baby, it's cold outside

Much to my surprise, someone actually responded to a flyer I put up, offering private English courses. I made the sign while waiting in line with Jacob for another attempt to secure his carte de sejour at the préfecture de la police. This particular entity is located in the basement of the International House of Paris' South University. Just before you go downstairs, there's about 15 feet of bulletin board, full of various announcements in varying languages. This was how we originally found Jacob work, editing academic economic papers. Each time we went to la préfecture, I'd stop by and read most of the ads about language teaching because I didn't know any of the vocabulary in French to offer my services. My ad was a summation of others I'd seen and I tried to use my fancy handmade fonts to catch someone's eye. And it did! Someone actually replied the same evening! Things never happen this quick in France, thus my surprise. The best thing about finding private tutoring (aside from seeing the student progress) is that it should cover the cost of groceries and restauranting each month since I'm able to charge 'professeur d'anglais' rates. Hooray!

Our good friend (and my favorite translation partner) Jen stayed with us for two days this week. She was hoping to find some english poetry while in Paris so we ventured out to hunt down the second-hand english book stores. For some reason, most are located in the VIeme arrondissement. We found the San Francisco Book Company, Berkeley Books of Paris, and Tea & Tattered Pages (which was indefinitely closed for the afternoon though the sign said the owner would be back at 2 p.m. and it was 2:30). The latter made me miss Novel Idea and 14th Street stores in Lincoln as there was a round orange tabby cat meowing at us as we peered into the darkened windows. There is a tiny tea house in the back for customers to enjoy their books; I will most definitely go back when they are open. Most of the stores have a trade-for-credit deal which is good news to us servants. I had to make the difficult decision between Obama's "The Audacity of Hope" and Barbara Ehrenreich's newest book, "This Land Is Their Land: Reports from a Divided Nation". I've become a groupie of each author, but the former won out this time since it was 2 euros cheaper. If I'm going to elect the man, I ought to read his books.

Fall is almost officially over in Paris. It was short, but sweet. There's still some green leaves hanging on for dear life, but it gets cold enough now to frost overnight and in the morning. The day we hunted for second-hand books, we stumbled through les Jardins de Luxembourg which was a spectacular sight: meticulously manicured lawns and flower beds, out of which sprung huge flowers displaying an array of brilliant colors. The chill seemed to make them sparkle. The cold, of course, is nothing compared to what I've heard has recently been dumped over Eastern Nebraska. It will be much more mild here the entire session though I've taken to wearing a layer of thermals and leaving the radiators on in both rooms.

French phrase of the day (courtesy of FUSAC, the best newsletter an anglophone could have in Paris): Copains quoi qu'il arrive = Friends through thick and thin.

tu et vous = you

Last Friday was a day full of miracles in the land of French bureaucracy.

First, I marched into a local branch of HSBC and secured a bank account within a matter of hours. There was a lot of paper work to sign to open it and I felt a little suspicious at the time, but felt better about the decision after getting home and re-reading the fine print. This is awesome because it means I can get paid for being a professor and have a debit card which has a Carte Bleue (CB) chip in it. The really spiffy automatic train ticket machines at SNCF use CB system. I'm looking forward to being able to use it on my next trip.

Second miracle involved the glorious Madame Alamichel (my "boss") at Marne who instantly registered Jacob in the English Master's program at Marne. This was an extremely helpful step for helping Jacob get his carte de sejour which makes him legal to live in France for the year. It also makes him eligible for securite sociale, covering basically all health insurance costs. As a student in Europe, one is eligible for tons of discounts too which never hurts.

Third miracle was performed by Madame Machet. Upon inquiring about my missing official Marne I.D. card, she scrambled from office to office until she found someone to print a new one instead of sending me away empty-handed. I used the card today to purchase "Dreams from My Father" by Barack Obama and got a 10% discount. I figured I ought to read up on my candidate before he is sworn into office. Madame Machet also mentioned she has heard word from the ANAEM concerning the mysterious missing paperwork and should call later this week when she receives it.

So, after lamenting my undefined position and difficult situation in the midst of French bureaucracy, things are looking up. I must reiterate how much I am in awe every time something gets accomplished here despite the laissez-faire attitude.

One recent theme in my Oral Comprehesion and Expression class was family. It's better to bring in controversial articles about which the students may actually have an opinion, inciting them to express themselves in English than talking about family trees and rehashing grammar class vocabulary, so I made a bold move. I brought in articles about gay adoption. Arguments for and against were represented in the articles so I thought they'd work well. I had two sections of this class (three as of last week, which I'll adress a bit later) where I taught the material on gay adoption. In the first class, the students seemed fairly surprised at my chosen topic and even more surprised when I began to ask their personal opinions on the matter. I could tell from the discussion happening amongst the students that they were interested, but didn't know where to begin so I put it to a vote. I asked the class to raise their hands in support of gay adoption and then against. From there, practically the entire class participated in the discussion and helped deconstruct the arguments in the article and those of their classmates.

As I usually swap ideas with other professors about how to get the students involved, I recounted this story to another English professor, Ethan, who was surprised first at the topic, then at the fact that I had asked the class to 'vote'. Evidently, professors in France may be rather severely disciplined for bringing politics into the classroom, especially in asking students to 'vote'. Ethan informed me it is against French law for a professor to instigate discussion of political opinions much less, ask the entire class to voice their personal political opinion. Oops. I haven't found any sources which indicate how true this is though I am inclined to believe Ethan since he has worked and lived in France for a number of years.

In other, more legal news, after many hunts in the local neighborhood to find a decent street market, Jacob and I have found two large markets which are only a ten minute walk from our apartment. They are held on alternating days so fresh food is available practically everyday. Going to the market has become my favorite pastime. The food is less expensive than the grocery store and much, much fresher. Two tricks: go to the market during the last hour in order to buy bulk for cheap and don't shy away from bartering. There's no reason you shouldn't be able to convince someone to give you a crate of delicious mushrooms for 5,33 euros rather than pay 9,00 euros. Though you may have to eat mushrooms with every meal for an entire week, it's well worth it.

aujourd'hui il pleut

Nothing makes you feel more Parisian than to have your French students remind you to speak in English, finally master the apathetic, exhausted look of fellow suburban metro commuters, bavarder un peu (chat it up) with the local baker, and trudge home wielding a baguette.

Toots Sweet

Happy First Birthday Seth Carson Waters!

Hope you've finally gotten through "Happy, Baby Animals" in one sitting. Enjoy your cake and ice cream on your special day! Love, Aunt Nené

The third week of ma vie à Paris is drawing to a close, though at times, it has felt as if I've been perpetually living here. Could be due to living in Besançon last semester and the fact that I will have soon successfully avoided two notoriously horrendous winters in Nebraska. In any case, it is a relief to realize it's only been three weeks so I can occassionally admit how little I know about Paris and France and know that there is plenty of learning left to be done.

First item of business: Teaching.

Despite previous statistics I cited about freshmen dropping out during the first semester in the French public university system, the majority of my students seem to be motivated and earnestly interested in being in class. They have also been quite candid on the whole. In reponse to "What's your name and what do you want to do after your license?", one student said, "I'm not sure if I want to do my license, or even this semester." I replied, "Well, I hope I can change your mind about that."

As this has been my first time being responsable for entire classes, I didn't fully acknowledge myself as a teacher until a student said, "Bye, Mrs. Oglesby! See you next week!" I've never been called Mrs. Oglesby, much less Madame, which often is the way my students address me. I felt the first two weeks were spent establishing myself as a teacher, not a student as I appear to be due to my young age. I am teaching a few students who are only a year or so younger than I.

Thus far, I am enjoying my teaching experience, on the whole. Though the negative aspects of living in Paris (which I'll address later on) are beginning to show, I am certainly glad to be teaching university freshmen who are better disciplined than les étudiants terminals, high-school seniors. Had I accepted the teaching position in Besançon, this would have been my lot.

Second item: Complaints.

Teaching is great, especially when you get paid for it. Unfortunately, I cannot attest to this truism. I've been gathering paperwork to apply for my aforementioned carte de séjour, however, the two remaining pieces are floating somewhere in the Parisian ether of bureaucracy. Any bank in France requires a carte de séjour to open an account through which UMLV could pay me, but the waiting period to receive my carte de séjour could take up to two months. I do have one available weapon the ether does not: Madame Machet, the most helpful, patient secretary I've ever met. This woman kept in contact throughout the mystery of my missing visa paperwork last summer and has been helping me navigate form after form. As it turns out, the ANAEM is once again the culprit. They will supposedly send the two remaining documents via mail which would allow me to complete my application for the carte de séjour. When this might happen, no one can tell. So, this wonderful secretary has side-stepped the rules, will cut me a check next week, which we hope will enable me to convince a bank to open an account, or I can at least ask a friend to cash it for me. In the mean time, I wait for these missing, crucial documents to find their way to me. That was gripe number one.

Gripe number two involves the realization by myself and Jacob that we may not be cut out for the big city life. If you don't jump out of the way in time, the local Parisian foot traffic will plow you down, or at least run into your shoulders often enough that you have a scowl on your face by the time you walk six blocks. I can barely recall a time when someone stepped out of the way for me. You really have to have your game face on. Some people explain this phenomenon by calling the French rude or selfish. I can see where the stereotype comes from, but I think they are just used to the crowds and have decided that many of them are tourists anyway, so plowing is a-okay in order to get where you're going. Possible solutions: a) wider sidewalks, b) changing my personal style to goth, wearing pointy objects to persuade people to move out of the way, or c) retiring as quickly as possible to apartment after work and developing my misanthropy.

Speaking of misanthropy, nothing will make you imagine what eternal damnation can be like more than standing in terribly long lines with screaming children in an overheated grocery store. Or a line for a state organization whose sole business is bureaucracy. A funny thing about lines and the French: if you aren't standing directly behind the person you are in line after, someone will cut in and not apologize, not give up the place which is rightfully yours. I find that I dislike everyone a whole lot more in these conditions. The local supermarket chain is called Monoprix. Jacob and I find ourselves there often for orange juice, oatmeal, or whichever type of wine happens to be on sale that week. A recommendation for future vistors: avoid shopping for anything anywhere during peak hours. We often end up going when I get off of work which is a bad idea. We have better strategies now. This may explain why there are so many tiny marchés, boulangeries, and boucheries. That way, if you happen to just need a jar of salt or some bread, you can bop in and buy it for a few extra centièmes. But your sanity is worth that price.

Just so you know, it's not all gripes here. I believe I fell into this same pattern in Besançon. About a month in, after the shiny romantic idea of living in France has lost some of its sheen, you being to criticize pretty much anything which trips your trigger. Another month or so, you realize perhaps your criticism is the first symptom of homesickness in disguise. In yet another month, you find yourself praising many aspects of the United States which you formerly doubted or at least you realize their function in comparison with other forms of freedom and demo/bureaucracy. The fourth month, after a serious bout of homesickness which may manifest itself physically, you realize you're stuck for at least another several months and must make the best of it. Once the analytical, cultural anthropologist within you has had its fill of de-bunking myths (cultural and personal), you may finally enjoy the rest of your time in France. This, of course, is only a projection, but I'm a creature of habit and will most likely follow the same pattern as before.

As promised here is a tour of the Servant's Quarters along with video of the miracle of hydrolics which takes places outside of the Quarter's everyday, hyperlinked to Youtube.