Shaping Up (or they will ship me out!)

This morning I was rather calm for someone who was running fifteen minutes late to meet a new student. ''Karen'' happens to work in the IT department at my language school, so when I arrived at the office, everyone was aware that I was late. The problem is, I didn't really care. I go to the office very rarely, but when I do go there, I exchange pleasantries as quickly as possible before leaving again. I see most of my students at my university or at their offices in La Défense, the business district.

This morning I had emailed and called ahead, so instead of being worried about my lateness, I was annoyed about having to ''faire un déplacement'' (to travel) for one student. Usually I refuse one-off students, and cancel lessons when I am travelling for only one person. I'd rather make no money than divide my hourly salary in three to account for travel time. This behavior is somewhere between unprofessional and simply Johanna-esque (the latter can be dangerous, as I'm learning). Since I am paid per lesson taught, however, there are financial repercussions to these decisions.

I enjoy the freedom of being an independent contractor, of building my own business, of saying who, when, and how much (though there's much less wiggle room when it comes to how much). But is it really a life of freedom if I'm in a constant tug-of-war with my long-term financial security and monthly budget?

When I lived in a shared apartment and had a very affordable rent, this inconsistent work ethic was tenable. Now that I live on my own (and my expenses doubled), the consequences are greater. And, since I chose to dip into my savings rather than work for most of April, May, June, July, August, and, yes, September, too, I'm running out of patience with myself. Yet I'm still refusing work. In early September I was hired to teach at a university within walking distance of my apartment. I turned it down, for reasons I still can't enumerate. Yesterday I was asked to take on a full day of lessons in a nearby suburb; I declined. In part, I'm hoping something better will come along (although I struggle to define ''better''); in part I've been spoiled into thinking that the money I need will arrive without my having to actually do anything (this happened this summer when my old bank sent me fifteen hundred euros to compensate for an administrative error on their part -- the money was mine; I'd just assumed I'd already spent it).

The truth is, yes, the money will arrive, but I have to EARN it. And there's nothing special about me for doing just that.

But back to my new student, who I accepted after panicking, à nouveau, about my declining savings: within minutes of sitting down, Karen spoke easily and openly. She mentioned a six-week backpacking trip to Mali and Burkina Faso. I was full of curiosity and questions. She talked about the late ethnographer, Amadou Hampâté Bâ, who inspired her trip. I made a note to look up his work (once I'm finished with The Epic of Gilgamesh, which I heartily recommend: super powers and sexual shenanigans galore, in a very appealing journey back to the land of the Tigris and Euphrates!).

Upon arriving in Mali, Karen found a local guide and began her journey, traveling from village to village on an old, rickety, window-less bus, changing guides almost as often as the bus broke down. The village men kept her separate from their women as much as possible (being told the women didn't speak French), although she later realized she was kept away from them for fear the women would talk too much about the inequalities they suffered. She described her open-air mud-hut shower stalls, and how when one local dish made her sick, she had to buy rice for the locals, since the villagers couldn't afford to buy it themselves. When I thought about the bountiful jars of rice, quinoa, and soba noodles sitting in my cupboard, I began to feel guilty.

Karen and I briefly compared the advantages of that lifestyle with the métro, boulot, dodo routine (commute, work, sleep) here. They had no money, and they had no electricity, but she countered that with ''no one is alone or lonely there. Ever!'' She added that they enjoyed the sense of community  and solidarity that arises out of necessity in bush country -- in comparison, both are lacking in our more ''civilized societies.''

After talking with Karen, I see that I'm being very self-indulgent and lazy. I have chosen to live in a world that is ruled by money; as such, I've got to play by the rules of that world, even if I pride myself on doing things my way. As I type, my hand is reaching for the telephone to call my boss and accept the full day of lessons. I can't expect those new students will make me smile as much as Karen did today, but at least I will know they are helping me ensure my continued life here in France -- a life I've been proud to create, refine, and share -- and when I'm wise and centered, it is also a life that makes me smile.

Confessions of a train ticket scam artist

Why is it that humans break rules all the time, but, almost universally, drivers get out of the way when an ambulance blares its siren? Is this a moral question, a human survival instinct, or a Pavlovian response? Sometimes I’m afraid France has corrupted my sense of morality; other times I think my time here has brought out my true self.

When I first moved to France, I had very little money, and lived in zone 6 in the Paris region. I tell this to French people and they often respond, ‘’there’s a zone 6?? That must be very far.’’ A round-trip from my former little village to Paris cost about 16 euros. The ride took about an hour. At that time, my budget was 20 euros for the day; the train tickets were interfering with my ability to buy pastries and a demi-carafe of rosé (the occasional museum ticket, too). Fortunately, I was coached by some French friends who told me to ride the train without paying.

Taking the Long Island Railroad as a child, I was accustomed to seeing train conductors on every train. In France, however, the conductors (here called controlleurs) appear on suburban trains sporadically – often hopping on at random stops, and walking through the train in packs of six, asking to see your ticket. Otherwise, you are ostensibly ‘’free’’ to use the train system, able to travel at least one hour in any direction outside of Paris, for free.   

Of course, you are expected to purchase a ticket for every train ride and to validate (stamp) the ticket before getting on board. However, many stations have open platforms, which means you can walk on without going through a turnstile; otherwise, people simply jump over the turnstile. Meanwhile, the station agents say nothing. Jumping turnstiles is too much effort for my less-than-graceful self; I use a ticket in these stations. 

During that first year, I was stopped by controlleurs several times. My routine was simple. As the grey-suited controlleurs approached, I pulled out my Time Out Paris guide and waited. As soon as he or she began speaking to me, I would look startled, and then feigning confusion, I handed over my ticket. ‘’I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,’’ I began. The controlleur would take the ticket, flip it over, looking for the date stamp, and then hand it back to me. ‘’This ticket is not valid,’’ I would be told. ‘’Yes! It’s a ticket! You are the controlleur, you will stamp it for me!’’ I responded in my fastest, most incomprehensible English. We circled like this for a few more rounds, before the controlleur would sigh, lean in towards me and explain, ''it’s alright this time. But next time you will get a fine. You must validate your ticket at the station.’’

‘’Ahh, I didn’t know that! It’s not like that in the USA!’’ I answered proudly, smiling. ‘’Thank you very much!’’ Things got more interesting when one controlleur changed up the routine.  His first comment to me (before inspecting my ticket) was, ''Are you married?’’ which he followed quickly with, ''do you have a boyfriend?’’ When I said no to both questions, he took my ticket and walked away. Upon returning he said, ‘’here’s my number. You’re very cute! Call me!’’ Our discussion about tickets and fines was seemingly over.

During my second year in France, I met a quirky French guy living in Paris. I named him Billy the Kid as it was a liberal translation of his Franco-Italian name. Billy’s job was to monitor the controlleurs. Each week he received the master list of train timetables, as well as the controlleurs’ daily schedule. He knew when controlleurs were supposed to be on different trains, and his job was to take those trains to make sure they were doing their job. While we dated, I could call him on Monday, get a run-down of his list, and ride the trains in tranquility. Eventually Billy the Kid and I split up, and I was back to my train shenanigans. I was running late one day, and got on a train to nearby Fontainebleau. Usually I had an unstamped ticket to my destination, but this day, I had no ticket whatsoever. As the train doors closed, I saw a pack of grey suits hop on. ‘’Damnit,’’ I thought to myself. ‘’How will I get out of this one?’’

I wasn’t so afraid of the fine – I was more concerned that my pride would be tarnished (as it eventually was, when I received a fine on the metro) by getting caught. I saw the controlleurs approaching and slipped into the nearest train bathroom, buying myself time. ‘’Aha!’’ I thought. I realized that if I sat in the bathroom for the whole journey, I could escape the controlleurs. I reasoned that if I didn’t lock the bathroom door, they would have no reason to suspect that there was a passenger in there. I took out my makeup pouch and began to apply eyeliner. One or two people tried to enter the bathroom, but no controlleurs.

But there was still one problem. Since this was not my typical train, I didn’t know how many stops until we reached Fontainebleau. Each time the train stopped, I had to lean on the door and listen for voices before peeking to find out where we were. Forty minutes later, I arrived at my destination, and applauded myself for my latest bit of train-riding fraud.

Now that I live and work in Paris, I pay for my monthly metro pass. I realized that it’s quite exhausting to look over your shoulder, each time the train doors open, to see if a controlleur has gotten on. And it’s a big waste of time when you have to stop and pay a fine (or, in my case, try to argue your way out of a fine).

This all being said, sometimes I position myself on the right side of good citizenship (some French would argue that scamming the train company is a sign that I am an upstanding citizen). All along the Seine here in Paris, you are apt to run across a middle-aged man or woman who will lean to the ground, pick up a gold ring, and hand it to you right as you walk by. The scammer will try to convince you that it’s yours, that it’s real gold, and that you should take it (in exchange for some euros). When I see this familiar routine, I often interrupt, looking directly at the tourist and say ‘’do you speak English? Walk away. This is a scam.’’ When that doesn’t work, I find their eyes and shake my head as I motion for them to leave. Then I get yelled at by the scammer, the tourist thanks me, and everyone walks away. It feels good each time I do it, though I wonder how anyone could possibly get fooled by that routine. (This from the girl who basically invited a gang of three guys to steal her phone on a recent trip to Rome).

Does one good deed balance out all the dishonest ones? My beloved high school English teacher often asked us to determine the ‘’moral center’’ of the novels we read. I like to think of morality this way: grey and revolving, not rigid. Friends and I talk about how we are essentially being dared to break the rules here; but choosing to act with honesty and integrity, while not always the route I take, feels good. Lately the same applies for work. Instead of doing the bare minimum to get the job done, I’ve watched myself attempt to do the best job possible; that, too, feels good, even if the outcome isn’t as glamorous as might be desired.

Top Five Misconceptions about les français

5. French people eat a lot of baguettes.

There is a big difference between a baguette and a baguette de tradition -- typically called a tradition (tra-DIH-see-ohhn) around here. The latter is more expensive, but also more delicious. So this is actually a technicality. Baguettes and traditions are both eaten quite regularly.

4. French people don't shower. And they smell.

Stereotype! Smelly people and clean people can be found in all corners of the globe.

3. French people don't work hard.

I don't always work so hard, but that's not a culture-wide phenomenon.

2. The Sorbonne is the best school in France.

Before coming to France, I'd heard about the Sorbonne, and was made to think that anyone who had a degree from there was really something. Nope. Perhaps in the US it is the most well-known French university. However, the most prestigious schools here are called les grandes écoles and they include Ecole Polytechnique, Ecole nationale d'administration (a factory for churning out future French politicians), the écoles normales supérieures, and several others.

1. French people like to say ''oh la la!'' or ''c'est la vie'' and ''crème de la crème.''

While they do say ''oh la la'' quite a bit (I love to say it for dramatic effect in a variety of situations, too),  I have never heard the other two expressions used.  You're more likely to hear ''C'est top!'' or ''C'est fashion!''

Monday

A few days ago my Great-Aunt Nora died. Nora lived in a trailer park in Maine, and did her shopping at the park's convenience store, unless she got a ride to the supermarket from her friend Amber, or someone in our family. Nora had a sweet tooth and a zest for life; she celebrated both with a splash of Bailey's in her coffee, and a scratch-and-play lottery ticket whenever the budget allowed (probably even when it didn't). I remember her modest home filled with Pomeranians and stray cats, giant cans of Chock full o' Nuts coffee, stale cigarette smoke, piles and piles of magazines and promotional flyers, and best of all, her bubbly, rolling laugh. ''Heee-heee-heee,'' she would giggle, tipping forward with her dowager's hump. My father loved Nora -- she was my mother's aunt -- and always insisted on visiting her before going home, even though that pit stop meant an hour-long detour before an eight-hour drive.

As my brother and I discussed the flowers we would send to the funeral home, my mind drifted towards the autumnal horizon, which will forever be linked with the anniversary of our own father's death. His passing was swift and unexpected, though when I had seen him the day before, I said, ''Goodbye, Captain,'' and somehow knew that it was a final goodbye. The next day I woke as usual. Before going to class, I called home. No one answered, but I left a message, thanking my parents for bringing me homemade applesauce and cinnamon raisin bread. We shared love through food, and my belly was the best emblem of this love. That evening, I had a three-hour lecture, from 7 - 10pm.

Sometime before eight, while sitting in the lecture hall, I started to panic and feel agitated. I tried to wait for the class break, but suddenly, and without knowing why, I gathered my things, left the lecture hall, and immediately called home. When no one answered, I called my mom on her cellphone. At that moment, she was driving down the lane to our house. Richards Lane is a narrow road with barely enough room for one car to pass. In early November, there are few remnants of the plush tree canopy that beckons you down the hill, and since the lane is privately owned, there are no street lamps. Our house, built by my grandfather in 1936, is at the end of the quarter-mile path.

I don't remember what my mom and I were talking about until she said, ''that's funny, daddy didn't leave the lights on for me.'' We chatted as she parked the car and walked up to the backdoor. ''Hmm. There's a note on a business card: 'Taken to the hospital - call police.' Johanna, something's happened to daddy, let me call you back.''

A few minutes passed and my phone did not ring. So I called her back. ''Johanna,'' my mom said in a frazzled voice, ''I haven't found your father yet. I am going to have to call you back.'' I sat on the steps behind my dorm and waited. Then my phone rang. ''Johanna,'' my mom began. ''I have some terrible news. Daddy died. . .When they couldn't find him in the ER, I knew to call the morgue.''

These melancholy memories were only heightened last night when I watched Sir Terry Pratchett's documentary, Choosing to Die. It chronicles his interviews with a few people who, like himself, were considering Dignitas, an assisted-suicide facility in Switzerland. Prachett currently battles Alzheimer's, and wants assisted suicide to be legalized in the UK.  Towards the end of the film, a woman sits by her husband as he drinks the poison, then begs for water (he is denied by the Gravitas staff member, who urges him to relax), falls asleep, and dies. The whole process takes fifteen minutes, but is condensed to two or three in the documentary. Sir Prachett is in the room as it happens, and as the viewer, so are you.

Lately I've been reading French Children Don't Throw Food by Pamela Druckerman, an absorbing, yet frustrating comparison of Anglo-Saxon and French child-rearing habits.What's most difficult about living in France is that I miss both: births and deaths. A good friend gave birth in Los Angeles on Thursday night; another gave birth nine months ago, but who knows when I will meet either baby. Coming home for Nora's funeral is hors question, but sending flowers feels like an unsatisfying ritual. Does it matter if we choose a colorful bouquet or standard white lilies?

With my balcony doors open this morning, I can once again hear the steady cries of the children playing at school across the street. The voices will change and the sounds will vary, but the gaiety remains strong all day long. I keep thinking that my life will morph into a neat, and easy-to-digest Hollywood ending (one of these days), but instead, I'm starting to think that messy and bittersweet are here to stay.

How to make a bad impression

As far as work goes, I've been feeling pretty good about myself lately. Not because I've been working a lot, per se, but because of what I'm doing: I just started researching at the Musée d'Orsay for a museum back in the US. My job is to comb through files in search of any pertinent information on the French painters in the US museum's collection, and any published or unpublished material on the paintings in the US museum itself. The documentation center at the Orsay is on the fourth floor, and my preferred seat is by the window, overlooking the Seine. Surrounded by shelves and shelves of brown acid-free boxes, long white tables, and overhead lamps that hang too low, I've become friendly enough with some of the documentalists, so going to work has been satisfying, to say the least.

Last week I was working on Léon Lhermitte, and despite my background in the decorative arts, I knew nothing of this painter. I quickly became intimate friends with him and his series of wood block prints and pastels. Things got good and exciting when I had to start cross-referencing his files with separate files on 19th century Parisian Salons. He'd won an award or two, and I wanted photocopies from the Salons which proved those distinctions. Next I mined exhibition catalogue bibliographies for other references to his work, and happily copied the relevent pages from those other works. I carefully flipped through crumbling gallery catalogues (in which his work was featured) that survived from the 1890s, and copied those fragile pages as well.

Lhermitte is known for painting real figures in his life, and I wondered about the tired faces and ample bodies that he painted. It seemed fitting to be learning about Lhermitte's fascination with farmers and farming (potatoes and wheat, notably) just as I was vamping up my own home garden with kale (the first sprouts have shot up!).

Today I was a bit less excited to start on Monet because there are more than 80 boxes. And, to be frank, because it's Monet. This summer I visited his house in Giverny, and only after seeing his magnificent gardens am I willing to look at his work with a little bit of pleasure. Monet completed about 2,000 paintings, and many of them center around his homes, including those at Giverny and Argenteuil. A little bit boring, non? I started to think that if Monet had been around in the time of Facebook, he probably would have photo-bombed his page with photos or paintings of Giverny much in the same way that many of us photo-bomb our own pages with personal photos, too. The main difference is, he was able to afford some fine bottles of Bordeaux because of the success of his repetitive canvases; I have not yet reaped similar rewards.

As I rifled through boxes on Argenteuil this afternoon, I kept seeing files labeled with ''Wildenstein'' and then a number. I sensed there was something important in this coding, but didn't think to figure it out on my own. And there is no such thing as a stupid question, right?

Proud of my fearlessness (stupidity?), I walked up to the documentalist and asked what that coding meant. Today the front desk was occupied by an unfamiliar face. The man was seemingly disgruntled to be disturbed from his work, especially to be disrupted by an outside researcher. Who was a woman. And foreign.

I pointed to the mystery code on the front of the file and asked for help. ''Well,'' he snidely began, ''that refers to Daniel Wildenstein, who is the author of the catalogue raisonné of note for Monet's body of work. It is the ultimate reference guide when doing research on Monet.''

I cringed as I realized I'd been caught. I tried to imagine what he must have been thinking about me, and the countless hours I'd spent researching in his department, while seemingly knowing nothing of 19th century French painting. Gathering from his reaction, researching impressionism and not knowing about Wildenstein is a little bit like studying American movies of the 20th century and not knowing about Siskel and Ebert (or, since I clearly don't study film either, insert your more academic movie critic here). Fortunately, I didn't have too much time to feel self-conscious, because my upset stomach, which has been surprising me with bouts of trouble since Thursday, revved into action.

So in addition to feeling foolish about my mediocre knowledge, I also began to feel self-conscious about my inefficiency at work. Whenever I walked by the grumpy documentalist to get to the ladies' room, I imagined him scoffing and uttering a very soft, ''putain!''

Last week I was explaining this job to a friend here, and he remarked, ''that's great! And then you'll get to write up your findings, right?'' I paused for a minute, wondering if I should feel bad that I didn't have to draw any impressive and intelligent conclusions about these painters. Then I said, ''no. That's not my job. I'm just doing the research, which I send to the US. I don't really feel the need to have any big ideas. I'm simply happy to be learning.'' And that is the truth. I don't want to be an expert on Lhermitte or Monet. I simply want to go back in time, pretend I'm living in the late Victorian period (sans oxygen-restricting corset, of course), and see that a lot of the painting that came out of this time was not overwhelmingly sophisticated: it was a bunch of guys sitting in their backyards, thinking it looked pretty, or feeling sad that industrialization was taking over, and setting paint to canvas.

I'll be back at the Orsay tomorrow afternoon, scouring everything and anything written by Monsieur Daniel Wildenstein. More importantly, I'm looking forward to moving on to Renoir later this week.

Driving in France: Part One

Just the other day I strolled into a driving school to sign up for driving lessons. I want to learn how to drive a manual transmission (mostly because it scares me more than it should). You may not know it, but we Americans are ridiculed over here for not knowing how to drive stick. In France, it's mostly the sick or disabled who drive automatic transmissions. I've been told that that's the assumption, anyway.

I was delighted to learn that I could just take a few lessons à la carte to learn how to control a car the old-fashioned way. All was looking good until I was told that the information I'd received last week was incorrect. It turns out that you can only take those "perfectionnement" lessons if you already have a French license. And at that point, I'm assuming you already know how to drive, and therefore don't need the lessons?

I bundled up my passport, a copy of my lease, my visa letter, a paper that certifies that my long-stay visa is forthcoming, the application forms for my French license, a French translation of my CT license, and five passport photos. Side note: if you watched Amélie, you might have noticed the central role of the photo booth in the film. And I think that's because you need official photos that come from those very photo booths to get most administrative tasks completed here.

I took this hefty pile of paperwork and went to the French version of the DMV, which is located in the northern edge of Paris at Porte de Clignancourt (not far from the famous and fab-u-lous Parisian flea markets and some really fun ethnic food markets. Those impossible-to-find black beans are not so impossible to find after all. And a giant tub of Greek yogurt? Quite tempting at only two euros). There was a long line at the ''DMV,'' of course, and the applicant at the window was engaged in a heated discussion with the staffer, which made me nervous, as the anger he caused was going to remain long after he'd left.

About ten minutes later it was my turn. The woman took my passport, pecked at the keyboard, asked me a few questions, and then began to frown. ''If you had come back in 2010, when you'd been in France for less than a year, you could have easily exchanged your Connecticut license for a French one. Sans problème. But now there's nothing I can do. You must go to French driving school.'' We talked about my other options. She said I could apply anyway, but then her boss would be obliged to reject my request. That didn't seem particularly promising. 

She and I soon agreed that a more hopeful course of action would be to re-do driver's ed here and then take the written test (there are over 11,500 possible questions to review and be able to answer, plus all that technical vocabulary I've never learned. Comment dit-on ''day time running lamps'' en français? No idea.). Once I pass the ''code de la route'' I will be allowed to take the driving test. I love to learn, and it's true that the road signs here are quite different from what I'm used to back home, but the full driving course costs over 1,300 euros, and that seems a bit steep.

A friend here suggested I take driver's ed in Germany, where it's most certainly cheaper. When I suggested there might be a language problem, she said, ''It's Germany! Everyone speaks English!''

Then, after calling a driving school up the street, the woman gave me an alternative solution: apparently I can apply to get my license as an "external candidate," which  means I must submit an application (in person, back at Porte de Clignancourt -- why didn't they mention this option when I was there last week??) to take the driving test without going to French driver's ed. However, I will have to be able to drive a manual transmission to take that test. Recap: in order to learn how to drive stick, I need a French license. To have a French license, I need to know how to drive stick. Not only that, but if I apply to be an "external candidate," I can expect to wait at least eight or nine months to have an appointment for the test. That's enough time to learn how to drive the car, I suppose.

When I returned to Porte de Clignancourt this morning, I went up to the fourth floor, took a number, and waited. Finally a man came to the desk, visibly perturbed that his empty waiting room was no longer empty. ''You realize you have to wait a year?'' he cautioned me. ''Yes,'' I replied. ''But I have no other option, right?'' I suspect his attempt to dissuade me was actually an attempt to keep his workload light.

More paperwork in hand, I left the office and hopped on a vélib (those city bicycles that you pick up and drop off as you wish around the city) and headed home. After a few seconds, I realized my bicycle was broken, so I returned it to a nearby station and started walking, too impatient to wait the few minutes before my account was cleared, allowing me to take out another bike. About twenty five minutes later, my feet began to hurt, and the two kilos of beans I was carrying were getting heavy, so I went to take out another bike. When I swiped my card, the machine buzzed and the release button stayed red. I waited a few seconds and tried again. Sighing, I pulled out my phone and called the information number.

Apparently when I returned my first bike, the return was not registered properly. I was given the bike's ID number, told to return to the station back near Porte de Clignancourt, and see if it was there. If not, I would be fined 150 euros. Reluctantly, I walked back, found the bike, and saw that the whole station was ''off-line,'' which is why the computer didn't register my bike's return. Annoyed at having retraced my steps when my feet were already hurting, I took another bike and came home, where I promptly walked into a pole and hurt my ankle.

Armed with an ice pack and a glass of wine, I'm taking it easy this afternoon. I think I'll take the métro when I go out to dinner tonight.

On the trail of ''Chou''

The first time I heard a mother call her child mon petit chou, which means ''my little cabbage,'' (or ''my little pastry puff,'' depending on how you free-associate) I did a double take. I was of course intrigued by this expression because I am obsessed with the cabbage family. It is no surprise, then, (well, actually, yes it was a surprise) that my mother recently greeted me at the airport with a bouquet of green kale. My restrained smile in the photo to the right belies my immense excitement at being reunited with my beloved leafy green.

When people ask me if I miss the US, I say, ''I miss people. Friends. Family. And kale.'' I also miss buying hydrogen peroxide at CVS for under a dollar; a small bottle here costs over 5 euros.   

Some friends have encouraged me to try planting kale, to go to Belgium, Italy, Germany, or England to buy it, or to simply look more carefully at the markets scattered across town, insisting that it must be here. I looked at what famed Paris foodie and blogger David Lebovitz had to say about it. When you google ''kale'' on his blog, there are over 40 posts or user comments, often discussing how he can't find it here, either.

Not far from Orly airport, there is the Marché de Rungis. Last year I visited Rungis with a food purveyor who scours the market daily between 3 and 10 am, and sends top products across the Channel. He offered to take me on a visit, though was smart enough to delay our rendez-vous until 6 am. The market is a huge complex (234 hectares of facilities, or roughly 234 baseball fields), includes two disco clubs, and lots of cafes and bars where you can start drinking wine as early as you want. Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations had an episode that included a visit to the marché as well. Imagine all the wholesale food that gets bought and sold throughout Europe, and then put it one place for redistribution, and there you have Rungis.

Sadly, during my visit, I was unable to spot any kale. But when I got back to my apartment, I called their main information line and was given a few potential suppliers. No luck. Then I remembered I had a packet of kale seeds sitting on my desk. I took the seeds to the new organic food store around the corner, and asked for the produce manager. Jérémie was very polite, and knew about kale. I showed him the photo on the seed packet, just to be sure, and he took my name and number, promising to try to locate it. Three weeks later, I received a phone call that they were stocking kale! In my excitement, I rushed to the store and bought nearly the entire supply. Then I came home and emailed Mr. Lebovitz, asking him to keep the news on the down-low, but welcoming him to enjoy the bounty with me. Known for being a Right-Banker, he cheekily asked if my Left Bank store would deliver.

For the next few months, I bought kale nearly once a day. In kind support, my roommate started buying kale too. I was eating more of it than I'd ever eaten before. ''Don't overdo it,'' friends warned, but I was afraid of losing my supplier, so I kept buying. I often thought of Lucille Ball in the chocolate factory, and ended up throwing some out after it developed yellow spots in my fridge. To compound the challenge, my cousin, who had generously been supplying me with kale whenever she went to London on business, started increasing the number of bags she brought back. There was room for little else in the refrigerator, even though it was, atypically, American-sized. I started offering kale to my anglophone friends, I brought raw kale salad to dinner parties, and eventually began to grow weary of it altogether. 

Since then, I moved across town. My move happened to coincide with the coldest three weeks in Paris this winter (and when Paris gets below 32 degrees F, it is a situation). Trips to that health food store dwindled to zero, my cousin stopped going to London, and my kale supply quickly disappeared.

Except.
 

A few weeks ago I was stretching on a hilltop perch in the Buttes Chaumont Park, overlooking a massive green lawn. My eyes bulged forward when I spotted a familiar green leaf in a newly-planted flower bed!

Dinosaur Kale! Buttes Chaumont August 4, 2012

I tried to collect myself as I lowered my leg and approached the nearby gardeners. My excitement mounted as I pulled off one headphone earbud, and then the other. ''Excusez-moi,'' I started. ''Je peux vous poser une question?'' I did the silly ritual of asking permission to ask a question. Most of the gardeners ignored me, or looked at me quizzically, but a few looked on.

 ''I'm wondering about that green plant,'' I began, my words tripping over one another as if I'd just met someone famous. ''I'm from the USA. We eat that. It's called kale (I said something like kay-uhl to give it the proper French accent), but I don't think there's a French word. It's like blette (swiss chard), but the leaves are thicker, like chou (cabbage).  But I can't find it here...'' I noticed that my audience was shrinking, and that the two men who were still listening had their eyebrows deeply furrowed. ''I mean, I saw a similar plant at the Jardin des Plantes, and the animals had eaten it -- it's...it's full of vitamins and so good for you!'' I gushed. At this point, my audience was down to one, quiet, gentle gardener. He politely allowed me to continue, before confirming something I've never heard a French person say: ''yes, madame, you can eat that.''

He led me to a sign and pointed to the words brassica oleracea. I grew quiet, almost frightened as I pictured myself sneaking back at night to clip a few stalks. ''D-do you know where I can GET that?'' I asked. He suggest I try  the flower market on the Quai de la Corse, along the Seine here in Paris. My heart sank, knowing that I'd scoured that market at least a dozen times and had never seen kale. ''Or,'' he added, ''you can go to flower shops in the suburbs.''

The following weekend, I was in the countryside and visited a few greenhouses with my cousin. I bought some more kale seeds and a flowering pot of kale (a kind that I'd never seen before, more round than leafy). My cousin's neighbor is graciously planting that for me, though he says he only feeds that variety to his rabbits. I consoled myself by saying, ''yes, but rabbits also eat carrots.''

Knowing how trendy kale is in the US, I feel pretty confident that it will one day catch on here, too. After all, Paris has recently seen a few food trucks appear (including the very first ice cream truck), so following American food trends is not hors question.

Speaking of American food, until yesterday, I'd never heard ''Chick-Fil-A'' pronounced aloud, so I'd been saying, ''Chick-Filla,'' whenever I came across a headline. It sounded gangster and I wondered what that funny name was all about. Oops.

By the way, if you're coming to Paris anytime soon, slip a few tubs of kale chips in your suitcase: once I'm done eating them, I'll take you on a lovely tour of the city.

Oh, and for a little more fun, here's a list of other terms of endearment in French.

The Little Genie

Say what you will about Joan Rivers. She inspired me the other day. Click on that link with care -- her potty mouth remains as dirty as ever (or skip ahead to the 4:15 mark, when she gets into some real, pure thoughts of her own). It's been a while since something on TV has moved me. Several years ago I was jolted out of my melancholia while watching the film Veronica Guerin. If you missed it, Veronica Guerin was a fearless journalist who exposed a drug ring in Northern Ireland. Watching her story left me feeling like a coward.

At the time, I was sitting on my brother's blue velour couch in Beijing, enjoying lots of delicious homemade dumplings and steamed cakes. During my six weeks in China, I mastered one Chinese sentence, even learning to write it in calligraphy. To this day, I can still proudly say, ''I am American, not Chinese.'' In retrospect, I see I could have been more judicious about what I learned to say. To a Chinese person, I imagine that statement was rather self-evident. When I retell this story now, I own up to the silliness upfront (never divulging how long it took me to master the characters and sounds!), and somehow that makes it a little less silly. A few days after watching that film, I was back in New York working to (re)build a life.

Speaking of ''owning up'' to mistakes and shortcomings, I named my business here La Petite Génie. While certain French nouns can be changed to show gender (maître and maîtresse for male and female teachers, for example), génie is not one of them. When I tell certain French people the company name, they wriggle their eyebrows a minute and then say, ''you know, it should be Le Petit Génie. We don't really say la génie.'' I nod and smile, thanking them for the tip, wishing I hadn't already printed 200 business cards and bought a domain name.

In France, it's common to simply call your teacher ''maîtresse," which becomes a little problematic for me, since the same word also means ''mistress.'' One former student always made me smile when he started each text message to me like this, ''Hi Teacher, how are you?'' Other students have talked to me about their open-relationships or stagnant sex lives, and I sometimes wonder, are they, too, playing with the doo-bluh on-tahn-druh (double entendre) of my role as ''maîtresse?'' To be fair, that term is often reserved for elementary school teachers and women who disrobe; neither is true for me. In fact, my title here is really ''professeur,'' which adds more weight to my job than my credentials merit (in Anglo-Saxon terms, anyway).

So what did Joan Rivers say? She told a disheartened Louis CK that he can't give up, that you simply don't give up when it comes to work and your career (or anything else, I suppose). She warns that you should be prepared to falter and fail, but then you must get back up. Two good morsels of advice for someone who is feeling a bit disheartened about building a business here in Paris.

I recently emailed a friend and said that I was ''sur le champ de bataille contre les fourmis,'' (on the battlefield against ants). It has been a long week, but thankfully, that battle has come to an anti-climactic finish: I resorted to chemical weaponry, and those poor beasts walked right to their deaths. I was secretly amazed at how unfazed they appeared after the previous day's onslaught of boiling water, mint-scented glass cleaner, and a few lavender bubble baths. The more drastic my measures to eliminate them, the more determined they seemed to be, walking around the base of the stem, in lines and with purpose. Ironically, it's the very same work ethic observed in ant colonies that I now need to summon in myself.

Ant problem aside, I can now focus my energy on developing business brochures, targeting potential clients, and boosting myself up as I prepare to walk down a path that may not lead to success.

plants! ants!

My latest attempt at a flower box

I tend to jump into things with little forethought; getting myself out of trouble is one of my self-perceived strengths. (Long-time observers and friends, you may see it differently). When I had my original ant problem -- not to be confused with my current ant problem -- a friend mentioned that ants hate salt. Delighted to have a natural solution, I created a salt barrier near their entry point. Instead of sprinkling a little salt near them to test their reaction, I joyously dumped an entire 500 gram box of sea salt in a semicircle around my balcony door, convinced that if a little salt would deter them, a lot would scare them more. In truth, I have never been good at science. In seventh grade, I copied my middle older brother's old lab reports, because copying his answers was easier than thinking up my own.

That bit of academic dishonesty was topped by my laziness in 9th grade World History. I remember we had been assigned an article about the ''Nacirema'' people. I listened attentively before the bell as my classmates whispered, ''that's American spelled backwards!'' Clearly I hadn't read the essay, nor the textbook we'd been wading through. When it was time to take the mid-term exam, I flipped through the four pages of essay questions and began to sweat. I don't remember the questions, but I know I couldn't answer a single one. I sat for a few minutes, and wondered how it would feel to get my first F. But then I shifted from panic to action. Slowly, I crossed out my teacher's questions and wrote in my own. Thankfully I was clever enough to ask questions that I could actually answer. I worked until the bell, and confidently handed in my paper.

Back to my adulthood shenanigans: A few hours after sprinkling half a kilo of salt on my floor, I was disappointed to see ants walking up the salt mound, down the other side, and right into my living room. ''You fuckers,'' I thought, as I crunched salt crystals under my feet. I wondered why I hadn't done any research before acting on off-hand advice.

As for my current ant problem, I just bought a plant off of craigslist. The price was right (15 euros), and I'd been wanting a little greenery in my apartment. In recent months, I've killed a Gerber daisy and a white cyclamen. A while back I bought the quintessential, hardy Parisian flower box plant, the geranium, and killed that too.

Dead Gerber daisy

I was hopeful about this new plant. I shlepped it home and beamed at its twisting beauty. Noticing the soil was dry, I watered it, then went to meet a friend.

You might notice that I have started keeping eggs on the counter top, too.

When I got home a few hours later, I noticed an ant in my bathroom. ''I'm going to have to tell my landlord he really needs to take care of this ant problem,'' I fumed. Then I walked back into the living room and saw ants scurrying across the floor. I picked up my shoe and began splattering carcasses, hoping that the ants would become frightened upon smelling death. Yes, they were frightened and scurried under tables and out of sight. I continued slapping my shoe to the floor and admitted to myself, with sadness, that my new plant was infested with ants. ''They must have fled as soon as I watered the plant,'' I concluded.

I banished the plant to the balcony and planned to disown it the following morning. Before going to bed, I emailed my mom for advice. My mom wrote back that her mother used to take ant-infested plants outside, rinse the soil with soapy water, and re-pot them. ''Rubbish!'' I thought to myself. ''Who WASHES a plant?'' My brother's wife sent a link stating that ants are deterred by certain smells, so I placed four cinnamon sticks and a few cloves of garlic in the top of the soil. The ants stayed out of sight, but I knew they were still in the soil.

As I kept researching, I noticed that the easiest solution promoted online is to drown ants in a borax solution. Except I challenge any of you to find borax on a store shelf in France. I tripped over myself in the hardware store when trying to request it. ''Bonjour Madame. Auriez-vous du borax. Bo--rahx,'' I tried. ''I mean, in English we call it borax. I don't know what you call it here. Acide borique?'' When the saleswoman asked what it was like, I could only add, ''it's a white powder.''

''No, we don't have that,'' she answered confidently. I checked with someone in the paint department, and someone else in the gardening department. No one knew about borax, and no one had any suggestions for an alternative.

We're now onto day 2 of this endeavor. This morning I followed my grandmother's advice. I immersed the flower pot in soapy water, and later noticed the ants crawling up the stalk and onto the leaves. Disheartened, I went back to the Internet. ''What am I doing wrong?'' I wondered. And then I read more carefully: apparently you need hot, soapy water to kill ants. So now I've doused the entire plant with hot soapy water and have re-immersed the pot in a bucket full of more hot, soapy water. If nothing else, I'll have the cleanest garlic cloves in town.

I've been wanting to start an herb garden for a while, but I'm suddenly beginning to reconsider the idea. If you strip me of my powers of persuasion, if you take away my ability to finagle, it seems I may not encounter success. On the other hand, I'm slow to feel defeated, so who knows what I'll be up to next.

Missing letters and extra syllables

Anyone who has learned a foreign language knows that there is often a fine line between saying ''le mot juste'' (the right word) and really sticking your foot in your mouth. I myself have certainly produced a few good gems over the last few years -- and even as recently as last night.

Back when my French abilities were in a state of charming mediocrity (now they're just in a state of decline), I was in the car with a much older, more conservative colleague. He was awkward, but polite. The radio was blaring as we buckled our seat belts. ''Maybe he is older, tragically single and hard of hearing all at once,'' I thought. Shaking my head knowingly as he spoke, I had no idea what ''we'' were talking about. Soon I worked up a bit of courage. After rehearsing the following line carefully in my head, I said, ''Est-ce que tu peux baiser la radio?''

Unfortunately, I had just asked him to fu-- the radio. The mistake was innocent enough. A second ''s'' in the word turns it from a sexual act, baiser (which can also mean ''to kiss'') to a dignified request meaning ''to lower,'' baisser. A single ''s'' in French sounds more like an English ''z,'' which is important if you want to distinguish between ''poison'' (pwah-zzowh, or poison) and ''poisson'' (pwah-sssoh, or fish).

My colleague was polite. He didn't try to have sex with the radio; he just shut it off.

I often retell this story to students when we get down to the nitty-gritty of English pronunciation. ''Making mistakes is okay, normal even,'' I tell them. ''Just be prepared to laugh at yourself.''
 
At a recent lesson, one of my students spoke about the bank's ''chair holders.'' I interrupted him immediately and picked up a chair. ''Frédéric,'' I said, ''Right now I am a chair holder. I think you are talking about shhhhhhareholders. Shhh shhh shhh,'' I repeated.

But back to last night when I walked into the pharmacy with a stuffy nose. ''Mon nez est bouchonné,'' I told the pharmacist loudly. I knew I'd misspoken when all eyes looked towards me. Turns out that I had accidentally told her that my nose was corked (like a tainted bottle of wine). It's okay, though, because I was so congested that she understood what I meant, ''mon nez est bouché.'' After discussing my symptoms further, I bought a few products and was on my way. ''It's bouché (bou-shay), Johanna,'' I chastised myself, knowing that I confuse those two words often. Then I realized that bou-shay can also indicate boucher, or butcher. Yes, French is difficult, and silent letters are scattered all about.

But historically, it is an important language, too. If you're watching the Olympics these days, you might notice that the announcements are made in French before English; both are official languages of the Games. Monsieur Pierre de Fredy de Coubertin is credited with re-launching the Olympics in1896. But Title IXers beware: Coubertin was against female athletes. He argued that it was simply unappealing to watch women exert their bodies that way, and that since they did not participate in ancient Greece, they should not participate in more modern times, either. He did, however, think that women were suited for the task of handing out medals. Thankfully, his opinion was overruled, and four years later, the Olympics had its first female competitors (in Paris, no less!).

For now, my French is far from perfect, much like the rest of me. As I watch the rest of the Summer Games, let's just hope that I don't get served a corked bottle of wine.

Chocolate Binge

For some unknown reason I had a can of sweetened condensed milk sitting in the back of my cupboard. This is not a crime, but I still kept it buried, not quite sure how to interact with its contents. I eat certain foods that are frowned upon here as being ''chimique'' (artificial), but that goopy, too-sweet, cream-imposter had me stumped. That is, until I came home one evening and was craving chocolate. Indeed, I'd been craving chocolate for a few days prior, but the recent heat wave had been an overall appetite suppressant, so I never stocked up. That evening, however, I was desperate. I scoured my cupboards, hoping that I'd left a morsel between the tea and oats, or maybe behind the sachets of baking powder. Pas de chance. No luck. Then I dipped my hand into a bag of plump Chilean raisins, wondering if they would work as a replacement (of course not, though I threw a handful in my mouth just to be sure).

I glanced at the time and knew that the shops in my neighborhood were all long-shut, their metal volets rolled down and locked. In my tipsy haze, I googled ''baking with sweetened condensed milk'' and then narrowed in on brownies. The list of ingredients was simple: an egg, some vanilla, cocoa powder, flour, baking powder, melted butter and the gooey canned milk. I switched on the oven and began to stir together the ingredients, not actually using a measuring cup or spoon. ''I got this,'' I had myself convinced through my drunken haze, ''I'll just taste the batter and adjust the proportions as necessary.''

Disclosure: yes, I eat batter with raw eggs. And have for most of my 31 years. You might be surprised to know that French people often leave their fresh eggs on the counter, far from the controlled temperatures of le frigo, and to my knowledge, that hasn't killed anyone yet.

Meanwhile, because I was really using this recipe as a suggestion, I also skipped the shortbread crust and left out the required milk chocolate (had I had that, of course, this whole baking adventure would have never come about). I poured, shook, and sprinkled the ingredients that I did have with the fervor of a chocolate junkie. While admiring the brown batter that was suddenly before my eyes, I realized that the ''mixing bowl'' I had been using was actually my beautiful Mauviel pot (bought in a sweet village called Villedieu-les-Poêles), and smiled with satisfaction when I realized I could just put the pot directly in the oven (c'est trop fort, ça!).

If you look to the right of ''Mauviel 1830,'' you will see some remnants of my failed brownies

About twenty minutes later, a spoon test (which is when you dig a spoon into the outer edge of the brownies, and bring it to your lips with confident disregard to more scientific approaches), confirmed that my brownies were ready. I distracted myself for a few minutes while waiting for them to cool. And then I scooped some more into a bowl and began to eat. Except what I was eating had only a hint of chocolate, and not much flavor beyond that. I took a few more bites to be sure and then covered the pot. I looked once more for any bits of real chocolate in my apartment, but then sighed, and went to bed.

The next day I popped inside the local chocolate shop, thinking I'd probably be disappointed by their goods, but wanting to be certain about that. Upon learning that there was a minimum purchase to use a credit card (seven or eight euros), I committed to buying a small box of chocolates. I gazed hopefully at the marzipan and rhum raisin, eventually choosing 12 pieces to take home. That night I had a friend over for dinner. After cheese and salad, we opened the box and began sampling, taking a bite, and passing it along. I think the matcha was great and so was the orange crème. Eventually my friend went home and I had half the box left. ''Leave them for another day, Johanna,'' I told myself. Ten minutes later, the junkie-instinct was back, and I ripped open the box anew to begin sampling the ones left behind. ''Too many nuts,'' I thought of the first one, pulling out another piece. ''Too sweet,'' I noted, reaching for another. ''Ugh, why did I buy mocha?'' I wondered about the third. I continued until the small piece of tissue floated gently to the bottom of the box. That's when I knew I'd finished a box of mediocre chocolates all by myself.

A few days later I felt harassed by the opened can of sweetened condensed milk that sat on a shelf in my fridge. About one third of the contents remained, and I was too proud to toss it out, hoping it would grow mold first. My impatience won over, and I got back on google, where I stumbled upon a fail-proof recipe for truffles. ''I think you've had enough chocolate for a while,'' I said to myself at first, but before I could put on the breaks, I was reaching for the cocoa powder and scooping out the last of the sludgy milk into a bowl. I took a quick bite of the mixture, added a little vanilla, and placed it in the fridge. A few hours later, I went to roll my truffles in almond pieces, but looked on helplessly as my hands took over once more, reached for a clean spoon, and started shoveling the mixture into my mouth. A few bites in, I started to feel sick, and put the bowl away. That evening I met a friend for dinner and a stroll through the gardens at Palais Royal. When I got home, I decided it would be best to finish off the truffle mixture that same day and start afresh in the morning, which is exactly what I did.

Palais Royal in full bloom

 One week into my chocolate binge, I am beginning to feel a little bit silly. Here we are in a city full of delicious sweet treats, and I keep acting on impulse to satisfy a craving that could so easily be sated with a little more planning. Tonight I'm going to a friend's house for dinner. She said we'd be eating à la bonne franquette (a simple, informal meal), and told me I didn't have to bring anything. Ignoring her completely, I picked up a beautiful melon this morning and am contemplating something more: a bottle of rosé or maybe some cookies à l'américaine. As you can imagine, though, I'm feeling self-conscious about my baking abilities and wonder if I might be better off stopping by À la Mère de Famille or some other well-respected chocolate store instead. 

While I don't encourage you to eat any brownies that I make on-the-fly after a late night out, I do suggest you bookmark the sweet little town of Villedieu-les-Poêles, well-known for its copper pot merchants. Une poêle is a frying pan, and the village name reflects a cookware trade that dates back to the Middle Ages. Their weekly market has apparently been a tradition since the 12th century.

This morning I woke early and stood outside the health food store, waiting for its doors to open. I selected three bars of chocolate, which are now resting comfortably in my cupboard next to the loose leaf tea. I have sampled the dark chocolate with cranberries, and felt satisfied after a few small squares. I'll be heading out to my friend's apartment soon, and so must scuttle along to figure out what I will bring. Maybe a simple bar of chocolate.

A trail of chicken feathers to the police station

A friend of mine told me that her husband called the police after a stray dog wandered onto their yard and attacked their chickens, killing one, injuring a few others, and scaring the rest. I understood his response because I had a similar knee-jerk reaction to contact the police, but I was in France, and in my case, the ''stray dog'' was actually bad customer service at the post office. Or, to be more precise, Chronopost (a relative of DHL). 

The drama started because I had been trying to open an online account with a Belgian bank. Nine months into the process (nine!) I had submitted all the required paperwork and was finally approved for a checking account. The subsequent procedures seemed simple enough: I would receive my ATM card in one envelope and a pin code in another. The ATM card arrived and I eagerly awaited each day's mail for the pin code. Instead of receiving the code itself, I received a letter from my new bank telling me to go to a Point Relais de Chronopost (which can be located in any store that agrees to distribute letters and packages on-site) to get the letter with my pin code. Fortunately, my new bank had chosen a point relais close to my apartment. ''Easy-peasy,'' I thought.

Just before noon that same day, I walked to the point relais and asked for my letter, forgetting that it was almost lunch time. The young man working at the desk politely told me it was impossible. ''Comment ça, impossible?'' I asked. How could he legally prevent me from getting my own mail? He began to talk to me in English and before I could feel  insulted, I realized it was simply because he didn't speak French very well. He explained that his ''patronne'' was at lunch and that she had not yet shown him how to hand a point relais letter to a customer. When I suggested we might be able to figure out the process together, he refused. Eventually I convinced him to rifle through the letters sitting in a pile behind the desk. He looked through them tentatively for a few seconds, and then gave up.

''I need this job,'' he stammered. ''I've been calling my boss all morning and she just yells at me. I don't want to call her again.''

I didn't want my impatience to get him fired, so I said, ''Why don't you give me your boss' number? I'll speak to her directly.'' He saw I wasn't going to leave and began to dial.

When I spoke to the owner, I started with politesse, ''Bonjour Madame, excusez-moi de vous déranger.'' (Hello madame, I'm sorry to disturb you). And then I explained the situation. The woman shrieked into the phone, saying that her empolyee was new, he didn't know how to have me sign the release form, and that she'd be back at 2 pm and that was that. I promised to complain to her superiors, but even in my fury, I saw that there was no alternative but to come back later.

And that is when I walked to the local police station, expecting to obtain some sort of police report that proved she was bad at her job. When I arrived at the Commissariat du 5e arrondissement, the woman at the front desk asked for the purpose of my visit. I slowly explained my story (thinking briefly of Arlo Guthrie losing his mind at the police station in ''Alice's Restaurant''), mentioned how in the US it is illegal to tamper with someone's mail, and was about to continue before she said, ''Why would you leave the US to come here?'' Having deflected my anger with a few more laughs, she suggested I go talk to the woman again, which is exactly what I did.

As soon as I walked into the boutique, I heard the woman ask her employee, ''is that her?'' and he nodded his head in my direction. She launched into me with a barrage of insults. I smiled serenely, handed her my driver's license, and watched her fill out the requisite form. Once I had my letter, I chastized her for the lack of professionalism in her store. At that, she pointed towards the door and ordered me to leave. As I walked towards the exit, she finished with, ''vous êtes malade,'' (''you are crazy'') to which I promptly replied, ''et vous êtes bêtes'' (and you are stupid). With that, she pushed me over the threshold and out the door. I stood and stared at her for a few seconds before turning down a side street.

I was not proud of my behavior in the store, and thought a bit about how and why the situation escalated so rapidly. Hours later, I realized that my rage should have been targeted on my ex-boyfriend, with whom I was dining that night. Instead of thinking about my unresolved feelings towards him, I got into a fight with a stranger. As the hours wore on, I veered from pangs of shame to peels of laughter. ''Did you really try to file a police report?'' I asked myself.

Since then, I've been making an effort to keep my expectations low when it comes to customer service here. And on those days when I need to be coddled, I hop on Skype. From there, I call my US bank, which seems to have an indefatiguable desire to provide gracious service. And if ever I start raising chickens, I'll try to keep my eye out for stray dogs.

Damsel in distress: an alternative ending.

 It was the light of course, but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant.

-- Ernest Hemingway, ''A Clean, Well-Lighted Place''

The other night I had a startling dream: I was walking down an anonymous, woodsy street when I told myself, ''be careful here, you might get abducted.'' Seconds later, I was being carried away by a faceless man, who promptly took me to a well-lighted room and locked me in. I don't know how long I sat there staring at the beautiful wood floors, but eventually I realized that I felt trapped and sought an escape. I was being well-treated (''il était correcte,'' the French might say), but I was certainly stuck. Somehow I thought to turn the doorknob in my room. It opened at once, and I saw my kidnipper watching TV. He might have glanced at me as I ran towards the stairs and out the door, but I was determined to be free and ran fast. In my dream, I remember thinking that I would have to start running faster during my jogs if I expected to escape faceless men on a regular basis.

Lady Gita in the foyer

And it's true, my legs have felt particularly heavy and resistent to exercise lately. I used to blame the hilly Buttes Chaumont Park, but jogging along the Seine last week (glorious, breezy morning jog!), I noticed the same dead-weight legs, even though the course was flat. So when I woke early this morning, I hypothesized that if I were sitting down as I exercised, my legs might cooperate better, or at least, have more pep. The local commerces were still sleepy when I started off on my burnt orange, cement-caked, trash-picked (thanks Hildete!) Gita racing bike towards Park de la Villette and along the Canal de l'Ourcq. The landscape changes quickly there, and I was happy, twenty minutes later, when I was finally free of construction zones and sharp curves to enjoy a straight, flat terrain. In the sunny 8 am stillness, I kept murmuring, ''Oh my God, yeah'' as I barrelled over cobblestone and onto the bike path, feeling shivers of excitement as I took in the quiet and the green.          

Park (parc) de la Villette

Around forty minutes into the ride, my legs were stiff and tired, so I stopped along a garden, and stretched out on a granite bench. ''Isn't it lovely,'' I thought to myself, ''to be carefree?'' Often when exercising, I have fairly rigid ideas on how long I should sweat before I can stop, and rarely invite myself to take a nap mid-trot, but this morning, I simply wanted to enjoy a leisurely ride. I watched more serious bikers zip past, and returned to thoughts about the dream.   

A few friends have offered their interpretations, but I keep coming back to my original thought: 'Wherever you feel stuck,'' I told myself, ''you can get yourself out of it. And even then, look carefully at what you call being 'stuck.' Maybe it's more imagined than real.'' 
My bike is back in the bike room downstairs, and my apartment is as sunny as ever on this blue-sky Monday afternoon.

Here's hoping you have a clean, well-lighted place of your own.

For more information on the bike path along the Canal de l'Ourcq, please visit here (in English) or here (in French).

Rules of the (Politeness) Game

While riding the metro home this afternoon, I was startled out of my texting haze when the train lingered longer than usual at the Anvers station, hundreds of meters below the majestic, self-cleaning Sacré-Coeur basilica (more on that later). I took the opportunity to count, perhaps for the seventh time, the number of stops left before arriving at my station, though I already knew it was only four. While riding most lines of the Paris métro, you can check email, answer the phone, and generally provoke your fellow commuters with the help of your cellphone. Side note: in German, a cellphone is called ein Handy. Handy, yes, when you want to aggravate those around you.

Before getting back to the business of chatting on gmail, I glanced at the yellow-toothed man sitting across from me, then watched as he offered his seat to a woman standing beside us. Seconds earlier, I remember thinking, ''she's an older woman. Someone should offer her a seat, but not me. It's hot in here and I'm tired.'' Fortunately, the man across from me was thinking something similar, and offered his seat to the older woman. She politely refused. As the train doors closed and the train lurched forward, he added, ''but you're tired, Madame. You're falling asleep on your feet.'' When she ignored him, he stood up, and continued his conversation with another stranger nearby. The two confirmed that she was indeed closing her eyes and should sit down. Meanwhile, two sassy teenagers swooped in and took the empty seat. ''That woman is not happy,'' they whispered to each other, smiling at me for confirmation. I smiled back, and could only guess from the older woman's body language that she resented this on-going assessment of her physical and emotional state.

Now that I'm in the comfort of my own apartment, I'm listening to France Musique, the classical music station that is part of the French public radio family. Note to budding Francophiles: listening to Radio France on a regular basis will, most assuredly, improve your French. I remember when I first moved here, my listening comprehension was limited at best. I rejoiced the day I recognized the words, ''pwahn eff air,'' which of course means, ''.fr'' (as opposed to ''doht cohm''), and is very useful when trying to join a typical French conversation. Anyway, I urge you to listen to the radio, though tonight's program is an interview with Leslie Caron, and includes brief interviews with her English-speaking acting partners. Right now I'm listening to an extract from Gigi. Someone should write a report about how a large slice of the French people adore American culture, especially Broadway, movies that came out before the late 70s (more contemporary Woody Allen films also make the cut) and the NYC scene en générale. And this despite their frequent criticism of America and her unhealthy tendancy towards excess!

We've all heard legends about the unmannerliness of Parisians, and watching commuters during rush hour here can provide good evidence to support this reputation. Our old friend, the yellow-toothed man, initially showed a dose of chivalry, but ultimately, his gesture tumbled into the Land of the Rude. And when it comes to rudeness, a friend of mine has sussed out the most effective response to the worst offenders: you know, the people who take up the whole doorway as they climb onto the train before you've gotten off, or those who push you without abandon just before the train doors close (squishing you into the forearm of a fellow passenger, or worse, a pole littered with hands gripping high and low). These brusque movements can only be forgiven if they are immediately followed by an, ''Excusez moi'' or ''Pardon.''

If not, when you encounter such indecency, you should immediately swing your body around, hopefully giving a good nudge to the guilty party as you do so. Then, as you look him or her in the eye, you say, ''Madame / Monsieur, vous êtes mal eduqué(e).'' Notice that you must start with a polite Madame or Monsieur to show that you, yourself, are ''bien eduqué(e).'' There is a strong emphasis on manners here, and to imply that a French man or woman does not have good manners, you insult that person to his or her core. For a final flourish, look the offender up and down once more, and then swing back around to your original position, eventually pulling out your trusty cellphone to check for any messages you might have missed during the brief altercation.

Oh yes, and now for that promised tidbit about the Sacré-Coeur: when you look at the photo above, you may be startled by the contrast of the glimmering grey-white façade with pockets of deep black smut. The reason is this: the stones, named Chateau-Landon after the city from which they come, are self-cleaning upon contact with rain water. Only the parts of the façade that are sheltered from the rain will turn black. Clever, clever Mother Nature.

If you would like more on the French public radio, visit www.radiofrance.fr (pwahn eff air, of course). The best way to visit the Sacré-Coeur is to approach it from behind. Take the metro to Lamarck-Caulaincourt or the 80 bus to Square Caulaincourt. From here, meander along Avenue Junot, swing through rue Norvins and rue Lepic, finally taking rue Cortot towards the basilica. One you reach the Sacré-Coeur, be prepared for throngs of tourists.