A new obsession

Now that I am beginning to feel really comfortable in my knowledge of the main streets of Paris, and the directions of everything in relation to everything else, I finally worked up the courage to try taking a Vélib. The Vélib system is a bike share that serves the entire city of Paris. The stations are just as densely placed as the metro stations, if not more so. I couldn't benefit from them two years ago because I didn't have a French bank card. I have always been terrified at the thought of biking through the streets of Paris, for several reasons: 1) the roads don't really have lines on them, 2) bikers have to bike right on the roads with cars, 3) the roads are narrow, 4) parisian street signs confuse me, and, 5) you really have to know your route because its a lot easier to stop and look at your map when you are walking than when you are biking. But this time, I decided things would change.

With encouragement from some friends, I finally rented my first Vélib and braved the roads of Paris. And it was amazing! When the weather is nice but you don't feel like walking, bike riding through Paris is the most wonderful thing. I have titled this entry "a new obsession" because it really is like an obsession; once you are on the bike, all you can think about is where else can I go to make this ride last longer. I feel completely addicted to bike riding. Even though I don't need to, I have been taking them in the mornings on my way to work. So I take a Vélib for about twenty minutes, and take the metro another 30 minutes the rest of the way to work. Riding along the Seine just as the sun is coming up (at 8 am, it rises really late here) when barely any pedestrians or other bikers are around, with a few of Ile de la Cité (where Notre Dame is) and the Hotel de Ville and the beautiful bridges and bateaux-mouches, I feel like I'm in a tourism commercial. What an absurdly fantastical way to start off the work day.

In regards to my previous qualms about riding bikes in Paris, it is not nearly as intimidating as it seems. After the first ride, most if not all of them disappear. In most roads, the bike lane is the same as the bus and taxi lane, which is separate from the rest of the cars and motorcycles, so you really don't have to share that much. It also helps that Parisian drivers are so used to having bikers share the roads with them, that they are very understanding and comfortable driving with them. The most you would ever get is an impatient honk, but I have never ever felt in danger when riding on Parisian roads. There is one thing, however, that I still haven't figured out: how to make a left turn. Even when you are in the bus or taxi lane, the bikers still ride on the right hand side of the lane. So you either have to cut in front of traffic, and possibly be stuck waiting in the middle of the intersection for the cars coming from the other direction to stop, or, wait and walk your bike like a pedestrian (which I do more often than not, though I feel judged by the other bikers. Or I just avoid the routes where I need to take a left. It's easier than you'd think). I'll keep you updated on whether or not I discover the definitive etiquette for taking a left turn on a bike in a busy intersection. Until then, its all rights for me!

A tumultuous love affair

I'm sure you can all tell that I love Paris, I don't need to list all the ways that I have made this obvious, but this first month being back in the city that I know (or think I know) and love has been somewhat unexpected. Getting to know a new city or a new culture is never easy, and is especially bizarre when you think you already know the important things to know about that culture or city. And despite my assertions that I do in fact love this city and this culture, it has not been easy to love it. But I in my stubbornness insist on doing so.

Whereas two years ago I relied heavily on the metro, this time I decided to begin reacquainting myself with Paris by walking as much as possible. I grew to know and love the metro, perhaps partly because I had a pass that allowed me unlimited trips for one monthly fee, or because its freezing in Paris in the winter, or because I have never really experienced city transportation before. But popping out of the ground at random places does nothing to help you learn how to orient yourself. So, this time, I walked everywhere. Sometimes I would walk for three or four hours in a day, just to do one or two errands. Within three days I felt like I knew the city better than I had in three months of living here as a student. This is both wonderful and somewhat alarming, because I realized how much I hadn't really known about the city before. I finally started to make connections between all these different monuments and places, and I added street names to mental images. I even began refusing to allow myself to look at a map when I was out walking. Paris is truly best experienced through walking, whether you are visiting for three days or living here for three years. Nothing I see ever bores me. I am constantly in awe, constantly aware of the history, of the cultures past and present that give life to such a vibrant city.

Since those first three days, I have discovered the Marais, the Canal, Chinatown, and many other picturesque neighborhoods in Paris. And despite the somewhat monochromatic architecture that is characteristic of this city, I am finding that its neighborhoods are pretty distinct from one another (and are especially distinct from where I lived before, in a more residential neighborhood in the south western part of the city). Much is the same, and there is always a beautiful gothic church or a small cobblestoned street to be found, but I am picking up more and more on some pretty significant differences. This fact only makes me love my neighborhood, the Marais, even more, when two years ago I had barely ever set foot in the third arrondissement. I love the tiny jewelry shops, antique stores, vintage stores, the artisan boulangeries or charcuteries, the markets, the small streets and alleyways, the random majestic buildings that you see suddenly upon turning a corner, the way you can walk in the street because cars come so infrequently. I love that I have a view of Notre Dame from the corner of my street.

Thus I continue to discover new things in this city, which only intrigues me more and more. Despite all the financial and administrative obstacles: I may not be getting paid for a month and a half; I may have to wait three weeks for internet in my apartment to be set up; banks may be closed on weekends and Mondays; my classes may be cancelled but I may only be told AFTER an hour long commute at 8 am to my elementary school; metros and buses may be out of commission every few days because of random strikes; I may be stereotyped, ignored, bullied, or made fun of, because of my nationality. But Paris, it would take a lot more than that to make me fall out of love with you. 

*Sigh*, they only want me for my English.

What I had conveniently forgotten until about five days ago was that the only reason I am in France right now is to teach. I think at some point this past weekend I realized with a considerable amount of anxiety, wait a minute, I have to be responsible for the knowledge of English and the US that a group of French kids will get over the next eight months! With all of the bustle about an apartment and getting a cell phone and enjoying the city, I hadn’t considered this yet. Weird I know, but it just seemed so peripheral to me with everything else going on.

However, as soon as I went to meet the Inspecteur Académique of my circonscription, and all the teachers at my schools, all that anxiety dissipated immediately. Everyone was incredibly nice and accommodating, interested in me, excited to have me there, and more than willing to help me get settled as easily as possible. I found out that I will be teaching at three different elementary schools, with around 9 or 10 classes ranging from ages 6 to age 9. There are some kids that have had private instruction in English outside of school, but other than that they hardly know how to say hello and goodbye.  And yet, I am still supposed to be speaking only English to them! I have no idea how this is going to work, especially because some of the teachers I am working with have a really difficult time speaking English themselves.

That being said, I am actually more pleased than not that my teachers and students don’t speak English, because it does mean that I’ll get to speak or at least hear French a little more than all of the other teaching assistants. That’s really what I came here, whether or not that is selfish of me, so I am grateful for that. And I’m sure that as the year goes on, these kids will absorb faster than I expect all that I am saying to them, whether or not it seems like they understand. At this point, though, it is mere repetition and memorization, as I sing songs like “head shoulders knees and toes” or “old macdonald has a farm” and they try to make the same sounds that I am saying. It is difficult, and involves a lot of wild and emphatic gestures while speaking very loudly and slowly. It took me a while to explain that there is no body part that is called “kneesandtoes” but that it is two separate things, knees, and toes. In another class, with older students, the teacher was trying to teach them the geography of the UK while having them practice the English names for these places. When she asked the students where London was, the vast majority of them shouted out “New York”. That was a difficult one to explain. I guess that’s why I’m here though, right?

The "living" part of "living in Paris": a hard fought battle

There has been a lot going on in the past few weeks, so I have written several blog posts for it all and will post them all at once. Hopefully I won’t spend an entire post on one day, as I did above, for every other day that I’ve been here… but as Mark Twain has so aptly put it: “I didn’t have time to write you a short letter, so I’m writing you a long one”.

After that first day, which I handled surprisingly well I think, I began the long and arduous search for an apartment (with a little reacquainting myself with Paris thrown in every day as well). To make a long story short, it’s hard. There are a lot of rejections, a lot of super awkward messages (speaking French on the phone is much harder than it is in person) and a lot of doing the same thing all day every day. But, as there is often a silver lining, the one possible tangible benefit of it all (aside from actually getting an apartment) is that my French improved immensely within a matter of days. Making dozens of dozens of calls to people that have no sympathy for your slow French and horrible accent and who have no desire whatsoever to slow down or enunciate to help you out in any way can really force you to pull yourself together.

So I did, and after a few weeks my chosen roommate (another teaching assistant, whom I met on the group list serve) and I found ourselves a reasonably priced apartment. For those of you that know Paris, it is in the Marais, or the 3^rd arrondissement right by the Centre Pompidou with a clear view of Notre Dame right down the street. Very central location, which is nice because my roommate and I are working in complete opposite parts of the district of Créteil, which made it surprisingly difficult to find a location that suited both of us. Even so, we both still have a commute of about one hour, which isn’t horrible and is a price we are willing to pay to live in Paris.

Slowly but surely we are beginning to organize our three room apartment, buying furniture, decorations, etc. I am really looking forward to this whole process, and I really feel like we lucked out (only spending 2 weeks or so looking, when many people spend a month or more). It looks pretty plain now (Pictures to come soon!), but I am in no position to be dissatisfied with anything at this point.

Unfinished business

I should hope that the title speaks for itself, but in case it doesn't, and to explain what I'm doing in France once more, I always felt that three and a half months simply wasn't enough. I'll probably feel that way about 8 months after this is over as well, but it is better than a measly three. I couldn't help feeling like there were some aspects of "authentic" french culture and living that I simply missed before. And so, I am back again, grasping at everything french and hoping it will somehow satisfy the unsatisfy-able. 

Even though it took me three weeks of being here, I am finally writing my first blog post. This time, I will try to write more frequently and write shorter posts in order to make sure I cover as much ground as possible. Voilà, on recommence finalement!

I guess I will start at the beginning, my first day in Paris, September 18^th, 2012. Two years and 13 days after my first day of my semester abroad. I was tired but optimistic as I lugged my fifty pound suitcase (and its smaller 20 lb companion) through the giant airport and then on the metro to the city, determined not to spend the 70 euros on a cab like the tourists. I managed with relative ease until I got to the actual city, where there are fewer elevators/escalators in the metro and where transferring from line to another could mean a five minute walk and 5 or more flights of stairs, with angry French people pushing and shoving if you pause even a minute to catch your breath. At this point I was sweating more than a little, but still managed to keep my composure. I couldn’t get in to my friend’s apartment where I was staying temporarily because she was at work all day. So, the plan was to go to the apartment of another friend (both from the lacrosse team that I met two years ago), who had left me a spare set of keys under his doormat so I could leave my bags in the apartment for the day.

To say that I struggled up the six floor walk up would be an understatement. When I finally got to the door, after taking three trips to get all my bags there, I couldn’t figure out how to work the keys. Desperate for a shower and food, I finally worked up enough courage to knock on the neighbors’ doors to try to find anybody that was home that could help me. I imagine that I looked like a mess, my hair matted with sweat, no shoes on (my boots were giving me blisters) and exhaustion plain in my face. An eight hour flight, and of the 5 hours I shut my eyes I did not sleep a minute. After knocking on 3 or 4 doors, someone finally took pity on me.

Showered, changed, relieved of luggage, I spent the rest of the day with two friends from the men’s lacrosse team at Cornell who were doing a tour of Europe, and happened to be in Paris that day. It was nice to have some people I knew in the city that first day. That night, I collapsed on Natasha’s futon (it was much easier having two able-bodied guys carry my luggage around than me doing it myself), and proceeded to sleep until 5 pm the next day. Not exactly the best way to get rid of jetlag.