Strike Three

Throughout their lives, my parents have had three personal experiences with France and the French, and, therefore, with French strikes. But the outcomes have been unexpectedly pleasant.




When I was a young child living in Rochester, NY, we had an exchange student for two months from France named (of course) François. For a whole summer, my parents took him here and there and showed him the best that upstate New York has to offer (and before you make that sarcastic retort, there was plenty that was great). He said nothing, and our family assumed he was painfully shy. Then, when they got to the airport to drop him off, the flights were cancelled because the French baggage handlers were all on strike. (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, we will not unload your bags today." Puff, puff.) Since some families lived too far from the airport to make the round trip home and back the next day, my family offered to take a couple extra French students for the night. Now that he had two French-speaking teenage girls in the house, François suddenly came to life, and he excitedly showed them a slideshow of his summer, gushing about all the great things he'd done and seen. This is where I first learned how to say "chutes Niagara!" and where my parents first realized he was not a sullen teenager but rather very bad at English.

A decade or so later, they took a silver anniversary trip to Europe, their first. One day, they wanted to go to Versailles and, in a very uncharacteristic move, actually shelled out the big bucks for a tour guide to take them from Paris for the day. Needless to say, when they arrived at Versailles, the ticket takers were on strike (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, you may not see the palace today." Puff, puff.). Their tour guide, a French-woman through and through, took one look at this situation and said, "Well, we'll do the gardens first, and they'll probably be back at work after lunch." All the tourists who had taken the train to Versailles by themselves turned right around and went home disappointed. Meanwhile, my parents enjoyed the gardens and a relaxing lunch, then had something nobody in history since Louis XVI himself has had....Versailles palace to themselves. Anybody who has battled the tourist throngs at Versailles will agree that perhaps never in the history of strikes did one turn out to be more convenient and helpful. Look Ma! No crowds!




And so, what would their latest visit here be without a grève? Wandering from my apartment up through the Marais, past City Hall (pictured above), we stumble across this -- the latest strike. Public school teachers in Paris are striking over the increasingly absurd* (decreasingly logical?*) change in school scheduling next year, euphamistically referred to as a reform in the "rythmes scolaires" -- school rhythms. The Mayor of Paris has decided to accept President Hollande's proposal as of Sept 2013. Voluntarily. For God-knows-what reason. Certainly, it can't be for political reasons, as he is opposed on this by literally all fronts: parents, teachers, right-wing, left-wing, all political parties, various labor unions, and every child aged 5-12. This strike looks less like a Gallic shrug and more like a really outraged manifestation (demonstration, that is). The police nearby are not amused. Probably because they have kids and hate the stupid new schedule, too.

*The proposal is now down to getting out of school one hour earlier, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays, then making that up by adding 9-11am on Wednesday mornings, or possibly Saturday mornings, thereby pissing off every possible constinuent and not achieveing anything in terms of academics (worse off), personal rhythms (worse off), and budget (more money spent by schools in terms of staffing, yet no more money earned by teachers). It's a lose-lose-lose, so I can really see why they're striking. Or maybe I'm just getting more French (Gallic shrug, puff puff).

 

The Bells! The Bells!

Quasimodo's not here to ring them in, but we are....Notre Dame's new bells. We are lucky enough to see them before they are installed in the towers.

 

They exhibit them for a few weeks in the nave of the cathedral. Each bell is decorated uniquely and named for a different saint. Because of perspective, it's hard to tell in the photo above, but the bells we see first are much smaller than the ones closest to the altar.

 

 

 

  

Jean-Marie, whose note is "la #3" weighs in at 782kg or 1724lbs.
Maurice, "sol #3", at 1011kg or 2229lbs.
Benoit-Joseph, "fa #3", 1309kg or 2886lbs. 
Etienne, "fa 3", 1494kg or 3294lbs. 
Marcel, "re #3", 1925kg or 4244lbs. 
Denis, "do #3", 2502kg or 5516lbs.
Anne-Genevieve, "ti" (called "si" in French), 3477kg or 7665lbs.
Gabriel, "la #2", 4152kg or 9156lbs.
Marie, "sol #2", 6023kg or 13,278lbs -- nearly seven tons. 
I assume # actually means "sharp" and not "number", but I don't know what 2 and 3 mean. Some of my more musical friends could answer that, so here's the information in its original state to interpret.

The beautiful new bells are replacing these old clangers that have been in the tower since the Revolution, when Quasimodo's bells were melted down.

In theory, the new bells are meant to have a purer, higher-quality sound, in keeping with the prestige of the cathedral in which they are placed, and to be able to chime out actual tunes. The reality, however, is disappointing. On the first day they are to ring -- the weekend before Easter -- we stand outside on our balcony at the appointed hour of 17h (which is 5pm to you and me), and we hear.....nothing.

The old bells could be heard loud and clear throughout the neighborhood, so we assume either we have the time wrong, or they are having some sort of ceremony first and will ring them later. We find out from one friend that they do, indeed ring at 5pm, and she is out front with the throngs to hear them. Faintly. Another friend is in the garden of Notre Dame at 5pm and can barely make them out. And now all of Paris is spouting a scientific theory I came up with years ago -- and for which I have been soundly mocked: Sound is uni-directional.

I guess we'll barely notice at all when the bells go quiet for the three days before Easter to mourn Jesus' crucifiction. (As the story goes, these are the three days during which the bells "fly" to Rome to be re-baptised and then, on their "flight" home, magically drop chocolate eggs for the French children to find. No bunnies here!) Then, I guess we'll barely notice at all when they start ringing again on Easter to joyously announce Jesus' resurrection. Maybe I'm wrong, and Notre Dame has just been holding back so that the Easter ringing can be a real doozy. I certainly hope so. If not, I personally am going to spend this Easter mourning the loss of the chiming bells and wishing for the resurrection of those old tons of metal from the scrap heap.

 

Shocking. Or Not.

Last year, during the annual Carnaval (spelled the French way) parade at the girls' school, I was surprised that the children do not all dress up as Disney princesses or Star Wars characters. Of course, some still do, but not nearly the all-encompassing percentage we see in the US. This year, I am not at all surprised to see the requisite flamenco dancers, which seem to be a given in any French costume party.

  

 

It's basically Halloween without the Trick-or-Treating, but that doesn't mean it's sugar-free. In typical French fashion, when the snacks are put out at the party, the tables are laden with chocolatey carbohydrates and nothing else. There is no pretense at putting out fresh fruit and hoping the kids will take some. Either have a chocolate crêpe, a puff pastry with chocolate flakes, or a nutella covered waffle, or get outta here. This does not actually horrify me anymore, as long as the adults are allowed to nosh on a piece or two.

 

 

Last year, the kids marched through the 5th arrondissement to the ancient Roman Arènes de Lutèce. This year's route takes us up to to the top of the 5th and into the 4th arrondissement, walking by delicious bakeries, great views along the Seine, the love locks bridge, and several 800ish-year old churches, including Notre Dame.

 

 

Given that I see this church every single day, the most surprising thing is that I still find it surprising. Walking through the gardens by the side of the cathedral, Pippa's teacher tells me that she comes up from the train station and sees this view when she comes into work and that even she, a Parisian, is thrilled and energized every time. This makes me feel less crazy for still being awestruck.

 

 

The costume that most surprises me, and that both Pippa and I declare the prize-winner, is her best friend's. The girl's mother, my dear friend Beatrice, has spent time living and working in Africa, so it's authentic. Our favorite part is the back, where she's got her baby strapped. As you can see, my own daughter has found yet another occasion to wear her Indian sari which is also authentic.

 

 

 

Gigi enjoys the older brother's costume, since he's a really sweet kid dressed up as a "bad boy" rocker. Of course, she has no idea how appealing this will be to her in about six years.... And something I consider very French and quite appropriate, indeed, one of the class clowns dressed up as Charlie Chaplain, who is possibly more famous and beloved in France than in the States.

 

Then, on the more truly shocking side: There's this 5th grader smoking his cigarette. It is a fake one, of course, but very realistic, with a glowing tip. I start talking with some other parents as I take the picture, and it turns out that even the other French parents are shocked by this as completely inappropriate. Well, not all the parents: Obviously his own parents must have found it okey dokey.

 

 

Inappropriate, yes. But how hysterically French is that?!

 

There's shocking, and there's more shocking: The kids are packing pistols.

 

And they bring out the bigger guns, some of which just don't make any sense. This Crusader, who is one of Gigi's best friends, has a super soaker so powerful, it shoots water across about ten centuries of history.

 

 

Of course I remember seeing toy guns with costumes as a child myself, but given that I've been hearing that in the US kids are getting suspended just for making gun shapes with their fingers and saying "bang", it seems a little surprising to me. When I bring it up to my fellow parents, they point out that in France the kids are allowed their fake guns, but people aren't allowed real guns. They're shocked by our approach in the US, where the real guns are legal, used against children, and therefore make the little toy guns seem menacing. When they put it this way, I'm far more shocked by the US attitude towards guns, too. So bring on the toy guns!

  

P.S. I'm biased, but I think these photos are gorgeous. And I love that Dark Vador is Pippa's shadow:

 

  

A Robust Bouquet of Snobbery

When we are smelling the Marco Polo sample from the fabulous, famous Mariage Frères tea store in the Marais, Gigi says -- and this is word for word -- "Buy this one, Mommy! It's got hints of chocolate and raspberry!" And darn it if she isn't right.

I know, I know: You don't think of France when you think of tea. But then perhaps you haven't tried Mariage or Dammann Frères. Both sets of brothers trace their claim to be the best tea in France to the 17th century. Mariage Frères claim to have been sent to seek out great teas from the Orient around 1660, by King Louis XIV (though they place their business founding date in 1854). Dammann Frères claim their ancestor Monsieur Damame was granted an exclusive right to sell tea in 1692 by, also, King Louis XIV. Evidently, during his 72 year reign, the Sun King had quite a thing for tea.

The Marco Polo box (13€ for 100g) describes it as a "marvellous fruity & flowery black tea," so Gigi didn't get "hints of chocolate and raspberry" from there. I'm afraid that, like most things that come out of kids' mouths, it originates with the parents. Oh no! Are we those Bay Area people that the rest of the US mocks? The kind who swirl our wine and talk about its legs and bouquet? I don't think we are, yet Gigi got it from somewhere.

But at least we're not such snobs that we have a preference for one of the high-end teas over the other, thereby proving (to ourselves at least) that we are not complete and total wankers. I must admit, however, to having a preference for one of the stores itself -- the Dammann Frères store on the Place des Vosges -- simply because they've made all the samples easier to sniff. The store has an old-fashioned apothocery feel (much like Mariage Frères, frankly) but with a huge table of wooden boxes filled with the various teas. This would be another great use of smellovision, if it existed, because the aroma of some of these teas is too, too delicious for words.

Once we buy these teas, I am torn between wanting to use them slowly and make them last (especially at that price point) versus wanting to drink them up quickly so that I will have an excuse and room in the pantry to go buy more flavors.

Applying Myself

I've been thinking a lot about school applications recently, probably because I've been doing a lot of school applications recently: Gigi will go to middle school next year. [Ed note: I recognize that this a bit confusing to readers who know her, as she has switched grades here in France, but we expect she'll switch back to her correct grade when we go back to the US. French age cutoffs are different -- through Dec 31 with some born in Jan and Feb, so she's not very young when moved up a grade here but would be back in the U.S.]

Unfortunately, the public, application-free, tuition-free, local middle school is not quite what we want. Partly this is because of the English language. Right now she does about 45 minutes a week in a classroom of mostly French kids, so it's not challenging. But at least it's only 45 minutes per week. Starting in middle school, however, French children are required to take English an hour a day (five days per week since, as you remember, middle schoolers do go to school Wednesday mornings). Recognizing that this would be too much boredom, there's an excellent local private school that has a special program for bilingual children, where they do 10 hours of English per week, all together, in a class with native anglophone teachers who follow a curriculum appropriate for native English speaking countries.

Another reason we want this particular school is that, like the elementary school both girls currently attend, it's just across a bridge and in easy walking distance, whereas most of the city's other bilingual and/or competitive private schools are on the western side of the city. Until Gigi's old enough to ride the metro alone or I can clone myself, walking distance makes it a whole lot easier to get them both to different schools.

I am relieved both that Gigi has been accepted to this hard-to-get-into program and also that the deadlines and responses for this school were earlier than the application deadlines for the other schools we would have considered. It's like getting our first choice in an early action decision. No more applications needed!

At the middle school level, people sending their children to the public school don't need to do any special application process. But what's different here is that for the public high schools -- especially the best ones like Henri IV, Louis le Grand, or Charlemagne -- students need to compete for spots (and, frankly, keep competing in order to stay there). These particular schools are considered every bit as good as the best private schools. They're the elite of the elite, but my friends with older kids are now completing their dossiers, essays, and trying to raise grades for final report cards and exams so that they can earn a spot at a better public high school.

I've also been conducting admissions interviews for Princeton while I'm here. These are the kind of interviews done for applicants who can't make it to campus, and the point is not for me to wield godlike power over their admission status (I wish!) but for me to help round out their application so the university can make a more informed decision. But what's interesting is that applications for French universities and high schools are easier, in the sense that they don't involve interviews and essays, but also more difficult in that they don't consider any factors except the school transcripts and exam scores: not personality, ambition, or extracurriculars. This is one reason French teenagers don't tend to do many things outside of school and homework. There's steep competition to earn top scores in order to get into into the best high school and stay there and graduate at the top so that they can go to the best universities. For most of these grandes écoles ("great schools"), students are first required to complete a post-high-school two-year "prepatory" class. What it prepares them for is additional ridiculously difficult entrance exams that help decide their entrance chances. At university, they are tracked into highly focused studies from the beginning. The concept of "liberal arts" education is, literally, very foreign to the French, and is the main reason the students I interview give me for wanting to study in the States.

For Gigi's middle school application, there were, in fact, essays required and an interview (though in a more typically French fashion, the interview was secondary and only happened after she successfully passed an entrance exam and had been selected for admission). But of course she is young enough that the essays were assigned to me -- not her. Between preschools and private schools in San Francisco, private schools in Paris, and the write-ups on the interviews for Princeton, I feel I have done more than my share of school applications recently. Especially for someone who's not even going to school herself.



 

On the Fence

Leave it to my 17 year-old visiting nephew to take something as innocent as a railing and make it, well, less innocent.

While visiting the marvelous, somewhat-hidden courtyard of the Hotel de Sully (not a hotel, but rather a 17th century mansion), he suddenly starts cracking up and taking photos of a railing. I can't see why at first, stodgy old lady that I am. Then it clicks. Oh. That.

And now, of course, I can't see anything else. So I feel compelled to snap two of the manliest men I know -- my husband and a visiting friend, James -- in front of the manliest fence I know.