Mr. and Mrs. Sprat

"Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean
And so between them both, you see
They licked the platter clean."
- nursery rhyme

Anyone who has ever traveled with friends knows it isn't always everything it's cracked up to be. You may love someone, but find yourself on an overnight bus, or inadvertently withdraw enough Hungarian florints to buy the whole country and you may find your friendship on the outs. I actually just read an article about a couple that took a three month long honeymoon, which nearly ended in divorce. I, on the other hand, am living the above nursery rhyme.

Despite never having traveled together Teena and I are like Mr. Sprat and his wife: she likes dark meat, I like white; I bring the conditioner, Teena has the eye makeup remover; Teena tripadvisor plans all of our travels, I make dinner and find killer flight deals. We're even complimentary bloggers: She tells you all about the beauty and culture of our travels, and I share the side story adventures in which we find ourselves. We're two peas in a pod.

Note: Though I will not make any estimations about who's the Mr. and who's the Mrs. I will tell you that Teena went to the restroom marked "Caballeros" (translation: gentlemen) last night.

Marketing 101

After one and a half months in Paris I should probably be posting pictures of Parisian sites - Sacre Coeur, the Eiffel Tower, the shoe store by us where I covet nearly everything.  Instead, I thought I'd put my Kellogg marketing training to use and dissect a sign which has amused me the whole time we've been in Paris.

Ok, let's start with the circles in the center, which I've helpfully linked with a line for you.  

     - Left center circle: Union Jack on tongue

     - Right center circle: Wall Street reference

I guess the Wall Street Institute is so busy teaching English that they can't be bothered with geography.

Let's move down to the tiny circle in the center of the same ad.  That is a footnote.  Why does an ad need a footnote you may wonder.  Well, if you are trying to reach an audience that is looking to learn English, then perhaps running your ad in English is not the best idea.  Consequently, the Wall Street Institute has had to add a translation at the bottom of their ad...thus the footnote.

Now let's head right to the ad that has likely been distracting about 50% of you.  In this case the lingerie model is actually selling lingerie, but I understand if you're confused.  Here in France lingerie models are used to sell everything from diet pills to toilet cleaner.  (Note: If you are thinking that this happens in the US as well, I can assure you that it is much more egregious here in France.)  Heck, when you have grandparents making out on the Metro you have to do something to catch people's attention.  Actually, I guess all the loving going on in the Metro makes the placement of this lingerie ad pretty fabulous.

And finally, moving all the way to left to the lovely woman standing against the half wall.  She has absolutely nothing to do with either of these ads, but since she happened to be in my picture I thought I'd point out the Parisian uniform du jour:

     1.)  Black tights with boots

     2.)  Mini skirt (typically jean) / short shorts

     3.)  Intricately wrapped scarf

I'm certain that in that large purse she is carrying around the requisite pack of cigarettes.  Sadly though, if she's looking to learn English I'm guessing the sign in front of her is of no use.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten...

I am still struggling with the concept of lines in France...or, more appropriately, the lack thereof.  I think I learned how lines worked in kindergarten.  One person got to be the "line leader" - this usually involved wearing a paper crown - and everyone in the class followed after them.  It is not a hard concept.

Last week, during one of our 30 minute class breaks - everyone needs time for "une smoke" - I ran over to grab a much needed cup of "cafe au lait."  Apparently, everyone else in school had also decided to grab a snack as I found myself further back in line than ever before.  But no matter, there is no such thing as being late to class here in France.  After waiting in line for a few minutes a group of students arrived and hopped into line with the people directly in front of me.  Now, if perhaps you have gotten the only professor here who cares about timeliness, and you desperately need a cup of coffee I am more than happy to let you step in, but when you act as if I'm too dumb to notice that you just appeared out of nowhere it simply insults my intelligence.  Wanting to avoid a fast-paced French altercation, I just stared at the people in front of me and hoped that they would get the message.  This did not work.  Eventually, one of the guys in front of me turned back and snootily said to us in French, "that is just how things are done here in Fr-ah-nce."  Tired of being the lone rule follower I walked past, joined a friend in front of him, turned around and in my most perfect French said, "well when in France..." 

I felt proud that I was finally learning parisian, until I realized that while I stood there feeling guilty - this is what happens to us rule followers - they simply couldn't have cared less.  Perhaps I'm going to start walking around with a paper crown.

"Lousy French"

Ok, so our French isn't really that terrible. It is also not really that good. But we can get by even if at times it is a bit of a tag-team effort. One of our biggest challenges is that sometimes things in France just don't make sense to Americans. So while we may be in fact understanding something quite clearly, our American brains are telling us that this is not possible. Instead of assuming cultural differences we often assume that the misunderstanding is due to our lousy French.

For example, just last week Teena and I decided to walk through Montparnasse cemetery (don't judge - this is such a normal thing to do that the guard at the gate happily gives you a map as you enter). Not 5 minutes into our "sightseeing" we saw a sign on a badly neglected grave that we thought was saying that the grave was going to be repossessed.  I read it, Teena read it, I read it again...we looked at each other, pointed to the words, decided that this was not possible...how could a grave be repossessed? "Lousy French." Why didn't Berlitz teach us the verb "to repossess?" We read this sign on various unattended graves hoping for clarity, but we kept coming to the same conclusion: It is not saying that the graves are going to be repossessed, that's simply not possible.  We just aren't reading it correctly.

Stumbling upon a groundskeeper I decided to ask him what the sign said. With a cigarette dangling from his lip we had the following rapid-fire French conversation:

Me:  "I was hoping you could explain what the sign on those graves says?"

Groundskeeper: "There is a lot of room to bury people. Sometimes 12-15 people in one spot."  
  {{Repeatedly stacks one hand on top of the other to indicate that many bodies can fit into one grave}}
  "If you don't take care of it, well it is good business to re-sell...oui?"


Me: {{Internal thought}} Uhhhhh....no, not oui....how do I ask this politely?
  "But, and I'm sorry if this is a dumb question, what do you do with the people that are already there?"

Groundskeeper: "Well it is very easy, we dig them up to make room for the new bodies....oui?""


Me: {{Internal thought}} Uhhhhh...no, not oui...I think I'm misunderstanding this...
  "You take them out of the ground? The dead people? And you bury new people there?"


Groundskeeper: "Yes...but only if you have 25,000 Euros to buy the spot. You see it is good business....oui?"


Me: {{Giving up}} "Oui."

Note:  "reprise" = to take back; to repossess

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How does this gravestone come to happen?!? 

"So honey, I know we may not both die at the same time, but I was thinking..."

Loving (and a little hating) in the "City of Love"

I have a love-hate relationship with the Parisian Metro system.  I love that even when I don't know exactly where I'm going, I do know that the Metro will get me there (please keep any philosophical and/or practical comments about getting somewhere when you don't know where you're going to yourself).  I love the art nouveau Metro signs that make public transportation seem glamorous.

On the flip-side I hate that my beloved Metro regularly smells like a public restroom.  I keep hoping they will come in and bleach those lovely white subway tiles into germ-free, non-smelly oblivion, but I'm not holding my breath...except for when I'm in the really stinky places.

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There is no doubt, that Paris really is the "City of Love."  It's actually inspiring to see elderly couples holding hands as they walk down the street together.  (Random note:  I keep telling my roomie that I'm going to "steal" one of the well-dressed Parisian babies I see on the street.  I think she is going to steal a cute set of hand-holding Parisian grandparents).  Couples are, generally, more demonstrative than we are in the US and typically it's pretty cute...but not always.

Paris is oozing with places to have a romantic moment:  lighted bridges, quaint little bistros, heck steal a little kiss in a beautiful church...God is a big fan of love.  So why in the world would one choose to have their romantic moment in the afore-mentioned public restroom smelling Metro!?! Seriously friends, this is not something I have seen once or twice, and it is not limited to hormone-afflicted teenagers, you can regularly see those cute Parisian grandparents mid-makeout in the Metro.  In my attempts at learning parisian I am really trying to understand this, but I'm too busy holding my breath to be able to concentrate for long.

My personal favorite happened this weekend as Teena and I took the Metro home from Montmartre.  Squeezed into the train with us was a middle-aged couple that was certainly in Parisian love.  She had slightly frayed hair and was wearing hot-pink/purple-hued lipstick that looked to be the same color as my French tutor's in the US.  I am sure it was quite popular at some point.  He had hair that is just slightly too long and pierced ears (plural) a la "Pirates of the Caribbean."  I couldn't help but notice, as I dodged getting caught in their googly-eyes, that he too was wearing the lovely hot-pink/purple-hued lipstick; not only brightly on his lips, but also brightly in his mustache.  It must have been quite the makeout session!   

So why do the subway makeout sessions happen?  I haven't quite gotten to the bottom of this yet, but I have noticed that there are Durex condom machines all over the city...including in the Metro.  Apparently, after much market analysis, Durex has decided that Parisians are open to a little "romance" anywhere in the "City of Love."  Our Metro encounters strongly confirm this.  I'm just hoping anything we witness in the future stays PG-rated...I don't know enough French yet to tell grandma and grandpa to get a room.

Story Time in Paris

Just before coming to Paris I spent a day with a friend and her two little girls which included story time at the library.  This, I've found to be a good foil for my MBA classes.

Prof. French*:  "Boys and girls it's story time..."

Students: {{Silence}}
  (students chug coffee while walking in to class late)

Prof French:  "Today I will be telling you the story of Neiman Marcus"

Students: {{Silence}}  
  (continue chugging coffee and make loud conversation with each other)

Prof French: "Once upon a time there was a man named Mr. Marcus..."

At Kellogg, you read cases and are expected to come to class with in-depth insights ready to discuss.  Here, I find myself having story-time on a daily basis.  The cases (read: stories) even come with pictures...dozens of PowerPoint slides full of pictures (including some that test the Puritanical Americans in the class).  This works well for our sight-seeing adventures, but in terms of academics I miss Kellogg.  It is abundantly clear to me why an MBA isn't often valued by companies in Europe.  You could, instead, visit story time at your local library.  I most definitely will not be learning parisian in class.

* Note:  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Fight or Flight...Parisian Style

Fight: 

After Teena and I climbed the 387 steps to the top of Notre Dame I decided to go to mass to pray for the strength to make it up the six flights of stairs to our apartment.  Sitting through the service, that was part French and part Latin (as if one foreign language isn't confusing enough), in the grand church I felt like such a good Catholic.  Regardless of language, we stand, we sit, we stand some more; I have this down.  And then it was time for communion.  Apologies in advance for my change in religious reference here, but "Oy Vey!"

For those of you that are not Catholic, let me explain how communion works "aux Etats-Unis":

1.)  The priest(s) blesses communion and walks towards the mass attendees
2.)  The first row gets up and in an orderly manner gets communion from said priest
3.)  As the first row sits, the second row gets up and also goes for communion in an orderly manner
4.)  Repeat for all remaining rows

Let me now explain to you how communion works in Paris:

1.) The priest(s) blesses communion and walks towards the mass attendees
2.) Everyone in the church gets up and pushes towards the priest as if there might be, after 2010 years, a shortage on the body of Christ.
3.)  American girl gets so frustrated that she fights not to elbow a "cute" Parisian grandmother and wonders whether she shouldn't forego communion after wishing ill on her fellow mass attendees
4.)  American girl has communion and thanks God for not smoting her in the middle of church

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Flight:

I am taking a class in French.  This is not a French class, but a business class taught all in French.  I went to the first class armed with my trusty recorder and was ecstatic to find that I understood about 95% percent of what was being said in class.  Unfortunately, the 5% that I didn't understand includes the one time my professor spoke to me. 

During the 30-minute class break (which is devoted to getting coffee and smoking a cigarette by my felllow Parisian MBAers) I was typing an e-mail, in English, to my super-cute roomie Teena.  My professor mumbled something to me in French and, unable to change the language I was operating in, I just stood there.  I didn't ask him to repeat it, tell him to slow down, or tell him I couldn't understand, I just stood there; like a deer in headlights.  Incapable of making words, time passed and I just kept standing there...without saying one word.  My professor changed to English and even then I was merely a babbling idiot. 

I'm pretty sure this man thinks I'm sitting in his class completely cluesess as to what's going.  I've seriously considered going up to him sheepishly to show him my class notes, or saying hello in the coffee line in the morning, but I'm deathly afraid of another "deer in headlights" moment.  95% isn't that bad, right?  

Getting to Paris

I'm leaving sunny Florida for Paris.  It is 32 degrees there, but I don't really care.  I've already decided that winter in Paris is better than winter in Evanston.  Since I'd already decided that winter in Evanston is better than being anywhere else, at least for the duration of my MBA program, then Paris wins.  It's like the math problems you did when you were little: if A is more than B, and B is more than C, then A is more than C.  Dorky, yes...this will be one of the challenges of learning parisian.

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Checking in at the airport there is a French family next to me.  There are some serious communication problems between them and the ticket agent, and though a little voice inside of me is telling me to help I can't seem to make French words.  Where did seven years of French lessons go?  And what about the Berlitz refresher course I just took?  On second thought, I also took several years of calculus...I couldn't do that on command either.  Eventually I come up with a mangled way of explaining airline overweight charges.  They understand.  I am relieved.

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Upgraded to first class for the US portion of my flight.  I'm going to agree with James that this bodes well for the rest of the trip.  Perhaps I will actually manage to master learning parisian.