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.