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)!