Shorts-Sighted

Once upon a time, we thought shorts were a no-no in Paris. We read in guide books that only tourists wear shorts in this oh-so-fashion conscious city, and for a long time, our personal experience reflected this rule. But soon after another American-in-Paris blogger reinforced Paris' no-shorts policy, we visited Nature Capitale and noticed exceptions. Lots of them.

First, there is an epidemic of man-capris in Paris, which comes as no great surprise.


We know these aren't the same thing as shorts, but once you start wearing capris, it's a slippery slope down . . .

And just in case you thought this was the work of rogue Frenchmen, flaunting their pasty legs in the face of fashionability, think again. The Champs-Elysées boasts some of the most coveted window-display real estate in Paris, and even there, shorts are beginning to appear.

Normally we'd be excited about this liberalization of men's wear, since the unspoken ban on shorts has always seemed unfair. But as we said, it's a slippery slope from capris down, and we saw evidence of the unsightliness that often accompanies shorts-wearing.

Short shorts remind us that as France transitions into a shorts-wearing nation, it must set a new standard for warm weather clothing. I recommend we call it "comfortable chic." Emphasis (as always) on the chic - sorry, short shorts fans.

Think About It

We've always been aware of the differences between French and American concepts of "personal space," but one particular example really drives the point home. Here's something that would never fly in American public transportation:

I'm curious whether anyone can provide an example of a public transportation seating arrangement in the States that puts people in such close, face-to-face contact. (Amtrak's facing seats with tables in between the people don't count. We're talking knee-to-knee tactile communication here.)

Sure, people on the NYC subway crowd into cars and end up doing an unintentional bump-and-grind, but they're standing, and have the option of facing away from each other. On the Paris métro, if you want to sit on something other than a strapontin (foldaway seat normally placed near the doors), you've gotta get up close and personal.

Not that that's always a bad thing . . .

Métro Manifesto

Want to know the hot-button topics in French culture? Just take the Métro. There are all kinds of provocative stickers attached to the walls and windows of every train.

France supports the Palestinian Authority and the notion of a Palestinian state in ways the US can't even contemplate. There's also a current of sentiment against what we might call the Israeli "occupation" of Palestinian territory, but what they would call "colonization." Fascinating.

Apparently, 40 years after women's lib, the French still aren't getting the message about equality in the home. This sticker suggests that women and men "everywhere" should "split chores, all the time." (Tâches could also just refer to tasks or responsibilities in general, but I like reading it as "chores.")

Alas, we didn't get a picture of the iconic purple No Sarkozy Day stickers, but at least we caught that anti-horse meat ad campaign way back in the fall . . .

Another thing the Métro is good for: promoting safe sex. Now in "his" and "hers" versions! (It seems unfair that he gets four for two euros, while she only gets one.)

Maybe the Métro's new slogan should be, "It helps you get around." (Or maybe you can come up with something better . . .)

Naming Man's Best Friend

Panda meets lots of dogs on a daily basis, which means that Maggie and I meet lots of dog owners. There's a routine that almost every encounter follows:

1. We are asked whether Panda is "une femelle" (a female). We assume we get asked this because many French dogs aren't fixed, so every dog-meets-dog moment could quickly turn into a catastrophe.
2. The other owner gushes over Panda's distinctiveness, grace, athleticism, and/or beauty. We murmur our appreciation, awkwardly.
3. We are asked how old she is.
4. We ask how old the other owner's dog is. Sometimes our conversation ends here and everyone moves on.
5. However: If their dog was already off-leash, they'll ask whether we might want to let Panda off-leash. If their dog wasn't off-leash, they often suggest we let both dogs off-leash. We let the dogs off-leash.
6. Panda runs really fast and the other owner comments, "Gee, she sure likes to run!" or "Wow, look at her go!" 
7. The other owner speculates about Panda's ancestry. Usually people guess lèvrier (greyhound) or chien de chasse (any hunting dog or hound). We respond that she's a mix of German Shorthaired Pointer (braque allemand) and something else, on sait pas (we don't know).
8. By this point, sometimes Panda has sprinted far away from us, leading the other owner's dog away too, and we both start calling our dogs back. Or, if the dogs are still close, we re-leash them, and go our separate ways.

The flexible part of this ritual involves asking what the dog's names are. Sometimes you find out a dog's name when the other owner screams it across open space, hoping his/her dog will come back. Other times you never find out at all, and because of this I've taken to asking. Partly because we're a little crazy, and partly inspired by the awesome list-making book (Listography) that Eden and JP brought us for Christmas, we've been keeping track of all the dog names we learn, and this is what we've got so far:

Clovis, Nehdi, Gigi, Chaplin, Lila, Vif, Sun (Sonne? Son?), Kapringa, Georges, Lotus, Vinyle, Cookie (pictured above, with the little girl), Voyou and Lou (pictured above, with Panda), Amandine, Duschka, Dolly, Hieroglyphe, Coca, Ehtu (sp.?), Jenny/Génie, Emma, Hermione, Jack (short for Jack Russel), Bristo, Eliose, Yuna (Iuna?), Charlie, Titi, Ulysse, Douglass (pronounced dew-glass), Balthus, Lasso (3-legged), Vanda, Chippy

Remember that you have to pronounce all of the seemingly English-language names with a French accent, which immediately makes them equal parts charming and nearly incomprehensible. It's all part of the fun of dog-ownership in Paris.

Emergency Population Warning

We're nearing the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for a somewhat chilling moment: the testing of the emergency population warning network (Réseau national d'alerte, or RNA). First developed as an air-raid siren network before WWI, it currently includes about 4,500 electronic or electromechanical sirens, spread out over the entire country. At noon on the first Wednesday of every month, unless you're expecting it, you might wonder whether the world is ending.

Why can't they just interrupt your regularly scheduled television program, rather than spook you just as you're settling down at the library (which should be soundproof, but isn't) to get some real work done? Sheesh.

Passover à Paris

Passover - a holiday centered around food if there ever was one - is pretty easy to celebrate almost everywhere. Sure, it's a little more challenging to observe the various dietary requirements in Paris, where delectable baked goods are available on every corner. But as long as you have access to lots of veggies and beans and meat and matzoh, you're set.

Not that we should take any of that for granted, especially not matzoh. I stopped in three supermarkets before I finally found this critically-important cracker (Monoprix to the rescue!). At first this surprised me, since there's a large Orthodox Jewish population in our neighborhood. I ultimately realized that the Orthodox Jews probably shop in places where all the food is kosher by default, rather than just 4 shelves at the end of an aisle.

The matzoh here is nothing like the matzoh we're used to. (I never realized what a strangle-hold Manischewitz and Streit's had on Ashkenazic Jewish cuisine until those brands were no longer available.) This matzoh - from the Sephardic tradition - is thicker, less crunchy, and strangest of all, it's round!


Round matzoh, a complete lack of Haggadot (the prayer books used for the Passover service), tiny chairs on which pillows don't fit well - these are all minor inconveniences. The Seder goes on.

Thanks to all who shared our food and our traditions, and thanks for helping us create new ones: reading the Haggadah off computer screens and ending the service with "Next Year in Jerusalem - or Paris, whichever works out."

Bippers and Zébras

On our way up the stairs to our apartment last week, we noticed this announcement, taped to the wall:


Without going through the trouble of translating the whole thing, it's basically about automating the heavy wooden doors (porte cochère) that allow entry into the apartment complex from the street. It used to be you had to pull your car up, get out, open the doors, get back in your car, drive through, then close the doors behind you. Now, all you'll have to do is press a button to open and close the doors from the comfort of your own vehicle.

There were two things we learned from this announcement. The first was that in French, a garage-door opener is called a "bipper."

Bipper is one of those French words that comes from an English word but that adopts a French phonetic spelling based on the English pronunciation. Bipper pronounced à la française is pronounced the same as "Beeper" in English. It's just that "bipper" looks a lot funnier, no matter which language is your native one. (I can't think of any other words in French that look even remotely like it.)

The other thing we learned from the announcement is a second meaning of the word, "zébre."

Yup - it means stripes, whether they're on the eponymous animal or marking a spot where you might get clobbered by automatic doors if you're not paying attention. The word is also used to describe crosswalks, which makes sense.

Too bad we don't have a car, otherwise we could use our bipper to open doors that swing gently open over black-and-yellow zébras. Maybe next time.

Moving Day

Maybe it's just that we're out and about more now that the weather is improving, or maybe it has something to do with the Parisian rental calendar, but we've recently started seeing lots of people moving in to apartments, all around the city. Apparently, when it comes to moving into some of the older buildings, carrying your furniture and other possessions up narrow stairwells and in claustrophobic elevators isn't the ideal option, not for you and not for the moving company. Instead, there's this:


Now, having had trouble moving a fridge and a boxspring into our place back home, I can appreciate the necessity of bringing things through the window. Especially if you're moving to the 8th floor of a walk-up. For our legions of readers in NYC, is this sight also familiar to you?

We can't decide whether moving in-by-conveyor-belt-ladder-thingy is popular because elevators and stairwells are tiny, or because it saves on manpower, or just because it looks really cool. Whatever the reason, as long as they keep doing it that way, we'll keep watching from across the street, holding our breaths while we wait for something to fall.

Election

Tomorrow, the French go to the polls to elect their regional assemblies (conseils régionals). This election has been a good opportunity for us to learn something about French politics and government. As far as we can tell, the "region" (like Alsace or Bretagne) corresponds to a "state" (like Minnesota or Massachusetts) and each region includes several départements (which correspond to counties). Regional assemblies control the finances of the region but do not have any lawmaking capabilities.

These signs were posted outside a school in the 3rd arrondissement, which will serve as the polling place for this neighborhood. In Somerville, we vote in a firehouse (shout out to Ward 5-3!). Maggie cast her first-ever votes in a church in Northfield, MN. She mentioned this to her conversation partner (a French woman) who seemed utterly shocked by the notion. Here in France, politics and the Church are like yogurt and wine, they just don't go together. 

Although you can't tell from the pictures alone, these metal stands were set up in front of every polling place just a few weeks ago. They seem to be provided expressly for candidates to put up campaign posters, which tend not to appear speared into people's front yards and blowing from telephone poles. 

Unlike in the U.S., many more than two parties have a shot at getting a candidate elected in these regional contests. That's why every party gets a spot for its candidate on the metal stands. Most of the representatives will be elected via closed list proportional representation, in which you vote for the party, not the person. I like the purple party. 

Two final thoughts. #1. When it comes to elections, France does at least one thing significantly better than the U.S.: you vote on the weekend, and you get two weekends to cast your vote. This is brilliant.

#2. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in France is a Socialist. In fact, the current French president's UMP (Union for a Popular Movement) looks and sounds surprisingly like the "red" party back home. Those of you who can understand French will appreciate a televised debate between the leader of the UMP and the leader of the PS (Socialist Party). It gets a little heated near the end, so if you have a Midwestern sensibility (like Maggie) prepare yourself for a little discomfort.  

Camembert vs. Donut

As expats are wont to do, we've spent a lot of time pointing out cultural differences between France and the US, some more obvious, reasonable, and predictable than others. This next one seems to come pretty much out of nowhere:

We've already seen that the French use pie charts just like we do (except they call them camemberts). The above poll seems to call for a camembert, but instead we get a donut. Curious indeed.

(Just in case you're wondering, the poll appeared in a December issue of the free, daily newspaper Metro and measures French perceptions of the crise economique, which has a much more dramatic ring to it than "Great Recession.")

Our Apartment/Impregnable Fortress

Katie and Darryl left this morning after a lovely week-long visit, and now we turn to preparing for our next visitors, who arrive Monday. (Just in case my dissertation adviser is reading this: Yes, I am still researching out the wazoo. In fact, I may have just had my most productive week yet. Maggie does a good job of keeping me on top of things. No matter how many visitors we have, I'm still on track to finish this thing by . . . well . . . sometime around June 2012 or June 2013.)

It seems like every one of our visitors has noticed one thing in particular about our apartment: the door. As you can see below, it is a very secure door. Technically there's only one keyhole, and the same mechanism locks the door in five separate places. And then there's the security latch, which we use at night, just for kicks.

We're not sure why our door needs to be so secure. Anyone who wants to get in at night first has to know the code to get through the porte cochère or outside door, which lets you into the first courtyard. Then at all times of day there's the door to our building, for which you need a different code. And finally, the outside of our apartment door has no doorknob - there's nothing to jimmy or turn, other than the single keyhole that operates the single five-lock mechanism. If one managed to reproduce the key (which would be no small feat - we had to go to five serruriers (keysmiths) before we could find someone with the right technology) it wouldn't matter if we'd closed the door without locking it, or locked it in five places, since you could easily unlock everything yourself. The only thing these locks seem to defend against is an extremely forceful, direct assault with a medieval battering ram. But if they tried that, we'd pour boiling oil and shoot flaming arrows all over the attackers. 

In the end, our door is just as perplexing to us as to our visitors. And it's not exceptional by French standards. So add our door's quadruply-redundant security to the growing list of things that we don't get, but that we don't mind, because it's all part of the charm of Parisian life.

Bright Spots during Gray Days

No matter how much the grisaille gets me down, Parisian storefronts never fail to bring cheer and wonder back into my life.


So many colors! Which one is your favorite?

Google Creates a Parisian Fairy Tale

Whoever created this ad clearly hasn't spent much time in Paris.

The French don't get married in churches! *Update* The French do get married in churches! (See Mo's comment below). But what Google should have shown (at the risk of confusing Americans) is a search for the local mairie (city hall) where French couples file the paperwork and where they are compelled to have a civil ceremony. (True story. Only civil marriage is binding. A religious ceremony is non-binding and can only take place after a civil ceremony. Oh, French bureaucracy.)

Of course, just because the ceremony must take place at city hall doesn't mean friends and family can't attend. For proof (and endless amusement), consider this next video, which (I'm sad to say) we discovered while on a youtube "save-the-date" video bender. If you don't already know about this new form of expression, you are in for a real treat.

Fill It, Don't Spill It

Not all gas stations in Paris look like this, but enough do that it makes me slightly nervous. I wonder how often people plow into roadside pumps, setting off massive gas-fueled fires. Not as many as I'd imagine, luckily.

If you click on the picture, or have very, very good eyesight, you'll see that a few different types of gas are advertised. SP or S/Plomb stands for "sans plomb," meaning unleaded. Gasoil and gazole both mean diesel, and not listed here is essence, which is regular gas to us. Notice how high the octane numbers are: 95 and 98. Since octane levels are measured slightly differently in Europe than in the US, these both correspond to what we'd call "premium" unleaded (91-93).

A liter of diesel here costs anywhere from 1.049 to 1.250 euros per liter. That's around 4 to 4.75 euros per gallon, which is around $5.76 to $6.84. Ouch. I'm no expert, but I think the government keeps it that high on purpose (using taxes). Being carless (but not careless) I can't say I mind. Bring on the carbon taxes! Public transportation all the way!

Even if you hate carbon taxes, give it up to the French government for making it easy to find the cheapest gas around, which must do something to promote competition and reduce prices.

Marianne looks on proudly.