You Would Be Rude Too

In 1951, Paris celebrated its two thousand year anniversary. An immense and elaborate fete was thrown, with concerts and art expositions held all over the city.

This summer, New York celebrated the four hundredth anniversary of Henry Hudson stumbling upon what is now known as the Hudson River. "Celebrated" is the wrong word, though, because nobody really knew, and even if they had, they wouldn't have cared - and rightfully so. Compared to the rest of the world, four hundred years is just lame. And that's when it kind of hit me - if the Parisians are stuck up (they are), with a culture over two thousand years in the making, they have every right to be.

As I explained this epiphany to Sass, she immediately made a connection to the way seniors feel about incoming freshmen. Exactly one year ago, before Sass and I had descended into the fetid bowels of the real world, we were the smirking seniors, chuckling and looking down on the freshmen as they flirted and preened precociously. How cute, we said amongst each other. They think they're so old. It was at once amusing and irritating, though ultimately just irritating because they truly were newer, more freshfaced and thus infinitely more interesting to study and gossip about - despite their stupidity and immaturity.

So yeah, if New York were two thousand years old, we'd probably be assholes, too. Being half Greek, I can see where these Parisians are coming from. Are you kidding, I often think to myself. My ancestors invented democracy. They built the fucking Acropolis. (Side note: The Acropolis is almost 2500 years old - suck it, Paris.)

Two thousand years of history is also, I believe, one of the reasons Paris can feel so lonely. It is a city that is so very much defined by its history and visual beauty. The habits and traditions of Parisians are well-engrained - their routines radiate out of their homes and into the very soul of the city, and as a result, there is little room for change. And so Paris' heart beats at a constant rate. Even the strikes, demanding change, are predictable, normal, absorbed without fuss into the steady rate of things. Everyone knows when the next train will arrive.

Parisians live amongst their buildings, between them. New York is still constructing theirs - still deciding what the history of the city will be. There is a sense of possibility there that is so distinctly lacking here. New Yorkers never know when the next train will come, and although they might bitch about it, curse the MTA to high heavens, it's a tiny relief to know when you get on the platform, that the moment of the train's arrival is, like much of our lives, unknown.

Anyway, that was a tangent. Now for fun, I'm going to show you Sass' notes for this blog post:

France --> Why so stuck up? They've been around forever. How do seniors feel about freshmen? Like... Are you joking walking around up in here like you own this shit?

We've been doing this longer than you've been alive. US is so young and yet so owning. We saved their asses.. they were so bitter! They got served by babies... get your shit together, FRANCE!

And that, Class, is how a blog post is born. I didn't include the war stuff because we all know the French always surrender.

Tonight's Menu

Now that we're poor, we've had to cook more. Hopefully the menus will get more intricate, but for now we're pretty much at Level 1: Pasta and pre-made tomato sauce. Tonight we've stepped it up to Level 2: Omelettes. Voilà le menu:

First course:

Tomato and avocado salad with a drizzle of olive oil and a fuckload of salt

Second course:

Onion and whatever-else-we-find omelette (+ salt)

Third and final course:

Baguette with goat cheese for me, and nutella for Sass.

We're going to top that all off with some jasmine tea and maybe some fruit if we're feeling nutritious (we won't be.) Bon appetit, class!

Hiatus adjourned

So Sass and I have brought La Classe Americaine to La Belle France, literally, not figuratively. Headquarters are now in Paris, but we're not trying to be those cool American girls. Quite the opposite, because that would be too easy. A lot of effort here is spent simply trying to fit in and appear French. No one wants to be immediately pegged as an American (which we were the first night I arrived here. Upon walking into a bar: "What would you ladies care to drink?" How the fuck did he know?)

Now, one would think that mastery of the language is all you need. Nope. Sass and I speak pretty impeccable French, and it's simply not enough. Clothes here speak almost as loudly as a bad accent, so the wardrobe must be reworked, muted, at once dumbed down and refined. A scarf is key, but not enough, and whatever you do, don't wear rainboots. Apparently it's like a crime against nature here and just generally beyond grisly and indecent. Really wish I'd known that before purchasing a pair before I left. My mom and I had several serious discussions about whether or not they were worn here. We ultimately came to the conclusion that rainboots are really practical, the French are practical and yes, they are made entirely of rubber, but if they're Burberry, who cares? And now if the weather is inclement when my parents come to visit me in November - and according to Murphy's Law, it will be - then my mother will make me wear the boots, and I will die of shame.

But even with the clothes and the accent, we still weren't passing and couldn't understand why the hell not, until I had this epiphany. Background: Recently Sass and I met up with an American chick and her latest French lover. The unspoken rule in these situations is that the interaction will be conducted in whichever nationality has the majority of participants, and so we started chatting in English, only pausing once to ask this dude if he was following okay. He responded that no, he wasn't understanding the words very well, but that he got the gist because Americans are so expressive when they talk; their faces play a large role in telling the story.

And that's when it all became pretty clear: I can't assimilate into this culture because I can't control my face. This is true of most Americans, but is especially (often embarrassingly) true of me, and for the past two weeks I've been walking the streets of Paris smiling, sometimes laughing to myself, generally always wide-eyed at the spectacular views on every street corner, or glowering thinking about all the French bureaucracy I have to deal with on a daily basis.

Now, I will allow that French people might have feelings, but if they do, they're not going to show them to a goddamn stranger on the street. Their faces are exercises in stoicism. They are unreadable and untouchable. (This is especially true of French women.) The only expressions that they cannot seem to master are bafflement and disdain - that face you make when you can't believe someone could be so stupid as to ask such a goddamn stupid question. I am often on the receiving end of this one.

So with regard to weaving myself seamlessly into the French fabric, it would appear that I am now le fucked, because even if I could learn to control my face (impossible), I wouldn't want to. I came to France because I like what the French are all about, which in a word, is living. Love, food, sex, pleasure in all forms - I think these things are valued here in a way that is healthy and entirely different from America. So I will wear a scarf and shun my rainboots if it allows me to participate more fully in the French tradition. However, the little tics, habits, styles of a nation are what make up its culture, and while I find the American ethos frightening at times, I think there is something equally as unpleasant in a culture that encourages, or at least cultivates in its citizens this tradition of heavily veiled (repressed?) emotion.

That being said, I'm loving it here. We're having a great time. We missed you though, class. Now that we're all settled in, we'll tell you all about it.