J’habite à Paris donc je blog. I figure I’d better start blogging now that I have one foot on the ground (UN pied à terre) but before my illegal status gets me kicked out.
When I first landed here over two months ago, I marched with my visa from NY in hand, straight to the police precinct, where such matters as residency permits are handled, to get mine. Such is the first step in becoming legal (temporarily). I went in bright-eyed and came out in tears. Long story short, my fellowship agency---only THE biggest national funder here---gave me a document that was not official and instead looked like something that had been whipped up out of construction paper and markers. So my visa was never valid to begin with. Try again: Just wait to get the, eh, valid document and swing it back by the Consulate IN NEW YORK. What? Good thing I already had a return ticket to go back to NYC for New Year’s Eve. Because if I had had to turn right back around, I likely would have just made the trip one-way!
After being treated like a big jerk at the Consulate in NY (again), I was granted a valid scientist visa. Part of the obnoxious ambiance at that consulate could stem from the fact that its employees are French. (The madame there tried to call me up to the window to pick up my visa, with a “Mees-Stor.” After several confused guys (misters) stepped forward, she yelled at me: “MEES-STOR!!! that ees your name eesn’t it?!" Well, it’s more like “Miss _ _ _ _ _SSSSS”, but how could I argue??) So the French people do not want anyone invading their country. I understand this behavior is not French specific but applies to all consulates. For reasons I do not understand, maybe they are trying to compensate for all the generosity granted at centers such as Ellis Island.
That consulate confusion, compounded with the bureaucracies here (as a wise friend pointd out, “bureaucracy” is a French word), have thwarted the way to residency permit. At the time of this posting, I am waiting for my temporary permit, with which I may apply for the real macoy, only after passing a rather demoralizing ( I am warned) medical exam. I may be legal by May. The silver lining is that I will truly appreciate my permit and, moreover, have new-found respect for my family (really all of our families) and friends who have struggled much more than I have to move to a new land.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Installment 1B: Chez MOI
Let the pictures posted, if you have not already seen them, be your guide to my current accommodations. I say someone was smiling on me when I got a spot at La Cite Universitaire. I prefer to think of my studio as 2-room, including the foyer, that by NY standards is HUGE. OK fine, decent. It is nothing if not functional.
In picture one, you can appreciate the desk from which my nighttime activities of Skyping with Matt, Skyping with Matt, emailing, surfing the web and Skyping with Matt are conducted. And where I sit as I write this.
Snapshot #deux shows what YOU would see when/if (hopefully) YOU Skype via webcam with me. (And, if YOU were Pablo Picasso during his cubanism period.)
Notice in other pictures the purple wall that came with the room (even Paris dorm-style apts have character!) and the impressive magnet collection on my less-impressive, but tres-cute, mini-fridge that was amassed during the days in my dear old lab. Food from this mini-fridge is toted, on most nights, down the hall to the community kitchen.
My hygiene standards have slipped. In the beginning, due to the poor upkeep of the kitchen, I frowned upon any cooking beyond defrosting frozen dinners in the microwave. You can get that sense, I think, from the picture of me in the kitchen. Now I cook, though I still cringe when guys (it’s all guys on my floor unfortunately) use MY pre-soaped sponge or the hotplates to light their cigarettes.
Now before you off to say, and I KNOW you want to, that my flat is so “charmant”, let me tell you that other “real” Parisian apts are TO DIE FOR. Small, yes. But with more kitsch and character than could fit into a mansion. Whereas most Americans reserve the “theme-style” of interior decorating for their vacation/weekend homes, Parisians go hog wild, “full foie gras” if you will, on their full-time residencies. I have seen a Moroccon/Impressionist theme, Theatre/Maritime theme, Algerien theme, all working for its inhabitants. Still my dig is cozy, and I am afforded great views from my window of dogs on walks, en route to the park across the street. (So far, only one pug spotting. Zero Italian greyhounds. Terriers, poodles and labs are more a la mode, alas.)
My apt is tucked away in the campus of La Cité Universitaire, or Cité U, in the neighborly 14th arrondissment. (www.ciup.fr) How do you know that it is neighborly and not touristy?: NOTHING is open on Sunday. (Save the Chinese takeout and Jewish café, probably trying to compensate for Saturday closing. I frequent these lovely est.) A walk around the campus (which I have not done entirely), and past the residency halls representing each country gives you (1) a representation of that country’s architecture, or rather the Cité U founder’s impression of it (I feel bad for Mexicans!), and (2) an idea of which countries have money. The latter I say because only countries that are more, and usually Western, economic powers have buildings here. Because my building also hosts a lot of events for its residents (brunches, dinners, parties), I would say that Britain funds its hall here plentifully. And, oui, I have picked up more than one complimentary croissant at said brunches! As I am not British (despite the suspiciously inbred-like small hands and feet), I am part of the required 50% "outsider" contingency. This mandate applies to all halls to keep things international. However, French is the predominant language spoken in my building.
In addition to the residency halls, Cité U boasts a theatre (featuring more than your college musical), “salle de masculation” (gym either for your muscles or masculine people or both), swimming pool, restaurants, etc. About the restaurant, I explained to a kitchen mate that I only eat at that rest. when I am “sans espoir,” meaning literally “without hope.” I meant to say only when I am desperate. She told me that “sans espoir” is a most dramatic way of saying that your soul is devoid. Well, that too is an accurate description of the rest. situation here. They are not listed in Zagat's Paris. Hence, I cook. Or eat out out.
In picture one, you can appreciate the desk from which my nighttime activities of Skyping with Matt, Skyping with Matt, emailing, surfing the web and Skyping with Matt are conducted. And where I sit as I write this.
Snapshot #deux shows what YOU would see when/if (hopefully) YOU Skype via webcam with me. (And, if YOU were Pablo Picasso during his cubanism period.)
Notice in other pictures the purple wall that came with the room (even Paris dorm-style apts have character!) and the impressive magnet collection on my less-impressive, but tres-cute, mini-fridge that was amassed during the days in my dear old lab. Food from this mini-fridge is toted, on most nights, down the hall to the community kitchen.
My hygiene standards have slipped. In the beginning, due to the poor upkeep of the kitchen, I frowned upon any cooking beyond defrosting frozen dinners in the microwave. You can get that sense, I think, from the picture of me in the kitchen. Now I cook, though I still cringe when guys (it’s all guys on my floor unfortunately) use MY pre-soaped sponge or the hotplates to light their cigarettes.
Now before you off to say, and I KNOW you want to, that my flat is so “charmant”, let me tell you that other “real” Parisian apts are TO DIE FOR. Small, yes. But with more kitsch and character than could fit into a mansion. Whereas most Americans reserve the “theme-style” of interior decorating for their vacation/weekend homes, Parisians go hog wild, “full foie gras” if you will, on their full-time residencies. I have seen a Moroccon/Impressionist theme, Theatre/Maritime theme, Algerien theme, all working for its inhabitants. Still my dig is cozy, and I am afforded great views from my window of dogs on walks, en route to the park across the street. (So far, only one pug spotting. Zero Italian greyhounds. Terriers, poodles and labs are more a la mode, alas.)
My apt is tucked away in the campus of La Cité Universitaire, or Cité U, in the neighborly 14th arrondissment. (www.ciup.fr) How do you know that it is neighborly and not touristy?: NOTHING is open on Sunday. (Save the Chinese takeout and Jewish café, probably trying to compensate for Saturday closing. I frequent these lovely est.) A walk around the campus (which I have not done entirely), and past the residency halls representing each country gives you (1) a representation of that country’s architecture, or rather the Cité U founder’s impression of it (I feel bad for Mexicans!), and (2) an idea of which countries have money. The latter I say because only countries that are more, and usually Western, economic powers have buildings here. Because my building also hosts a lot of events for its residents (brunches, dinners, parties), I would say that Britain funds its hall here plentifully. And, oui, I have picked up more than one complimentary croissant at said brunches! As I am not British (despite the suspiciously inbred-like small hands and feet), I am part of the required 50% "outsider" contingency. This mandate applies to all halls to keep things international. However, French is the predominant language spoken in my building.
In addition to the residency halls, Cité U boasts a theatre (featuring more than your college musical), “salle de masculation” (gym either for your muscles or masculine people or both), swimming pool, restaurants, etc. About the restaurant, I explained to a kitchen mate that I only eat at that rest. when I am “sans espoir,” meaning literally “without hope.” I meant to say only when I am desperate. She told me that “sans espoir” is a most dramatic way of saying that your soul is devoid. Well, that too is an accurate description of the rest. situation here. They are not listed in Zagat's Paris. Hence, I cook. Or eat out out.
Installment 1C: Au labo
After years of graduate school, at the mercy of a growth-challenged virus, I am a chercheur post-doctoral and a real virologist. My projet is up in the air for the moment or few, rather I am familiarizing myself with the techniques in the retrovirologist's toolbag. These require suiting up and entering the chambers of the Biosafety Level 3 (BL3) space. (This suit that can transform even the skinniest of the minis in my lab into a Stay-Puft Marshmallow man. I anticipate the day when, all robed and committed to serve my BL3 time, I have to PEE!) Luckily my level of anxiety has gradually lowered in this area of heightened risk.
I won't lie, it is unnerving to be working (for the moment!) with an amorphous undefined project. I have been in this business long enough to know few things are certain, even after the mind is made up. But still. On the bright side, my boss---the only other American in the unit---is pathologically thoughtful. I believe he reads approximately 5 lbs (I am not nearly on the metric system yet.) of papers per day, deposits around 10% of these on my desk, and I feel overwhelmed.
Communication skills have come a long way. An example:
BEFORE: My first day of work coincided with their weekly lab meeting, conducted in French. The head of the unit presents me, en francais, and put in a plug saying people should talk to me, "She speaks French!" I understood most of that bit, and believe he has moved on to another, safter topic. I realize I am not in the clear about 5 min. later when I recognize my name again and everyone is laughing. Merde. "What? Ah yes, funny..Ha! Ha Ha HA!"
AFTER (by 6 wks or so): With no introduction, it is my turn to present at our lab meetings. While I seized the chance to take the freebie "What I Did in Grad School" talk and kept the slides in English, I presented en francais. Despite labmates telling me it was not "necessaire," I a) did not believe them, and b) figured I had better take the plunge. Throw myself in the water, as they say here. The ultimate challenge in my lab meeting was to understand questions posed at me, which I did, which means I was spoken to in baby French. But I'll take it! A few translational errors were brought to my attention post-humously. The painful of which (that I know about) was using the wrong word for screen, as in genetic screen, and instead explaining to them that a Yeast Two-Hybrid Television screen had been performed.
As with any place, there are good and bad. People, I mean. And it depends on the day, my mood, their mood, X other factors (X=infinit) which faction wins out. On the days of the bad, it is still really only 2 or 3 people who make me jump when they enter the room and keep my stomach in knots until they leave it. The lady I work with closest has grown tolerable, even endearing (on a good day) now that I understand her. I understand that she will not divulge to me what she has done unless I ask her directly, preferably in questions that require more than a yes/no answer. Yet, she will beat me to telling my boss exactly what I did. She makes up for these shortcomings by complimenting my progress or explaining to me the lunch formula strategies in the cafeteria, when noone else is around catch her being nice to me. With her, I do believe she is looking out and hopes for the best for me. The leader and chief member of the bad is like a rash for which there is no cream. I plan to stick true to these feelings for she has become a convenient sink for all my negative karma. I believe that when she is not calculating how to keep me from stealing her projects (of course!), she is searching for minute details to criticize. And on her lunch break, she reminds me how my life at La Cite U (see Installment 1A) must be so sad. I want to say to her "Hmm, I believe you are confusing the two of us." Even were I so forthright, I doubt my French abilities would allow it.
The more than dozen others in the lab, including grad students, techs and all the PIs, I categorize as full good. In particular I like a group of girls who talk about what they do outside the lab like it's OK to have a life and ask me what I do outside the lab like they care what the answer is. They make me want to be a better French speaker! My answer to most of their questions or comments tends to be "What?" I feel like my grandmother requiring them to repeat themselves at least once. After one brief squirt of verbal diarrhea, a lab mate switched to slow mode for me after she remembered that she must "speak to [me] like a child." Either a toddler or geriatric, same thing in this case. It hurt to hear, but I have to admit, it's true!
I won't lie, it is unnerving to be working (for the moment!) with an amorphous undefined project. I have been in this business long enough to know few things are certain, even after the mind is made up. But still. On the bright side, my boss---the only other American in the unit---is pathologically thoughtful. I believe he reads approximately 5 lbs (I am not nearly on the metric system yet.) of papers per day, deposits around 10% of these on my desk, and I feel overwhelmed.
Communication skills have come a long way. An example:
BEFORE: My first day of work coincided with their weekly lab meeting, conducted in French. The head of the unit presents me, en francais, and put in a plug saying people should talk to me, "She speaks French!" I understood most of that bit, and believe he has moved on to another, safter topic. I realize I am not in the clear about 5 min. later when I recognize my name again and everyone is laughing. Merde. "What? Ah yes, funny..Ha! Ha Ha HA!"
AFTER (by 6 wks or so): With no introduction, it is my turn to present at our lab meetings. While I seized the chance to take the freebie "What I Did in Grad School" talk and kept the slides in English, I presented en francais. Despite labmates telling me it was not "necessaire," I a) did not believe them, and b) figured I had better take the plunge. Throw myself in the water, as they say here. The ultimate challenge in my lab meeting was to understand questions posed at me, which I did, which means I was spoken to in baby French. But I'll take it! A few translational errors were brought to my attention post-humously. The painful of which (that I know about) was using the wrong word for screen, as in genetic screen, and instead explaining to them that a Yeast Two-Hybrid Television screen had been performed.
As with any place, there are good and bad. People, I mean. And it depends on the day, my mood, their mood, X other factors (X=infinit) which faction wins out. On the days of the bad, it is still really only 2 or 3 people who make me jump when they enter the room and keep my stomach in knots until they leave it. The lady I work with closest has grown tolerable, even endearing (on a good day) now that I understand her. I understand that she will not divulge to me what she has done unless I ask her directly, preferably in questions that require more than a yes/no answer. Yet, she will beat me to telling my boss exactly what I did. She makes up for these shortcomings by complimenting my progress or explaining to me the lunch formula strategies in the cafeteria, when noone else is around catch her being nice to me. With her, I do believe she is looking out and hopes for the best for me. The leader and chief member of the bad is like a rash for which there is no cream. I plan to stick true to these feelings for she has become a convenient sink for all my negative karma. I believe that when she is not calculating how to keep me from stealing her projects (of course!), she is searching for minute details to criticize. And on her lunch break, she reminds me how my life at La Cite U (see Installment 1A) must be so sad. I want to say to her "Hmm, I believe you are confusing the two of us." Even were I so forthright, I doubt my French abilities would allow it.
The more than dozen others in the lab, including grad students, techs and all the PIs, I categorize as full good. In particular I like a group of girls who talk about what they do outside the lab like it's OK to have a life and ask me what I do outside the lab like they care what the answer is. They make me want to be a better French speaker! My answer to most of their questions or comments tends to be "What?" I feel like my grandmother requiring them to repeat themselves at least once. After one brief squirt of verbal diarrhea, a lab mate switched to slow mode for me after she remembered that she must "speak to [me] like a child." Either a toddler or geriatric, same thing in this case. It hurt to hear, but I have to admit, it's true!
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Installment 1D: Les divers
The "divers" other things I have been up to, with one foot on the ground, between chez moi and le labo are several and scattered. Despite my best efforts, I have been unable to figure out a schedule. Stores close sporadically, lines are more like pyramids, so generally my attempts to multitask have been thwarted. On one visit to the Social Security office to claim my number, I was turned away due to the entry door being broken and the risk of it causing injury to us medically-undercovered. Irony, I believe. A fellow SS SOLer actually seemed happy when he read the sign on the door telling us to return in an hour or so, thrilled at the NEED to while away an hour at a cafe. Differences like this in daily routine have thrown this creature of routine into a tizzy. But I'm getting there...
One constant in my routine is the 45-50 min. commute each way between maison and laboratoire. Due to the need to cover the entire city and the complex metro workings, about 5 different routes are feasible. My favorite involves, for one ankle of the journey, a ride on the tram that, in its entirety, circles Paris. Le tram! On the day I moved in, I noticed a phantom tram with no passengers. In the weeks that followed, I began to think it would NEVER take passengers, and believe the official name of the line was "IN TESTING." Apparently at least 4 weeks of testing are required for even the most seemingly benign modes of public transportation. I suppose a trolley rolling at a max of 10 mph can cause harm not just to a rat terrier but also to full-grown humans, like the beloved Spanish architect Gaudi (see forthcoming Barcelona entry). On the glorious Saturday afternoon that the tram opened its doors, so much fanfare was made you would have thought the Second or Third Coming of Christ was behind them!
While not still so glorious, I use my tram ride and the subsequent journey on the metro wisely. On the days when they are available, I check out the free newspapers. (We have our own Metro, and instead of AM New York, "20" Minutes!) When they are not, I read France's version of smut celeb news, like Public, or perverse French comic books---both great for picking up real slang!---or I just thumb through my French-English dictionary.
At least several times per week my homeward journey is broken up by a class in "danse classique." I followed the recommendation of a ballet buddy NYside to a great teacher and studio. In the trendy neighborhood of Le Marais, the only other area in which I now have a faint inkling of my way around. (Marais, I learned, means "the swamp," and learning this served me well in another instance to explain to my building's maintenance staff my bathroom situation when my shower drain kept clogging.) While I kill my share of time there after these classes, I am sure not to linger in the dressing rooms. They are co-ed, and also the lounge where our male teacher greets the dancers as they arrive for class.! Maybe these arrangements were suitable in the days of Degas, but in the here and now I thought a little gender segregation was accepted as being a good thing! So, perhaps this situation brings out the truism in another American stereotype: Americans ARE prudish (and I am an American)!
One constant in my routine is the 45-50 min. commute each way between maison and laboratoire. Due to the need to cover the entire city and the complex metro workings, about 5 different routes are feasible. My favorite involves, for one ankle of the journey, a ride on the tram that, in its entirety, circles Paris. Le tram! On the day I moved in, I noticed a phantom tram with no passengers. In the weeks that followed, I began to think it would NEVER take passengers, and believe the official name of the line was "IN TESTING." Apparently at least 4 weeks of testing are required for even the most seemingly benign modes of public transportation. I suppose a trolley rolling at a max of 10 mph can cause harm not just to a rat terrier but also to full-grown humans, like the beloved Spanish architect Gaudi (see forthcoming Barcelona entry). On the glorious Saturday afternoon that the tram opened its doors, so much fanfare was made you would have thought the Second or Third Coming of Christ was behind them!
While not still so glorious, I use my tram ride and the subsequent journey on the metro wisely. On the days when they are available, I check out the free newspapers. (We have our own Metro, and instead of AM New York, "20" Minutes!) When they are not, I read France's version of smut celeb news, like Public, or perverse French comic books---both great for picking up real slang!---or I just thumb through my French-English dictionary.
At least several times per week my homeward journey is broken up by a class in "danse classique." I followed the recommendation of a ballet buddy NYside to a great teacher and studio. In the trendy neighborhood of Le Marais, the only other area in which I now have a faint inkling of my way around. (Marais, I learned, means "the swamp," and learning this served me well in another instance to explain to my building's maintenance staff my bathroom situation when my shower drain kept clogging.) While I kill my share of time there after these classes, I am sure not to linger in the dressing rooms. They are co-ed, and also the lounge where our male teacher greets the dancers as they arrive for class.! Maybe these arrangements were suitable in the days of Degas, but in the here and now I thought a little gender segregation was accepted as being a good thing! So, perhaps this situation brings out the truism in another American stereotype: Americans ARE prudish (and I am an American)!
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