The Heat

For large chunks of this past spring, the weather here in Paris was leaving a lot to be desired.  Lots of rain and heavy, gray cloud cover.  However, I am happy to report that Summer is here with meteorological vengeance on it's mind.  As evidence, today hit 37 degrees (that's 98 for my American friends) and made me glad for my A/C's office!

I was lucky enough to take advantage of this over the weekend, with lovely, meandering outings on both days, with Aja and Jen (a fantastic new Expat friend of ours).  On Saturday we headed over to St. Joseph's Church in the 8th for a book sale fundraiser.  St. Joseph's is an Anglophone ministry, so all the books on sale were of the English variety, and for the scant price of €5 per bag of books.



For those of you who know me, you will already have determined that I was not there for the books, as I am not an avid reader (to say the least).  It was however a great excuse for me to explore the city with camera in hand.  Of course, it never hurts to have company/victims to take photos of on such explorations either. 



While shooting the ladies as they explored the stacks of paperbacks, I was approached first by a crazy lady insistant that I do not stake her picture.  I explained I wouldn't and she wandered back to the books.  Shortly after I was then approached by one of the fundraiser's organizers.  I figured I knew what was coming, the typical "please don't take pictures here" line (assuming the crazy lady went and 'told on me'), but was rather surprised to find that she was in fact looking for my services.

After a short exchange, I agreed to take a few shots of the fundraiser for them, free of charge, and provided them with my card.  I then set about quickly trying to grab a few telling shorts of the event, which was by then in the dying minutes and the crowds, along with the books, had disappeared in droves.



I managed to grab a few representative shots, and with a little luck they were of value to the church.  I passed along my regards along with the photos and suggested that in future, if they need a photographer, or know of someone who does, to let me know!  Here's to hoping I can parley a little goodwill into some work.

After the book sale we headed to an urban art exhibit, which was taking place throughout a neighborhood not far from my home.  The first piece we came across, run by a small man dressed in a set of red overalls and equally red rimmed shades, was interactive in nature.





The goal of his installation, he explained in enthusiastic and well meaning English, was to discover secret messages hidden within and under a jumble of text.  To do so however required special equipment, Red Glasses:




Aja was the first to search for the messages with the specially crafted spectacles, with help from the artist.  Upon uncovering the messages though, she told him "But they are all in French"...  to which he showed an astounding mixture of embarrassment and excitement.  Realizing that the secrets of the exhibit would be lost on us, he instructed us to the next stage, to take a red marker and add our contribution to the exhibit, in whatever form we wanted. 

We ended up being distracted by a monumental cemetery and not seeing many more of the events.  We walked for a few hours among the ancient crypts and graves, and tired ourselves out for the day.  Returning home to a feast of bread, wine and cheeses.

On sunday we took the opportunity to wander the Seine river and hang out in Luxembourg Gardens, dangling our feet in the iconic reflecting pool, as children played with toy boats and .  The weather was gorgeous, and the city turned inside out, both local and tourist alike, to soak up the long awaited sunshine.  All in all, I have to say that this city is absolutely magnificent, and despite the troubles I may have had with it as of late, it has redeemed itself in a single, sun-drenched weekend.

American Airlines: Quality! ;)

I travel a fair bit now, all in the name of work, which puts my in airports and airplanes a LOT more often than I used to be. As such, I've begun developing my own personal tastes when it comes to my travel comforts and which airlines I feel offer better services and flights.

Near the bottom of my list is one of the airlines I find myself on fairly regularly: American Airlines.  They don't offer any frills, and I suppose their price reflects that.  However on my most recent cross-Atlantic flight I was greeted with an even less enjoyable visual reminder of the discount nature of the airline:






Right from the moment we got on the plane we were greeted with the sight of a broken hatch, complete with emergency oxygen masks dangling down. You know, like the ones in the incessant (and vaguely insulting) safety speeches, the ones you should don first before helping others should the cabin lose pressure.

Everyone gets on the plane, finds their seats, stows their baggage and gets settled in. The flight attendants do their best impersonation of clinically blind people and completely ignore the presence of the somewhat disturbing masks dangling out for all to see.

After about an hour into the flight, a couple flight attendants finally decide that "Hmmm, maybe we should try to put these masks out of sight, as it looks bad on us, our competance and our companies ability to maintain the vehicle everyone is currently being suspended 30,000 feet in the air within", and proceed to tape it up, using an gross amount of tape in the least effective method possible:







Their efforts are wasted, as the hatch (with the assistance of turbulence and gravity) pops open a few hours before landing. Content not to care, they never bother to attempt repair it again. Rather, they leave it to hang, with tape in tow, and occasionally joke with each other about it when they pass each other in it's proximity.

One can only hope that their engine and fuselage mechanics are more diligent.

The Wall - Le Mur

As most people who know me, or have dealt with me for any serious amount of time will tell you, I am a very patient person with most things.   There are exceptions, I am human after all, but I always strive towards being infinitely patient with my troubles, my friends and my colleagues.  It keeps my blood pressure in a good place.

Combined this patience with a natural, single-minded determination to see things through and it combines to create a personality that gets things done and produces results. I rarely give up in frustration, I rarely "rage quit" on my projects, and I rarely push things away as "not worth the effort".

So, those few times where I reach a breaking point, it's usually after a significant period of time, pressure and repeated, soul-crushing failure.  And it's happened only a couple times in my life.  I've created a respectable and successful career by force of will after dropping out of highschool.  I've taught myself to walk again after shattering and rebuild a section of my spinal column.  I've rarely hit "The Wall".  When push comes to shove, I always shove back harder.

So, when it took only a morning of being laughed at by French-speaking people (not with, at), I was surprised to find myself up against that wall.  It could be argued that this was the culmination of a French related frustrations over the past year and a half that has lead to this point...  but that argument isn't important here.

Why were French-speaking people laughing at me all morning?  Well, it all started with my government prescribed French language lessons.  One would think that with me being essentially unable to speak the language that these would be an incredible boon to my situation.  One would think...

It all started to go wrong right from the start, with a government employee who lost all interest in her job, and in retrospect perhaps herself as a whole.  The woman in question was a state language examiner, tasked to evaluate the level of French language competence in immigrants and assign them the appropriate level and duration of instruction to allow them to learn the language.

Her "exam" consisted of a fake invitation to an event, written in French.  I was first asked to read aloud the text, to judge my ability to "read" French.  Immediately this was suspect, since I'm a Latin-based language speaker with 6 months in the country to be exposed to the french vowel sounds.  I am able to pronounce much of what is put in front of me with varying degrees of accuracy...  but by no means can I READ it.   I mistakenly assume though that this would be taken into account, especially since I have insisted to her that I don't know any French, and repeatedly insist on conducting the interview in English (much to her overt disgust).

The second half of the "examination" consists of 3 or 4 multiple choice questions, asking me to respond to the contents of the above text.  This is better, or would be, if she wasn't watching and grunting at me each time I was about to answer wrong until I managed to pick the right answer.  Not exactly the most effective method of testing, in retrospect, but I take it all with a grain of salt, assuming that she's just putting me through the motions after my repeated insistence of zero French language skills.  Afterall, I'm assigned 200 hours worth of lessons, which is a lot of time.  I assume this is the maximum amount of time at the most beginner level.

This was a mistake that I wouldn't fully comprehend until last Saturday. 

I knew something was wrong when my assigned classes were way up north, outside of Paris.  I had been warned even before moving to the city, warned by former Parisians, to avoid the north end of Paris.  This sat a little uneasy with me, but I've lived in some less than desirable places in my time and I know how to handle that.  It turns out though that the neighborhood is everything I expect, it's immigrant slum housing, and it's within my ability to "handle" it...  but definitely outside of my comfort level.  It is also a 1.5 hour commute from my house to the school, and another 1.5 hour commute back in the evenings.

If this is where it ended, It would be lame, bearable, but lame. However this is just where things being to come out from under me.

I arrive in class, and almost immediately the instructor and most of the class begin having comfortable conversations... in French.  This is odd, but i figure that maybe to my ear what seems comfortable is in actuality rather poor French and I simply cannot tell the difference yet.  Perhaps there are only a few stand out students with above average comprehension and spoken language skills, and I am not the only one that doesn't have a clue what's going on.  This is not the case.

Each time the instructor asks me a question, I repeat the phrase "Je ne parle pas Francais" with increasing frustration and desperation, as it is the only real answer I have to anything she says since I am unable to comprehend any of what she is saying to me.  She seems to either ignore this, or assume I am joking and continues to call on me thoughout the morning.  Each question elicits my same predicable response, and each response generates bigger laughs from the class.

Were I trying to be funny, I would love the kind of laughs I was getting by the end of the morning's class.  These are the kind of laughs that kickstart standup comedy careers and land people in movies.  Sadly though, I was trying to learn French, and I was attempting to do so in a class for people who have a firm grasp of the language, both oral and written.

At one point during the class I discover that a man a few chairs to my left is a Tibetan man, and I learn this as he explains to the teacher his nationality and, what I assume to be, long personal history entirely in French.  I almost lost my proverbial shit right there.  My thoughts at that moment were clear "Even they guy from Tibet knows more French than me?!  What the FUCK is going on here?!?". 

I remain calm though, or as calm as possible.  I toss my pen down on my note book, remove my eye glasses and rub my eyes in frustration and disbelief.  At this point, I am still a few feet away from The Wall, and I am still feeling as though maybe this will all get better any moment and the teacher is simply finding out the proficiencies of the various students.

This too does not last.

As I am becoming routinely called upon by the instructor, and ever more frustrated simply by her insistence that perhaps asking me more things will suddenly make me admit I was pretending and could speak French all along, I am drawing her attention almost entirely.  At first I hope that this means that she will finally sort me out and things will make sense, but instead I am becoming a topic of discussion for the class instead.  At one point, she begins to describe me to the class, talking about my freckles, unusual facial hair and it's red color.

It was around this point that the laughs were coming without action on my part.  I knew walking out of the train station that morning that I was the only white face I was bound to see, and the classroom was no exception, instructor included.  I am used to drawing looks, I'm not an average looking guy almost anywhere.  Now however we have crossed the line, I am being singled out, dicussed and laughed at in another language, and I am without recourse or ability to defend myself.

I have found The Wall at full speed.  The impact is, psychologically speaking, catastrophic.

The lunch break comes and, as the class begins to file out of the room the teacher comes over to ask me if I understood anything... in French.  I understand what she's asking, but more through context and tone.   I tell her "No".  She repeats the question two more times, and this line of questioning has inevitable result of causing the class to stop their business of leaving for lunch to stop and watch.  I repeat "No" to her each time until a student who also speaks English asks me the same question in English.   The answer I give this classmate, while more frustrated and verbose is still "No".  She relays this to the teacher in French who simply tells me in English "this will be a very hard class for you then" and turns to deal with other students.

No fucking shit?  Up until now I had been just sailing through it like a fucking dream and had no idea this was going to be very tough.  Of course I don't say this, and the rest of the students all murmur and giggle and continue to leave for lunch.  I wait for the teacher to finish speaking with a couple inquisitive students and then ask her why I am in this class, and if there is one more suited to my skill level.  She speaks almost no English, so much of this question is finally communicated and answered via pantomime.  The result: there is.

Over lunch I am transferred to a beginners course, to which I will report after I find myself a meal.  I do so, and the act of eating, and speaking with my wife over the phone, keeps my from having a breakdown on the street.  I feel like now that I have sorted out this big problem, I am finally where I need to be.  I finish lunch and wait for my new class to resume.

I assume that, like my initial class, that this new class of beginners is also in it's first day.  Sadly, after much stifled conversation with one of my new classmates and my new instructor, I learn that are 8 weeks into the course, and even here, people are already able to speak some degree of French.

The new instructor and my nearest classmate are upbeat and try their best to reassure me I can catch up and that I will fit in...  but this news is the final nail in the coffin;  I am defeated.  I spend the remainder of the class there out of respect and politeness, but I know that I will not continue to attend.  While I am required by the state to speak & write a bare minimum of French in order to renew my VISA, the method in which I learn how to is not mandatory.

As such, I have chosen to forgo the provided instructions and instead teach myself.  I have done this with many other, equally complex subject in the past, and I will do it here too, but i refuse to be subjected to such counterproductive conditions in the pursuit.

I love being here in France, and I love the work I am here to do.  I refuse to let some shitty, irresponsible and uncaring bureaucrats fuck that up for me.  I'll pass their tests, but I will do it my way.

Tic-Tac-Toe

Sometimes it's hard to know what is truly common knowledge, spanning generational and racial divides, and it isn't until you wind up far beyond the confines of "your world" that you begin to question all of your assumptions.

For example, up until today I had assumed that everyone in the world knew how to play tic-tac-toe.  It seems so simple and elegant that it would be something that would have vaulted cultural lines with the ease of Parisian driver hopping the curb.  Yet, as it turns out, this was one of my little assumptions that was wrong, and I learned so in my special little cultural purgatory; State-run, mandatory French civics lessons.

This is not my first encounter with such State enforced learning during my time here, I have had to attend other such courses.  However, this one was it's own special brand of inane and ridiculous. 

As one would expect the class is composed of immigrants to France (to which I think I have mistakenly been lumped into, but that's another story), and as such languages spoken vary as widely as the backgrounds.  In previous classes there was a large enough contingent of Turks to warrant their own translator.  Today however was a more common French & English session.

Roughly 2/3 of the room could speak French, while the remainder were English speakers of various degrees.  The room was segregated to facilitate an easier addressing in English to those who needed it.  In previous classes the instructor pulled double duty, doing the French explanation for each powerpoint slide, then a summary (albeit seemingly much briefer than the French explanation) in English.  This class was apparently large enough to warrant a separate English speaking translator.

I use the term "English speaking" rather loosely in this case. 

Immediately it was plain that the presenter was of Indian decent and had the typical sort of English that is spoken by an Indian born speaker who learned English later in life and has trouble with the English syntax and structure.  I didn't mind that though, since her spoken English is still far better than my French comprehension. 

At first it was cute, since phrases like "The Germany occupied France in 1940 when The Hitler attacked" colored her translations, but it quickly devolved into sheer frustration.  Not because of a language barrier, but because of an effort barrier. The translator felt comfortable translating things contextually (the context being her own knowledge), and with a tone of contempt (as though we should already know all this!)  if she decided to translate anything at all.

This frustrated the English speakers at first and they constantly pelted her with questions, attempting to actually learn what was being presented.  These efforts quickly dwindled until all that remained was the same contempt she was putting out.

Since there is no exam at the end of these sessions, no method of testing learning, retention or the effect of the lesson, all one has to do is endure until the end of the day to receive their certificate.  This was when tic-tac-toe came into play.

My notebook for the day, like all the best notebooks, was a grid paper notebook.  I drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the bottom corner of my notebook and slid it over to the woman next to me.  We had met at the previous class and she recognized me again this class, and sat beside me.  We hadn't actually spoken much beyond her borrowing a pen in the previous class, but in a room full of immigrants any familiar face is a friendly face.

She looked at the small grid I had drawn and cocked her head to the side.  I took this to mean she didn't know what it was, so I drew an X in the middle square and gestured to her.  She realized it was a game of some sort, but didn't know it.   This was a shock to me, as it seemed like the sort of thing every kid learns along the way through childhood.   Apparently not in Cambodia.

Her English was very limited, so I proceeded to teach her that game without speaking a single word.  As a game designer this is both a thrill and a small bit of professional insight presenting itself.  The rules of the game are incredibly simple, but explaining them through gesture and example could become complicated, so it required careful thought before each example or gesture.

I proceeded to play an example game against myself as she watched, giving time for her to see my marks on the page as I made them, and draw little bits of feedback to show what the goal was.

The example game concluded and I drew another grid, gesturing for her to make the first mark.  We played a few games and it was clear she didn't understand why this was supposed to be fun, since all of our first few games ended in a tied game.  I managed to sneak a win by her and her eyes lit up with an expression that clearly said "How did that happen?"

She stopped and thought carefully before she finally spoke, quietly under the lecture, saying "the shape is too small, can it play bigger?".  She was expressing a frustration with the speed at which games concluded, the lack of any serious strategy and the draws the game that our games routinely concluded in, I knew this immediately.  Yet, despite my profession, I must admit that I had no answer for her since I myself had never bothered to try playing on a larger grid size.

She took my pause in response correctly, understanding that I didn't know and she went ahead and drew a four by four board.  We played it and both silently agreed that this configuration was un-fun.  She drew the next board back in the standard three by three configuration, scored a victory and was jazzed.

Despite the game's inherent simplicity and lack of depth, we played happily for an hour or so, with the din of untranslated French history filling the background.

The class drew to a close and we both parted ways without notice.  Happy to be free of the classroom purgatory and reclaim what little remained of the day.

Beautiful Béarnaise

Over the weekend I had the good fortune to travel out of town with some old friends from Canada.  We took to the road and headed north and stop all along the way, as one tends to do on a road trip.

As one of out many and varied stops we took the time to check out Versailles Palace, which as you might imagine is pretty much non-stop fantastic from start to finish.

However for me the highlight of the stop was discovering Béarnaise sauce while taking lunch in the Palace.

For most normal people taking lunch in Versailles alone constitutes a pretty good day, and for with a wide and sophisticated palette Béarnaise isn't anything shocking.  I however grew up in Calgary, Alberta. which unlike the whole of France, isn't exactly known for their sauces.

Here however, sauces are an art form in their preparation and can make or break a meal.  In this case I had a beef fillet and mashed potatoes.  It didn't come as a surprise that it was a nice meal in and of it's own right, but had i stuck with my "purist" instincts (as anyone who's eaten sashimi with me, I eat it straight, no wasabi or soy sauce to muddle the flavor of the fish) and ignored the small pot of yellow sauce nestled neatly in between the two, it wouldn't have been anything special whatsoever.

Thankfully I remembered, perhaps unconsciously, that I was in the heart of one of the most revered styles of cuisine (in fact the french invented the word cuisine, which should tell you something about their cooking prowess when everyone uses their word) in the world.  I dabbed a little on with the beef and suddenly my meal became otherworldly!

This has been a lesson to me; try everything that is put in front of me when eating here!  I should have known that it would be fantastic.  when it comes to food, even the most discount and common is a step above the kind of food you get almost anywhere back in Canada.

I know that this summer I will be taking more time to eat out at restaurants and learn more about French cuisine.  Hell, just passing through the markets that spring up on the streets throughout the week as I head to and from work are eye opening, to say the least:

Health en Francais

So it was bound to happen; significant illness.

I was really hoping I would magically never get sick while in France, and not even out of some neurotic concern for my own health, but rather a simple desire to avoid healthcare en Francais.

On my latest return trip from Raleigh I failed to avoid the dreaded plane-plague. It's no secret that the worst variants of every viral bug can be found recirculating at thirty-thousand feet.  I happened to catch a fairly common form of "kick you in the potatoes" flu, and fittingly enough it brought me down like a sack of said tubers.

I didn't locate an English speaking doctor in time to go in and get checked out, largely cause I was was too sick to muster of the energy to do so (it's a huge hassle to to pop into a convenience store I am unfamiliar with at this point, let alone try to find an Anglo or fluent English-speaking doctor on short notice), so I was unable to get a note for my missed days.  Depending on how you look at it, this is either a good thing or a bad thing, but either way: c'est la vie.

What I did learn from this experience, besides the fact that I hate being sick (not exactly and earth shattering revelation) is an interesting bit of insight into the French view on personal healthcare.

Up until now I'd heard a couple odd stories float up from other expats, but they didn't really stick.  I simply could not grok what they were trying to tell me with these stories, that's how foreign their lessons were.

This tidbit of French insight came to me today while speaking with my boss about my time away.  Since I did not have a doctors note, I was unable to get the days off as "sick days" (there is no concept of a predefined allotment of sick days here in France as there is in Canada.  Instead, you get as many days off as cleared by a doctor) so I had to use a couple of my vacation days.

He looked at me funny when I told him I would be using vacation days to cover my sick days (because it's a stupid thing to do), so I had to explain that I did not have a doctor yet, and thus did not have a note.  The next expression on his face was immediate and unmistakeable, regardless of our separate native languages.  It said "OMG!" and was quickly followed by the question that lent me this insight:  "Well then how did you know what to do?!".

There is was, a simple and honest truth bundled in the form of a concerned question.  How did I know how to handle a flu without seeing a doctor first.  The question pinged around the inside my skull like a small calibre round.  At first I felt he was mocking me, as that would be the only logical option were it any Canadian asking me, but it wasn't a Canadian and I had to quickly reconsider: Quickly.

My boss, a man who makes high-stress, high-stakes, multi-million dollar decisions on a moment to moment basis was legitimately asking me how I handled a flu without trained medical supervision.  I almost (but not quite) blurted out with a laugh "you don't have to be a doctor to deal with a flu", but that was exactly it.  Around here, you do.  Instead I look my boss straight in the eyes and said "Nothing, I went to bed".  He was shocked, eyes bugged out kind of shocked.

Suddenly those strange stories from fellow expats about doctors visits for a subtle cough made sense. Here in France people go to the doctor for everything.  Seriously: EVERYTHING.  The concept didn't even seem feasible to me as it dawned on me.  Yet before that impossibility had it's due time in the batter's box the next, and far more gratifying idea stepped up to the plate.  Suddenly in my bosses eyes I became some sort of rugged, mountain-man type Canadian.  Cold? Flu? Fever? I laugh at these things (and by laugh I mean retreat to my bed like a sniffly five year old, but i strangely omitted that part during my recollection to the boss).

It was a pretty gratifying question when all was said and done.  Who knew that catching a nasty flu could bolster ones reputation around the office.

Note: Bus Drivers

I have marveled at the Parisian transit system since my first experience with it, but for this post I will address on specific topic; Bus drivers.  The bus drivers here in Paris are the antithesis of their counterparts in Vancouver,  which is to saw they are super awesome here.   It's like someone running the buses realized that they were running buses to move people around and not to post unyielding route times for all the world to admire.

In Vancouver, the only time and place you can possibly get on a bus is when said bus has pulled up to it's stop.  If it is pulling away from the stop, it will not stop to let you on.  If you run to catch the bus, 99 times out of 100 the bus will pull away instead of waiting for you. And in some rare instances bus drivers will simply not stop for you at all.  The buses are strangely the least Canadian part of the city;  Very unfriendly and rarely accommodating.

In Paris, this very morning in fact, I saw my transfer bus leaving the station as I stepped out of another bus.  I ran to the edge of the station's 'island' that all the buses stop around and waved as he approached, he popped the doors and slowed down.  I jogged over and hopped on as he rolled along with his doors open and, once I was aboard he pulled out of the station.  That's right, not only did he let me on after he had left his stop in the station, but it was we completed a rolling embarkation to boot.

Time and again I have seen bus drivers take on passengers at almost any possible point, wait for passengers running to catch a bus and just generally act like decent human beings towards their passengers.   It really is a strange thing coming from the iron-fisted regime of Translink.