when the actors came out, since I suppose we all figured it would be rude not to. But when have you ever seen that? Then everyone on the train ride home was dissing it to. Sounded like it was a room full of people bored to tears, just like me.
Today I decided that perhaps it was time to check the reviews of the show, and sure enough, I apparently had it coming. They're all awful, haha. My favorite was perhaps one that appeared in Le Monde and was entitled Voyage au bout de l'ennui. Of which I approved mainly because of the play on words in the title, which says it all. There's a fabulous book by Celine called Voyage au bout de la nuit (Journey to the end of the night), and with a very basic word substitution, the title sounds the same but l'ennui = boredom. So yeah, it was right there, plain as day, in Le Monde, that this show was a Journey to the end of boredom. hahahahahaha. Indeed it was.
Anyway, I originally started this entry with the plan of writing about a few other performances I've seen recently (most notably a burqa ballet and the Philip Glass opera based on In the Penal Colony). But I've rambled enough for now, I think, and maybe I'll save those for next time, haha.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Keeping busy
Well, yet again it's been a while. But I suppose I had it coming: I only had two major presentations this semester, and of course they would be within 6 days of each other and on opposite sides of the Atlantic. How could it possibly be any other way?
Last Wednesday I hit the road (well, the air, I suppose) for Montreal, for the Northeast MLA conference. Long way to go for a conference, I know, but it had two advantages:
1) Important people in my field (good networking)
2) Montreal. Vacation time!
For better or for worse, I did significantly more of #2 than #1, haha. On Thursday I went up to the Plateau, a neighborhood of boutiques and cafes. Besides buying myself a fun new dress, I also got a kick out of what Starbucks has had to do to make peace with the Francophones of Quebec:
Yes! So if you're Francophone you read the first two words, if you're anglophone you read the last two. Starbucks doesn't even do that in France, here it's just the regular old "Starbucks Coffee" sign like anywhere else in the States. That sure wouldn't fly with the linguistic policies of French Canada, hahahaha. Love it! And for the record, I didn't actually *go* to a Starbucks. The indie cafe scene is WAY too good for that. But I did appreciate the sign, haha.
Other highlights of Canadian French include what they call convenience stores:
Which quite literally means "the one who bails you out." The French use it for car mechanics, but the French Canadians apparently use it for small grocery stores too!
And then the ever-important (and perfectly literally translated) milkshake:
My other main activity, when I wasn't walking down the street, was being a cafe bum. Unfortunately I spent way more time doing this than I would have liked (thank goodness Montreal has a fabulous cafe scene) because my piece of shit knee is being true to form and giving me a lot of trouble. It got to the point that walking around was hurting my hip, probably because I was compensating somehow. So I decided I better not mess around with that and sat around in cafes instead. I spent so much time in cafes, in fact, that I decided to run my own little competition.
The overall winner was a place called L'équitasse, which does all fair trade and makes a KILLER maple latte:
And best presentation went to Cafe U, for the latte in the fancy glass:
Obviously had to pay extra for the fruit salad, haha. The coffee tasted slightly burned so the latte wasn't the best, but how can you not love the glass?
Anyway, I returned from Montreal on Monday and then had a big presentation for my research group in the sociology of culture yesterday (2 hours). That went super well, in fact, and I think the professor who organizes it may have given me the key I was missing to make the rest of the diss fall into place. Yes! So now I'm going out drinking with Kari to celebrate.
And to see the new adaptation of Kafka's In the Penal Colony, done as an opera by Philip Glass. Oh yes, you read that right: weird-ass short story + weird-ass composer = one hell of a weird opera, I'm sure. We'll see if my math is right in a few hours!
Last Wednesday I hit the road (well, the air, I suppose) for Montreal, for the Northeast MLA conference. Long way to go for a conference, I know, but it had two advantages:
1) Important people in my field (good networking)
2) Montreal. Vacation time!
For better or for worse, I did significantly more of #2 than #1, haha. On Thursday I went up to the Plateau, a neighborhood of boutiques and cafes. Besides buying myself a fun new dress, I also got a kick out of what Starbucks has had to do to make peace with the Francophones of Quebec:
Yes! So if you're Francophone you read the first two words, if you're anglophone you read the last two. Starbucks doesn't even do that in France, here it's just the regular old "Starbucks Coffee" sign like anywhere else in the States. That sure wouldn't fly with the linguistic policies of French Canada, hahahaha. Love it! And for the record, I didn't actually *go* to a Starbucks. The indie cafe scene is WAY too good for that. But I did appreciate the sign, haha.
Other highlights of Canadian French include what they call convenience stores:
Which quite literally means "the one who bails you out." The French use it for car mechanics, but the French Canadians apparently use it for small grocery stores too!
And then the ever-important (and perfectly literally translated) milkshake:
My other main activity, when I wasn't walking down the street, was being a cafe bum. Unfortunately I spent way more time doing this than I would have liked (thank goodness Montreal has a fabulous cafe scene) because my piece of shit knee is being true to form and giving me a lot of trouble. It got to the point that walking around was hurting my hip, probably because I was compensating somehow. So I decided I better not mess around with that and sat around in cafes instead. I spent so much time in cafes, in fact, that I decided to run my own little competition.
The overall winner was a place called L'équitasse, which does all fair trade and makes a KILLER maple latte:
And best presentation went to Cafe U, for the latte in the fancy glass:
Obviously had to pay extra for the fruit salad, haha. The coffee tasted slightly burned so the latte wasn't the best, but how can you not love the glass?
Anyway, I returned from Montreal on Monday and then had a big presentation for my research group in the sociology of culture yesterday (2 hours). That went super well, in fact, and I think the professor who organizes it may have given me the key I was missing to make the rest of the diss fall into place. Yes! So now I'm going out drinking with Kari to celebrate.
And to see the new adaptation of Kafka's In the Penal Colony, done as an opera by Philip Glass. Oh yes, you read that right: weird-ass short story + weird-ass composer = one hell of a weird opera, I'm sure. We'll see if my math is right in a few hours!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Wow it's been a long time. Lots going on, in many domains. The best being all the travel, first a long weekend in far western Brittany, then three days in La Rochelle/Oradour. Unfortunately, the one constant in these two trips was crappy weather...pictures are up here and as you'll see, it was cold and rainy in both spots. But I think the second trip can be summed up with the following picture, haha:
This was some random "pirate's booty" candy store in La Rochelle, which featured KEGS of all different kinds of candy. Needless to say, we did some significant damage there (to the wallet and to the waistline). But how could we not yield to temptation after getting our picture with a pirate?
Our other destination, Oradour, was significantly less cheerful. The story behind the town is that on June 10, 1944, the retreating Nazis killed 642 members of the town (including 400 women and children who had sought refuge in a church--the Nazis firebombed the church and locked them in). Yeah. What is interesting but also rather morbid is that the town has been kept entirely as is, since that day. So it's a town-sized historical monument to the barbarity of war, and you can get a feel for what a good portion of France looked like in 1944-45.
My take on the existence of the city is ambivalent. On the one hand, it's super important to remember what happened and also to pass along such lessons to future generations. It's a stark reminder of the brutality of war and it's easy to understand why a country that suffered so much during the 20th century would be hesitant to join 21st century war campaigns. When you see places like Oradour, it's clear why the French didn't want to join Bush in Iraq. Same goes for the Germans, anyone who has experienced international war as a "home game" would think twice.
On the other hand, it's also a very carefully calibrated message about who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. It falls smack into the French Resistance myth, according to which everyone deep down was a resistor and only a handful actually collaborated. The nuances of Petainism were fairly thoroughly glossed over--and of course there was little mention of the fact that Petain himself was responsible for a good portion of the collaborationist policies. They did note that he himself coined the term (collaboration) but didn't go into just what the significance of that was. That all got lost in devastating lists of who was tortured and killed. Again, useful memories, but the framing leaves a lot of questions unasked.
There was also no mention whatsoever of recent scholarship on the war that calls for a third term, which Philippe Burin (a Swiss historian) calls "accommodation," according to which most people basically just did whatever they had to do to get by. They weren't actively collaborating nor were they resisting, they just did what they had to do to put food on the table. This idea doesn't fit into the narrative that the monument is seeking to tell, so it is evacuated entirely. Even the monument itself is called the "ville martyre" (Martyred city), which pretty clearly sets up a certain kind of discourse. Even the street signs miles away give directions to the "ville martyre," that's how thoroughly inscribed the town is in a specific kind of memory.
But to be less negative, the fact remains that the monument is a real place and real people suffered. And the generational gap isn't so huge yet, I'm sure most people living in that area still know someone who knew someone who lost a relative, or something like that. Probably nowhere near 6 degrees of separation, more like 2 or 3 at the most. The wound has got to still be open, there's no real way it couldn't be. So in the end it links up to current debates about what to do in places like Rwanda or South Africa or the Balkans--what kinds of trials and what kinds of truth and reconciliation committees there should be. Which is still an ongoing debate, and no one really has any answer. If anything, WWII is a worthwhile subject of study precisely for this reason, in terms of how to move on. I would have appreciated more of a discussion of this side of things regarding the monument, but I also would guess that that's asking too much, too soon. If nothing else, it's certainly thought-provoking and worthwhile to visit.
This was some random "pirate's booty" candy store in La Rochelle, which featured KEGS of all different kinds of candy. Needless to say, we did some significant damage there (to the wallet and to the waistline). But how could we not yield to temptation after getting our picture with a pirate?
Our other destination, Oradour, was significantly less cheerful. The story behind the town is that on June 10, 1944, the retreating Nazis killed 642 members of the town (including 400 women and children who had sought refuge in a church--the Nazis firebombed the church and locked them in). Yeah. What is interesting but also rather morbid is that the town has been kept entirely as is, since that day. So it's a town-sized historical monument to the barbarity of war, and you can get a feel for what a good portion of France looked like in 1944-45.
My take on the existence of the city is ambivalent. On the one hand, it's super important to remember what happened and also to pass along such lessons to future generations. It's a stark reminder of the brutality of war and it's easy to understand why a country that suffered so much during the 20th century would be hesitant to join 21st century war campaigns. When you see places like Oradour, it's clear why the French didn't want to join Bush in Iraq. Same goes for the Germans, anyone who has experienced international war as a "home game" would think twice.
On the other hand, it's also a very carefully calibrated message about who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. It falls smack into the French Resistance myth, according to which everyone deep down was a resistor and only a handful actually collaborated. The nuances of Petainism were fairly thoroughly glossed over--and of course there was little mention of the fact that Petain himself was responsible for a good portion of the collaborationist policies. They did note that he himself coined the term (collaboration) but didn't go into just what the significance of that was. That all got lost in devastating lists of who was tortured and killed. Again, useful memories, but the framing leaves a lot of questions unasked.
There was also no mention whatsoever of recent scholarship on the war that calls for a third term, which Philippe Burin (a Swiss historian) calls "accommodation," according to which most people basically just did whatever they had to do to get by. They weren't actively collaborating nor were they resisting, they just did what they had to do to put food on the table. This idea doesn't fit into the narrative that the monument is seeking to tell, so it is evacuated entirely. Even the monument itself is called the "ville martyre" (Martyred city), which pretty clearly sets up a certain kind of discourse. Even the street signs miles away give directions to the "ville martyre," that's how thoroughly inscribed the town is in a specific kind of memory.
But to be less negative, the fact remains that the monument is a real place and real people suffered. And the generational gap isn't so huge yet, I'm sure most people living in that area still know someone who knew someone who lost a relative, or something like that. Probably nowhere near 6 degrees of separation, more like 2 or 3 at the most. The wound has got to still be open, there's no real way it couldn't be. So in the end it links up to current debates about what to do in places like Rwanda or South Africa or the Balkans--what kinds of trials and what kinds of truth and reconciliation committees there should be. Which is still an ongoing debate, and no one really has any answer. If anything, WWII is a worthwhile subject of study precisely for this reason, in terms of how to move on. I would have appreciated more of a discussion of this side of things regarding the monument, but I also would guess that that's asking too much, too soon. If nothing else, it's certainly thought-provoking and worthwhile to visit.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
French Libraries
So I don’t have much familiarity with French public libraries, mainly because I find the BN to be enough of a soul destroying experience that I have no desire to come back for more and try other options. Despite that, I've just learned some pretty incredible details regarding the French library system and how it works. French librarians are so...well, French. Get ready, American logic will get you nowhere on this one.
The background story is that I'm involved in this PhD workshop on the sociology of culture, and each month one member of the group presents his/her dissertation research. I'm actually up for the April presentation. This month's presentation is tonight, and the girl who is presenting is doing her work on the Paris public library system. We always read some sort of document in preparation for the presentation, and this time she gave us a chapter from her diss, which is on the "non-publics" of the Paris libraries (ie, who doesn't go and why). To get to the heart of the question, she looks at all the factors that might convince a certain population demographic that the library is not for them (the way the library is set up and the hours it's open, the kinds of books they have, etc). Anyway, the chapter is fascinating and very solidly researched, and even better, I learned sooooo much from it. Much of which is absolutely shocking. Here are my most salient discoveries (get ready, they're good):
1) There is an actual charter for French librarians that they are NOT ALLOWED to make book recommendations! Yeah, you read that right. WTF??? The justification for this is so incredibly French: according to the party line, reading is a distinctly personal and solitary endeavor, so what I like might not be the same as what you like. And since book selection should be pure and disinterested, it is not fair to the reader for a librarian to make a recommendation. The girl doing the project has all of these shocking citations from direct interviews with librarians where they're like, "of course we would never dream of suggesting a book, that's so unprofessional!" Needless to say, a few sociologists have conducted interviews with potential library patrons, and many people make the comment that they're overwhelmed by the selection and don't know what to do so they end up deciding that they're not smart enough to use the library. The symbolic violence of not making suggestions just reinforces the idea that if you don't already know at least a minimum about literature and what you like, then the library isn't for you. But even when people specifically ask for help on what to read, librarians aren't supposed to make a suggestion because that would impose their own views on the patron. Right.
2) The interior design of libraries are intentionally designed to discourage students from coming to work there or others from spending too much time. The only "good" kind of patron is the one who comes, browses, and checks out books (and thus increases circulation statistics). People who either come and pick up books to read in the library or else people who bring their own material to work are not considered good patrons. Because space can be limited, they don't want squatters. So god forbid you come to actually work in a public library!
3) Editions. The researcher also looked at what kinds of editions the libraries buy for classics where multiple versions are available. There are of course cheap paperback versions, fancy scholarly editions, and often student editions with helpful footnotes for younger or weaker readers. And guess which ones the libraries buy, almost exclusively. You got it, the fancy scholarly editions. So a random middle schooler or less educated adult who is curious to read Zola, for example, only has access to a fancy version with scholarly prefaces and essays and stuff like that. Talk about intimidating. Thus many people self-select themselves right out of the classics, since they think those books aren't accessible. These librarians even specifically said that they don't buy student editions because that's not their responsibility, school libraries should have them. The thought never crosses their minds that some adult readers might appreciate some reading help too.
4) No pulp fiction. The researcher sat in on an acquisitions committee meeting, and one book was particularly trashed. The evaluator said it was "indigne d'une bibliothèque," or "unfit for a library." She of course took a look at it and was expecting something scandalously bad, but she said she was not at all offended. She found it to be a fairly average work of regionalist historical fiction, not exceptionally well written but also not exceptionally poorly written either. She went online to look at other readers' comments on it on bookseller sites like amazon, and they were quite positive. So for readers who like that kind of book, it was considered quite good. Librarians may not make suggestions to patrons, but when they select books for their collections, they apparently apply their own (university-trained) conceptions of what makes great literature. So I guess you won't be finding Twilight in a French library system, HAHA. Sociologists have made the point that perhaps librarians should be thinking differently, that just about any reading is better than no reading at all, but apparently the French public libraries only want to provide their patrons with books of a minimum (and relatively high) quality. Libraries aren't for you if you don't like high-brow reading!
So yeah, there you have it. I just had to post this because it strikes me as so ridiculous, haha. I can't wait for the presentation tonight, I'll be really curious to hear what else I learn!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Freeing Sylvain
As I feared, freeing Sylvain from the broken lock was no mean feat. How could it have been? It is logically impossible for anything to be easy in this country. Obviously.
I managed to borrow some small but strong wire cutters from a friend yesterday, so I arrived at the pool a few minutes before 7 to test them out. It was immediately clear that they weren't going to do the trick, though. So I went and swam my laps, then when I came out I asked the girl at the front desk if they might have some stronger lock cutters. She was super nice and called the technician, who was also really nice and brought me what he had, which was just a bit stronger than the pair I had. No luck.
It was at this point that I ran yet again into an interesting cultural difference, I think, that I've seen before in other contexts. The building manager was there when I returned the wire cutters, so he asked what the problem was. I explain about the bike, and he was like, "why don't you just take the metro home?" haha. I was like, "yeah, but that won't solve my problem!" I was getting ready to make fun of him in my head when it became clear what he meant, as he was like, "no, but go home and find a friend to help you and come back with the materials and manpower you need." Here's the interesting cultural difference: it's fairly widely accepted that it's difficult to break in and make French friends. My theory on this is that French people seem to make their friends when they're young, in grade school, in their little towns (or in their neighborhood of Paris). By the time they're 20-somethings, most of their friendships are set. So when you meet at, say, the university, you make acquaintances that you chat with casually before class, but you tend not to make lifelong friends this "late" in life. The ENS is kind of an exception to that rule, I think, because it's such a cloistered and elite community.
In any case, this sort of bit me in the ass a few separate times with the bike issue, because a bunch of different people were like, "but just go ask a friend to help." This made me realize what a network of friendships people have here, in the sense that people always know someone who can bail you out of trouble in whatever contexts. They were kind of surprised when I was like, "yeah I don't know anyone who would have a giant lock cutter." I think they just naturally assumed that of course everyone would have a friend who would know how to do that. I was sitting there like, "I'm a foreigner who's only been here for 6 months, how the hell would I know someone like that?" I was nice about it but did tell the building manager that I had indeed taken the metro home on Saturday and asked around but that no one had what I needed. To explain the seriousness of the situation, I was like, "it's a strong lock, it needs a special tool." He was kind of abrupt and was like, "then call a specialist, that's really unlucky for you." Gee thanks.
I left the pool to see what else I could find and saw a neighboring hotel. I thought that was worth a shot, so I asked the woman at the front desk. She was super nice but said they only had small cutters. I asked where the nearest police branch was but it was quite a distance. So then I asked about the pompiers (firemen, who also serve as the 911 service here), and she gave me directions to get to the nearest firehouse. It was about 10 minutes away, which I figured was a bad start since they probably wouldn't just let me walk off with their cutters.
I got to the pompiers, and they were really, really rude. More than anything I think they didn't want to deal with it. I put on my charm as best as I could and explained the situation, and one guy was like, "we can't do that, we don't know it's your bike." I was like, "oh, I brought the bill and the certificate of authenticity with me to show that, and I have the key to the other lock." He was like, "that still doesn't prove it's your bike." WTF???? I was about to question it and ask what would prove it, and he quite literally cut me off and was like, "we save lives, not bikes. Goodbye." Thanks for nothing, asshole.
Next I went to a car dealership I saw on the street, one that had a maintenance department. I spoke to two people there who were very friendly, but again they only had smaller cutters.
Finally I decided to go in another direction where I saw construction workers, but it's a huge construction site and I couldn't get their attention (they were operating heavy machinery). I was about to throw in the towel and rethink my options when I came upon a nice apartment building with a doorman. I figured that was worth a shot too, and that's where I struck gold. Hallelujah, they had a GINORMOUS cutter and were very friendly about it. They even apologized that they weren't allowed to leave the building to come and help me. At that point I didn't care, I was just happy to have the tool I needed.
So I went over to the bike and worked on it for a bit and was definitely making progress but it wasn't totally easy. The big shears cut through the hard rubber casing and about half of the wires, but then I couldn't get the rest of it. So I was playing around with the big shears and then the little cutters I had, thinking that the little ones might be good for detail work. I was sitting there working at it (and making progress, but it was definitely effort), when a trash collector came by and was like, would you like some help? Turns out that two people working on it was just the trick, he held the little pliers while I twisted the two sides in opposite directions and we could hear the wires popping one by one. Still took a few minutes, but we could tell we were on the right track. He was pretty funny...besides being clearly tipsy and smelling rather strongly of what I would guess was cheap vodka, he was like, "well, I hope no one thinks we're stealing it!" I assured him I had the documentation to prove it was mine. Finally we broke through and gave a cheer and a high five and he went on his way. I went back to the apartment building and was like, "thank you sooooo much, I've been trying to figure out what to do for 4 days and you've totally saved my life!" The guard was like, "wow, not every day someone tells you that!" haha. And all this was before about 9 am. I got out of the pool around 8 and spent an hour running around before I got what I needed. By the time I got home at like 9:30, I felt like I'd already had a full day!
So, Sylvain is safely home and I already went out to get a new lock (with a key this time, not screwing around with codes anymore). The thought crosses my mind that if you're mad at someone and really want to inconvenience them, buying a cheap but thick lock and adding to their bike would be REALLY effective revenge. Don't worry, I don't have any plans to implement this idea, but it did strike me that it would be an exquisite inconvenience for whomever you do it to, haha.
I managed to borrow some small but strong wire cutters from a friend yesterday, so I arrived at the pool a few minutes before 7 to test them out. It was immediately clear that they weren't going to do the trick, though. So I went and swam my laps, then when I came out I asked the girl at the front desk if they might have some stronger lock cutters. She was super nice and called the technician, who was also really nice and brought me what he had, which was just a bit stronger than the pair I had. No luck.
It was at this point that I ran yet again into an interesting cultural difference, I think, that I've seen before in other contexts. The building manager was there when I returned the wire cutters, so he asked what the problem was. I explain about the bike, and he was like, "why don't you just take the metro home?" haha. I was like, "yeah, but that won't solve my problem!" I was getting ready to make fun of him in my head when it became clear what he meant, as he was like, "no, but go home and find a friend to help you and come back with the materials and manpower you need." Here's the interesting cultural difference: it's fairly widely accepted that it's difficult to break in and make French friends. My theory on this is that French people seem to make their friends when they're young, in grade school, in their little towns (or in their neighborhood of Paris). By the time they're 20-somethings, most of their friendships are set. So when you meet at, say, the university, you make acquaintances that you chat with casually before class, but you tend not to make lifelong friends this "late" in life. The ENS is kind of an exception to that rule, I think, because it's such a cloistered and elite community.
In any case, this sort of bit me in the ass a few separate times with the bike issue, because a bunch of different people were like, "but just go ask a friend to help." This made me realize what a network of friendships people have here, in the sense that people always know someone who can bail you out of trouble in whatever contexts. They were kind of surprised when I was like, "yeah I don't know anyone who would have a giant lock cutter." I think they just naturally assumed that of course everyone would have a friend who would know how to do that. I was sitting there like, "I'm a foreigner who's only been here for 6 months, how the hell would I know someone like that?" I was nice about it but did tell the building manager that I had indeed taken the metro home on Saturday and asked around but that no one had what I needed. To explain the seriousness of the situation, I was like, "it's a strong lock, it needs a special tool." He was kind of abrupt and was like, "then call a specialist, that's really unlucky for you." Gee thanks.
I left the pool to see what else I could find and saw a neighboring hotel. I thought that was worth a shot, so I asked the woman at the front desk. She was super nice but said they only had small cutters. I asked where the nearest police branch was but it was quite a distance. So then I asked about the pompiers (firemen, who also serve as the 911 service here), and she gave me directions to get to the nearest firehouse. It was about 10 minutes away, which I figured was a bad start since they probably wouldn't just let me walk off with their cutters.
I got to the pompiers, and they were really, really rude. More than anything I think they didn't want to deal with it. I put on my charm as best as I could and explained the situation, and one guy was like, "we can't do that, we don't know it's your bike." I was like, "oh, I brought the bill and the certificate of authenticity with me to show that, and I have the key to the other lock." He was like, "that still doesn't prove it's your bike." WTF???? I was about to question it and ask what would prove it, and he quite literally cut me off and was like, "we save lives, not bikes. Goodbye." Thanks for nothing, asshole.
Next I went to a car dealership I saw on the street, one that had a maintenance department. I spoke to two people there who were very friendly, but again they only had smaller cutters.
Finally I decided to go in another direction where I saw construction workers, but it's a huge construction site and I couldn't get their attention (they were operating heavy machinery). I was about to throw in the towel and rethink my options when I came upon a nice apartment building with a doorman. I figured that was worth a shot too, and that's where I struck gold. Hallelujah, they had a GINORMOUS cutter and were very friendly about it. They even apologized that they weren't allowed to leave the building to come and help me. At that point I didn't care, I was just happy to have the tool I needed.
So I went over to the bike and worked on it for a bit and was definitely making progress but it wasn't totally easy. The big shears cut through the hard rubber casing and about half of the wires, but then I couldn't get the rest of it. So I was playing around with the big shears and then the little cutters I had, thinking that the little ones might be good for detail work. I was sitting there working at it (and making progress, but it was definitely effort), when a trash collector came by and was like, would you like some help? Turns out that two people working on it was just the trick, he held the little pliers while I twisted the two sides in opposite directions and we could hear the wires popping one by one. Still took a few minutes, but we could tell we were on the right track. He was pretty funny...besides being clearly tipsy and smelling rather strongly of what I would guess was cheap vodka, he was like, "well, I hope no one thinks we're stealing it!" I assured him I had the documentation to prove it was mine. Finally we broke through and gave a cheer and a high five and he went on his way. I went back to the apartment building and was like, "thank you sooooo much, I've been trying to figure out what to do for 4 days and you've totally saved my life!" The guard was like, "wow, not every day someone tells you that!" haha. And all this was before about 9 am. I got out of the pool around 8 and spent an hour running around before I got what I needed. By the time I got home at like 9:30, I felt like I'd already had a full day!
So, Sylvain is safely home and I already went out to get a new lock (with a key this time, not screwing around with codes anymore). The thought crosses my mind that if you're mad at someone and really want to inconvenience them, buying a cheap but thick lock and adding to their bike would be REALLY effective revenge. Don't worry, I don't have any plans to implement this idea, but it did strike me that it would be an exquisite inconvenience for whomever you do it to, haha.
Monday, March 8, 2010
My new hobby
So I realized this weekend that I hadn't updated about my new (old) hobby: swimming!
It's a complicated story, but it came to my attention recently that there's a pool in Paris with very low levels of chlorine. It's purified mostly with ozone, and you can't smell any sort of chlorine in it. Since my swimming career came to an inglorious end 12 years ago when I developed a sensitivity to chlorine, swimming hadn't been on my radar for years. But when I found out about this new pool, I was excited to try it out.
It's an olympic-size pool, and it's wonderful. Because it was recently renovated, the whole building is super snazzy, even has a retractable roof! I haven't been able to experience the retractable roof yet since we're still in the 30s here in Paris (bah), but I'm looking forward to the summer when it is open. yay!
The funniest part of the whole thing, I'd have to say, is the oh-so-typically French phenomenon of co-ed locker rooms! hahahaha. There are this little stalls where you can go to change, but then the lockers, bathrooms, and showers are all co-ed. Which is really quite annoying because then you're stuck showering with your bathing suit on (which everyone seems to do, I'm still waiting to see how long it takes before I come across the exhibitionist who doesn't). Otherwise, though, it doesn't really matter.
Actually, the other funny part: I don't know what sort of chemical reaction is going on or whether it's the ozone, the minimal chlorine, or something else, but there's something in this pool water that turns my hair into pincurls. Like, insanely so. It lends new credence to my standing joke that I feel like medusa with my curly hair. Now I basically have a fro, it sticks straight up! And it's super dry, I'm going to have to work on that. But the curls are fabulous, haha. Who would have guessed that going to the pool would improve one's hair?
In any case, I am totally fine in this pool and am thrilled to get back to swimming! And as I've found, it's sort of like riding a bike, my technique is coming back to me. I have to think about it a bit in terms of the stroke and the breathing, but overall I'm not as rusty as I expected to be. Yay! I've got a whole routine down now, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, right when the pool opens (7 am during the week, 9 am on the weekends). Because the one downside of this pool being among the nicest in the city is also that it's one of the most popular. But it seems to be ok at the crack of dawn.
So this Saturday I made my way over to the pool (and was particularly excited because it was reopening after being closed for two weeks). I swam my laps (so far I'm at a mile), got dressed and did my hair (sticking straight up as always) and went to bike home. Except that there was a fundamental problem: something went wrong with my lock and I couldn't get the damned thing off. It's a lock with a code, and I tried everything. Twisting the dials around, etc. Then of course I started second-guessing myself as to whether I had the right code, so I tried other variations of the numbers, etc. Finally I was so confused that I decided I would ditch the bike at the pool and think.
I came home and checked, and I was of course right on the code the first time. Obviously...I mean, I've been using this lock without a problem since I arrived, so of course I was right. But that doesn't negate the fact that the damn thing is stuck. I'm going to buy some WD-40 today and take it over there when I go for my swim tomorrow morning. If that doesn't work, I'm going to have to go on a search for both some lock cutters and probably a strong dude to help me bust the lock, haha. Because this thing is no joke, it's a serious lock. Figures things couldn't be easy, right? Talk about annoying. But the bike is stranded well the hell over in the 15th arrondissement until I can sweet-talk someone into helping me liberate it! Here's hoping the Wd-40 works, otherwise I'm going to have quite the adventure tomorrow...
It's a complicated story, but it came to my attention recently that there's a pool in Paris with very low levels of chlorine. It's purified mostly with ozone, and you can't smell any sort of chlorine in it. Since my swimming career came to an inglorious end 12 years ago when I developed a sensitivity to chlorine, swimming hadn't been on my radar for years. But when I found out about this new pool, I was excited to try it out.
It's an olympic-size pool, and it's wonderful. Because it was recently renovated, the whole building is super snazzy, even has a retractable roof! I haven't been able to experience the retractable roof yet since we're still in the 30s here in Paris (bah), but I'm looking forward to the summer when it is open. yay!
The funniest part of the whole thing, I'd have to say, is the oh-so-typically French phenomenon of co-ed locker rooms! hahahaha. There are this little stalls where you can go to change, but then the lockers, bathrooms, and showers are all co-ed. Which is really quite annoying because then you're stuck showering with your bathing suit on (which everyone seems to do, I'm still waiting to see how long it takes before I come across the exhibitionist who doesn't). Otherwise, though, it doesn't really matter.
Actually, the other funny part: I don't know what sort of chemical reaction is going on or whether it's the ozone, the minimal chlorine, or something else, but there's something in this pool water that turns my hair into pincurls. Like, insanely so. It lends new credence to my standing joke that I feel like medusa with my curly hair. Now I basically have a fro, it sticks straight up! And it's super dry, I'm going to have to work on that. But the curls are fabulous, haha. Who would have guessed that going to the pool would improve one's hair?
In any case, I am totally fine in this pool and am thrilled to get back to swimming! And as I've found, it's sort of like riding a bike, my technique is coming back to me. I have to think about it a bit in terms of the stroke and the breathing, but overall I'm not as rusty as I expected to be. Yay! I've got a whole routine down now, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, right when the pool opens (7 am during the week, 9 am on the weekends). Because the one downside of this pool being among the nicest in the city is also that it's one of the most popular. But it seems to be ok at the crack of dawn.
So this Saturday I made my way over to the pool (and was particularly excited because it was reopening after being closed for two weeks). I swam my laps (so far I'm at a mile), got dressed and did my hair (sticking straight up as always) and went to bike home. Except that there was a fundamental problem: something went wrong with my lock and I couldn't get the damned thing off. It's a lock with a code, and I tried everything. Twisting the dials around, etc. Then of course I started second-guessing myself as to whether I had the right code, so I tried other variations of the numbers, etc. Finally I was so confused that I decided I would ditch the bike at the pool and think.
I came home and checked, and I was of course right on the code the first time. Obviously...I mean, I've been using this lock without a problem since I arrived, so of course I was right. But that doesn't negate the fact that the damn thing is stuck. I'm going to buy some WD-40 today and take it over there when I go for my swim tomorrow morning. If that doesn't work, I'm going to have to go on a search for both some lock cutters and probably a strong dude to help me bust the lock, haha. Because this thing is no joke, it's a serious lock. Figures things couldn't be easy, right? Talk about annoying. But the bike is stranded well the hell over in the 15th arrondissement until I can sweet-talk someone into helping me liberate it! Here's hoping the Wd-40 works, otherwise I'm going to have quite the adventure tomorrow...
Friday, March 5, 2010
Nothing like some total last-minute interview prep
So if we go back in time like three years, one of the main books that inspired my diss topic was this book called Vivre me tue by Paul Smaïl. It's kind of a stereotypical "young Arab man writing in French" kind of book, an autobiography full of denunciations of French racism and stuff like that. What sets it apart initially, at least, is that it's rather clever--the author clearly knows more about the western canon than most of the authors writing in this genre today. So the whole thing is written as a modernization of Moby Dick, with the author searching for the great white whale that is integration in France.
Anyway, Paul Smaïl wrote three more books (two more installments of his autobiography) and then a novel, before a VERY interesting detail was leaked: Paul Smaïl doesn't exist. He's actually a 60-year-old French white guy named Jack-Alain Léger. His book just happened to be impressively believable. Ask my mother, I bought the translation for her and made her read it without telling her, and she totally fell for it, haha.
This case is clearly fascinating for a number of reasons. First off, it proved that we as readers have stereotyped expectations of what "an Arab writing in French" should be talking about. The hoax proved rather directly that some sort of model exists, otherwise it wouldn't be available for recuperation/subversion. The other thing it demonstrated was how blind the press was, in terms of reading it at face-value and not really taking time to consider the literary merits of the book. All the reviews and stuff were about his discussions of integration, etc.
Anyway, it's kind of a long story of how I managed to track down this author two years ago, which is a good enough story that it would involve a whole separate entry (let me know if you'd like that story). The important thing, though, is that I did track him down and managed to meet with him when I was in France in Summer 2008. And he talked my ear off. For a good 2.5 hours. Yeah. And it was fascinating--kind of a mix of artistic naïveté (he didn't understand why the press attacked him so cruelly when the hoax was revealed, I was sitting there like, "well, isn't it clear, you made them look like a bunch of idiots?") and strange vendettas (he really has it out for Azouz Begag, which I actually might not be able to blame him for, given how Begag blew me off last fall). Perhaps the most interesting thing he told me was that he started the pseudonym project as a joke and really didn't think it would go anywhere, but then when the first book was such a huge success he was like, "oh shit, I guess I should ride this wave." Then he whipped together plans to write a few more books as Paul Smaïl. He never thought it would work so he hadn't planned for the future of the hoax.
So all that is background. The point of my story today is that I've finally reached the point of writing chapter 6, which is on this whole controversy. I hadn't contacted Léger in a while since I wasn't ready to interview him, but this morning I decided to whip off a quick note to him so that I could get the ball rolling. I got a reply a few hours later, telling me he has a serious neurological condition, that he can't use his right hand anymore, that he's suffering terribly (and there's no treatment nor effective painkillers), and that since he can't write anymore, he's basically sitting around miserably, that his body is shutting down. He concluded by saying he'd be willing to see me but that it has to be in the next few days because after that he's not sure he'll be around anymore. ouch.
How do you reply to that one? I immediately wrote back saying how sorry I was and that of course I didn't want to bother him, etc. Left it entirely up to him. He wrote back suggesting a meeting tomorrow at the same café we met at last time. I wasn't really expecting him to be in good enough condition for that, but whatever, I'll take it. He's definitely a drama queen, so who knows what the real situation is like. All I know is, I now have about a day to whip together an interview that has to count. Because it doesn't look like I'll be getting a second shot. weird weird weird. Fortunately the questions I have are generally pretty clear, so it should be that hard to get organized. Just wasn't quite expecting things to take this sort of turn...
Anyway, Paul Smaïl wrote three more books (two more installments of his autobiography) and then a novel, before a VERY interesting detail was leaked: Paul Smaïl doesn't exist. He's actually a 60-year-old French white guy named Jack-Alain Léger. His book just happened to be impressively believable. Ask my mother, I bought the translation for her and made her read it without telling her, and she totally fell for it, haha.
This case is clearly fascinating for a number of reasons. First off, it proved that we as readers have stereotyped expectations of what "an Arab writing in French" should be talking about. The hoax proved rather directly that some sort of model exists, otherwise it wouldn't be available for recuperation/subversion. The other thing it demonstrated was how blind the press was, in terms of reading it at face-value and not really taking time to consider the literary merits of the book. All the reviews and stuff were about his discussions of integration, etc.
Anyway, it's kind of a long story of how I managed to track down this author two years ago, which is a good enough story that it would involve a whole separate entry (let me know if you'd like that story). The important thing, though, is that I did track him down and managed to meet with him when I was in France in Summer 2008. And he talked my ear off. For a good 2.5 hours. Yeah. And it was fascinating--kind of a mix of artistic naïveté (he didn't understand why the press attacked him so cruelly when the hoax was revealed, I was sitting there like, "well, isn't it clear, you made them look like a bunch of idiots?") and strange vendettas (he really has it out for Azouz Begag, which I actually might not be able to blame him for, given how Begag blew me off last fall). Perhaps the most interesting thing he told me was that he started the pseudonym project as a joke and really didn't think it would go anywhere, but then when the first book was such a huge success he was like, "oh shit, I guess I should ride this wave." Then he whipped together plans to write a few more books as Paul Smaïl. He never thought it would work so he hadn't planned for the future of the hoax.
So all that is background. The point of my story today is that I've finally reached the point of writing chapter 6, which is on this whole controversy. I hadn't contacted Léger in a while since I wasn't ready to interview him, but this morning I decided to whip off a quick note to him so that I could get the ball rolling. I got a reply a few hours later, telling me he has a serious neurological condition, that he can't use his right hand anymore, that he's suffering terribly (and there's no treatment nor effective painkillers), and that since he can't write anymore, he's basically sitting around miserably, that his body is shutting down. He concluded by saying he'd be willing to see me but that it has to be in the next few days because after that he's not sure he'll be around anymore. ouch.
How do you reply to that one? I immediately wrote back saying how sorry I was and that of course I didn't want to bother him, etc. Left it entirely up to him. He wrote back suggesting a meeting tomorrow at the same café we met at last time. I wasn't really expecting him to be in good enough condition for that, but whatever, I'll take it. He's definitely a drama queen, so who knows what the real situation is like. All I know is, I now have about a day to whip together an interview that has to count. Because it doesn't look like I'll be getting a second shot. weird weird weird. Fortunately the questions I have are generally pretty clear, so it should be that hard to get organized. Just wasn't quite expecting things to take this sort of turn...
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