Angry Raisins

On the métro today, I saw a woman reading a book entitled, "Les raisins de la colère".

I thought to myself, "What an interesting title, 'The raisins/grapes of anger'." I began imagining what the book could have been about, when I saw the name of the author: John Steinbeck.

Lingua Franca?

The news here has been rightfully dominated by the impending (or ongoing?) Euro zone crisis. Some have proclaimed the end of the Euro currency as we know it, others say that the dollar itself is in trouble. As the debate rages on about whether all currency should be pegged against U.S. Dollar (i.e., Bretton-Woods), I began having a set a of experiences that made me think: Are all languages pegged to English the way that all currencies are pegged against the U.S. Dollar?

It was not so long ago that France was the notorious last holdout against the barrage of English-speaking hegemony. However, it seems that, even in France, English is starting to become the vernacular of the masses. From waiters to taxi drivers to people at my outdoor market, the slightest hint that you do not understand is reason enough to start speaking English regardless of your race or national origin. Two recent experiences serve to solidify this

Case Example 1
I recently ventured into one of the Paris Chinatowns. As all happy families are alike, so too are all Chinatowns. While certain brands may vary, and the produce may inherits a distinctly local flavor, at the end of the day, Chinatown (SF) is Chinatown (NYC) is Chinatown (Paris). It is thus with confidence that I made my way into Tang Frères, a veritable emporium of all things Asian and edible. Lost in the labyrinth of aisles as I looked for sesame seeds, I approached a Chinese youth who I assumed spoke Chinese.

He did not speak Chinese -- and I didn't know the French word for "sesame." He took out his iPhone and asked me to write it out in Chinese. After some deep breathing to retrieve the characters from the recesses of my mind, I managed to scribble something that his iPod recognized as Chinese. Suddenly, the word "sesame" popped up --- in English! He looked at the word and without hesitation directed me to another aisle.

Chinese to French via English.

Case Example 2
My barber is Japanese, and although he speaks French, it is so heavily accented he might as well be speaking Tagalog as far as I'm concerned. I speak Japanese, but really, I don't like to let Japanese people know that because (1) it's been a really long time, and (2) I don't want them to feel too comfortable speaking with me....

One day he asked me about my vacation to Provence and the following ensued:

Him: Did you go to the sea? ("la mer")
Me: My mother? ("ma mère")
Him: No, the sea ("la mer")
Me: [puzzled look coupled with look of abject fear that I didn't understand something I should have]
Him: (in English) The sea [NB: really, more like "za shii"]
Me: OH..... (in Japanese, because this farce was tiring) the sea ("umi")

French to Japanese via English

So, will English become, or is it already -- ironically -- the lingua franca? Maybe. In the meantime, I'll keep my French up.

An Honest Assessment II

In a conversation with a charming older French woman, she said the following after finding out that I am American:

"But you are not fat! The Americans -- and above all the American women ("americaines") -- are so large. It's obesity is what it is! It is like an S-shape: one curve for the stomach and one curve for the ass. How could they let themselves get like that?!"

I responded that I attributed the health situation to the high levels of high fructose corn syrup. She responded, "But something must be done! I don't understand it, America -- it is such a beautiful civilization (emphasis added). Really, such a pity."

So, there you have it: it's not radical Islam or right-wing fundamentalism threatening American civilization, guys. It's high-fructose corn syrup.

My Washing Machine

Recently, I spent an involved week and a half in "negotiation" with my washing machine, which decided apparently with no reason, to refuse to empty itself of water. I purchased my French washing machine from the previous tenant of my apartment at a substantial discount. (Kitchens in French rentals are unequipped with anything -- no refrigerators, no ovens, no stoves, no washing machines.) Since I moved in, my washing machine has been a font of knowledge about what to expect, and how to deal with, service in France.

Rule No. 1: All time is relative

My washing machine taught me this maxim on the day that it broke. Despite saying that the load would take 2 hours to finish (yes, Americans, and that is just washing), it was still working its way through the cycle about three hours later. I later found out that it would never finish the cycle because the machine could not empty the water.

In the larger context of French service, this rule comes up in various contexts. First, when French service people tell you that something will take 2 or 3 days, it might as well mean a week or a month (especially if it's the Summer Holidays), depending on the circumstances and how they count time. Second, when a store sign indicates that the store opens or closes on a particular day or a particular hour, this is merely an "indication" subject to the whim of the owner without so much as an explanation beyond "fermeture exceptionelle" (exceptional closure).

This last point would have been handy to know when I visited the store where the machine was purchased to take advantage of the two-year warranty left on the machine. I arrived promptly at 10am, the appointed hour for the store opening, hoping to avoid a line and get to my job within a reasonable hour (I'm American, you see, so time is still objective). 45 minutes later, the store owner sauntered up the street, and without so much as a "Bonjour," nodded in my general direction and said, "The rain, you know...." Of course, I thought, the "rain" is cause for an "exceptional opening."

After explaining my situation, he took down my number, looked at all the necessary documents, checked his database to confirm my documents, and told me, "My headquarters will call you. Probably sometime later today."

As Rule No. 1 dictates, however, "today" could mean tomorrow, the next day, or next week. I decided to expect nothing.

Rule No. 2: The result is never what you expected

My washing machine has often promised that it would "dry" my laundry, but it has actually never dried a load... ever. After five hours of futile spinning (and endless expenditure of electricity), the clothes come out moist and cold.

Rule No. 2 fully applied when I tried to get my washing machine fixed. When the store manager told me that the headquarters would call me, I thought they would call me to fix my washing machine. The headquarters called me the day after my visit, but instead of fixing my machine, gave me the number of the manufacturer to call.

The problem was -- the number they gave me was wrong. I called back several times with no response, and finally had to go back to the store in the evening. When I got to the store, however, there was an "exceptional closure". (Rule No. 1 really bites.)

The next day, I went back to the store, who again told me that the headquarters would call me. The headquarters called, I received the right number, and I called the manufacturer. The manufacturer told me that I needed to call another number, and that number told me to call a service agent unaffiliated with the manufacturer to set up an appointment. My washing machine had now been flooded for five days.

And finally, some good bit of news: the repairman could come on Saturday.

Rule No. 3: It is always your fault

Rule No. 3 is the Golden Rule of France. When I lived in Japan, every other sentence out of my mouth was "sorry." In France, I need not say it because it is assumed and implied in every interaction. Some key examples of how this rule is applied for the uninitiated:

• I'm sorry I bothered your reading of the newspaper by attempting to pay for your product
• I'm sorry to infringe on your nice smoke in a prohibited area by coughing at the noxious fumes you are emitting
  
• I'm sorry to suggest that it was in any way, shape, or form your fault by offering an explanation for why I'm back in your store because the product you gave me was defective (See Rule No. 2)
  

My washing machine made full use of this rule on the day it was fixed (or rather the repairman did). On Saturday morning, the repairman arrived at my apartment at the appointed hour (VICTORY!). After emptying the laundry water out by using my fine china bowls, he proceeded to poke around the pipes of the machine and produced..... (voilà!) a hair ball.

Judging from the color and length of the hair, it wasn't mine. But the repairman didn't seem to mind as he berated me for wasting his time by calling him on such an insignificant matter. According to him, I should have checked the pipes, and that in the future, he would refuse to come. I decided not to mention the time that I had spent trying to get the problem fixed. I also decided not to mention that this was, in fact, his job.

[NOTE: To show I learned my rules well, and remembering Rule No. 2, I wasn't so sure he had fixed the problem as promised, and so I asked the repairman to stay while I did a load. He didn't seem to mind -- all time is relative anyway (see Rule No. 1).]

A couple days later, the manufacturer sent me a form asking for my comments and to "assure [me] of [their] high considerations" (a stock phrase in French letters). I have to say all in all, I'm pretty satisfied.

Summer Holidays

Before I came to France, I understood that summer holidays were sacrosanct in France (and indeed, most of Western continental Europe). I did not understand what this meant until recently, when I tried to make reservations for August 1 at several restaurants. I was told that were closed until September.

The other day, I looked up the hours of a store I intended to visit. This (approximately) were the hours:

OPEN

Tuesday - Saturday

10:00 - 12:00

14:00 - 17:30

CLOSED

Sundays, July

In fact, I woke up one random weekday morning in June to find that the boulanger across the street was closed. It hasn't been open since, although it's almost August, and there's no sign of when they might be open again.

French Public Service

I called the French electricity service today to fix the name on my account. (They incorrectly recorded no less than my sex, the spelling of my name, and the order of my first and last names.) I was greeted with the following automated message in French:

Thank you for calling ____. If you have your account number, please enter it now. If you do not have your account number, please press the pound sign so that you pause this message while you look for your account number.

I decided to hang up and call back later, which was probably their goal all along.

Valued in Paris

One of the great things about living in another city is to be immersed in its rhythm and discovering how a new place infiltrates every aspect of your life. Last week marked my one-month anniversary in Paris (and it was appropriately celebrated with the arrival of all my furniture!). In just a month, I have started to notice that the things that I seek out and value in Paris (and what are sought by others) are different than the things that were highly coveted in New York.

New Yorkers often take the time to note that a place has "great outdoor space" or a dish that is "totally organic and only [X] calories." A Parisian would never think to note something so pedestrian. Every restaurant has outdoor space (for the smokers). Anything worth eating in France is totally organic. As for the low caloric content? It just means they need to add more butter.

So, what are the things that Parisians (or expats in Paris) look for? Here are some examples:

• Anything open after 8pm
• Anything open on Sunday
• Air conditioning (Fellow Parisians, this technology exists!)
• Any place with good service
• Proximity to a Monoprix (it's like a mix of Duane Reade and Whole Foods)
• A large and diverse marché (farmers' market)
• Thai food/Indian food/any food with spice
• Metro plans of one train transfer or less (okay, so this would be coveted in NYC as well)
• A view of the Eiffel Tower

Thus, it's not rare to hear, "It's a great restaurant -- and it's open on Sunday!" or "I actually found a good Thai restaurant!" By the way, I'm still looking for both, so if you know of one, please let me know!

An Honest Assessment

Recently, in a French discussion with a local, I mentioned my observation of the strong rapport I had seen between the French and the Italians. He responded as follows:

"Yes, that is very true. The French and the Italians have a strong relationship. Not so much with the Spanish. The Spanish are, I don't know, sombre and heavy. There is always a heaviness, a gravitas, about them. [He made a frowny face.] They are so.... sombre.

The Italians, like the French, have a sense of lightness and joie de vivre. The difference between them is that, although there is lightness with the Italians, they still take their work very seriously. They are great craftsmen and concentrate on every detail. Not so much with the French."

A longer post coming soon...

A "Romance" Language

French, along with Spanish, Italian and Portuguese (among others), is known as a "romance" language because it traces to its origins to Latin, the language of the Romans. Of course, French also has the reputation for being the language of romance. Thus, French is both a "romance" language and a "romantic" language. These cultural points were not lost on me when I started my journey into the French language more than half a life ago. And despite years of toiling with subjonctif vs. infinitif or masculin vs. feminin or de vs. à vs. nothing at all, the language somehow retained its romance -- spoken always in hushed whispers and never with an open jaw.

Until I moved to Paris. Living among the French has successfully excised any romance that had existed despite years of graded exams and disapproving French teachers with a belief in corporal punishment. Through the daily interactions and mis-interactions of life, the language has become, at best, quotidien, and at worse, a source of stress. A language somehow loses its sex appeal when:

• it is the language I struggle through as I try to explain to the sales people at the store that, in fact, the internet is not connected and neither is the television.

• it is the language used by the hag at the boulangerie to scream at me because I mistook a 50 centimes piece for a 1 Euro piece.

• it is the language that the salesperson at the electronics store uses to tell me that he can't refund the 40 Euros for the warranty that I never asked for simply because of the incontestable reason that "it's already done."

• it is the language used to dub over such American gems as the Simpsons, Family Guy, and South Park (you decide whether I'm being ironic here).

• it is the language you use to conduct banking -- is there anything less romantic?

• it is the language that you use to apologize and excuse yourself constantly

• it is the language used to tell you "no" in a thousand different ways in a thousand different places every day

• it is the language used on every French form to describe every French form you need but don't have

• it is a language that accompanies a body language of sighs, puffs, rolling eyes, shrugged shoulders, crossed arms, and raised eyebrows that are just as incomprehensible as the language itself

I am still in love in Paris -- and waiting for it to fall in love with me -- but I'm afraid that my romance with the French language is gone for good.

The Apartment

Last Saturday, I signed the lease for an apartment. While in most cities, including New York, this event would not warrant any fanfare, everyone in Paris to whom I reported this fact has exclaimed, "Congratulations!" In Paris, you see, getting an apartment does not merely indicate that you are able to afford an apartment, but also that someone (i.e., a Parisian) has adjudged you worthy to live in theirs.

The beginning of the end of my search began on Friday afternoon at 1pm as a small crowd gathered in front of an immeuble ancien (i.e., old building, which is more desirable) in the 15th arrondissement to see a one bedroom apartment. Nothing in the ad had suggested anything out of the ordinary: one bedroom, one living room, one kitchen, one bathroom, and there weren't even pictures. I knew before I even entered the apartment, however, that if I could imagine living there, I had to put in my dossier or it would be gone.

After the broker showed up, a contingent of us climbed the stairs to the second floor and searched for the apartment "on the right hand side to the left side of the elevator." (Apartments in Paris do not have apartment numbers and are designated by their position in relation to the staircase.) We entered the apartment and it was in most respects, well, typique:

• Double vitrage French windows, so the movers could fit my things through the window
• Shutters, so I could keep out the light while leaving the windows open during the hot summers
• A kitchen that fit more than one person
• A bathroom I could actually walk into
• And, the pièce de la résistance, MOULURES (French moldings)

In other words, I had to get it, and I had to move fast. My relocation expert handed over my dossier to the broker and began explaining the "eccentricities" in my file. Upon seeing my passport, the broker asked, "So... is he American? Or Malaysian?"

"I am completely American," I interjected. It seemed like everyone (including the occupants' dog) was looking at me skeptically. "I grew up in San Francisco and worked in New York as an attorney," I explained.

The broker nodded knowingly. "So you were just born in Malaysia..."

"Yes," I answered, setting aside my complex multiculturalism in the hopes of getting the apartment.

"And you worked at a firm in New York?" he asked, flipping through my file.

"Yes, in fact, an international law firm with a branch office in Paris right on the Champs Élysées," I shot back.

He nodded again, figuring out his next move. "And now you work in Paris?"

"Yes, as an attorney," I said matter-of-factly.

My relocation expert could not decide whether she believed half of what I said. The broker seemed satisfied, for the moment. "Very well, we will let you know. Should be tonight or tomorrow morning."

We showed ourselves out. Upon exiting the building, my relocation expert observed, "See how differently the French treat you when you're in a suit and tie!" That was not what I took away from that interaction, but I'm sure it didn't hurt.

Around 11pm that evening, while processing several bottles of wine and frites, I received the following text message (translated from French): "Sir, you have been chosen for the apartment on [address omitted]. Please come to my office at 11:45 am tomorrow morning [Saturday] to sign the lease. Bring your checks." I was ecstatic -- my new friends and I ordered a round of drinks to celebrate.

The next day, I showed up at the broker's office, checks in hand. He spent the next two hours discussing all manner of French culture, my personal history, and his love of Asian culture and language. He asked, for instance, how I ended up with a French name -- "Clément." When I mentioned that the etymology of my "French" name was connected to the specific dialect of my family, he proceeded to discuss his admittedly extensive knowledge of Chinese history. At the end of the lease signing, he explained the following to me:

"You should understand that, for foreigners, usually we require a security deposit equal to 6 times the monthly rent. There are three reasons that I am not requiring such a security deposit in this case: (1) I have had excellent experiences with people from Malaysia and Singapore, (2) your represented by a respected relocation expert, and (3) I am interested in economics and you work for an organization that studies economics."

Then, he gave me a bottle of wine.

* * * *

At the end of the day, did it bother me that two of the three reasons he gave were actually based on false premises? Or, did it bother me that I had betrayed my self-assured multiculturalism only to have my protestations of Americanism ignored anyways? What about the fact that I wasn't crazy about the apartment anyways?

Hey, we all do what we have to do to get an apartment in Paris.

Unrequited Love

I have concluded that I have an unrequited love for Paris. Although I fall in love with Paris on a daily basis, the city haughtily and pitilessly rejects my advances to be one of its denizens. At the end of every day, I return home beaten and demoralized convinced by Parisians (and their dogs) that I will never fit in here. Yet, at the beginning of the next day, the rows of Haussmanien stone buildings and the taste of the pain au chocolat (or any bread here, for that matter) makes me fall in love with it all over again.

My apartment search is illustrative. After spending three days last week walking up and down the streets of Paris, looking at apartment after apartment (as well as some "apartments/closet/trash bins"), I had finally put in my application, or dossier as they call it, at two places, and as both a naive American and savvy Chinese, I thought it was a fait accompli -- I made enough money, I had all my documents, what more was left? I went about looking for items that might go into my new apartment and wondering which direction I might put my American-sized sofa.

I was wrong. Apparently, getting an apartment in Paris is harder than getting a white iPad in Manhattan the weekend it débuts. First, the all-important dossier. This set of documents is your introduction to your prospective landlord and it is on the basis of your dossier that you will be evaluated. At first, I had naively believed that each and every dossier contained a pre-determined number of documents: my passport, an attestation in French from my employer, my salary sheet from my employer, my offer letter from my employer, the last three-months' pay stub from my previous employer, my tax returns for the previous year, and finally the most important sheet of them all, the RIB (releve d'identité bancaire - more on this later).

I was wrong. There is no pre-set number of type of documents you must include (EXCEPT THE RIB -- more on this later). In fact, the only general rule for your dossier is "the thicker the better." Unfortunately for most ex-patriates, without a phone number or a previous address, their dossier will never be as a complete as a good Frenchmen. Unfortunately for me, my dossier includes a picture of a Chinese person in an American passport, oh ... and documents in English (gasp). To top it all off, I did not have a RIB at the time -- "C'est pas grave," I thought, "I'll send it later."

I was wrong. What, you might ask, is the RIB? The French will tell you the RIB is a sheet of paper proving that you have a bank account in France. Physically, the RIB is nothing more than a Word document with my bank's logo, my name, and my bank account number. These basic pieces of information are repeated three or four times on the same sheet of paper so that you can tear it off an hand it out for every transaction -- to get internet, to get a cell phone.... to get an apartment. (If it strikes you odd that you hand out your banking information like samples at Costco -- I agree with you, I don't get how this is consistent with French privacy rules!) Thus, the RIB is the piece of paper proving your existence in France. Without it, you can do nothing and are nothing.

Needless to say, the missing RIB (and my foreign-ness) means that I was summarily rejected from both apartments. The search continues apace. Paris has not yet fallen for me (or my dossier), but I am persistent. Stay tuned for updates!

Selected French Quotes

This is what a French person told me (name omitted to protect the innocent):

A: Orientals have the most beautiful babies.

Me: They have big eyes.

A: Well, yeah, the big eyes, but they have skin that is "matte." And I think they are just the most adorable babies. But when they grow up, they are not so nice. Their limbs are shorter -- I don't know what it is. That's just not nice.

For context, this person had previously told me that I'm "really tall, especially for an Asiatic."

I'm sure there will be more of this to come!

The Arrival

On May 17, 2011, at around 4pm I boarded American Airlines flight 44 from John F. Kennedy in New York to Paris. And just like that, I ended my almost five years in New York City, leaving a city that I had once dreamed of living in for another city that I had always dreamed of living in.

The reasons for my departure were complicated: Certainly, an opportunity to work with an organization in a unique capacity was a factor. But on a deeper level, France and I had always had an affinity (although attenuated since my college days). In high school and college, I had dreamed of living and working in Paris, learning the ins and outs of French language and culture, and simply becoming Parisien. I had assumed that those opportunities had long passed me by, so when the chance presented itself to me (with bells), I could not say no.

My last days in New York had been composed of the slow accumulation of goodbyes and loss. Everyday in the last two weeks were filled with a series of "lasts" -- the last time I would see someone, the last time I would go to a restaurant, the last time I would see something I owned. And although every "last" pulled on the heartstrings, I was too busy to fully appreciate the sum of the parts. I have to admit that I avoided facing the fact of my departure as much as I could, since I knew that regrets and heartache were not going to get me emotionally away from the inevitable. All of a sudden, it was my last ride on the subway (4 train to Atlantic Ave.).

The flight from New York was uncomfortable and possibly unsafe. It was staffed with the some of the most unhelpful and rude service staff I have met, nothing on the flight worked, and there were several times when the airplane fell several hundred feet in the air. I thought to myself, "I will have to remember not to take American on my return trip," when I remembered that it was a one-way ticket.

Upon arriving in Charles de Gaulle, I waited an hour for my bags, wrestled them into a taxi and headed to the 16th arrondissement, the location of my temporary apartment. While spacious and comfortable, my thoughts turned to my (formerly) comfortable 2-bedroom, 2-bathroom apartment in Brooklyn. That apartment does not exist anymore; I've emptied it and sold or given off too many elements to re-create it, I thought to myself. I also asked myself, "How was I going to live here one night, let alone three weeks?"

The first three days were challenging. After my red eye flight, I took a quick shower and commenced an extended and exhausting apartment search covering four arrondissements for eight hours a day. I hardly ate, I hardly slept, and the romance of Paris was completely extinguished by looking at less than desirable apartments with pushy brokers who asked for documents I did not have and could not get. During the time that I was not looking at apartments, I was applying for all manner of documentation, running random errands and involving myself in French-style bureaucracy. Each day was filled with awkward interactions, involving terms I had not heard of or had misunderstood. The fact that my cell phone was mostly useless and the internet kept on going out only accentuated the sense of isolation.

Throughout the experience, I continually reminded myself that this was a dream of mine, and I had decided to do this. "This is what you wanted. ....Right?" However, the dream seemed so far from my reality; the gap seemed uncrossable, the goal seemed unreachable. Would I ever reach a point where this would feel like home? Why did I think Paris was right for me? Could I move back to Brooklyn and could I get back that dining table I had sold?

Today (day four), was the first day that I lived a life away from the realities of the move. I walked and walked the entire day: from the upper crust family-oriented 16th, where people sat on café terrasses, to the Trocadero, where the Eiffel Tower revealed itseff in all its glory, from the Hôtel de Belle Villes (and BHV!) to the Place de la Concorde.

Paris is a beautiful city, made more beautiful by the springtime. It was at some point during this day, that I saw for the first time, tiny glimpses in reality of the life I had envisioned in my dreams. I look forward to continuing to bridge those two worlds.