February 1996 Back in France

Monday, February 12, 1996

born: Charles Darwin 1809

died: Immanuel Kant 1804

1924—Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue first performed

 

Dear Folks,

 

Am still living a little bit cramped and randomly finding odd things from my past that are hidden away in unpacked boxes. The two-bedroom house I rented came with an unexpected, extended house guest. Richard is the acrobatic teacher at the school and a fellow foreigner, Polish. Raised and trained in Soviet Poland,he is quick to point out that he was never a Communist. Personally, I’ve got nothing against Communists. I suspect my brother will convertlater this year when the People’s Republic of China occupies Hong Kong.

Last year, Richard put in a bid to buy an apartment nearby and was temporarily staying in the house—waiting for all the paper work before he can move in to his new place. He was supposed to move out, and I was to move in to an empty house. French bureaucracy—plus the strikes in December—have delayed his move, providing me with a welcome housemate. So, though I’m comfortable (I’d like to add warm, but the Polish sense of comfort is a bit skewed toward the chilly side.) Winters there are cold—indoors, as well as out. We take turns moving the thermostat gauge up and down to keep each other busy. I won’t really be moved in until he vacates the master bedroom. In the interim, we get along well, exchanging stories from our different pasts and making fun of the French culture to which we are both subjected. For a while, Richard was the only foreign instructor at the school, and I think he finds it refreshing when I lampoon French bombastity.

All the Polish folks I knew in Berlin spoke German, so it took a while for me to realize that Richard is also in the process of learning French and speaks no German. I finally got it, and we communicate in bad French, reinforcing our mistakes. One of the great stories I got out of Richard was that his brother was one of the soldiers sent by the Soviet Union to quell the Czech rebellion in ‘68, yet another example of how history sneaks up on you over here. After spending all that time in Berlin and reading about WWII, it is chilling to go for walks here and find plaques marking assassinations of French patriots by the Nazis.

Richard owns a car—and drives—but not too well. He had the chance to take a driving class in Poland when he was younger but could not imagine ever owning a car, so thought it was a waste of time to take the class. These days he must contend with pushy Parisian drivers who take pride in their aggressive passing. This leads to some strange driving patterns. Apparently, he was rear ended once and now has a fear of stopping at stop signs. After several hearing several odd comments about les noirs I asked him if he was prejudiced. He admitted it. On further discussion, it turns out he doesn’t like blacks because—as pedestrians—they are harder to see at night, and he is afraid of running them over. Racism because of insurance premiums?

In any case, foreigners should not drive in Paris. Recently, the annual Circus of Tomorrow festival was held at the Cirque d’Hiver building in town. Jens from Germany came to visit. Friday night we carefully studied the map and proceeded to get lost on our way into the city. One vital final sign post that actually gets you off the freeway and into Paris is lacking. So we traveled on the perimeter for a while before winding the way into our destination. Two days later I was to make the same trip with Richard. Knowing that the sign post wasn’t there, I made sure he exited at the proper turnoff anyway. Five hundred meters after we got off—in spite of my insistent yelling in French—Richard managed to get right back on the freeway. Figuring I knew the way from a few days ago, this should have presented no trouble. We managed to get lost in a completely new part of Paris—unknown to either of us.

The show was to begin soon, so I finally convinced Richard to stop at a pizza place and ordered a pizza to be delivered to the Cirque d’Hiver. We then followed the pizza-delivery scooter to the Cirque d’Hiver where we paid and tipped the driver, parked, and enjoyed the now-catered show. From now on, I suspect many cultural events in Paris will be accompanied by pepperoni and mushrooms.

“Cold beer and hot showers!” became a personal motto shortly after moving here. All my things—including refrigerator—were being stored in Berlin until some friends could bring them over. A big plus, finally got a phone. After eighteen months of fruitless waiting in East Berlin, here it was relatively painless. At first the telecom office the staff weren’t going to let me have a phone. The rental agreement the owner sent only stated that I could live in the house and pay rent and utilities. The document did not specifically state that I could have a phone installed. At first they wanted me to get a separate letter explaining I had permission to have a phone. This was ridiculous as the phone jack was already installed, and it was I who would pay the bill. The phrase, French it out, had been explained to me several years ago by some other foreign friends who live here. Generally, you get what you want, but you have to argue a little bit first. Everyone is basically pretty friendly once you get past that initial argument. I never really got that good at it, preferring to let native friends french it out for me when possible. Faced with a continuation of zero telecommunications capability, I frenched it out all by myself and the phone was hooked up in two days. Small victories...

I was shocked at how effective I’d been and was wondering how I would end up karmically paying for this luxury. Less than a day after the phone deal was okayed the plumbing broke and we were without hot water for a week. The phone came in handy to make numerous calls to the owner in Montreal. The already unpleasant situation of no hot water in winter was made worse when I realized that the French wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t bathing as thoroughly as normal. I was starting to fit in more than I had ever reckoned.

My schedule has me working with everyone from four year olds up to adults. Wednesdays are interesting. At two in the afternoon I begin with kids from four to seven years old. After a break, a troupe of eight to ten years old comes in. The eleven to fifteen year olds follow them, and then at eight at night the adults come. It’s a Gallic progression of who is as tall as the sign of Mickey. One of the other teachers came up with the bright idea of using the four instructors as trees for the youngest group during warm-up. The kids became snakes and crawled all around and over us. I have a healthy respect for kids, germs, and colds and try to avoid direct contact with all three. This snake-crawling occurred right when we had no hot water. However, the thought of all those French microbes crawling around me had me take a good, brisk, freezing cold shower on Wednesday evenings.

A computer game received at Christmas is excellent for helping me deal with the small frustrations. The game simulates a WWII American bomber pilot based out of England who periodically flies over the Channel to stop the Axis powers. When the French become too exasperating, I fire up the game, disobey orders, break from the squadron, and go and bomb Paris. While I don’t receove many promotions, there is a tremendous feeling of satisfaction.

take care,

Todd Strong

7C rue Nungesser

93360 Neuilly-Plaisance

France tel. 33 1 43 00 26 52 (Wow!)

 

 

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