SWM Seeks Muse

As many of you know, because of the volcanic eruption in Iceland that spewed ash into the atmosphere which resulted in the grounding of more planes than ever before, I’ve spent the last two weeks in Paris instead of back home on the East Coast where I was planning to be. I can’t say that I was overly impressed by the idea of spending two weeks of vacation with my books and mountains of esoteric articles on the intricacies of the cyclical nature of Lol V. Stein’s journey to reconstitute her past in Marguerite Duras’s take on the modern novel about nothing (no really, that was the goal of the book, to be about NOTHING). You know what’s important in life? Not that. I can’t think of many things I care about less than Marguerite Duras’s take on nothingness at the moment. Actually, perhaps my generally apathy for this whole program exceeds my general indifference to Duras. Last summer, after two years off from academia spent in hospital administration, I was kind of psyched to speak only French for a few months and genuinely excited about learning again, but ever since I came back from Christmas break, the novelty has most definitively warn off.

I think it’s time that I confess something: when I applied to Middlebury’s M.A. French program, it was more to escape the dull workaday world of lab specs and staff meetings than out of a burning passion for French literature. My friends actually had to goad me into actually sending in the deposit to finalize my acceptance. Don’t get me wrong, I love the French language and some francophone literature, but I actually mildly dislike a lot of “serious” contemporary French lit. It’s too depressing and too often art for art’s sake which is fun to analyze for awhile, but picking apart metaphors and explaining synecdoches (where a part of something represents the whole for all of you who don’t actually talk about this crap everyday) basically equates to intellectual masturbation and after months and months and months of it, I’ve lost my drive. Now, instead of being a fun game or an intellectual quest that reveals some fraction of universal truth like it used to, my work here just feels like a colossal waste of time.

If my goal was to escape the drudgery of life and live in a dream world for a little while, mission accomplished, but as a means to achieving that end, this master’s program has lost its utility. The point of getting good grades this semester is to get the degree, but as I’m fairly certain I’m never going into a Ph.D. program nor do I really have any desire to teach at a private school, I find myself asking the question “à quoi ça sert?” (what’s the use?) The part of this education that I’m going to use, the part that will make me a better writer and a better French speaker, I’ve already got; the rest of this process is just tying up loose ends to get a piece of paper. Even if I stopped now, I’d have gotten my money’s worth out of the program. So why not just quit worrying about all this research and academic mumbo jumbo and enjoy my 44 remaining days in the City of Lights?

OK, you’re right. I am SO CLOSE to the end and having the degree can only help my future so I might as well finish it. After all, I’m here until the middle of June and need something to give my days structure until then, right? The only problem is that when I get like this, when I have decided something is pointless, I have a much harder time coming up with clever ideas to write about for, oh say a 10-12 page mini-mémoire (research paper). Does anyone out there have a muse they’d like to lend me until Thursday? Maybe I’ll just take a deliberate break from pounding my head against the desk trying to find a way to finish these papers and just watch a movie or something. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my muse after I stop looking for her.

Tags: academia, French, Literature, Marguerite Duras, Middlebury, Paris, research, writing

It All Begins Again

So this is it: the end of winter vacation. Tomorrow begins the spring (and final) semester of my master’s degree with a bucket of ice cold reality being poured over us in the form of last semester’s grades in the morning. I should have been more academically productive with my time over break, but life got in the way. I’m not sorry, it just means I’ve got more reading to do this semester; c’est la vie. It might have been unproductive, but it certainly was fun! I got to see most of my friends back in the States, visit with my family, spend loads of time with Donna (and her cute friend with the curly hair), finally really talk to and befriend krazy Kate Billingsley, and to actually enjoy Paris for a week without the same feeling of the Sword of Damacles (or Paoli as the case may be) hanging over my head.

I don’t have anything particularly deep to say tonight, so I’ll keep this brief, but I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’m going to do when June rolls around, and I’m sort of at a loss. Do I move to Boston to be near my family and friends on the East Coast? Do I move to NYC and try my hand in the Paris of the West now that I’ve become accustomed to life in the big city and want to keep it going? Do I move to California in preparation for a Ph.D. program at Berkeley? Maybe I just move back to Burlington where you can rent a fantastic apartment at unreasonably low prices. Or should I go really crazy and move to Puerto Rico so I can work on my Spanish in an organic way?

More importantly than where I move, what will I do when I get there? With the economy on shaky foundations that have been ravaged by financial earthquakes and which could be toppled by future aftershocks, what will I do with my M.A. French? Naturally I could teach at a private school or perhaps as an assistant or adjunct professor, but will that provide sufficient remuneration? No, probably not, but it’s still an option. Does anybody have any suggestions as to go about finding a good school to teach at? If I skip the teaching, do I go back to hospital administration which pays well and which I know fairly well, but which gives tedium new and more Hellish meaning? These decisions are not easy, my friends, and applying for jobs is not precisely what I wanted to do while working on my thesis. Le ugh.

Maybe I should just stay here in Paris. Sure it’s expensive and far away from home, but it’s still pretty great! Naw. After all my friends head back to the US or to whatever new and exotic place they might be going, Paris might be a pretty boring place. Besides, I miss my friends back home and as most of them are young professionals in their 20′s just starting out, they probably won’t be taking too many European vacations to come visit me. Add to that aging grandparents and it seems like living in North America might be a better option. That is, of course, assuming a high paying job doesn’t fall in my lap. If that happens, all bets are off and Paris could easily become chez moi.

Life would be boring if it were straightforward, right?

Oh! Before I forget, I wanted to mention Le lustre noir (The Black Chandelier) which is a lesser known club that Donna and I got to visit over the weekend in the Third. It’s kind of a neat little place that had German punk pop blaring when we got there, and whose eclectic East meets West decor, Woody Allen movies playing from plasma TV’s, and good selection of wine and pizza make it a must see for a low-key evening on the town with friends. I hear they even serve spaghetti dinners with sauce and garlic bread faits maison (homemade sauce) on Saturdays. It’s worth checking out if you can get past the doorman!

Tags: Boston, Burlinton, California, Europe, French, future, jobs, le lustre noir, masters, North America, NYC, Paris, Puerto Rico, school, US, work

Vie de merde

Fellow French speakers and graduate students who enjoy the site fmylife.com will quickly recognize the French equivalent expression (and website) in the title of this post. Why? Well, I’ve got this article about the American inferiority complex which promises to be deep and insightful (that’s the idea at least), but I’m not in the right mood to flesh it out tonight. Today has been less than stellar and I feel like sharing. Consider yourself warned.

To be fair, I knew getting up that today wasn’t going to be great. I woke up at 5:45AM wide awake, but instead of getting up and taking advantage of the highly useful extra time before class, I decided to take the lazy route and hit snooze until 9AM (my first class was at 10:45AM) which was foolish but felt right at the time. Next, after zipping around and managing to skip my morning coffee despite the ample time I had had, I arrived five minutes late for my Prince class. I could almost understand being late for an 8AM or even a 9AM class, but 10:45AM?! There’s no excuse! I know the reason is that I don’t really like the class that much, but I could at least be on time! After sitting through an exceptionally boring lecture about how the peasants and various other underlings rebelled against and critiqued princely figures during the Renaissance (if you’ve ever seen an editorial cartoon, you basically didn’t need to go to the lecture), I got that paper I hurried to write before our professor zipped off to New Caledonia. Let’s just say that I’m sometimes right about my papers being a train wreck. Somehow resisting the urge to throw myself out of the second story window, I sort of wandered aimlessly assembling a lunch from several shops located on the same block as the Centre. As I waited for the cheese to melt on my croque monsieur, I wondered how my measly three and a half page paper could have been so wildly vast that it didn’t adhere to the subject of “the power of the princes of the Renaissance.” I’m not saying it was a genius paper, quite the contrary, I just thought its insufficiencies would be found elsewhere than covering too much ground and having hid my outline too well. Umm, what? I’m sorry, the fact that I’ve been to write in such a way that isn’t flat and lifeless actually works against me here? You WANT the strict robotic steps I used to plan paper to be obvious? If you think my writing is too vague or is incoherent, please say so, but don’t lower my grade just because I don’t produce writing that has more in common with corrugated cardboard than something people would actually like to read.

Whoa, bitter much?

Next, after fuming about my paper, it was time for our réunion obligatoire (total waste of time) with the local director of our program here in Paris. As we all had guessed, it was about l’engagement d’honneur (the pledge) which we all signed stating we would use French exclusively in our lives with very few exceptions. What was the purpose of bringing us all in to chastise us? I mean, those that speak English are going to keep on doing so and those who devote themselves religiously to speaking French will continue to do that. Besides, can we talk about how infeasible this pledge, as written, is for more than a summer? It might have worked well in the dark days before the internet and cheap intercontinental communication, but with things like Facebook, instant messengers, and Skype quickly becoming part of everyday life, how do you draw the lines linguistically and say to the vast majority of your friends “I’m not going to talk to you, effectively cutting you out of my life, for 10 months, not because calls are expensive, not because I won’t see what you post online everyday, but because my school thinks I should cut all anglophone ties, ensuring maximum culture shock and minimal enjoyment of my time in France.” Yes, I’ll get right on that, Middlebury.

I can appreciate what the Pledge is trying to accomplish, especially in Vermont where students are surrounded with English on all sides. Well, in theory; in actuality they are surrounded by cows. My major issue is just that I’m not capable of completely cutting English out of my life, especially not for a whole year, and in my experience most students, despite their best intentions at the beginning, aren’t able to either. That doesn’t mean I don’t maximize my exposure to French, I do; I only talk to French people in French, I go out of my way to find francophones to talk to, and I spend an outrageous portion of my limited free time immersed up to my eyeballs in French novels and history books. But what about when I just need a break? Am I supposed to always go to the VF, or painfully dubbed in French, version of every movie even though at least half of the movies here are in English? Am I supposed to start writing my blog in French in hopes that my audience, largely non French speaking, will be so dedicated to my ramblings that they’ll learn a new language just to read stilted, grammatically incorrect posts? And the myriad of signs and songs in English here; shall I walk around with earplugs and a blindfold? I’m sorry, Middlebury, French is great, but English is just a part of everyday life now, not to be extricated by a signature and mildly threatening, half-hearted admonitions. In order to really make this work, you’ll need to lock us in a room, strap us to a chair with our eyelids held open à la Clockwork Orange and force feed us French until we’re chain smoking and not happy unless everyone around us is miserable. Besides, according to page 14 of the 09-10 Guidelines of Studying with a Middlebury Graduate School Abroad, we are only required to “…maintain the spirit of the Middlebury Language Pledge.” What does that mean precisely? What is the acceptable amount we can use English to communicate with our non French speaking friends? Does saving my sanity by watching a movie in VO now and again count as a violation of the Pledge? Is the boardroom where they come up with these Draconian policies somehow disconnected from reality?

Can you tell I’m in a prickly mood tonight?

The rest of the day went fairly well. I thankfully did well on the grammar test, which didn’t really make me feel better, but didn’t add to the anger, and then I got an e-mail from my old boss at the hospital who wants to hire me to freelance for him while I’m here in France. Why not? Living in Paris, why turn down extra money? Let’s hope after this little rant (cathartic activities must be an exemption from the Pledge, but I’m sure you’ll hear it here first if they aren’t) and a quiet evening with tea I’ll be my normal somewhat upbeat, moderately perky self tomorrow. Oh wait, I have to go teach English to a bunch of tech students for five hours straight after Tragédie. FML.

Tags: FML, France, French, language pledge, Middlebury, Prince, VDM

26.2 Miles in Someone Else’s Shoes

It’s just another rainy autumn day in Neuilly-sur-Seine where the smoke pouring out of the stacks atop the Hôtel Concorde Lafayette reminds me of Vermont in winter with its many chimneys. I’m sitting in my apartment thinking about doing work both academic and domestic and the world in general. Actually, it has been a sort of thought provoking week so far even though I haven’t had to really do anything. Watching graphic movies, seeing real people put into body bags on the street (Avenue de la Grande Armée to be precise), and making new acquaintances will do that to you.

By Sunday I was feeling better from whatever malady was trying to infect me after Hell Week and had caught up on my sleep, so Whitney and I went out to this small restaurant in Le Marais. It wasn’t half bad for the price but with the plasma TV showing the French equivalent of Nascar and the music blasting at my side, I got this weird sports bar vibe which Whitney quickly pointed out was probably inaccurate as I was the last person she could imagine actually being in a sports bar. OK, maybe just an American chain restaurant pretending to be a sports bar? In any case, it was a weird atmosphere that is fairly common in America and that I hope doesn’t catch on over here. Seriously people, TV’s are not there so you can ignore the people you are dining with; you can wait until after dinner to see who won the match.

After a disappointing house salad and an excellent slice of quiche Lorraine (slap that much cholesterol and fat in a flaky crust anytime and you’ve got me), we were off to see Sin nombre, a movie about a girl trying to escape from a very poor region of Honduras and to make her way to the US (eventually to New Jersey though she has no idea how far that is from Texas). On the way she meets up with a boy who is a member of a gang and who saves her from being raped by killing one of the gang lieutenants. Anyway, to make a long story short, it’s a good movie with a large panorama of strip malls and Wal-mart parking lots at the end. To anyone else in the theater, that might have just been a scene like any other, a logical end to the movie, but to Whitney and I, the two Americans there, it really resonated. America is the land of strip malls and vast parking lots spanning from big box stores to the horizon. That one scene visually encompassed our homeland, and inspired the tiniest pang of homesickness (seriously, a Wal-mart parking lot?). Afterward, we stopped at Ben & Jerry’s and grabbed a tiny bowl of ice cream and between that and us speaking English (Heaven forbid) in the Forum des Halles which looks essentially like a large mall, for a few brief moments, I felt like I was in America again.

Putting aside all that is wrong with seeing my country as parking lots and hulking steel buildings designed to make you part with as much money as possible, it made me think about the cultural baggage we all carry along. To the French people in that theater, that last scene was probably as foreign to them as the scenes of the gang den in Honduras were. If the roles were reversed and we were watching a movie of people fleeing from Algeria to come to France, what would have been their Wal-Mart parking lot scene I wonder? I mean, aside from the obvious monuments, what personifies France as perfectly as colossal multi-national box store chains do the US?

Yesterday, after standing her up very much unintentionally Saturday, I met Ingrid who will be my speaking partner for the year. She’s really nice, but absolutely full of surprises. First off, she is French and grew up in Paris mostly, but she is also half Spanish and speaks Castellano and Catelan perfectly. Actually, it’s kind of strange how her aspect changes when she switches languages, especially since she essentially speaks three natively. When we switched to English, her accent was very clearly British and although she couldn’t pass for native as her English is a wee bit rusty, when she gets back into the swing of it, you’ll very much have the impression you were speaking to a Londoner when she says something short and uncomplicated. She offered to help me in French, which she said she didn’t think I needed that much help with (evidently she doesn’t set the bar that high for proficiency), or Spanish, and I’ll probably take her up on both. As she pointed out, practicing French is great, but one should really practice their weakest language as often as possible, not their second strongest. Also, she thought because I had good manners on the phone and was very regimented with my schedule that I was Asian. Do I come across that way? It’s not the first time someone expected me to be Chinese when meeting them and I’m not really sure how to take that.

Assuming all well-mannered busy people are Asian aside, can you imagine Ingrid’s cultural background? She grew up in Paris, spent summers and vacations in Spain, and popped off to England every now and again to live with a family for fun and to improve her English as a child. How different our backgrounds are and yet we get on quite well. If trying to understand how someone’s background is running a full marathon, not just a mile, in their shoes, I’d better buy some new athletic gear because I’m doing a lot of it lately. What makes people tick, how the sum of their experiences define them and give them a unique view of the world fascinates me to no end. That’s probably why I like meeting new people and don’t much care how long they talk about their life history. It’s also probably why I thought I’d be a great psychiatrist, and if hadn’t been for my moral opposition to the way drugs are prescribed and my stronger moral opposition to organic chemistry, it probably would have inspired me to pursue that career instead of this one.

After a nice chat at a café, Ingrid showed me the street she lives on and all the neat little restaurants there including the world famous Au pied du cochon which looks like it is directly out of the movie Delicatessen and therefore inspires revulsion more than hunger. She also introduced me to her fiancé David, a Portuguese pharmacist which sent the little gears in my head whirring even more. What different backgrounds these two have and yet they are so clearly madly in love. We all truly are individuals, but that’s not, contrary to American dogma, what makes us special as it’s sort of an inevitability. What makes life special is somehow finding other individuals with a compatible world view, or at least ones you can tolerate talking to. When I someday find the time to write a novel, you’ll know which themes to expect, I imagine.

OK, back to reading Michel Tremblay with the flimsy excuse that he’s the subject of my dissertation. After I finish Hotel Bristol, New York, N.Y. I’ll get back to Notre-Dame de Paris and revolutionary history, I swear!

The Fountain of St. Michel or the Gateway to My Own Personal Heaven

Tags: America, Au pied de cochon, café, Catelan, cinema, Delicatessen, English, France, French, Honduras, Hotel Bristol, Ingrid, Les halles, Michel Tremblay, New Jersey, Notre-Dame de Paris, Paris, Revolution, Sin nombre, Spain, Spanish, Texas, Wal-mart, Whitney

Vaut-il la peine?

Don’t tell anyone, but I SO should not be posting right now. I worked all afternoon on my damned paper for my Le retour du tragique class (well, until I decided to take a quick break three hours ago), and now I’m out of academic horsepower for the night. Besides this paper, I have a presentation on Les bonnes by Jean Genet in the same class due on the same paper (we didn’t know when the paper was due when I picked my exposé, I assure you), and a 2 page in Composition avancée and 6-10 page paper due in Le Prince the following day. In short, I’m in pretty deep in scholarly quicksand and sinking fast. What’s worse is that the panicky motivation, that little kick of turbo, that used to kick in during my undergrad career as deadlines drew near seems to be used up. In short, even this close to the due date, I’m seriously having a hard time giving a shit.

I’m thinking it might have to do with the fact that my life isn’t solely about school anymore. Hayden and I went to Epitech and met with Melanie yesterday to find out what teaching there would entail, and I’m actually much more excited about that than I am about my classes. That, and after I found out that Hayden and I feel pretty much like our M.A. in French is going to be little more than a $50,000 wall decoration, the importance of my classes seems to be taking a distant second to things I can add to my résumé. Seriously, with my friends in the US with a higher education (including law degrees) struggling after months to find ANY job that will take them, I’m thinking going home and declaring “well, I can speak French fairly well” as my most marketable skill isn’t going to be quite as impressive as I’d hoped. But, with everybody and their brother wanting to learn English here, getting connections in English language instruction will be good, right? Anybody want to go out and get me roaring drunk when that illusion is crushed? I came to Paris thinking it would be worth the hefty price tag just to live in Paris for a year, but I’m seriously beginning to get worried that is REALLY all it’s going to be worth. Shit. I mean damn. No, I mean shit.

Tags: Composition avancée, English, Epitech, France, French, Genet, Grad School, Hayden, Le Prince, Les bonnes, M.A. papers, Melanie, money, motivation, résumé, retour du tragique