Below are the 15 most recent journal entries recorded in melissa_cline's LiveJournal:

Sunday, February 12th, 2006
6:34 pm	Quality of life Wintertime in Paris is bleak. Everything is grey: the sky is overcast, the buildings are drab and unadorned, and even the people favor dark, subdued colors. When one walks through a crowd looking for bright colors, all that's to be found is a scarf here, or a shopping bag there. It's hard for a Californian to stay upbeat in the face of all of the grey. I would not be surprised if the suicide rate of foreigners is higher in February... So as a California friend asked recently, how do the French people deal with it, and doesn't it bother them too? I believe it does, but they are great stoics. Recently, I was talking to an American coworker who is married to a Frenchman. I commented that I often find French web pages unintuitive, and wondered if it was a subtle effect of being from another culture. She chuckled, and said that they're just resigned to things being hard. A French company would be less likely to invest in unsability studies because its customers would be more likely to just endure the worst. Life in Paris is hard, even for Parisians. It's not any one thing, it's thousands of things that are a bit more cumbersome. The last time I flew back from California, I knew I was back here when suddenly everything was difficult! First, there was passport control, with at least one jetload of people waiting on just two (bored-looking) passport officers. Then, when I looked for a bathroom near baggage claim, what I found was a total of two ladies' toilets with a large queue of Asian teenagers ahead of me. I had brought my skis with me, and knowing that ski bags don't come out on luggage carousels, I asked where I should look for my skis; four different people gave me four unrelated answers. So I waited. When the luggage carousel had stopped moving and my skis were still nowhere to be seen, I got in line to submit a lost luggage report - to some guys who epitomized "bored office worker". I'd just finished filling out the form when my skis appeared: oversized luggage was just the last thing unloaded. So with relief, I caught the bus downtown with my skis - and with lots of company, since the train to downtown (less expensive and usually faster) was not running due to a strike. There is a flip side to the difficulty. It's a paradox that I've been thinking about for a while. Life here is harder, but the quality of life is better. I observed this clearly when needed to get buttons put on my winter coat. Before I moved here, my mother gave me a beautiful wool coat, with the caution that it would need more buttons: its only closure was at the neck. So, it stayed closed only if you were standing still and no wind was blowing... Then one Saturday afternoon, when the fall weather had just turned crisp, I was walking down the street and noticed that the neighborhood tailor's shop was open. "Oh good!", I thought, and rushed home to collect my coat. The tailor looked at my coat, frowned, and told me that if I bought some buttons then he could put them on. I carried my coat back home, crestfallen because now I would need to figure out where one buys buttons. If this seems like it shouldn't be that hard, I'll point out that there are no big box stores in Paris, by local business code. A week later, I'd learned a new word: mercier. In spite of what you might guess, this does not mean "one who gives thanks", but "purveyor of sewing supplies". I also learned that there were four merciers in my neighborhood - and they all have terrible hours. Two were closed on weekends, and not open so often during the week. The third should've been open, but just wasn't. The fourth, on first try, was closed for a two-hour lunch break. On second try, I found it open - and rushed home to get my coat. When I got back, I saw that nothing in the store was self-service, and proceeded to wait. Individual attention is the custom here, and one does a lot of waiting: the clients will take as long as they take, and you will wait patiently with the expectation that you will get all the time you need when your turn comes. Eventually, I showed the mercier my coat, explained what I needed, and got the full benefit of his artist's eye: these are the buttons you should consider, and these other buttons are wrong for the following reasons. I picked out some Italian buttons, which were a bit more expensive but fancier. I took my coat and buttons to the tailor's shop - which was closed. No explanation, just closed. Later that afternoon, I found the tailor's shop was open, and rushed over with my coat and buttons. The tailor took one look at the buttons, and said "Oh, you got the Italian ones". Then, he put the coat on me, marked where to put the buttonholes, and gave me a claim check to bring back a week later. A week later, when I picked up my coat, it was beautiful! The buttons fit the coat so perfectly that it seemed a shortcoming by the designer that they weren't on the coat from the beginning. Their location was tailored to me. The final outcome was great - but the process required _three_ valuable Saturdays! For contrast, if I'd taken the coat to a tailor in the United States, the tailor would've had some basic plastic buttons in stock, and probably would have put them on while I waited: a convenient process with a mediocre outcome. With that said, I'm learning that mediocrity and convenience have their place. The French custom of grocery shopping involves going to roughly as many different stores as there are ingredients in your dinner: one shop for produce, a second for the produce not found at the first shop, a third for meat or fish (often not sold at the same store), a fourth for staples, and so on. I personally confess to love shopping at Monoprix, a chain store with everything from produce to women's clothing. They don't have a big selection in anything (except possibly wine), but have a little of everything. Best of all, they stay open until close to 10pm! My French colleagues are bemused at 24-hour grocery stores in America, asking "How often do you really go grocery shopping in the middle of the night?". I tell them: it's not so much doing it as knowing that you could. In America, I used to make an effort to shop at small businesses, to help protect a way of life that is becoming scarce. In France, I find myself asking: whose way of life am I trying to protect, theirs or mine? On the same lines, here one does not have the same precise control over what one gets for one's money. The American business mantra is "the customer is always right". Here, it's closer to "the merchant knows best". My American colleague recently tried to order a cut of meat at a restaurant well-done, and the waiter said no; her French husband explained to her that she'd ordered a cut of meat which is valued for its tenderness, a quality that would be lost by cooking it "bien cuit". I've seen many Americans here (including myself) try to order a nonstandard variant of a restaurant meal - with varying degrees of success. In the best case, it's "not the way it's done"; at worst, it's "wrong". These days, I myself stick with what's on the menu, and deal with it. I also believe this is part of why Americans often complain about rude waiters in Paris, waiters being some of the people most likely to deal with foreigner. A week from now, I'll be in California, soaking up some sunshine (I hope), ordering food in a nonstandard way because I can - and as always, waiting to see what new things I notice about my long-time homeland when I look with fresh eyes! (Comment on this)
Monday, January 23rd, 2006
9:32 pm	Holiday photos To see some photos from my holidays, go to http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Holidays (Comment on this)
Sunday, January 22nd, 2006
8:47 pm	Happy Holidays! Dear family and friends, Happy holidays, one and all! This might not seem like holiday season anymore, but here in France, people are still eating "galette de roi" (king cake). This cake is often filled with marzipan, or covered with candied fruit, but most importantly, it's sold with a "feuve" (a little plastic statue) hidden inside, and comes with a crown. Whoever gets the piece with the "feuve" gets to wear the crown and be king or queen for the day: no strings attached, and no obligation to throw the next party in the style of New Orleans king cakes, just a day of getting attended. By tradition, the youngest person in the room sits under the table while the pieces are cut and call out who gets each piece. The person cutting the cake can often tell which piece has the feuve, but if a different person decides who gets each piece, it keeps the process fair. The official day of galette de roi might be on Three Kings' Day on January 6th, but the eating of galette de roi goes on all month. You might think from this that the French are a festive people who make big productions of the holidays, but you would be mistaken. Here, Christmas is viewed as a holiday celebrated within the privacy of the family. I'd been looking forward to seeing Paris decked out for the holidays, and was saddened by the half-hearted decorating. People claim that the Champs Elysees has beautiful Christmas lights, but they're really nothing much. Even Notre Dame had only one tree, with a few monochrome christmas lights - which was one tree more than I saw around City Hall! Probably the best christmas light display I saw in Paris was a beautiful on my neighborhood fountain, in the modest, unassuming 12th arrondisement! Thankfully, I spent the holidays in a place that was a lot more festive: as the guest of my housemate Eva and her family, in a small town in the Tyrolean Alps called Saalfelden. The holidays in Austria are utterly beautiful, and full of tradition. Houses everywhere were decorated with wreathes and christmas lights. Restaurants had their holiday centerpieces on the tables, arrangements of wreathes and candles. There was at least a foot of fluffy fresh snow on the ground. Yes, we did some skiing. trying to keep up with native Tyroleans on skis is entertaining, much like trying to ski along with ski-mounted rockets... We arrived the night before Christmas eve, and were welcomed with wiener schnitzel, prepared by Eva's father Heinrich, a superb cook. Eva's mother Marianne had fallen on the ice on the front steps just before we arrived, and looked very uncomfortable - with good reason. Later, it turned out that she'd broken her arm and her leg. So, she spent Christmas in the hospital, not making this one of the best holidays for the Steiner family. Fortunately, she was able to return home after a few days, so the family celebrated a late Christmas. Even more fortunately, she's been recovering well, and will soon have the cast taken off her arm. In the meantime, she's enjoyed being treated like a queen - even without eating the right piece of galette de roi! In Austria, the traditional Christmas celebration is not on Christmas day but Christmas eve. On that evening, the "Kristkindl" (Christ child) brings the presents and decorates the tree. There is no Santa Claus in Austria, it's the Kristkindl who is the star of the show. As Eva explained to me, this tradition requires careful coordination by the parents: one has to keep the kids occupied while "the Christ child" tends to the presents and the tree. With the onset of American commercial culture, Christmas Eve has now come to share center stage with Christmas Day, much like in Puerto Rico where children now get gifts on Christmas Day as well as the more-traditional Three Kings' Day. One tradition that remains in Saalfelden is a beautiful ceremony on Christmas Eve in the town cemetery. Everyone gathers around their family graves, which are decorated with wreathes and candles. The candles are burning with fire from Bethlehem; in the same way that the Olympic flame is carried from Greece, the fire of Bethlehem is brought to Austria (it's available at all the train stations, and Eva's mother had a candle with the fire from Bethlehem in her hospital room). A band near the graveyard plays traditional music (none of which I recognized), while everyone bows their heads in reference. Eva's father Heinrich, a man of great personality, usually sings! Heinrich was not there this year, perhaps to the relief of Eva's aunt Anneliese, who was busy enough quieting Eva and her cousin Marina as they tried to whisper greetings to each other. After about twenty minutes, the ceremony ends, and townspeople carry torches with the flame of Bethlehem to the restaurants in town. Traditionally, people would then return home to a big Christmas dinner, with the door of the living room locked until the appropriate time to unveil the work of the Kristkindl. Christmas day itself is a more quiet day, spent visiting with family. A few days after Christmas, we visited Salzburg with Eva's aunt Anneliese, who survived a bout with breast cancer not long ago, and goes to Salzburg for periodic follow-up exams. This time, very sadly, they found something. It's always sad to hear of someone with cancer, but it's especially sad hearing of it in a woman of such great spirit and personality, in the prime of her life. A few weeks prior, I'd gotten the bad news about Stephanie, the wife of my old friend Steve, who was diagnosed with breast cancer while eight months pregnant and scheduled to begin chemo two weeks after her C-section and the birth of their child. In December, I'd started talking to a breast cancer research group at LBL; now, this news has me thinking about that group even more seriously. I'm also preparing myself for 2006 to be a challenging year. We welcomed the New Year at Eva's parents' house, with Marianne back from the hospital. At midnight, we were standing by the front door with a bottle of champagne, watching the fireworks going off all over town. There is no ban on private fireworks in Austria, and there seemed to be fireworks launched from most houses in the town! The start of the New Year is always a time for reflection - and explosives (interesting combination...)! On Dec 31 2004, I'd just moved out of my beloved Solano Avenue apartment. I was too drained to party, and even too drained to catch the fireworks in downtown Santa Cruz. So, at the stroke of midnight, I was sitting alone in Jorge's hot tub, waiting for the sound of explosions to tell me that the new year had begun. As for where I'll be and what I'll be doing on Dec 31 2006, I couldn't begin to guess. At the time I started this letter, I was sitting on a bus from Innsbruck to Munich after my flight home was rerouted, and wouldn't have wanted to guess when I'd get to Paris... The big news in my life lately (and the reason I've been so late with my holiday greetings) is that I've decided to apply for faculty positions! It all began with a conversation over beer with Richard Hughey in December, and him encouraging me to apply for a position at UCSC. Now, I've applied at five universities, and am considering one more. It's been a demanding process (especially with my last-minute decision), but I have the luxury of thinking of it as a practice round. I still have over a year left in my postdoc. My main goal for this round is to interview, so that in the worst case I'll be that much more knowledgeable and experienced a year from now. So where have I applied? They're all universities in the western United States. Living in France, one comes to appreciate being connected to a place. French people have strong connections to their home regions: they might work somewhere else, but they keep a strong emotional attachment to their hometowns - and often keep property as well, with dreams of retiring there. I've always felt connected to the western United States: California, the Southwest, the Rockies - it's all good. I couldn't have guessed this a year ago, when I wasn't sure if I'd ever come back from Europe. Technically, I'm still not sure, but the odds are now better. So, where will I be at the start of 2007? I might be back in North America, starting or preparing to start a new faculty position. I might be in Paris, disgusted by everything I saw of Academia in 2006, and preparing Plan B (by now, calling it Plan Q would probably be closer to the truth). I might be in between jobs, cooling my heels in some new and different continent (that's happened before). I might no longer be. All of these things are possible - plus much more - and I wouldn't dream of estimating the odds of any of them. So, like everyone else, I'm just trying hard to enjoy the Here and Now, while I'm Here and while it's Now. As a start, if the gods of French bureaucracy be willing, next weekend I'll be on a backcountry ski trip in the Massif Central. (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 27th, 2005
3:07 pm	Happy Thanksgiving to all of you! I hope that this year's Thanksgiving finds you well. So what is going on in Paris anyway? Thankfully, there's been very little rioting inside Paris. No cars have been burned in my neighborhood, and I don't have a car anyway. Paris and its suburbs have become two very different worlds: the city itself is still remarkably calm and safe for a city of millions of people, while the suburbs have been compared to Tikrit. Nationwide, the unemployment rate is pretty high at 11%. For immigrant youths in the suburbs, it's estimated at 50%, although there are no official numbers. France's policy is to not record data on race, religion, or ethnicity, a policy that stems in part from World War II, when many Jewish lives were lost in part because the government shared information with the occupying German forces (for contrast, Jews in nations ranging from Italy to Denmark fared much better). Now, the French government no longer collects data on ethnicity, so that it cannot misuse the data in the future. Nonetheless, the elected officials have to know! One cannot live in Paris without realizing that there's a lot more poverty in the Arab and African populations than the European populations. All across western Europe, rates of immigration are high (even more so now in the age of the E.U.), birthrates among Europeans are low, and the nations are asking how they will maintain their identity. France now offers financial incentives for parents who have more than two children. But, the future population is still clearly more immigrant, and France's historic policies of assimilation and uniform treatment are not working. In 1998, France won the World Cup largely thanks to its French-Algerian soccer star, Zenedine Zidane (ZiZu). The celebrating that followed was considered a landmark moment for France, because the hero of the day was not French but French-Algerian. This is pretty bad when you consider that (a) Algeria had been part of France for a long time, and (b) Zizu is a white man. So, if Zizu is France's best example of acceptance of someone who is not European-French, this means that dark-skinned Egyptian kids still have a long way to go. When people ask me how things are in Paris, I have to respond with the disclaimer that I haven't been there so much lately. My favorite aspect of living in Europe is the travel, and I'm grateful for the amount of travel I've been doing! For Toussaint (All Saints Day, better known here as "the day after Halloween"), we had a four day weekend. I spent the weekend on a hiking trip with the Club Alpin Francais, visiting the Ariege and Aude regions of southern France. The French countryside is made for trekking, sprinkled with towns that are compact and incredibly scenic, and loaded with these wonderful establishments called "gites d'etape". These gites are found in small towns, and offer inexpensive bunk-style accommodation, warm meals, showers, and a beer after the day's trekking. We trekked through a countryside that the others said was "France Profounde", the heartland of France, where much hasn't changed for centuries, and regional characteristics dominate. The Ariege region, at the start of the trek, is known in part for its local breed of cow, and almost every cow we passed for days was characteristically white. When we reached the Aude region, I could tell without being told, because suddenly every single cow was black and white. Being in a group of a dozen French people gave me, um, plenty of opportunity to practice my French. There were many people in the group who'd traveled internationally (many to the United States) and spoke some English - but as usual, 99% of the conversation was in French. There was one Frenchman who was eager to practice his English with me: that was unusual. But, everyone was patient with my French, and seemed more than happy to answer all my stupid questions (e.g. "why are all the cows here white?"). Trekking offers a very good opportunity to practice French, as there are long periods of walking with just one or two other people. Speaking French with one other person is a whole lot easier than speaking with a dozen - which in turn is a lot easier than speaking with a dozen French people who are talking politics! Also, when Parisians get away from Paris, the tempo of their speech slows down - provided they're not talking politics! Our trek followed the "Sentier Cathar", a long-distance hiking trail past numerous Cathar castles. The Cathars were a small faction of 12th century Protestants who eventually clashed with the Catholic church, and eventually became the targets of the crusades. To defend themselves, they built a series of hilltop fortresses, most of which now lay in ruins, but the ruins are ever-so-scenic. The Cathars made their last stand at Chateau Montsegur. While the church couldn't breach the defenses of Montsegur, it could cut off the supply lines. After a long siege, the Cathars were finally captured, and most died on the stake rather than renounce their faith. Nowadays, the Catholic church holds little sway in France, where religion is not a big part of daily life, but the Cathars seem to occupy a big spot in the French soul. There are castles that are more spectacular than Montsegur, but the esteem with which people value Montsegur is unmistakable. Our trek started in Foix, and took us past the chateaus of Roquefixade, Montsegur, and Puivert. We ended the trek at a cafe by the Puivert bus station, where I wrote down the words to "Dixie" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic" for a fellow trekker who'd enjoyed travels to the Deep South. We traveled back to Paris by overnight couchette: trains outfitted with small sleeping bunks, where with some work you can enjoy a decent night's sleep. Two weeks ago, I spent a week in Italy with my mother and sister, celebrating two occasions. First, my sister had always wanted to visit Venice, and to see an opera at the historic theatre La Fenice, recently rebuilt after being burnt down. The phoenix (which translates in Italian to La Fenice) has risen from the flames yet again, has been rebuilt just as it was before, and is officially restored to its former glory. Second, my sister now has her first passport! I flew from Paris to the Pisa/Florence area on EasyJet, a discount European airline. My one-way ticket cost about $60. My mother and sister had been in Florence for a few days already, long enough for my sister to learn that some things are just done differently in Italy. Even impatient New Yorkers can't always get a quick cup of coffee. We had a beautiful day in Florence, during which I dragged them (with complaints) up the hill to enjoy the view from Fort Belvidere, only to get there as the fort was closing for the day. On the way down, to my delight, we stumbled over an electric car charging at a curb-side charging station! This is the first electric vehicle I've noticed in Europe, but to be fair, one doesn't see many in the United States these days. The next day, we took the train to Venice, where we played tourist for a few days. Venice is an utterly beautiful city, provided you can look past the souvenir shops - but even I've been noticing that over the years, the souvenir shops seem a bit harder to look past, and it seems harder to catch a glimpse of everyday life. So, we played the game of seeing which tour group leader held up the silliest banner for the group to follow. I was partial to the folding umbrella that was extended but not unfurled: at least, it was practical and multi-purpose. We did in fact visit La Fenice, which looks magnificent after its renovations. We saw an obscure French opera called "La Juive", one that's not performed very often (one has to suspend a lot of disbelief to follow the plot), but features a big, famous tenor aria. Vicki had selected seats adjacent to the Royal Box; I shudder to think of the cost... But, this meant that we had a great view. La Fenice dates from the time that going to the opera was an activity more for socializing (for getting out of one's cold palazzo) than appreciating the arts, and there's a number of boxes that face slightly _away_ from the stage. Overall, it was an unusual trip for me, staying in three-star hotels where the staff spoke English better than me. But, everyone had a good time, and the weather gods cooperated - until my return flight. I was flying on RyanAir (a different low-cost carrier), which flys from Treviso (near Venice) to Beauvais (in the outskirts of Paris). I set out before my mother and sister, as my bus to Treviso left early compared to their boat to the airport. In Treviso, we got the news that the flight coming from Paris had been canceled due to the fog, but the fog was expected to clear by the time we'd reach Paris. After some delay, we boarded a plane. The fog in Paris never did clear. We couldn't land in Beauvais, or any other Paris-area airport, and ended up landing in Lille, in northern France. We were lucky to get in, as no other plane after us was able to land. The Lille airport is tiny, and was overwhelmed by the flights that had been redirected, so we waited on the plane for two hours before they could get us off. At that point, rather than take the three-hour bus ride to Paris, I decided to take the one-hour train. I had to wait for a couple hours to get the next train, but was just as happy to have a chance to eat something and use the bathroom. Eventually, I got back to Paris at 9pm, shortly after my mother and sister had arrived back in New York City. When I got home, my housemates said, "What fog?". That was when I learned that the most foggy places in the Paris area are the airports! The next day, I cooked a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner for my housemates, giving thanks that I'd arrived in time to cook. This was also a gesture of thanks to them for looking after Neige during all my travels (including now). We cooked a "carnet" (courtesy of Eva), which turned out to be a young duck. After dinner, my housemates commented that by American customs, it was the time to watch football. I told them that watching heartwarming movies was also customary. So, we ended up watching the South Park movie in French! The spoken parts but not the songs were dubbed into French; the songs were sung in English, with French subtitles. The French was challenging to follow - high-speed, full of colloquialisms - but during a few of the songs, I could tell that the subtitled French was much nicer than the original English! It was a nice time for me to give thanks for my household, my cat, my interesting and flexible work situation - and that I'd soon be leaving for a conference back in California! At http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=italy, there are pictures of my trip to Italy and my apartment Thanksgiving dinner. At http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=franceprofounde, there are pictures from my trek along the Sentier Cathar. I ahve no pictures at this time of burning cars. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 26th, 2005
11:27 pm	A week in the Pyrenees The food and culture of Paris might be good, but my greatest joy here is the travel opportunities! Recently, when Jorge came out to visit, I had a chance for a short vacation (1 week, short by French standards) in Barcelona and the Pyrenees, the rugged mountain chain that forms the border between France and Spain. Airfare in Europe can be very reasonable in price. We flew to Barcelona on EasyJet for about 40 euros per person. EasyJet is essentially the Southwest Airlines of Europe: there are no preassigned seats, you can travel with one checked bag and one carry-on bag without surcharges, and the flight voucher states clearly that if you miss your flight, you forfeit your ticket. So, for an EasyJet flight, you make sure you're at the gate in plenty of time for your flight! We got into Barcelona at around 10pm. Considering our late arrival, I'd booked accomodations in advance: a private room at the Hostal Catalunya, a place with mixed reviews. All of the online reviews were positive about the location: just off Placa Catalunya, right in the heart of Barcelona. The downside was a definite funkiness to the place, says one who's stayed in many a funky establishment... The first taste of this was trying to get in the front door. The hostel was on the fifth floor of a building with a locked front door, a dark entryway, and no sign out front. Finally, we got in by calling from a pay phone in a nearby subway station... Jorge and I are the sort of hotel visitors who don't spend any time in the room except to sleep, so frills such as cable TV and comfortable chairs are lost on us. We both idealize "only a bed" hotels, that offer cheap rates by cutting back on the frills. While our room in the Placa Catalunya had nothing except a bed (no windows, and definitely no abundance of floor space), the room wasn't the cheapest: #@1!@*# places that offer more than beds always seem to drive up the prices! Nonetheless, in terms of quality of sleep, we can't complain. After an appropriately-late dinner of Spanish tapas, we returned to our windowless room, and slept until the next afternoon! To me, the two highlights of Barcelona are tapas and architecture. The architecture is dominated by the biomorphic buildings of Antoni Gaudi, with straight lines replaced with curves, straight columns and railings replaced with bones and tree trunks, creating houses that Dr Seuss would love! His most notable work is the "Sagrada Famillia", an on-going construction project that will some day in theory be a church. His plans were so ambitious that he knew the building would not be completed in his lifetime. The construction continues over 100 years later, fueled by private donations and visitors' fees. The facade is so rich in detail that it's mind-boggling, instant sensory overload. The building is "expected" (optimistically, it's said) to be completed in 2026, approximately 140 years after the planning started. If the founding association had wanted a church, they've been out of luck. But if they wanted a masterpiece, they've succeeded wildly. From Barcelona, we took the train to Toulouse, where we picked up our rental car: a Ford Fiesta, with unlimited mileage and full insurance, at 200 euros for six days. We got good use out of that car, trying unsuccessfully to avoid bad weather! In France, after visiting the prehistoric caves of Niaux in bright sunshine, we hiked to the stunning cirque du Gavarnie in a GoreTex-testing downpour (my GoreTex failed). With rain expected for several more days (and our innkeeper lamenting the "catastrophe!"), we drove to Spain. After a beautiful day in Valle de Ordesa, we went to sleep in an alpine refuge, and woke up to two inches of fresh snow. Back at lower elevation, it was merely raining - breaking a long-standing drought! So we got back in the car and drove to the Aragon region of Spain - where we visited the magnificent Castello de Loarre in the sun! That night, over a superb tapas dinner in the medieval town of Ainsa, we laughed about how one has to keep an open mind, and not be too committed to a pre-planned agenda. The next day, the sun came out to allow us one more beautiful hike on our way back to Toulouse, where we caught another EasyJet flight back to Paris. My highlight of the time we spent in the Pyrenees was getting a taste of exploring the wilderness in the European style. One big element of European-style adventuring is the alpine refuge system: there isn't really an equivalent in the United States. This systems consists of a vast network of dwellings scattered throughout the mountains, offering warm meals, the occasional bottle of wine, and an inexpensive bunk bed for the night (5 euros 50 for a Club Alpin Francais member like myself, 11 euros for the likes of Jorge). They're stocked with food, dishes, and blankets, so all one really needs to bring is a sheet and some money. While refuges are found in wilderness areas, towns near hiking areas feature similar institutions called Gites d'Etapes. There, people on the long-distance trekking routes can find a bunk for the night, have a warm meal, and even stock up on the next day's provisions. Long-distance trekking routes? Both in France and Spain, there are "Grand Randonees", long-distance hiking routes spanning hundreds of miles, and taking weeks to do in entirety. We hiked along various pieces of the GR10 and the GR11, the Grand Randonees in France and Spain respectively that traverse the Pyrenees from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean sea! Along the way, they make some hefty climbs, and wind through towns so picturesque that they're worthy of a postcard - except that there, these towns are merely commonplace! I dream of doing one of these, but for now I'll have to content myself with the petits randonees. For our first petit randonee, we started from the town of Gavarnie, France. Much of the French Pyrenees were closed down for the season, as the locals took a vacation between summer hiking season and winter ski season. Gavarnie, said to be a bustling madhouse in the summer, was nearly deserted in October. Other towns were deserted: not a light to be seen while driving through... We'd planned to trek up to an alpine refuge just below the Breche de Roland, a dramatic cleft in the ridge separating France from Spain. I telephoned the refuge keeper (whenever I pull off a phone call in French, it's a big event to me!), and learned that the refuge was "closed": that most of the refuge was locked up, with a small section left open for the public with mattresses and blankets. When we woke up to a sheer downpour, we didn't follow through with those plans: commented that we could persevere and get to the refuge, but what's the point... Two days later, we found ourselves staying on the other side of the Breche, at the Refugio de Goriz. It was a holiday week in Spain, and the refugio had been booked solid: we got in after a group canceled for bad weather. That night, we enjoyed a hearty dinner of pork chops with pasta, and a bottle of wine that Jorge had valiantly toted uphill. Our beds for the night were in the bottom tier of a large three-tier bunk bed, each tier holding about ten people. Even though the room was only about half-full, during the night we were treated to a full symphony of snores... In the morning, we woke up to about two inches of fresh snow with more coming down. Repeating our earlier assessment (we could tough it out, but why?), we canceled our bunks for the night and modified our plans to go enjoy the region's history. There is one of the wonders of the Pyrenees: the region is so rich in history and culture that there is always something to enjoy, no matter what the weather! The history of the region goes back about as far as the recorded history of the human race. One thing that especially excites me travel in France is the chance to visit prehistoric caves, and in the Pyrenees we visited the Grotte de Niaux. We had a couple tense moments just before the tour when the desk couldn't find our reservations but listed a reservation for two under the name of "Klemp", but we were able to convince them to give those spots to us should no Klemps appear. None did. So we were permitted to join the group, were issued our one flashlight per two people, and set off for the rough 1 km walk to see the paintings. Spectacle and presentation are art forms in France: when we neared the paintings, the guide ordered us to point our lights downward; when we were all assembled, he signaled us to raise our lights to the wall. When we raised our lights, and got our first good view of the prehistoric bison, deer, and horses, the crowd let out a collective gasp! I was stunned by how artistic they are; even by today's standards, they would be considered aesthetic. While Hollywood gives us a stereotype of prehistoric people as half-witted morons, both of the two prehistoric sites I've now seen (this and the Scara Brae settlement in Scotland's Orkney Islands) show evidence of talent and intelligence: they weren't stupid so much as less technically-advanced. To see pictures of the paintings in the Grotte de Niaux, visit http://auzatvicdessos.free.fr/NIAUX.HTM. And to see some of the other sites we visited, go to http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Pyrenees. Overall, I enjoyed the Pyrenees so much that I'm going back - this weekend! We have a four-day weekend in honor of Toussaint (All Saints' Day, better known in the U.S. as the day after Halloween), and I am taking a trip with the Club Alpin Francais to visit a number of the old castles in the area. So, look for an update after next week! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 5th, 2005
12:26 am	After six months Recently, I passed a big milestone. Six months ago, I arrived in France with seventy pounds of "luggage", including a disgusted cat. The cat is now gone, very sadly. At the time she disappeared, she was fifteen years old, hadn't been eating much for about two weeks, and had endured a very hot spell during which people were dying. I believe she left to find a place to die, as cats tend to do. Exactly what happened to her is a mystery, and at this point it's likely to remain a mystery. Even my positive-thinking friend Zakia has come to admit that she's gone. The one good thing that came from losing Cara was meeting Zakia. First, she called in response to my "Chatte Perdue" flyer to tell me about a similar cat who'd just shown up in a nearby park, a false alarm as it turned out. Then, this woman whom I'd never met before put a lot of her own time and energy into searching for my cat, long after I'd given up hope. Being part of the community here, she could do things I couldn't, such as getting people to open their garage doors, and enlisting the help of the neighborhood butcher, who it seems is the hub of information around here (even if I'd known that, I wouldn't have gotten the same amount of help that she did...). And eventually when even Zakia gave up hope, she found me another cat. When Zakia started visiting a nearby park to look for Cara, she found "Neige", a domestic cat who'd been lost or abandoned, and was living in the park. After some time, Zakia suggested that I adopt Neige. When I said I'd think about it, I set into motion a chain of events that soon spiraled out of my control! Zakia consulted with Mme. Lanfanechere, who is involved with a stray cat relief organization called "Ecole du Chats de Bercy". This organization feeds the stray cats in this area, and oversees adoption of the domesticable cats. In their adoption services, they screen the adopting households carefully, and see that prior to adoption, the cats are fixed, vaccinated, and tattooed (domestic cats in France are indexed in a nationwide database by ear tattoos). When Mme. Lanfanachere realized that Zakia intended for me to adopt Neige without going through their organization, she rounded up the cat and took her to the vet to be fixed, so that I would have to go through them. A day or two later, I accompanied an indignant Zakia to the vet's office to meet Neige; as we were there, Mme. Lanfanechere appeared miraculously, to make sure that everything was proceeding a planned. That was when I realized that the cards were out of my hands, and I would be adopting Neige! First, I had to pass an interview. I had a long phone call with M. Martine, who runs Ecole du Chats de Bercy along with his wife, and speaks magnificent english. Within minutes, it became apparent that he knew all about me, and the circumstances under which I'd lost my last cat. The flow of information here still stuns me, even though I know it shouldn't anymore... Three days later, I visited the Martines at their beautiful apartment, signed the adoption papers (there had to be paperwork!), and paid my adoption fee of 150 euros for a sterilized, vaccinated, and tattooed cat. I groaned inwardly over the price, but learned later their agency has a special arrangement with the veterinarian, and normally all that veterinary work would've cost much more. So when Mme. Lanfanechere assumed control of Neige, she did me a favor. Neige stayed at the vet's office for ten days to recover from her operation. In France, such a long veterinary stay is normal after an operation; the animal doesn't go home until all the bandages are ready to come off. If this might seem extravagant, consider that while French children are expected to behave like little adults, French dogs are allowed to do as they please. Finally a week ago, I got my cat. When I walked out my front door to go to the veterinary clinic, I found Zakia waiting for me - no surprise. At the vet's office, we met the Martines. The veterinarian walked me through all of the cat paperwork: carefully organized vaccination records, worming records, a schedule for upcoming treatments, and the form to mail in to register the cat in the national databases. Neige settled into her new household quickly, and assumed control of my bedroom. She has also assumed control of my housemate Eva, who's been visiting to feed her cat treats. Neige is not the only new member of the household. This month, Eva and I have a new housemate, an Italian informatics engineer named Calocero. This came at the end of a string of memorable housemate interviews. We advertised the apartment on a couple housemate listing boards on the web. Many people here move in September, so we talked to a lot of prospective housemates. Many seemed utterly nice, but we have the most vivid memories of the worst ones. There was an email message from a man saying that he would be renting the apartment for his son and asking about precise mechanisms for paying the deposit - without any question being raised on whether or not we'd like to live with his son. There was an Italian pastor saying he was looking for a room for his daughter who would be pursuing religious studies in Paris. When Eva asked how an Italian pastor could even have a daughter, I pointed out that there are a few (very few) non-Catholic clergy in Italy - Mormons, for instance. So when we imagined sharing an apartment with "the daughter of the Italian Mormon minister", we wondered if she would be as conservative as her father, or if she was waiting until she was away from him and could raise hell properly. But the most memorable was Philippe. When Philippe came to look at the apartment, it was obvious that he didn't like it. Yet strangely, he stayed to talk for a long time. When he finally left, he gave Eva and me both three kisses on the cheeks: not two, which is normal, but three, which is somewhat intimate... A few days later, he called Eva on her cell phone to tell her: I won't be taking the apartment, but I like you and I'm going to call you, okay? Two days later, she received a huge bouquet of flowers. When she responded by telling him she wasn't interested, he sent her more flowers a week later. When she got a friend to call him pretending to be a jealous boyfriend, more flowers appeared a week later, this time anonymously. We wonder how much of Philippe's income is spent on flowers. It seems clear that he was never looking for an apartment, but was really looking for a woman. Eva showed me the housemate listing site where he'd learned about our apartment; prospective households and prospective housemates can both enter descriptions. Most prospective housemates entered a description with little more than age and sexual orientation; I was surprised by the sexual orientation part, but Eva tells me it's customary here. Philippe, for contrast, entered a long paragraph describing how he's sociable and likes to cook - all it needed was some mention of long walks on the beach! Later, I learned from my French instructor that it's not so unusual for a man here to claim he's looking for an apartment when he's really looking for a woman. In Paris, most people are not especially open to interaction with strangers. The typical Parisian has a very static social life, with a small number of very-close friendships, established over the decades. So, people are either connected to your circle of friends, or they're strangers. So, it's said that French men invent all sorts of clever devices to come into contact with women. A Brazilian friend commented that when her own friends and family visit from Brazil, and act Brazilian (i.e. vivacious and interactive), they get swamped with attention - by men who seem to be thinking: "At long last, a live one!". With the new household, we are also inheriting new administrative duties! On Wednesday, we are due to meet with our landlady and sign a rental contract. On Thursday, I'm due to take the rental contract to the bank, to get a rental insurance policy. Surprisingly, banks are where one goes to buy insurance here - and I'm told that rental insurance is very reasonable in cost. So just when the paperwork seemed to be under control, there are new paperwork challenges ahead. Vive le France! And most recently, I celebrated my birthday! The day of my birthday was also the day of the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, the largest horse race in France. The race was at Longchamp race track, right here in Paris. To be able to take a subway ride to the French Kentucky Derby was sublime! Longchamp is beautiful, and unlike any racetrack I've visited in the United States (and I've visited plenty!). First, the horses run clockwise on a strangely-shaped grass-covered thing, not counter-clockwise on a dirt oval (the joke goes that when racehorses cross the Atlantic, they get lost in their first few races). Second, the lines for the champagne bars were almost as long as the lines for the betting windows. Third, if the facilities provided were any indication, it was not so much a place to gamble as a place to be seen. I never did find a place to buy a Daily Racing Form (or whatever its French parallel is), but there was a centrally-located shop for buying fancy hats! Unlike the American Kentucky Derby, getting a ticket was easy, and I even had no trouble securing a spot along the rail to watch the finish of the big race. This difference, I believe, is a reflection of how sports in general are a smaller part of life here than in America. When random guys meet, they don't talk sports, they talk politics (at length!). Everyone here is a cycling fan during the Tour de France, but not many people actually bike. When Paris was recently competing (unsuccessfully) to host the 2012 Summer Olympics, there was a series of posters of the French love of sports that were remarkable in how little they related to sports - they depicted a woman watching pigeons fly. And in Adam Gopnik's wonderful essay collection, "Paris to the Moon", he describes his challenges in first getting a gym membership, and then being able to work out at the gym where he was a member. At the sales desk, they offered him a special deal on a membership that would allow him to visit "as often as once per week". When he asked what would happen if he wanted to visit more often, he caught them off-guard: they were clearly prepared to convince him why he should want to come as often as once per week, but not to provide a membership for coming more often. So for these reasons, I am grateful for the large park near my apartment, and my online Crossfit workout series - thank you, Ashley! To see some photos of Neige, and the hats at Longchamp, visit http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=neige. You can also see the photos of my apartment that we assembled for prospective housemates athttp://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=appart_daumesnil-%28appart_daumesnil%40yahoo-fr%29 (Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 6th, 2005
11:41 pm	Language barriers, Part 1 I have now been in France for almost six months, have just returned from the United States, and am writing from Berlin, Germany. This seems like a great time to talk about language barriers! I'm calling this entry "Language Barrier Part 1", because I'm not pretending this will be my last word on the subject. I arrived in Paris about six months ago, having spent less than three weeks of my last thirty years studying French. So, this made me barely capable of independent survival. After months of French class two evenings per week, the situation is a lot better. Now, I no longer have that profound sense of helplessness when people stop me on the street to ask directions. On a good day, I can even answer their questions! To state the obvious, France is not Germany. Germany is a land of utterly practical people, happy to speak whatever language best facilitates two-way communication. In other words, their focus is communication, exchange of information. French people are happy to exchange information - so long as it's done in French. Americans love to complain that the French won't speak in English even when they can. There's a lot of truth to that. First, they're continually on guard against globalism (a.k.a. American culture) threatening their way of life - and to be fair, one should expect to speak French in France. It is, after all, France - not Iowa. Second, the French are a proud people, and hate to do anything they can't do superbly. So, I end up speaking in French with people whose English is far, far better than my French, so that I'm the one risking the mistakes! (It's said that the French are intolerant of bad French, but happily I've found most French people to be helpful and supportive with anyone who takes the effort. Sure, there's the occasional rude waiter, but that waiter would be rude to anyone up to and including -and especially - Jacques Chirac). Finally, the French have a love of their language that's, um, foreign to the experience of most everyone else, but hard to overstate. A professor I know from Illinois describes how a French professor declined a job in Illinois partly because he couldn't imagine not speaking French everyday. This department has many German professors, and none of them had ever expressed concerns about not speaking German! If the French are stubborn about using the French language where it's expected, such as in the cafes of Paris, they're also stubborn about using it where it's not expected, such as in international venues. English might be the de facto international tongue, but French is the tongue of the Pasteur Institute (except for my group, thankfully): most lab work, all coursework, and most seminars are conducted in French. Every word. When one overhears two German scientists talk, the conversation sounds something like "ich ein bliefrezumkufltf haltifstemullenzumeinensee log odds ratio aufgehabft". In French, However, "Hidden Markov models" become "modeles Markov cachees". Imagine my surprise when I recently learned I've been working on "epissages alternatifs" (a.k.a. "alternative splicing"). And here I thought I knew what I was doing... With that sort of language immersion, one just learns; it's unavoidable. But the steps along the way are unforgettable lessons in resourcefulness. What do you do when you arrive in a place where you can't speak the language? First, you get good at pantomime. And it's not effort spent for just a transitional period: when French people speak French, it can be a full-body activity! Second, you interact with a machine rather than a person whenever possible. Machines tend to give you written text, and written comprehension precedes oral comprehension. Third, you start with a core vocabulary and work outwards. You gradually build from "Cafe?" to "je prends une cafe creme, s'il vous plait". And, you find yourself bilingual housemates. Hugues is a native French speaker, and also speaks fine English. Eva, a native German speaker, speaks stunning French and English. Our house rule is that we speak French from Monday through Thursday, so that I can practice; on Friday through Sunday, we speak English so that Hugues gets his turn. In the beginning, this meant that Friday through Sunday were the days on which I spoke. If you're immersed in a culture, you eventually learn the language - especially if you take French classes two evenings per week, force yourself to speak with your housemates between Monday and Thursday, and apply other learning devices. In France, it's very easy to find American movies with French subtitles - always good for learning some "really choice" vocabulary! Then there's comic books, considered an art form here. Okay, so the effects were a bit weird when my first French book was a Peanuts collection on Lucy's psychiatry business (I surprised a few people with an initial French vocabulary with words for depression and fear, and got subtle questions on just how my adjustment was going!). My yoga class has been great for learning body parts, as yoga teachers come by a lot to poke you in the body part you're getting sloppy with... Right now, I'm reading "Harry Potter et l'Ordre du Phenix". At my current rate of progress, that will keep me busy for about eight months. I'm inspired by my friend Ron Miller, who now lives in Japan, has been reading it in Japanese, and reported a while ago that he was nearly through the first page. Gradually, the language barrier has been lifting. Of course that helps a lot, because I can interact with the world at large, and not just that specific class of people who interacts with tourists. But with that said, a language barrier isn't always a bad thing. I decided that the day that Victoria and I ordered four cappuccinos at the Pasteur Institute cafe, and received an angry diatribe from the barrista about how making cappuccinos is labor-intensive, and how we would be lucky to get four espressos... Then there's the sound of the language. I love the French language, but now that I'm coming to understand that the guy I'm overhearing is asking his friend to get him a chicken sandwich with no mayonnaise, something is lost. In the same way, as someone who doesn't speak much Spanish, I far prefer Shakira's Spanish recordings to her English ones because I can enjoy the power of her voice without getting sidetracked by how her lyrics are often lame... Finally, there's the entertainment factor. One day at a Pasteur Institute orientation, I was handed a blank registration form (to be passed around the class), which included a column labeled "Organisme d'Origine". I looked at that for a few minutes, and thought, "Well, I was born a human...". Lo and behold, what it was asking for was my previous organisation. It's just as well that I left the column blank! So how is my French now? As the saying goes, "Je parle comme une vache espagnole" - I speak like a Spanish cow. I'm not sure why the cows are singled out for poor linguistic skills, especially the ones from Spain, but such is the saying. While I've been working through the language barrier, I've also been doing some traveling - and enjoying life in Paris. Check out my new online photo albums: http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=lance_plus for pictures of Versailles, Annecy, and the latest Tour de France, and http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Matterhorn05 for pictures of my recent backpacking trip, back in the Yosemite high country. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 21st, 2005
11:22 am	The kindness of strangers It's now been three weeks since I lost my cat. I'm still quite sad, but life goes on. I'm grateful for the kindness and sympathy I've received from many people - including a woman I'd never laid eyes on until ten days ago. After Carita disappeared, I assembled a notice saying "Chatte perdue" (lost cat) with her picture, and put up a few around the neighborhood. By then, I wasn't really hoping for more than some closure. The weekend was approaching, and I decided I needed to get away - after being home for a whole week... So, I arranged a trip to Carcassonne, a beautiful walled medieval city in southern France, a World Heritage site. To break up the trip, I arranged to spend Friday night in Montpellier, where I would change trains, and continue to Carcassonne the next morning. Montpellier is a great place to stop for a night! It's a lively college town, with a large pedestrian-only downtown. It's summertime, and the plazas were full of sidewalk cafe tables and street musicians. A festival was going on in the main town square with antique booksellers, wine, and flamenco dancer. I'd been enjoying the sights, and had just settled down for dinner when my cell phone rang. My phone was deep in my bag, and didn't get it before the voice mail picked up. When I checked the voice mail, there was a message in French. I didn't catch all of it, but what I caught was enough: "votre chatte". I called back with my hands shaking. I reached a named Zakia woman who was disappointed to hear that I was away until Sunday, and said something about a garden. As soon as we got off the phone, I called my housemate Eva with an urgent plea for a sanity check. Ten minutes later, Eva was on the scene - I have been very lucky in my housemates! This garden is on the grounds of a large apartment building, one block down the street. It occupies most of a city block, and is full of thick bushes, grassy lawns - and stray cats. An elderly "cat lady" feeds them every night, and noticed a new cat in the garden, a timid one that kept away from the others. Zakia had spoken with the cat lady, seen my signs, and observed that the descriptions seemed to match. Eva saw a cat that seemed like Cara, although she couldn't be sure. But that was enough for me to change my travel plans and return to Paris the next day. I still couldn't imagine how an elderly cat might jump down one story onto a hard-surfaced courtyard, and find her way from the enclosed courtyard to a park down the street - but cats are amazing animals. If I went back to Paris for a false alarm, I'd lose some time. But if I didn't go back, and learned later that going back might've made a difference, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Carcassonne could wait a week. The next afternoon, Eva and I visited the garden, and realized that many cats would not show themselves until dinnertime, 9pm. That evening, Zakia came to the door at 9pm to collect me. She's fiftyish, French-raised Algerian, and unmistakably warm-spirited: she works at a nearby hospital, and volunteers at a local soup kitchen ("Restaurant de coeur" - restaurant of the heart, in French). She herself owns a handsome Maine coon cat (looks like a Maine Coon to me, although here, the breed is called "European"), who escaped once and turned up later in this garden. Other neighbors had found their lost cats in this garden. Unfortunately, I did not find mine. We looked under every bush in this garden, and several other ones nearby, until I had to excuse myself because Eva was hosting a dinner party and I didn't want to keep the others waiting. While I was sad not to find my cat, I was amazed by the generosity of this woman - who seemed prepared to look under every bush in the 12th arrondisement if it might help a stranger find her pet. The next day at dinnertime, Zakia, Eva, and I returned to the garden. We were greeted by a woman I'd never seen before, who knew precisely who I was, and reported that the cat lady was sad that the new cat wasn't at dinner that night. I've never doubted that there are underground communication channels here, but it's impressive to see them in action! When I showed the cat lady a picture of Cara, it was clear from her reaction that she'd never seen her before. End of that hope... I gave her a bag of Cara's food. It's feeding someone's lost cat, even if not mine. Zakia, still staunchly positive, led us on another expedition of area shrubs, until she had to get home to handle a food pickup for the restaurant de coeur. Since then, she's put up my "Chatte perdue" signs all over the neighborhood, and continues to stop by the garden at dinnertime to see if anything has changed. It's said that French people have a real soft spot for "pets", where a pet can be anything (or anyone) helpless and needing help. One writer I've read describes becoming a "pet" when she was on crutches for a while; neighbors whom she hadn't met after years in her building suddenly came forth to offer use of their private elevators. My mother worked with a young language teacher who was beautiful, talented, and popular - and treated harshly by the senior French teacher (one of the interesting contradictions of French culture is that beneath the relaxed exterior, there can be a fiercely competitive instinct!). Then, the young teacher became pregnant, and then the senior teacher became her biggest supporter. By getting pregnant, the young teacher had changed from "competition" to "pet" in one step. And myself, I'm a long way from home, with limited grasp of the local language and customs, and I've just lost my companion - and I believe I've become a pet! I found the experience very warming! I finally made it to Carcassonne this weekend, and it was worth the wait! The town is as beautiful as its World Heritage status suggests, with a walled city roughly two miles around, twisting cobblestone streets, and soaring watchtowers. There are some photos in http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=carcassonne. I especially enjoyed the mock jousting tournaments put on for tourists in the summertime. Never mind that it was staged, and this a bit like professional wrestling on horseback, the pageantry was great! Also in the album are some shots from my brief visit to Montpellier, and a recent cabaret show in the Montmarte district. Okay, it wasn't the Moulin Rouge - but the can-can dancers still kicked high enough to touch their legs to their foreheads - showing off every bit of their gartered stockings - and made it all look effortless! As a reminder, I'll be updating this log sporadically. If you want to get an alert when there's an update, send email to melissa_in_paris-subscribe@googlegroups.com. Anytime you want to unsubscribe, send email to melissa_in_paris-unsubscribe@googlegroups.com. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 7th, 2005
10:54 am	A sad homecoming One week ago today, I returned from a conference. This is not the journal entry I imagined writing, nor is it one I've ever wanted to write. With great sadness, I've said goodbye to a dear old friend, my cat Carita. While I was away, my housemate Eva was tending her. When she checked on her the evening before I returned, she found her hiding in her second-favorite hiding spot (after under the bed), behind the dresser, under the lab bench, where I'd laid out a towel so she'd be comfortable. Carita hadn't been eating much, but everything else seemed normal. When I returned the next day, she was gone. Not under the bed, not behind the dresser, and not anywhere else in the apartment. The window to the terrace had been open, as it often had been. Carita was a very timid cat, and loathe to venture far from known, secure hiding places. With all her opportunities to venture onto the terrace, she'd never once tried (well, once, I suppose). At first, I figured that she was mad at me for having been away, had hidden herself somewhere really good to sulk, and would be back during the night. I've been away many times, and we know this routine... But, the night passed with no cat. The next day, my neighbor across the terrace allowed me to search her apartment. No cat. The terrace opens on one side to a courtyard one story below. From the terrace, there is a four-foot drop onto a sloping roof, with another six/seven foot drop below it to the courtyard. It's unlikely that an elderly, non-adventurous, non-athletic, and somewhat clumsy cat would've gone that way, if everything was okay. Yet I got one of the neighbors to let me in and look around the courtyard: nothing. No trace. My strong suspicion is that the night before I returned, she jumped down or fell down into the courtyard. In any case, the effect is the same: I believe she left to find somewhere to die. Cats somehow know when their time is coming - my parents had one that died as they were carrying her to the vet to be put to sleep. And cat owners often report that at the end, their cats simply disappear. Sometimes, the body is found in some very unlikely place, somewhere that the cat never tended to go. Often, the cat is just gone. At the time I left, Carita was fifteen years old. She'd slowed down a lot over the last year. If she wasn't eating, she would've been getting progressively weaker. She was always smart and deliberate. So if she left her familiar hiding places (something very much out of character) and vanished, there's only one likely explanation. I put up signs around the neighborhood with her picture and my cell phone number. Nothing. One side of me looks at my neighbors and wonders who's holding back. Another side acknowledges that she was a proud animal, and would rather be remembered as she was in better days. The night before I left, I took some pictures of her, the way one photocopies one's passport before a long trip. I'm glad I did - now, I still have the pictures. They are at http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Chats, along with a picture of Saltina, Jorge's cat, who had to be put to sleep just a few weeks ago. June 2005 was a very bad month. I met Carita thirteen years ago in Menlo Park, CA. She'd belonged to the family nextdoor. There was trouble in the household: the father was led away by the police in handcuffs one night, and our landlady used to say about the wife: "Poor Melinda, such a terrible thing to happen to a family". Whatever the domestic strife was, Carita ran away from it. When the family moved away, they tried to catch her, but she was having none of it. Sometime later, she moved in with me - in that way that cats do. We lived together for over twelve years, in eight households in two nations. For me, whether or not to bring Carita to France with me was never a question. If I couldn't have brought her, I wouldn't have come. I painstakingly checked the regulations for importing animals, and accordingly set her up with a rabies vaccine and a microchip (a "puce electronique", or electric flea). She traveled to France in the airline cabin with me, and behaved like an angel. At one point late in the flight, she started fussing, tired of the strange surroundings and the tight confines of the carrier. I set her on my lap, with a luggage strap hooked into her harness so she couldn't run off to any deep, dark corners of the plane, and she curled up calmly and dozed off. A flight attendant passing by told me: you should keep her hidden, animals are supposed to stay in their carriers, I haven't seen her yet. My new co-workers found this response utterly French: selective application of the regulations. This past weekend, I tearfully packed up the pet supplies and moved them into the cellar. I expect to adopt another cat, in time. My housemate Hugues is mildly allergic to cats, but has just bought an apartment and will be moving out in a few months. While I'll be sorry to see Hugues move on, I look forward very much to having a new companion one of these days. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, June 13th, 2005
11:38 am	One more catch with that cell phone... Yesterday, I forgot to mention how there's one more catch with my new cell phone: the documentation is all in French! I even checked the manufacturer's web site - and determined that there is no documentation available in English (FWIW, the phone is an NEC N342i, and was essentially free with my cell phone plan). I made this discovery when I was first experimenting with the phone at home; I turned it off, and when I turned it back on, I was prompted for the access code. I did find the default access code in the manual - after a few horrible minutes of fearing that I'd have to use another Saturday to go back to the cell phone store! So what's taking so long with this manual? Three words: La Académie Française! I'm referring to the legendary institution that guards the French language from vile pollution from other languages, namely English. Not long ago, one of my co-workers confirmed something I'd suspected: informatics technical jargon is one of their priorities. There are technical terms that might be derived from English but have become part of the de facto vocabulary in most of the world: email, for instance. Here, while these terms might be understood and used, they are not "officially" French words, and when you learn the official word, you sometimes say to yourself, "hmm, I wonder how they came up with that one...". So while the common technical term might have everyday use here (internet cafes here advertise "email" services), official forms and publications - and cell phone manuals - use the Academy French. The term for email is "courriel". Likewise, my cat is not identified with a microchip, she has a "puce électronique", an electronic flea. So for fans of irony: to get my cat ready for the move, while I had to subject her to various vaccinations and treatments to control what micro-organisms she might be carrying, I also had to get her outfitted with an "electronic flea"! My employee badge and transit pass also have "puces électroniques". Scientists here at the Pasteur Institute don't work with "DNA microarrays" but rather "puces ADN": DNA fleas. Most words of the form micro-something turn into fleas... An interesting point here is that French and English co-evolved, and are similar as a natural consequence. So when La Académie Française selects an emphatically non-English translation for an English-derived term, the effect is aberrant, and in contrast with traditional French. In my French language skills, I've almost gotten to the point where I can recognize them; when reading a document, there are the words I recognize, words for which there's a reasonable guess given the context, and words for which I couldn't begin to guess! The last ones often turn out to be Academy words... (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 12th, 2005
3:55 pm	If you get sick in France, you just go to the doctor! This week, I'll start with a quick update: I now have a cell phone! My phone number is +33-6-9966-6142. I got to pick the last four digits, and picked them to be the same as my home phone number: +33-1-4474-6142. For completeness, my work phone is +33-1-4061-3607. To get the phone, I remembered the words of Benno: that in spite of claims of online access or automated processes, nothing much gets done in France until there is a face-to-face meeting. So I finally sacrificed some all-valuable Saturday hours (with almost everything closed on Sundays, and evening hours ranging from limited to none, Saturdays here become marathons of errand-running!) and visited a Bouygues Telephone store. The whole process took about an hour, and involved exchanging lots of paperwork, but I finally left the store with a working phone! At the cell phone store the manager had looked up my old order, and reported that they'd tried to mail me a phone but the phone had been returned. So here we are back at Step 1: challenges in receiving mail! My housemates tell me that this can mean two things: that my phone had been returned, as described; or that their shipping department was lagging and making up stories. In any case, this makes two reports of packages not making it to my apartment reliably, although letters seem to be arriving just fine. Until this is straightened out, if there's any packages headed my way, please send them to me at work: Melissa Cline Unité de Biologie Systémique Institut Pasteur 25-28 rue du Docteur Roux 75015 Paris France So far, no one has told me that I shouldn't receive personal mail at work... For letters, my home address still seems fine: Melissa Cline 58 rue Claude Decaen 75012 Paris France As another landmark experience this week, I had my first taste of the French health care system. The weather here was cold and rainy until late May, and now we have cold, rainy days alternating with hot, muggy ones. On Monday, I came down with a cold. While Americans become experts at patching themselves together, the French go to the doctor at the first sign of imbalance (critics call this a nation of hypochondriacs). On Monday, when I told a friend I had a cold, she couldn't believe I hadn't been to the doctor. When I said that it was only a cold, she looked confused, apparently decided for herself that I hadn't been to the doctor because I didn't have one yet, and suggested that the Pasteur Institute's staff physician might write me a prescription for something. I assured her that it was only a cold and I needed no prescriptions, and made a mental note to stop by the grocery store and pick up some throat drops on the way home from work. In America, there are a small number of large grocery stores, open all hours. Here, there's a myriad of tiny grocery stores, with nothing distinguishing them except one's one one block, the other is on another. In general, they're closed by mid-evening. So on the way home, I stopped at Monoprix, the grocery store that's my new favorite because it's large, and you can go in until 9:30pm (whoo hoo!). Although I hadn't seen a lot of cold medicines in the stores, I hadn't looked. Since Monoprix sells everything from vegetables to women's clothing, I figured it would be my best bet. When I left the store, I had... hard candy! Lo and behold, medicine here is only sold at pharmacies, whether over-the-counter or prescription medicine. Like grocery stores, pharmacies tend to be small - and there's a small pharmacy every few blocks. In my neighborhood, there are two pharmacies situated on opposite sides of the main square. I'm really not sure what differentiates them - besides one being on opposite sides of the square. People here cultivate personal relationships with the staff at their neighborhood pharmacies, and if none of these pharmacies have a great selection, no one cares. My co-workers who've lived in America are bemused by the idea of the big box stores: why do you need all that selection? Isn't one brand enough? By Tuesday, I was sick. When you work in France, you don't have an account of sick days, as you do in the United States. When you get sick, you go to the doctor: whichever doctor you choose. The doctor gives you formal permission to stay home from work for a specified amount of time, and gives you a prescription to take to the pharmacy. With your numéro de sécurité sociale and matching Carte Vitale, your visit to the doctor and your prescription drugs cost you little to nothing. It seems so simple and sensible, and my own experience was positive. On Tuesday morning, I paid a visit to a nearby medical clinic, recommended by my housemate Hugues (yet another advantage of having housemates!). It was hard to drag myself to the clinic when I felt too crappy to go to work, but that was the only bad part. The clinic has walk-in hours in the morning; I gave my name at the front desk, and was seen by a doctor less than fifteen minutes later. The doctor gave me a quick, efficient exam, and prescribed two days of rest along with a short course of antibiotics (I'm told that they love prescribing antibiotics here, never mind those warnings of increased drug resistance...). I've received my numéro de sécurité sociale but not my Carte Vitale (which are to be used together but mysteriously are sent at separate times), so paid 20 euros out of pocket for the visit and 21.50 for the prescription drugs. In theory, I'll get reimbursed for most of that after - of course - more paperwork. Health care is one of three branches of French social services; the others are unemployment and retirement. Here, the standard retirement age is 58 (which will soon be a full ten years younger than in the U.S.), and unemployment coverage is so high that while unemployed, people receive almost as much money as they do while working. I feel lucky to experience one branch of the system at a time when its future - and that of France - is at a crossroad. Like much of Europe, France has seen a spectacular economic decline in the last ten years. The "Non" vote on the European Consisitution two weeks ago was seen not so much as a vote against the constitution, which few people had read, but a reflection of economic insecurity and a protest of how little the Chirac government has been able to do in damage control. In a situation a bit like the red and blue states in the U.S., the "Oui" voters were largely well-educated and urban, and see European economic unity as the best hope for France; "Non" voters were largely less-educated and from rural areas, and fear losing their status quo to immigrants from less-affluent E.U. nations. With the weakening of the E.U. and the recent reshuffling of the well-shuffled Chirac cabinet, many are asking how long France can hold onto these fine social programs. A recent New York Times opinion piece asked howFrenchman working thirty-five hours per week expects to compete with an Indian who is prepared to work thirty-five hours per day. The volume of indignant responses showed what a nerve that touched - even as far away as New York might be! Speaking of first-hand perspectives, I am looking forward to visiting the U.S. next week for a conference, and seeing my homeland with fresh eyes. The conference will be in Detroit, MI. Normally, I'd be miffed that an international conference, previously in wonderful spots like Sydney, Heidelberg, and Montreal, had to pick Detroit. But this year, after three months in France, I can't wait to see what I notice about Detroit! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, May 29th, 2005
11:46 pm	Paperwork To some people, the symbol of France is the Eiffel tower, or a baguette and a fine bottle of wine. As for me, I'm starting to associate France with the paperclip. France has a reputation for bureaucracy, and in my experience, that reputation is well-deserved. Here is a sample of my experience. When I opened my bank account, the papers I provided included my passport, the rental receipt on my first apartment, and my employment contract. This was at the second bank I tried, the one that was easy to work with. At the first bank, I was also asked for electricity and telephone bills, and my rental insurance policy - things that struck me as having little to do with finance. But that is behind me, as now I have a bank account. The application for my work visa ("carte de séjour") has been handled mostly by the human resources department at the Pasteur Institute, to my deep gratitude! I don't know all they've done behind the scenes - and I probably don't want to know! But what I've provided for this effort (so far) has been: my passport; my birth certificate, translated into French by a certified translator; my grad school diploma, also translated into French by a certified translator; proof of income from my previous position (hint: it was a lot bigger back then!); four passport photos; and my body for a medical exam. As of this week, one page of my passport is occupied by a French government sticker emblazoned "Titre de séjour"! In France, to take advantage of government-supported health care, one needs a "numéro de sécurité sociale". This has special importance when you work in France: instead of accumulating sick time, you go to the doctor when you're sick and get a note excusing you from work. So I was glad I started work in the spring, not when the winter flu season was at its worst... To apply for a social security number, I provided formal paperwork stating I'd applied for a carte de sejour, my employment contract, a recent pay stub, my birth certificate (translated into French, of course!), and a "Relevé d'Identité Bancaire" (RIB) identifying my bank account. At the beginning of this week, I received a letter with my new social security number! In some ways, the worst has been applying for a cell phone plan - because it's been so much worse than I expected! My expectations were set in part by my housemate Hughes, who told me "It's easy, you can apply online, and then the phone arrives in about a week". This made sense to me, given that I'd had a couple cell phone plans in the U.S. and never provided much more than my credit card number to open them. So, I put in an online application. But what Hughes had failed to mention was the email message that arrives after applying online and before receiving the phone, outlining the paperwork to send in. By their instructions, I sent them a packet with two different contracts completed and signed, a photocopy of the main pages of my passport, and an RIB and a voided check for my bank account. Additionally, because I'm at a new address, I had to provide them with proof of residence for my current address. Before I moved into my apartment, I explained to Hughes and Eva that I would need formal proof of residence while applying for my carte de séjour. Hughes assured me that they'd been through this and knew the process well. When I moved in, he provided me with a proof of residence assembled using his scanner: a scan of my passport and his carte de sejour, with a handwritten note from him stating that I live in his apartment. When I saw this thing, looking very much like something assembled on a home computer, I was skeptical that it would be accepted in any sort of official capacity. But when I took it to the bank, my banker accepted it without the slightest argument or sideways glance, and updated the address on my account. Emboldened, I took my new proof of residence to the human resources office at work. There, I was met with a demand for additional paperwork: something to prove that Hughes really lives in our apartment! That is, some proof besides the address on his ID... Acceptable forms of proof, I was told, would be his name on a recent utility bill, rental contract, or rent receipt. For the rental receipt, I knew that Mme. Grisoni had left a handwritten receipt with no one's name on it. So I asked Hughes about utility bills and rental contracts. My highly-organized housemate replied that all the utility bills are in the names of former tenants, and the whereabouts of the rental contract are unknown, "perhaps in the kitchen". So one morning, I did an exhaustive search of the full kitchen - and located the rental contract, clearly listing Hughes' name! When I brought it to the H.R. department, then my change of address went through without any further argument. So when I applied for my cell phone, I followed the instructions to provide proof of address for my new apartment. Accordingly, I sent one of these handwritten notes from Hughes along with a photocopy of the rental agreement: proof that was good enough for the bank, the H.R. department of the Pasteur Institute, and indirectly the Prefecture de Police. But it wasn't good enough for Bouygues Telecom! Shortly after sending them my paperwork, they called to ask me to also include some proof that Hughes has lived in this apartment within the last three months! Obligingly, Hughes fished out the handwritten rental receipt from Mme. Grisoni, and wrote his name in the empty space next to "Nom:". After I photocopied the receipt, I had to admire how effectively the photocopy machine had emphasized the two different handwriting styles... Nonetheless, I assembled yet another packet, with everything from the first packet plus a photocopy of the rent receipt. In total, it barely fit into one envelope, and I was left wondering if it needed extra postage. At this time, I still have no phone. My current theory is that the last envelope got lost in the mail. So I am now assembling a second packet of two contracts, filled out and signed; a photocopy of the key pages from my passport; a RIB and cancelled check from my bank account; and proof of address in the form of a homemade document endorsed by Hughes, a photocopy of the rental agreement, and a photocopy of the rent receipt (different handwriting and all). I'll mail it in a large envelope with extra postage. Given the options for a one-year or a two-year contract, I'd chosen the two-year, having assessed that it was more cost-effective for anything beyond one year and eight months. When and if I ever receive a phone, we'll see if I have at least one year and eight months left in my two-year postdoc! To keep myself organized and prepared, I have an accordion folder with photocopies of all my important documents. I pull out this folder whenever I'm asked for documentation. Once in a while, everything I need is already in the folder. At other times, I note to myself that when and if I can get the missing documents, I should make a copy of them and add them to the folder. Soon, I expect this folder to grow to the size of a rolling suitcase... But, as I remind myself on the days when the paperwork swells, I came here in part to experience a new culture - and I'm experiencing it! Now with all of that said, it wouldn't be fair of me to give the impression that living in France is always frustrating. Living here as a new expatriate is a bit like mountaineering. Generally speaking, about 10% of the time, it's frustrating, maddening, or terrifying. For another 10% of the time, it's pure bliss. For the remaining 80% of the time, it's simply hard work. The reward of the hard work is the satisfaction you get from looking back occasionally, and seeing how far you've come. I have many parts of my new life here set up. My language skills have progressed enough to carry on simple conversations. And with a critical mass of work done in Paris, I've started to have time to explore the French countryside. I've made recent trips to Provence (Arles and Les Baux) and Bretagne (Mont Saint Michel, Saint Malo, Rennes, and Dinan), and hope to spend a weekend soon in the Loire valley. At http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Chapter2 you can see photos from my recent trips, recent explorations around Paris, my new apartment - and my proof of residence and rent receipt! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 4th, 2005
10:40 pm	Home is where the WiFi is When I first arrived in France, I had a temporary apartment to stay in for a while: a vacation rental, essentially, inexpensive compared to hotels but expensive compared to "real" apartments. When I arrived, I was advised to start looking for a "real" apartment without delay - not simply to avoid the expense of a temporary apartment, because it's a process that can take a long time. Paris has a low vacancy rate, landlords can afford to be selective, and the better apartments get snapped up as soon as they go on the market. I was also starting with a few strikes against me: the lack of an insider's knowledge and connections, a language barrier, and a cat (which is really the smallest of the three barriers, given that many people have dogs - which accompany them _everywhere_). The housing search looked daunting, but I couldn't wait to start! After a few weeks living in a 22 m^2 studio, I was feeling clastrophobic - and isolated. So, I decided to look for a "colocation", a room in an apartment with other people. With the right people, there's a lot to be said for apartment-sharing: companionship, lower rent, and in-house sources of local knowledge. But in Paris, apartment-sharing is unusual: Parisians who want company don't take housemates, they adopt dogs. So I turned to FUSAC, a classified ads periodical targeted at American expatriates, and a great resource for information on things more to the tastes of foreigners than Parisians (yoga classes is another example). And in addition, anyone who advertises for a housemate in FUSAC is willing to consider an English-speaking foreigner, by definition. Indeed, that was how I found my apartment. Someone had been lined up for the room but had backed out four days before Chris, the outgoing housemate, was leaving for a new postdoc assignment in England, and fifteen minutes before I sent my email. So right after I sent my message, I received an eager phone call from Chris, who'd had fifteen minutes to wonder when he might get his deposit back! When we learned that he is a molecular biology postdoc working with Affymetrix chips, and I am a systems biology postdoc who'd worked for Affymetrix, it turned into a long phone call! Two days later, I went to see the apartment and meet my prospective housemates: Hughes, from Belgium; and Eva, from Austria. Chris bought pizza, and Hughes shared some Belgian beer, making it my friendliest housemate interview ever. The one stumbling block appeared to be the cat. Hughes is slightly allergic to cats, but when I explained that my cat would never leave the room and would usually be under the bed, he decided that would be okay. Anyone who knows Carita realizes I wasn't exaggerating! The next day, I was offered the room; after one night's sleep, I accepted. My housing search was over almost as soon as it started. Every apartment has its quirks. This apartment was built to be a veterinary clinic. My bedroom has an old lab bench, a sink with foot pedals instead of faucets, and a drain in the middle of the floor. Our living room ceiling consists of glass tiles set in concrete, in the style of a 1950s office building. But this also gives the apartment some unique advantages. The living room is full of naturall ight even on winter days. I love having a sink in my bedroom, and now find the foot pedals very convenient rather than quirky. As for the drain, it's covered by a rug so I don't drop any earrings down it. At 160 m^2 for three people, the apartment is unusually spacious for Paris. But the best part is the "terrace". My bedroom window opens out to the top of that strange living room ceiling, which is strong enough to walk on. It overlooks an enclosed courtyard, and contains a small garden. It feels quite mediterranean, with a patchy paint job on the next building. And it's right outside my bedroom window! As for the rest, I don't regret my decision in the least. I could not ask for nicer housemates; both Hughes and Eva are proving to be friends and valuable sources of local information - and are remarkably patient with my efforts at French. And even if they're not always the most tidy, we all have our faults. I, for instance, have a cat. Along with our quirky apartment comes a quirky landlady. Mme. Grisoni is an artist, is lively and personable, and when she collects the rent once every two months, she expects cash. It doesn't seem to be for tax purposes: she always provides a receipt; and when Chris was interviewed the tax inspector, he learned that the tax inspector was aware of everything (I don't know when one gets interviewed by a tax inspector, and hope to never find out!). Whatever her reason, it means that once every two months, we have to come up with about three thousand euros of cash. This gets creative in Paris, where people use bank cards instead of cash, ATMs have tight weekly withdrawl limits as well as daily limits, and where banks just don't keep much cash at hand. So my housemates emphasized that when Mme. Grisoni came to collect the rent, I should be ready with cash. Right then, a french ATM ate my ATM card. At that point, I had a French bank account with no money (having not been paid yet), and all my money back in the U.S. Wire transfers are impossible to set up unless you're at the bank that's sending the funds, while transferring money by ATM is easy (provided you have a card). That's what I was working on when one morning, my ATM card was retained by instruction of my home bank! Nine long hours later, when the business day began in California, I learned that there was a simple explanation: my card had expired. In the midst of the moving frenzy, I'd never checked that the bank had my new mailing address, and the replacement card hadn't caught up with me. But what saved the day was a second ATM card, the one I'd never wanted and had almost destroyed. I'd ended up with an E-Trade bank account as a consequence of exercising some stock options. When E-Trade sent me an ATM card, I'd decided to destroy it rather than guard another sensitive piece of plastic. Somehow instead, I kept it, set the PIN, and threw it in a file that came to France with me. So thanks to this second card, the one I'd never wanted, I was able to assemble my expected cash rent payment. This reinforces my new rule of thumb: you should never have only one of anything that you depend on. The rest was easy. When I decided to buy a bed rather than start out with the dubious one stored in the cellar, I found a full-sized sofabed priced to move (literally, by a couple who wanted it out of their apartment more than they wanted the money), half a block down the street from work! I went to look at it after work, on my way to my Metro station! Whenever I get that lucky, I consider it a hopeful sign that I'm on the right track. I moved it the next Saturday thanks to Benno, who lives in the suburbs with a family of five and has a minivan. On Sunday, I moved in with my cat, who'd sensed that another move was coming, but seemed relieved that this one entailed a short Metro ride rather than a long plane flight. The last, critical step was the internet connection. The apartment already had DSL, but within one week of observing Hughes' usage patterns, I decided that one computer on the network would never be enough for us! At such a time, the perfect thing happened: an experienced sysadmin came to vist! Jorge came out from California for a week, and earned his welcome several times over by setting up the apartment's new WiFi network. The worst part of that was configuring Hughes' desktop machine, which ultimately required a Windows reinstall. Reinstalling Windows can be an ugly, time-consuming process; Hughes tried everything else first. Jorge showed remarkable patience at spending hours of his Parisian vacation helping Hughes with last-ditch efforts with little chance of success, gamely saying "Sure, let's try that!". When I complimented him on his patience, he repeated a favorite quote, learned courtesy of a friend of my mother's. One day, driving through the countryside, this woman hit and killed a chicken; when she explained the situation to the farmer and offered to cover his loss, he staunchly refused, saying "Them hens has got to learn!". Now, I am finishing this entry on my laptop, using that very WiFi connection set up by Jorge. As someone who uses the web for everything from banking to phone calls, I can say that life has gotten much, much better! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, April 11th, 2005
8:18 pm	Photos To see some photos of Paris and my apartment, visit http://www.bioinfocus.com/gallery/view_album.php?set_albumName=Chapter-1. (Comment on this)
Saturday, April 9th, 2005
2:57 pm	The simple pleasure of receiving mail Being new in any city means constantly being disoriented. Simple questions such as where to buy a new toothbrush are not ones that can be answered easily, as they can be at home. That disorientation is an order of magnitude greater when one is in a new country, where people buy stamps at the tobacco shops and do their banking at the post office. And if one is in the new country with a language barrier, so much the worse... It's been about three weeks since I arrived, with 100 pounds of checked luggage and a cat disgusted from several hours of being jostled around in a small cat carrier. The trip itself went smoothly. On the plane, I was seated next to a semi-retired human rights lawyer with a warm, personable manner similar to my colleague Dan Bartell from Affymetrix. Talking to him calmed me down enough that I avoided bursting into tears as I'd done that morning. When Carita gave me the riot act because she couldn't hold it any longer and she'd soiled the liners of her carrier, he offered to stand up so I'd have more room for replacing her soiled liners with clean ones, and was even willing to take the soiled liners to a trash can for me. When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport, I was prepared for the customs agents to scrutinize the cat. But after all my careful work getting her vaccinated and microchipped, all the health checks with bonus tapeworm treatment and tick treatment, no one paid any attention to the cat. If you ever need to smuggle contraband into Paris, I recommend carrying it in an under-the-seat cat carrier! Initially, we would be staying in a short-term studio not far from the Pasteur Institute. The studio is a whopping 22 square meters in size! To put that into perspective, imagine a small bedroom in a contemporary American house. Add a bathroom just large enough for a toilet, sink, and shower stall, a kitchen of approximately the same size, and a small hallway connecting the three. That is 22 square meters! With the sofabed in its bed configuration, there is enough room left over for a small table with two chairs, a few small cabinets, and the small clothing rack that functions as my closet. With the chairs pushed up against the table, there is just enough floor space to roll out my yoga mat - most of the way! In the morning, when I stretch out for Big Toe Pose, my feet are under the table. These short-term rentals are essentially vacation rentals. They're fully furnished and appointed, with dishes in the kitchen, towels and toilet paper in the bathroom, and sheets on the bed. They come with everything short of people already living there! They're inexpensive (and comfortable) compared to hotels, but pricey compared to "real" apartments. So my first big goal - the formidable one - was to find myself a real apartment. This is not easy in Paris, where the vacancy rates are low, the landlords can be selective, and the good apartments are taken as soon as they're advertised. But if finding an apartment was the first goal, it wasn't the first step. In mountaineering, you don't focus on the summit, because the summit is impossibly far away, too frustrating. Instead, you focus on the next rock. In the same way, my adjustment to life here has proceeded in little baby steps. The first baby step involved making sure I could receive mail at my apartment. This might sound simple enough, you would think... To explain the progression of what followed, I should explain the layout of my building. It is one of two that open on a small paved courtyard, containing a shed that houses the garbage cans. From the front door, the left and opposite sides of the courtyard are a solid wall, while the buildings form the right side. Each building has a main entryway, with the doorbells for the apartments; the entryway opens onto the staircase leading to the apartments. The building side of the courtyard also has several mysterious doors, opening on the other side only, accessing the small shops in the ground floor of the building. Step 1: ask the rental agent, in my broken French, if I can receive mail at the apartment. Step 2: Get his reply in English: "No problem, just explain to the situation to the gardener". There follows directions to find the gardener's apartment. Step 3: Go home to discover that there is no apartment that fits the rental agent's description. Step 4: Playing the game of "what if he meant left instead of right" and "what if he meant this doorway instead of that", identify a doorway that seems a logical choice for the gardener's apartment, as the apartment opens directly onto the courtyard rather than a stairwell. Step 5: Ring the doorbell. Ask the man who answers the door where I might find the gardener. Get his indignant reply that there is no gardener. Given that the courtyard is paved with few potted plants, consider that this seems logical. Step 6: Consider that "gardener" might be the wrong word. Learn the words for "building" and "manager". Fail to learn the correct pronunciation of the first one. Step 7: A few evenings later, finding a young man working in the shed, ask where I might find the manager of this building. Note from the confusion flickering across his face that whatever I just said needs improvement. Step 8: Follow the young man through a doorway at the side of the courtyard, into the grocery store on the ground floor of the building, and over to the manager of the grocery store. Explain to him, while standing knee deep in the inventory of his cluttered cleaning department section, that he's probably not the person I'm looking for. Step 9: Get confirmation from the manager of the grocery store that I'm not the person he's looking for, he doesn't know anything about Mme. Malgouyard or her apartment, and he can't help me with my mail. Step 10: In reading a guide for newly-arrived expatriates, learn a new word: guardien. Step 11: With some careful orchestration, walk out the front door of the building into the courtyard at the same time as another tenant. Ask her where I might find the guardien. Step 12: Have her lead me to a doorbell on the other building labeled "concierge". When I pressed that doorbell, a tired-looking woman appeared in her bathrobe. To keep the conversation brief, I flashed my rental contract (paperwork is central to life in France!), and explained that I was the tenant in Mme. Malgouyard's apartment and wished to receive mail. There was no flash of confusion. Instead, she asked me to write down my name. Promising! At this point, the hypothesis was that I could receive mail. As scientists, we test hypotheses. So, I bought some stamps at the neighborhood tobacco stand, and mailed a letter to myself. Meanwhile, I'd learned a couple more things about the custom of the guardien. One service often performed by the guardien is keeping a spare set of keys, for emergency. In general, I'm quite wary about getting locked out of my apartment. I should add here that just after I'd moved into my old apartment in Berkeley, I locked myself out while looking for a good hiding place for spare keys... I'd also learned that while there is less tipping in France than in the U.S., the guardien gets tipped once or twice per year. So after I secured an extra set of keys from the rental agent, I rang the guardienne's doorbell one more time. Before I said a word, she handed me my test letter! I got out the spare keys, and asked her if she had spare keys to the apartment. One set she already had looked to be a perfect match. And finally, I handed her a twenty euro note, explaining that it was thanks for all her assistance. She reacted with an obvious delight that needed no translation! Twenty euros might seem a lot for a place where I'll be staying just a short time, but to me, it's money well-spent if it earns me the goodwill of someone I'll be relying on, in many small ways. The next day, I arrived home to find a letter from my parents waiting at my front door. And the next day, there was a letter from my new bank, the one that finally let me open an account without providing a utility bill. Receiving mail might seem a simple thing, but aside from being essential for everyday commerce, it's a valuable lifeline for one who's far from home! So with that hint, here is my mailing address - at my new apartment, which I'll describe in my next installment: Melissa Cline 58 rue Claude Decean 75012 Paris France (Comment on this)