Friday June 26

During the morning coffee break at work, the ladies started talking about romanticism. And then Maryline, probably about 35 or 40, asked me (quiet and listening) if I was romantic. I was caught totally off guard, not expecting to be pulled into this conversation. I meekly (as I often speak in French, because it’s hard to feel self-assured and certain) replied, “It depends,” essentially a non-answer to draw the attention away from me. Fortunately for me at this point, Jean-Pierre, the only other guy at ICB who’s not an administrator, chimed in and started arguing that romanticism is BS invented by ladies to make guys buy them things and do things that don’t matter in the long run. Maryline insisted that the little things, such as waking early and going to buy croissants for breakfast for you wife/girlfriend, do matter and that’s what defines romanticism. Personally, I disagree with both.

            Anyway, later that day, during the noon hour, Pamela, an American who was out teaching at a client company, came in while Jean-Pierre and I were at the front desk. Somehow the topic of baseball came up, and Jean-Pierre said that he really didn’t know anything about the sport, besides that one team hits and another throws to the hitter. Being true Americans and assuming the duty of enlightening ignorant foreign savages, Pamela and I took it up ourselves to explain the rules of the game and gave Jean-Pierre a typical game scenario. I pulled up some scores online to show him each inning is scored, how hits, errors and runs are recorded. He was very fascinated and grateful when we had finished. I found it really interesting to do, because I've never had to explain baseball to someone who knew nothing about it. As an American, I'm so used to being surrounded by people who know that know that three strikes and you’re out, three outs is a new inning and a game is nine innings. 

            During lunch, I ate with a instructor named Zeke, an Australian, who told me about Australia’s only colony (an idea I found funny because Australia itself was a colony). Apparently in the late 1800s there was a faction of Marxist Australians who were fed up with the current British-style government, so they departed the country to head for…Paraguay, the small, landlocked South American country, of all places. When I asked why these Australians chose Paraguay, Zeke told me it was the only place to offer free land. And the intent of this colony: a communist utopia. But, according to Zeke, the colony was doomed from the get-go: the white Australians where only allowed to mate with each other, but since very few women had the brains (ha!) to join this band of Marxists in Paraguay, a mutiny of sorts occurred and inter-mating began. The inter-race breeding isn’t why the colony was doomed, but was an indication of the lack of real authority and sustainability any isolated Marxist colony in the highlands of Paraguay encounters.

            Zeke said he had visited the former colony (it failed generations ago), and it was really, really bizarre for him. In the isolated city in Paraguay, you see many blond-haired, blue-eyed Paraguayans (after all, they were born there) speaking English. And then you see mixed, light caramel with sandy blonde to dark hair Paraguayans (mixed people) speaking English. I could only agree with Zeke: that’s weird.

            That evening, my host mother (Marie-Laure, if I haven’t mentioned her name yet), invited me to a gospel concert at her family’s church. Not wanting to turn down an opportunity, especially one with my host family, I decided to go along with her, Alexis and Maylis before I went out on the town (my first weekend night in Paris to go out because I was with Geraldine the weekend before). It was very majestic and glorious in a large, all stone church, but some of the lyrics were unrecognizable because of the choirs noticeably French accent, which made their versions of “Down By the River” and “Amazing Grace” sort of comical and hard to take seriously. After being thoroughly French gospelled out, we split between songs. From there, I headed out alone to meet people and have a fun night.

            While waiting for a train at a subway stop, I sat next to a guy who was noticeably American. Much less self-conscious of meeting Americans, I asked him what he was up to that evening. Sure enough he was American (Thomas Lapierre, his name), and he said that he didn’t have plans except for meeting up with a Parisian guy he met on couchsurfing.com, but with whom he wasn’t staying because it just wouldn’t work out, he told me. He told me he had just arrived in Paris the day before and had never been, so had no idea of what to do, but that he friend would know. He invited me to join him and his acquaintance (they had never actually met) for the evening; I was thrilled that finding plans for the evening was so easy.

            But the evening ahead wasn’t exactly what I had had in mind.

            We got off at Place St. Michel in the touristy Latin Quarter, and we met his French “friend” (Nicolas) at the fountain in the square. I was immediately impressed by his impeccable English (which he claimed to have learned by watching American movies and MTV). We started walking, and as we walked back across the Seine, Nicolas asked Thomas, “So, are you in Paris this weekend for the gay pride parade tomorrow?” I was a little surprised but not bothered; I let the matter be for the moment. Thomas wasn’t in town for that, didn’t even know about it, he said.

            We kept walking, and about halfway across Ile de la Cité, I asked Nicolas what he had planned for the evening. He replied, “I like to hang out in the Marais in the 4^th arrondisement. It’s the gay neighborhood.” That put any question out of my head about my two new acquaintances’ sexual preferences, and not being bothered by it, I told myself, “I’ll just roll with it; it’ll be an experience.” In passing conversation, I just noted that I wasn’t gay, but wasn’t at bothered by hanging out with them.

I hadn’t eaten dinner, so we stopped at a kebap place, and then we headed to Les Halles in front of Saint Eustache to sit down so I could eat. We talked politics, compared American Congress to French Parliament, Nicolas explained the unthinkable primary election results from a few years ago (a right-wing candidate and a far right-wing, “fascist,” according to Nicolas, candidate made it to the final election), and Nicolas complained. He liked that a lot, and criticizing, I started noticing. He made fun of Sarkozy, cringed when he heard which arrondisment I live in, made fun of the people who lived there (“Oh that can’t be fun because no one there is under the age of 80 or over the age of 10”), claimed Sarkozy was the worst President France has ever had, called the language system in French schools “shit” (when compared to the American standard, I beg to differ), and did I mention that he criticized Sarkozy?

But alas, I'm doing a little complaining myself it sounds like. Really, it was interesting to hear his perspective.

After finishing my sandwich, we kept walking towards the 4^th. Once we arrived in the thick of the gay neighborhood, I realized this was the neighborhood I was originally going to live in until I had to switch host families. And when Mrs. Hostiuc (she used to live there) told me that I was guaranteed to get hit on after my mom told her, I could see she was right. At night, at least on weekend nights, it’s almost solely gay couples and singles looking for someone (mostly men, but also some ladies). We passed the type of gay bars people outside the gay community usually think of: long lines of shaved men waiting to enter thumping dance clubs adorned with rainbow flags. But fortunately for me, Nicolas had some taste and preferred another type of gay bar more like normal bars and cafés with some music, but certainly not loud, gross dance clubs. They’re more laid back and less sexual they seem to me.

We met this really interesting and funny guy named Ivan from Colombia who’s working on his masters in Paris. And Nicolas explained to me the proper pronunciation of the Sígor Ros song Hoppipolla. Apparently in Icelandic, before any double consonant besides double L’s you inhale. And when you encounter a double L, the first is pronounced like a T. So when saying the song’s name you inhale just before the double P and pronounce the double L more like “pot-la.” That was a late night, much later than I intended, and when I got home I remember seeing the sky brighten and birds starting to chirp. 

Thursday June 25

After work I walked to Les Jardins du Palais Royal, or the Royal Palace Gardens, which are very gorgeous (as are most public gardens/parks). They’re quite small relative to other well-known gardens in Paris, but very nice. When I was there a man was feeding pigeons, and it amazed me how ravenous they are. I had never thought about it before, but they always seem to be on a fearsome quest for food. There seems to be cutthroat competition between them when it comes to finding food. Anyway, the neighborhood around the Jardins are quite posh, with some designer stores around the gardens. I stopped in a couple and “browsed,” but was immediately deterred by their outrageous “sale” prices.

            Must not have been a terribly interesting day, because I wrote nothing else down and nothing else comes to mind. 

It's been too long. Sorry

Ok, so it’s been way too long since I’ve written, over two weeks, I know. But all is not lost from this week and a half: I’ve been keeping notes of memories and events I don’t want to forget. So I’ll work off of those. But it’s a slow process catching up…

 

Wednesday June 24:

            Ingrid brought a homemade apple tart because it was her birthday. Spirits were really high among “the girls,” as some of the instructors (who don’t actually have desks/offices at ICB’s office) call the ladies that work at ICB (it’s mostly ladies, except for me and another who aren’t administrators). They were very talkative and sexual. They started out just talking about finding a man for Ingrid, who I think just turned 24 or 25. Then one lady offered to buy her a gigolo for the night, then they moved on to the male instructors they thought were attractive (specifically which ones they’d like to receive lap dances from). By the end of the lunch hour, just Messad and I were in the Lounge cleaning up our things and she said to me, “I hope you weren’t too shocked.” I replied, “No, you’re human.” She agreed that’s it’s good to talk about those things.

            Later on that day I moved desks, from my upstairs location to being at the front desk (really at one of two desks at the entry). Mr. Wrobley had me do this because one of the two ladies (Elodie) at the entrance is on vacation for 2 weeks, and he didn’t want the other (Adeline) to be alone. So for the time being I have a new desk, which I like more because it’s much cooler on the first floor than on the third, where I was before. And it’s getting hot here in Paris! I couldn’t tell you exact degrees, but since I sweat easily and air conditioning is rare, I’m almost always sweating.

            Anyway, while walking to the Metro from office that evening, I walked past a store that was being renovated or at least there was construction there. And while I was walking past that evening, I saw some bizarre construction (destruction is more accurate) techniques. Workmen were taking shovels and sledgehammers to the windows! They were actually hacking at the glass with the shovels and pounding the windows with sledgehammers. Seemed like a very dubious window-removal technique to me; I thought it was funny.

            That night I ate at a delicious restaurant very near where I live called Le Relais de Venise. It’s unique in that the café serves only one dish: “entrecote” in French, which is like flank steak I think, and fries. So when the waitress comes to take your order, you tell her what you want to drink (wine, of course!) and how you want your entrecote cooked. Then she brings you a small salad with walnuts, and after a bit you’re entrecote and fries come. Each night the entrecote comes with a different sauce, and that night it was a green sauce of some sort that was delicious. After your finish your plate of entrecote and fresh fries, you’re served seconds of entrecote and fries. They you get to choose again: your dessert. I had profiteroles (ice cream puffs) smothered in a dark chocolate sauce. A heavenly desert to close a delectable meal.

            During my dinner, there was a family of Americans at the table beside mine. It was a grandmother and grandfather and their grandson (probably about 12) and granddaughter (between 16 and 18). They stand out in my memory because the grandpa was so funny. He would speak to the waitresses in either an completely ruined French or in Spanish just to frustrate them (and these waitresses are all about efficiency and control over their tables). He told his grand son he’d pay him $5 million if he could make a waitress smile. So his grandson asked for the check in battered French sort of with a Texan accent, and the waitress cracked a smile. The grandpa was delighted and couldn’t believe she smiled. And beyond wishing one of the waitresses good evening in Spanish, I can’t remember what else precisely he did that was so funny. I just remember he kept making a joke out of everything or telling a silly story. 

More on my Parisian life

The following was written on the night of Friday June 18, 2009

 

I realize at this point I've been ridiculously detailed, so I’ll move a bit more briskly from here on.

Work has been just fine; it’s sort of exciting to have a daily job, something to look forward to doing and accomplishing each day. I’ve basically done odds and ends, but I have several on-going projects I'm working on too. I’ve created an annotated list of all the things I had to do to be able to come to Paris to intern, from what I took into consideration when filling out the application for the internship to what to take with me to Chicago to apply for the visa so what sort of clothes are appropriate at ICB.

I have an on-going project doing research on prospective client companies, which is actually quite boring. There are about 360 prospective clients A to Z, and in two days mostly dedicated to this project I've not even finished the Cs yet. I just have to find out what sort of company each potential client is (bank/financial, industry, consulting, distribution, etc.) and the size of their Paris office. The latter part can actually be quite difficult because many of the companies are national or international and don’t give numbers of their individual branches, just their total numbers, which ICB isn’t interested in.

I’ve also learned how to administer English level tests via the telephone. I haven’t actually done it yet, I will on Monday the 22^nd though. I call a future student (one enrolled at ICB, but not yet in a specific class because ICB doesn’t yet know their speaking and listening ability level) and administer a 15 minute test all in English. It starts out with some basic questions (whats your name, your email address, etc) to more complex questions (what department do you work in, do you think it’s important to know English for your job, do you want to work in an English-speaking country). Then part two is a speaking section in which I give the student 3 options of topics to talk about: the interview for their current job, a recent business meeting, and something else I don’t recall. They then have to talk for two minutes about a topic they choose. Then part three is a role play in which I act like a snobby London hotel employee and the student has to arrange a client in my London hotel for 80 people. They’re supposed to choose between two rooms, ask about refreshments and technological equipment and barter for a price. Obviously, if their English is very weak, this part challenging if not impossible. I asked the guy who trained me if laughing at the student was ok if theyre really bad, and he said no. Oh well, I might anyway because I cant help it!

Oh and I'm in charge of taking all the English teachers’ photographs (basically mug shots) for the new ICB website. I'm supposed to stop them when the walk by my desk, introduce myself and then ask for their photo. There are over 40 at ICB, so I often don’t recognize them. At least theyre all native English speakers so the greeting process is much less difficult and awkward. Some people are very self-conscious of photos of themselves I've discovered.

After work on Thursday the 18^th, I walked around ICB’s neighborhood (the 2^nd and 1^st arrondisements) to see some more of the area. I ran into La Place des Victoires, which is right by Banque de France and a bunch of other government offices, all adorned with at least a couple clusters of French flags.

Ill continue with talking about my day today, Friday June 19^th. I got to wake up late (because Mr. Wrobley had me work late), which was a tasty treat. And last night was the first night I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night because of jetlag! It was great! Anyway, today I woke late, noticed my cough and a bit of a sore throat had come back (it went away once I got going today, but the cough came back earlier this evening, dang thing). I had some breakfast, showered and was off for work. I realized I had a little extra time, so instead of getting off the metro just by my office, I got off a little ways down the road just in front of the Paris Opera. Needless to say, it’s beautiful. There was this guy in a Pharaoh’s outfit, a tight, gold spandex body suit with a Pharaoh mask, that was shaking a plastic cup and going from person to person annoying pleading for change. And he posed for photos with tourists, then begged for payment, as if he had provided some service.

I then walked to work and arrived just before 10:30. I got right to my deadly boring “research” project (often with breaks to check my emails and look around Paris on Google Maps). Mr. Wrobley had me edit and reorganize the list of necessary steps for the internship I made a couple of days ago. Then a lady in the office of Algerian descent named Messad had me copy and paste 275 names of current students in an Excel document. Their first names had to be moved from the first column to the second. Very important stuff. I then had to transfer student satisfaction poll results from paper to the ICB website and enter the students’ comments about their classes.

Finally around 2 Mr. Wrobley took me out for some lunch. We went to this little café around the corner that he goes to every day for lunch called eatme. We talked about Pembroke when he went (Class of 85) and how it compares to now. I told him about King of Kings County after he told me he had just read a book about the architecture about some old KC homes. Apparently Jasen Nichols has a brother in Mr. Wrobley’s class. Then back to work we moseyed!

There I did more of this research stuff, and found the Google mapping the companies on Streeview made the process more interesting. And I also discovered that so much non-stop sitting in one day makes my bottom really sore! And it’s tiring sitting at a desk all day. I had to get up yawn and stretch several times to stay ship shape.

Once most people had left, Mr. Wrobley had another guy named Jean-Pierre and I move a bunch of papers out a storage closet in a room and into another because of fire regulations (the fire dept told Mr. Wrobley that there couldn’t be so much paper in that room because the walls are not fire-retardant walls and there’s no exit that leads immediately outdoors. Basically a bunch of B.S.) Then Jean-Pierre left, and Mr. Wrobley and I spent a good hour or more going all about the office (three floors of rooms) figuring out which lights, outlets, etc. the fuse switches control. We had to do this because the fuses weren’t label with their matching locations, and the fire dept told him this is also illegal (but he said they told him this two years ago, so I guess it’s better label them now than never.)

After we had figured out what most of the switches control, I called Geraldine to get some more details about going to Brussels this weekend and then finally headed out. I was going to go straight home, but then I decided I’d eat some dinner first because it was already 8 o’clock by the time I left work. I went to the rue Montorgueil (a block for my office) and found La Grille Montorguiel, a café/restaurant we ate in last year as a group on the French trip. I decided I’d return for another dinner. I ordered the same thing (steak tartar with fries and salad) and was very satisfied. It was splendidly delicious. There was an Australian couple sitting next to me that didn’t speak any French; it was interesting to see their reactions when the waiter explained to them that one of the dishes had bone marrow in it.

            Around 9:15 I finally headed home. I immediately grabbed my laundry up in my room and brought it down to my host mother because she insisted upon doing it. Then my host father insisted on helping my buy my train tickets online. He manned the SNCF website while he, his wife and I talked. We finally made reservations for me to leave the morning of Saturday the 20th and return late afternoon Sunday the 21^st. And I learned that you cant print your tickets offline, so we got a confirmation number, then both my host parents and I walked to our neighborhood train station (isn’t that a great idea?) just a 10 minute walk away to print the tickets there. On our walk my host mother told me the number two man for Renault car company lived just above them. So I guess I live in a pretty safe, wealthy neighborhood.  

            And now I'm up in my room, just having packed for my weekend in Brussels with Geraldine and her friends listening to The Shins. I'm sitting with a big puffy pillow leaned up against the windowsill just below my open window, and the cool air keeps wafting in. And the sounds of the city are great to hear, something I'm not at all used to having lived in a quaint suburban environment. And now I’m off to bed.

Settling In

The following was written the night of Thursday June 18^th:

Anyway, I’ve had two days of work by now, and overall things are going fine. Tuesday morning when I arrived, I grabbed my bags, expected a long customs line (there was none), hopped in a cab, took the 1hour 20 minute ride to ICB (at least my driver entertained with complaining about traffic, whistling to the radio and laughing at the DJ’s jokes) down in the 2^nd arrondisement and grabbed Eric Wrobley from work. We got back in the cab and went to my apartment in the 16^th arrondisement. Really, I should call it my room, as it is a single room with a bed, a table, a sink, a shower, fridge, microwave, pseudo-armoire and many shelves. It’s certainly small, but very comfortably cozy. And it has a nice large window that keeps it from getting stifling hot at night. And my host mother (who I’ll get to eventually) put some food in the kitchenette area for me, which was a very pleasant surprise. Anyway, voila my room. We then walked to the nearest Metro stop to buy me a rechargeable card. We were fortunate to have top-notch service: the ticked vending machines didn’t sell the cards, so the man there come out of his booth and disappeared into some door in the subways station wall. He reappeared a couple minutes later with the card, and from there Eric and I split, he back to work and me back to my room.

I went back to my room to unpack and relax finding a place for everything and napping for about 30 minutes, I then headed back to my neighborhood Metro station to catch it back to ICB for some brief “training.” Eric introduced me to some coworkers of mine and produced a list of possible projects I’d be working on during my 4 to 5 weeks there. They include everything from doing spy work (research on competition) to taking mug shots of all the English teachers for the website to setting up and figuring out how to use Eric’s new Blackberry (and then showing him how). After this brief introduction to my job, I came back to the 16^th arrondisment, called my host mother Marie-Laure to see if she was home, turns out she was, and so I went to her family’s apartment.

There I met her and all the kids for the first time. Alexis (boy) is 14, Maylis (girl) 11, Guillaume 9 and Hortense 4. I can’t describe how adorable the young ones are and how smart, kind and obedient the older ones are. Hortense, even now after 3 or 4 days, just sucks her thumb and stares wide-eyed up at me when I talk to her. Then she runs away to her mother. Guillaume is an avid reader, unhealthily his mother seems to think. Earlier today Marie-Laure pled for 15 minutes for him to leave his book behind so he could bathe after his tennis lesson. And during dinner Tuesday night, he'd sneak away from the dinner table to read his comic book. Maylis is very quiet and hasn’t spoken much to me while I've been around. Alexis is a model boy scout (good thing he is one): obedient, kind, humble, smiling, cheery.

Anyway, after meeting them and breaking through some of the awkward initial greetings, Alexis took me on a brief tour of the neighborhood while his mother finished preparing dinner. I got completely turned around during it, and probably couldn’t lead you to the places he took me without a map at least. He showed some of the stores I might need while like Carrefour, fnac and others. And I discovered I live pretty close to the Arc de Triomphe: we walked around it a bit, and then it was time to head home for dinner.

We ate a dinner of fish and vegetables followed by cheese and then finally desert. After dinner I went back upstairs to my room to get ready for the next day. Around 9:30, Marie-Laure called me (oh yeah, Eric gave me a cell) because her husband, Régis, was home. I went back down to their apartment to meet Régis and present them with my gift for letting me use their upstairs room. It’s a book of really nice pictures of KC. They seemed very impressed.

I realize I haven’t even talked about Marie-Laure or Régis. They are both equally excellent as their children. It’s easy to see where their kids get their kind, happy maturity. They are both all smiles and willing to offer themselves for anything I might need. I couldn’t have asked for a better host family. I sometimes feel like I cant reciprocate their kindness though, because I feel my lack of ability to express myself completely in French, my hesitancy and my constant search for the right word (often the simplified version) comes across as laconic and terse. But I hope to improve over the next couple of weeks.

I just spent an hour describing everything...i bumped a key grabbing my drink and it deleted it all (and edit undo didn't do anything). Great. i guess ill have to rewrite all of this some other time. I cant believe this...Sorry

The Beginnings

Hello all,
This is a public journal of sorts intended to recount my thoughts, memories, complaints, encounters, mishaps, adventures, problems, confusions and laughs while I'll be working this summer in Paris. Follow along and comment as you wish. Don't expect quotidian updates and constant, fresh news. I'll post here and there, then and now. 

Got ideas? Good, just comment on my posts with them or send them to me in an email. Have people I should meet or places I should go? Great, just do the same. 

I'm off to bed, for the adventure starts tomorrow. 

A bientôt,

Colin