Chez Soi

Now that we’ve been here for five months, the one thing we notice is the subtleties of manners.

In the US if you enter a store, you enter a store. No need to say hi, or make eye contact or anything.
in France, you enter a store, you say Bonjour at a minimum. But good manners would suggest eye contact. And if you start a conversation, you say, “I’m sorry to bother you but I am looking for something specific”, not “do you have x”.

In the US, if you go to a restaurant, you are expected to check-in and wait to be seated ONLY if it’s a super tony place. In France, you are expected to say good evening, and that you are there for dinner, that yes you’ve made reservations, and would it still be possible. You assume nothing about whether they would like to serve you. You ask if you can join them.

About two months ago, I asked if I could have a pen from a cafe owner because I needed to write something down. I was with Alexa Clay and I was going to tell her some metro stop info. I was pretty proud of myself with “Puis-je prendre une stylo” but today I would say it more like, “Bonjour, Monsieur; puis-je vous déranger avoir d’une stylo?”. In other words, you don’t say, “May I have blah, blah, blah”, without first acknowledging that you are interrupting them and that you must acknowledge the trouble and your respect for them BEFORE you go onto your thing. You must first build a bridge of connection … … before you can get something done.

This word, déranger seems to be crucial in this interaction. Just a few days ago, Lev Rapheal over at Huffpo, wrote “Being Polite in France Isn’t Complicated, But It’s Crucial.”

Oh dear, yes.

But you have to be pretty fluent to know how to say it. So I think he’s being a little dismissive of the language barrier.  We went into a book store in Auvers-sur-oise and the staff were having lunch and we felt bad about bothering them, but we didn’t say anything. Now we know more. Whether the words come out at a particular time is less clear.

Underneath (dessous) all this politeness is a general belief that all people deserve respect. You treat the cashier well, the server well, the storekeeper well, the guardian well, the ticket sales person, and so on. Not because of their rank or status in society but because all people deserve respect. Because it’s how you are raised. Because this is how the world should work. Now that I notice this with so much more subtlety, I keep noticing how much Americans don’t do this well, or AT ALL. They step up to a ticket booth and say “two tickets” not “two tickets please” or even “Bonjour, May I have…two tix, pls”.

Now it grates me. When I went back to the US for a meeting at Walmart in Bentonville Arkansas, about 8 or so weeks ago, I was in line at the Embassy Suites for custom omelettes first thing in the morning. I said hello to the young man, I asked if he could make me something with xyz, and after he said he could, I said, well, It would make my morning and thanks. He stood up a little taller, I noticed. And as I waited for mine to be cooked, I watched 8 people walk up to him and without acknowledging him at any individual level, they said “scramble” or “veggie omelette” but sans thanks, and certainly sans respect. It seemed to me I had changed, not America or Americans. Being in Paris helped me see something about the two places, that I didn’t see before.

Even without leaving Paris and having that kind of comparative experience, even Kiddo notices it. He rolls his eyes when he hears Americans talk. He wants to fix it for them. To teach them better. Curt has gotten much more conscious of his manners, though we all know we could get better at our interactions.

And if I was in charge of import/export stuff, THIS is 1 thing I’d like exported from Paris, to around the world. THIS, and the fromage. Well, and the chocolate. But definitely THIS.

Several months ago, I was reading some US author talk about “Lessons from The Eiffel Tower”. In it, he said, “it was designed at home, on the kitchen table…by someone who didn’t get their name on it, and that it had never been done before.”

Which is, at best, an oversimplification. (But, mostly, it’s just plain wrong.)

That same window of time, I was reading Paris the Novel by Ed Rutherford. It’s a fictional book that weaves both fictional stories and real history, over the course of hundreds of years based in Paris. While I found the book tedious at times (especially the back half), one story I loved was the building of the Tour Eiffel through the eyes of two brothers, Thomas and Luc Gascon.

The novel, even though partly fictional, tells some history of the Tour Eiffel.
That it was designed by by Gustave Eiffel, who had designed and built tons of things by the time he got to design the now historic icon. The thing any local will tell you is that Gustave had designed many things before this. They might mention the “Les Halles” in Dijon. Dijon is the birthplace of moutarde (mustard), and this covered marketplace was built in the mid-1800s. Or they might mention that Gustave designed and created the framework inside the Statue of Liberty, a gift to the US from the people of France in 1886, which was an engineering feat. Eiffel graduated from the École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures in 1855 as a civil engineer and specialized in metalwork. Initially, he made his name designing bridges for the French railway network, and some of his bridges are still around. And, so later  —  because of his already great understanding of engineering a particularly specific form-factor, and his understanding of metalwork for construction at scale — he got picked to design, build and is now known for his iconic piece de resistance, the Eiffel Tower, in 1889.
We’re planning/hoping to go to Dijon and Les Halles while there, sometime soon, when Daughter #1 is in town for Christmas.
In thinking of Dijon, it reminded me of Gustave’s history and I started to wonder… do these seemingly smart people intentionally over-simplifying global stories, for their own marketing type purposes. Or do they really not know any better?

In California, the postcodes are a made up number created by the post office to create efficient delivery. In Paris, they are a signal, a sign of many things.

On Saturday night, we went to see some good friends at their home, in their neighborhood. We crossed the river, past the Louvre so we could enjoy some fresh air, but then jumped on a metro to speed our way there. Line 4.

Our friends ask us to come via one metro spot, and not the next because if we go one metro stop further, we end up in a “sketchy” neighborhood. After we met Pixel, their dog, we walk to dinner. 

Past the working neighborhood, with women hanging out of doorways looking as if they are simply waiting for some friend to come by. With windows full of wholesaler merchandise, not displayed as it is in some neighborhoods, for the public. But, simply, sans effort. Dinner turns out to be at this charming former oyster place, called Poulette, with gorgeous tile work.

Our friends tell us of their neighborhood, with such affection. That they rarely leave their 2nd arrondissement, their “quarter”. There are twenty of these arrondissements, or numbered districts, which spiral out, clockwise from the city centre. The post codes reflect this. 75001 is the original Paris, the city island, where the Notre Dame now sits. Our friends live in 75002, a neighborhood that is gentrifying. The streets we walk on after dinner are part “toys for fun” stores and others high end bars and shops.

These last two digits of the postcode are indicators loaded with information and significance once you know the city. I just read Sarah Turnbull’s book, “Almost French” and she describes “75016 is about tony neighbors who send their dogs to poodle parlours”. To which, one has to chuckle. Just as 75015 has a ton of nannies, or nounous as the French call them, the 75004 is full of ancient curvy village streets lined with gay bars, in what is called the “marais”. Each place is its own. 75005 conjours up student-filled cafes as you get close to the Sorbonne, and art-supply stores as you get closer to the river. 75006 has turned away from being the home of philosophers of the arts like Jean Paul Sarte, to the stores that sell the goods of Jean Paul Gaultier.

Our friends say of our neighborhood — 75007 — that it lacks “character” — and it’s true to some degree. The bank of France has their offices next door, and the House (the Hotel as it is called because it is its own stand alone building) of the Ministry of Ed is across from us. It’s down the street from the Musee D’Orsay and the Rodin Musee is not far from here. There are only a few homeless people in our hood, or “characters”. No loud bars. No jack packed restaurants. For better or worse, this seems far more kid-friendly, with a short 4 metro stop trip to school for when it gets cold. Not too far from us, we’ve found a place that serves a warm cassoulet for Sunday supper. The waitress now knows us and seats us in the downstairs part (clearly where the French locals sit) not the upstairs part where they send the “loud Americans” to disturb only one another. In the evenings, I find the boutiques in the 6th, with their beautiful window displays like art, gorgeous to look. And, sometimes, when Curt is home, we talk a walk and then stop on the way back home at St. Sulpice place to prend un verre before tucking ourselves into our quiet little place.

In as much as you can almost anywhere in Paris within 30 minutes, it’s still very much a city of neighborhoods. We were so glad to have gone “across the river” and we ended up the night singing together in harmony, outside the Bar, Club Raye.

On Wednesday, I had a meeting with a French local. I was really happy to meet him. In an email he had shared he had built his 150+ member organization off of principles I had written about a while back. When we see each other face to face, I blunder through a sentence or two about why we should speak in English and not French but even this very simple sentence comes out all wrong. I know it proved my point. I know I should get over how embarrassing it is. But after this many weeks of trying to learn and doing drills and studying with private instructors, I can’t say even one sentence.

The next day is Thanksgiving and I’ve arranged to have lunch and church service with a friend. We end up at church only to find all the doors closed. She realizes the service is actually across town, at the American Cathedral not the American Church. We think about giving up, but decide to persevere. Persevere.

Enjoying this American friend’s company so much that what starts out as lunch goes all rest of the day. I blow off the work I need to do. I’m behind on this work. And really it’s one of the few things I get satisfaction from lately. So, I don’t mean to. It has its own regrets. But, it just feel so good to not be alone, to have a friend. To pray together. To say Thanks. Turns out her daughter has baked a pecan pie and a pumpkin pie. They pack me up pieces for home. Like a doggie bag. So American. It feels like it’s going to be okay. Even though it is dark outside, I am filled again. I’m practically skipping with joy. Right before we go, we find a little chocolatier shop that sells pavés. Pavé is the type of stones that makes up the sidewalks of Paris, and named the same, these little chocolates are tiny little squares, uneven and yet fitting together. 

As I leave this neighborhood, one I know like the back of my hand, some men stop and ask me questions. I can tell they are asking directions. I can’t figure out how to talk. I can’t figure out why I can’t say anything. These are really simple words. Words I know. But I can’t say anything coherent. All the good feelings of earlier that day escape. I feel the darkness of doubt and loneliness encroach. With just not being able to give directions. I know this place, I think. I do. I really do. I know the metros, and the buses, I know the streets. I know so many things. I wish I could be of help, I think. But all that comes out is small little fragments of jibberish. Neither one language, or the other.

We part.

Then, once again, I get lost out of the metro station as I go to pick up kiddo. I get lost nearly every time. EVERY. DARN. TIME. I’ve gone to this train station from all different spots in the city and each time, I manage to get out the wrong exit. Sometimes this costs me 5 minutes, and sometimes 30, depending on how badly I get turned around. Yesterday, I thought I was doing great only to end up kitty-korner-opposite of where I need to be (this after 10 minutes underground in the smelly urine-filled halls). I basically couldn’t have gotten further away from my end point destination. But I hustle and keep going. I deal with the cat-calling guy who almost always sees me on that corner. I step over the dog poop. I keep my hand on my bag opening so my phone or wallet is not picked again.

Then, I see him. But he’s not where he normally is. He’s leaving the building without me. And with two friends. I am excited to see him, and maybe even meet his friends. Mostly, I’m happy I’ve finally gotten to him. But he makes a face, turns away from his friends without an introduction, talks to me in so much French that I can’t understand a word. Not a word. At some point, I will cry, I think. I will. But there is no one to cry to. Curt is gone on yet another trip. And if I share with him what keeps happening, he will only try and problem solve to help me remember the sortie exit # to look for. Not that I can’t look it up. I do. But then I can’t remember it. I don’t know why I can’t remember it. Same reason why I can’t conjugate the two foundational verbs: etre and avoir. I feel infantile. He will not understand why I keep getting lost even when I am coming from the same spot.

If I mention to Kiddo about the 100% all french so fast I can’t understand, he’ll feel bad as if he’s done something wrong, when he has done only goodness. How do I get what I need when it has nothing to do with him. He’s struggling to keep up in school. And so he doesn’t want to slow down to help me. He has to go faster to catch up to these kids he’s with. He has his own race he’s running.

Our train is super full as it almost always is on this direction. We crowd on. One guy has his thing pressed up against me. It’s clear he’s trying to press up against me. But it’s super duper crowded and I can’t figure out what to do. Plus I don’t want to let kiddo know. Who, by the way, is speaking French super fast to me right at this moment unaware of my concerns. Then two stops later, the train stops and holds. After about five minutes, a message (in French) says thanks for the patience. I know word Patience in French. I should be grateful for that but I’m not. Another five minutes, the train is unloaded. We simply follow the crowd.  I understand every fifth word of this next message, but the gist is clear. Then we wait. During this time, Kiddo keeps asking if I know what’s going on. At one point I say, I have no idea in English. But after a second, I figure out the sentence in French and say. “J’ai ne aucune idée”. Kiddo corrects me. But not the words, only the accent. I’m crazy mad inside but I don’t show it. I just say, hey, isn’t it great that I got the words right. I want some recognition for trying and for the few times where I get it right, to be acknowledged for it. He looks at me, and I look off to hide my sadness. After several more moments of confusion and uncomfortable silence between us, another train comes.

I think of what food we have for dinner since I’m single-parenting… again. I look in the fridge. Cheese, lots of cheese. 8 kinds. Kiddo doesn’t like cheese. I offer the pies. He claims the pumpkin one, and tries to eat it as fast as he can so I can’t. I will hate myself in the morning, I think if I eat this all as my meal. But I inhale the pecan pie anyways. And then I think, oh, we should eat something healthier. We’re both hungry for non-sugary food. So we order take out instead of cooking. He wants a night off from homework, he says, so we agree to take-out and the movie. But kiddo seems uninterested in watching the movie even though he chose it. He keeps going to his own room, until I call him. It’s not a movie I especially like. We are in the space but alone, together. Alone, together. My friend Sherry Turkle wrote that book. But it would make a perfect title for what it is like to be here. Alone, together.

At the end of the movie, kiddo tries to convince me to watch another movie. He chokes me during a lopsided hug. He almost never hugs me unless he wants something. It’s his last resort. But his choking me wasn’t intentional. Even though I realize he doesn’t mean to hurt me, I just want to cry. But it’s silly to cry over a mistake. I know I’m really just sad. It’s not him. I will have to buck up to face another day. To deal with getting lost, with not knowing. And then the French language tutor is coming on Friday afternoon. I need to get ready for that.

Maybe, on another day, I can cry.

We’ve been saying “this transition” will end “soon”, and yet the “transition” seems elusive.

Then I started to think about all the different transitions we’re actually doing.

Kiddo learning French is going to take longer than a few months. As does getting used to a new school, a new country, and making new friends takes time. Cultures are not things you pick up on in a day or a week or a month.

Curt, too, has been going thru mega change. He has been in a big job transition with work travel taking up at least 50% of his time. He didn’t mean to pick up a new job while moving countries, that just got tacked along. (Oh by the way…) He has a new boss, and new demands, and also new work context. All while existing demands didn’t exactly die down.

And, I signed up to write a new (my third) book right before coming, a project I’ve wanted to put off for fear of doing it badly. It nearly killed me to do the book proposal because I never knew what was going to count as “done”. I kept getting told “you’re nearly there” but in reality that meant months and months more work. I couldn’t manage my pace, my expectations and to know how to manage my own energy. In the middle of the move, it felt too much and I know my frustration showed. But the “funny part” is that because I had let go of some corporate board roles before all this transition, I thought I had taken into account “enough” buffer for the transition.

And now as we’re here… we’re starting to realize there were a bunch of “unnamed” goals —  things that were largely unaccounted for. We wanted to be more present to one another. Maybe have more fun. Travel a little. While I hadn’t originally wanted to be fluent in French, that’s now on the list and any day short of complete success feels like an abysmal failure. We’re juggling a lot of things, lottsa notions of ourselves, and who “we are”, and who we will be.

it feels as if we’re stuck “in the middle”, some kind of purgatory spot. I was reading a management professor’s book (who also happens to be a Paris friend) for some research, and she writes about the word “transition”. Ibarra writes: at the root of transition is “in transit”, a voyage from one place to the other — a neither here nor there that William Bridges , the transitions guru says is one reason why people don’t want to make change. We lose touch with the ground.

And THIS explains so much how we feel in Paris.