Summer hiatus

Unfortunately my lack of updating is NOT because I am sunnin' it somewhere fancy (and reading Dosto). Summer has been two long months of internships and jobs, and (of course) socialising late and getting up early. In addition to that, I am leaving Paris in a couple of weeks to study journalism at a really good school in Lyon - I am super excited, but obviously nervous about moving. So loads of things to write about, loads of inspiration (especially as I am currently working on a "Last Days in Paris" project, aka doing all the cool Paris stuff I always wanted to do) but it'll have to wait for the rentrée. Below is a picture of my neighbour for the whole of August, checking I am doing my job properly and not just tumblring. Hello Notre Dame! A plus tard !

Photo via Instagram - follow me @fleurfleurette

Les concours

Long time no blog.

As the title of this post indicates, I was planning to write something about the gruesome end-of-prépa exams which kept me, as well as about 3 000 other students, busy these last few months.

My first draft looked like this:

“Like every other student in Europe, during these last two months I was slowly crushed by the burden of revisions. For what? For just about the biggest deal there can be in the world of exams. After three years of prépa, I spent a week in a tower block along with around 3 000 hyped-up students taking the infamous concours. This was my last shot at getting in to the ENS, simply the best university there is in France – even though it is considered the best because students actually get paid to attend. Three years leading a near-to-cloistered life, with diminished leisure time, extreme stress and never-ending work. Three years of intense concentration and preparation in view of the concours. As one of my classmates said, “Tout ça pour ça”.”

I think you can tell how bitter I was. Indeed, I “failed” again. Let’s be clear, the concours only takes 30 students per section, so most us, even the best, fail. However, to make you feel a bit better, the jury provides you with an honorific title, “sous-admissible”. Kind of, “Well done but not there yet.”

Anyhow, I just needed a little time to take it all in. In addition to the ENS, I had sent an application to other good schools, and it turns out what I might be doing in September may be far better – and far more suited to my career plans – than the ENS, as well as less elitist.

But the aim of this post was not to ramble about my scholarly achievements (or lack of). Between my first draft and this final version, some things are unchanged.

Yes, the French school system is excellent. We have all studied Latin and Philosophy, whatever our curriculum, and have all been provided with solid general knowledge.

But it pits all of us against each other. These three years have been a battle of egos, with tears, snide comments and backstabbing galore. Even now I am out of that system, oh the dreaded meet-the-old-students evenings where everyone has to prove that they have done better than their neighbour! I was speaking to a friend recently, who refused to go the most prestigious prépa of all, Henri IV, because she felt she was emotionally incapable of dealing with the atmosphere. Said friend is now studying something she loves, and has just spent a year abroad. But she still, like all of us, has to submit to the interrogatoire: whenever we are with former classmates, there is an unspoken competition between us. Where did you go after your bac? – and not what did you study.

So that’s it. The French system is pressure-inducing, but we are all making it worse. Don’t get me started on people publishing their exam results on Facebook so that everyone can see… then people assume you didn’t do well, when actually you are not much of a bragger. It is a race to the top, to the best lycée, to the best prépa, to the best school and to the best job. A load of old stereotypes, but with the multiplication of management and business schools, extreme competition and peer pressure is seen as one of the usual aspects of education.

This rant won’t change anything. I just think that France has a problem in its schooling system. I wish that we could all have a more balanced approach to studying, according to which what we are studying is more important than where. That people would ask questions such as, Do you enjoy what you are studying? Do you feel you are learning interesting things? Are your lessons making you feel like you are getting closer to your dream job?

I know this sounds idealistic. I am not wishing to “bring the magic back in learning”, which sounds ridiculous. There is no magic. It is hard work. But when done properly, and humanly, it pays. Maybe not in the way you planned. Trust me, I have known deception BIG TIME despite being a good student. But in the end, it always pays. Whatever school you have been to.

La Séduction by Elaine Sciolino

Last month I experienced something I am not used to: I actually met the author of one of the books I have just read. Given that I am more a fan of Zola than of Stephanie Meyer, this is rare enough. In addition, the book was not of the literary type, but instead deals with a sociological theme which I found very interesting. La Séduction: how the French play the game of life, by American journalist Elaine Sciolino, explores the idea that the French - from head of state to local butcher - use subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) seduction techniques in their everyday life.

During a meet-the-author evening organized by an Anglophone women’s group, Ms. Sciolino, Paris correspondent and former Paris bureau chief for the New York Times, told us about the difficulties she encountered when trying to adapt to French life. As the daughter of an Englishwoman, I know the hardships that a non-native French speaker can be faced with. I recall numerous telephone battles between my mother, struggling to sound polite and get a task done efficiently in a language she does not fully master, and some member of the French administration, whose emissaries are known for not being particularly patient or understanding. A telling episode in the book is when the author is faced with a similar situation (only she was negotiating an interview with the Minister of culture), yet she manages to charm the receptionist by a well-placed compliment which takes all the strain out of the conversation. Non-French readers take note.

What I found most interesting is the opposition between Anglo-Saxon and Mediterranean points of view on seduction. I thought that the part about sexual harassment at work was highly enlightening: it is said that the rules of non-professional conversation between two co-workers of the opposite sex are extremely strict in the States and the UK, where someone can get in trouble just for saying that your new haircut looks good (I am not exaggerating). It is true that in France, if you take the seductive aspects away from a conversation, not much is actually said. I am not necessarily talking about full-on flirting, but just the usual agreeable way of talking we use when we want something. For example, as class representatives, my “colleague” and I have to be particularly charming to teachers if we want our options to be heard during the meetings we are required to attend. Flattery and banter are a part of our everyday life, and it is this subtle dosage that can help you get your point across in the best possible way - a perfect example of the French seduction. Yet there is a fine line: Ms. Sciolino recalled a particular interview with a certain elderly politician and notorious flirt, during which his hand seems to linger on the journalist’s assistant’s backside. When, I ask myself, does using seduction in professional relations stop being beneficial and becomes plain creepy?

                

The difference between the two cultures is also highlighted in the choice of the book cover. For the English version, everyone I have spoken to has wondered why such a cleverly written and altogether “serious” work was clothed in typical chic-lit attire, namely a suggestive drawing of a fishnet-clad feminine figure, supposed to be the embodiment of French séduction (see first picture).

Familiar with the chick-lit-style books favoured by my mother which generally involve the misfortunes of some confused English or American woman living in France, I naturally expected another Petite Anglaise¹ type of story. And therefore I actually found myself hiding the book cover when reading this book on the métro, where one is judged by the book one is flaunting – or in some cases desperately trying to conceal.

However, the French edition is nothing like its English counterpart (second picture): the format, first of all, is the one used for “serious” books, such as political or sociological works which are flourishing at the moment, in the context of the looming presidential election. The choice of public is thus radically different, and even if the telling title remains the same, the cover illustration of the French pavé² clearly depicts a clearly political scene: a picture of Jacques Chirac using one of his classic seduction techniques, le baisemain³, on American political scientist and diplomat Condoleezza Rice. The French publisher clearly chose a different approach: behold a cleverly-written and carefully-researched work about an unusual theme, explained thanks to the author’s political knowledge and interesting view of France as a foreigner.

I particularly salute the research. Bernard-Henri Lévy and his wife Arielle Dombasle are fairly well-known and are often described as being the epitome of the French intellectual couple (although I assure you NO ONE vouvoies⁴ each other in a couple, except in old age, and when all sensuality has long vanished…), but I was pleasantly surprised when I read about lesser-known figures – at least, outside France – such as Raphaël Enthoven. Even if he is mostly known for having been one of Carla Bruni’s former lovers, Enthoven is a French writer, philosopher and proud member of France’s select circle of intellectuals – even if most people remember him for his good looks. Ms. Sciolino’s detailed descriptions of the France profonde⁵ also denote her solid knowledge of French values, which will certainly score her a few well-earned points with the French reading public.

Unsurprisingly, Ms. Sciolino charmed us all. I admit that as a prejudiced young French girl, I did not expect her to be quite so well turned-out: impeccably dressed, eloquent and clearly at ease with her subject. Down-to-earth and approachable, she warmly welcomed my shy request to write this article. So it seems that, after living in Paris for 10 years and conquering the very exclusive 7^th arrondissement (read the book to find out how she manages to befriend a typically French surly fishmonger), Ms. Sciolino has fully embraced and understood the French way of life. And it makes this book a truly riveting read.

Légende

1. Petite Anglaise: the story of an English woman coming to live in and trying to adapt to France. She wrote a successful blog under the pseudonym of Petite Anglaise which resulted in a best-selling book.
2. Un pavé: literally a cobble-stone, it qualifies a large and dense book, often dealing with a serious subject
3. Le baisemain: the perfect example of French seduction, this traditional greeting generally consists in a man kissing a woman’s hand. Other variations are sometimes chosen: not touching or lightly brushing the woman’s hand can often be even more suggestive.
4. Le vouvoiement: saying vous, a respectful and formal way of saying “you” as opposed to the tu used in closer relationships.
5. La France profonde: literally the “deep” part of France, its remote countryside, often estranged from what is going on in the higher spheres.
   
   
   First picture : author Elaine Sciolino
   Second picture : English edition of La Séduction
   Third picture : French edition of La Séduction

On heritage and baby bottles

It seems unimportant, but the word I used for the title of this post is perfectly representative of an ongoing French debate. France has always taken pride in its Latin roots and often flaunts its lavishly elaborate language. A contested linguistic influence is that of the Anglophone world, i.e. the frequent use of English words to refer to concepts that already have their French formulation. My Literature teacher, for instance, would have insisted I use the expression garde d’enfants instead of the disgustingly American term ‘babysitting’. Yet the reality of language is that the more modern society gets, the more ‘old-wordly’ French set expressions sound. I cannot stand it when people use ‘la Toile’ for the Web, or ‘courriel’ for e-mails. Canadian French, a perfect illustration of this idea, is widely made fun of for its strange-sounding transpositions of basic English terms to French. Although most people will admit that their wacky accent has much to do with it. I just do not get why it is judged ‘fancy’ to use obsolete Latin terms, yet we are forced to banish mainstream, widely-known and understood English words. Surely the beauty of language lies in its constant evolution, and in the fact that it is constantly being enriched and enlivened by an ever-growing vocabulary?

The theme I wanted to explore, call it garde d’enfants or babysitting, now seems kind of trivial next to such a violent debate. I say ‘debate’, but in fact it is just a declaration of war against the Anglophone invader. Every French important figure seems to share the same hatred of the English language – at least the hatred of its presence in everyday French - but then I suppose anyone who supports the opposite suggestion would appear unpatriotic. I understand the French policy of seeking to reinforce French culture and language so as to “reconquer our former grandeur”, but I honestly think that the ‘enemy’ lies elsewhere.

I was meaning to celebrate the fact that babysitting, along with the easy money it brings in, offers the opportunity to cast a glimpse inside the lives of perfect Parisian families, and often is a true social experience. I remember once looking after a two-year-old living in the 10^th arrondissement, whose father belonged to an ancient aristocratic family and who had hung up his family tree above the marital bed, so that the ancestral noms à rallonge* could preside above any profane act of love-making. The daughter had a somewhat ridiculously old-fashioned name. I stopped looking after her when her mother quit working due to pregnancy, and I am curious to know what they are going to call their second child. Having closely studied the aforementioned family tree, things are not looking good for the poor kid. This traditionalist family, wanting la France de l’Ancien Régime** back yet living next to no less than three oriental restaurants (read : kebab shops) in a street full of Chinese clothes stores, is sure to support the reconquête de la langue française.*** Yet in her emails, the mother asks me: “Pourrais-tu babysitter la petite la semaine prochaine?****”, using “to babysit” as a French verb and conjugating it the French way. Blasphemy? Perhaps it is just the beginning of the modernization of French language and culture, and the promise of a mind-broadening embrace of foreign terms, for the reinforcement of a language becoming as colorful as the population that uses it. Pity she does not apply the same rule to her children’s names.

* typical aristocratic names which go on forever. Usually a list of dreadfully old-fashioned first names (at least 3) with a “de” before the last name.

** France before the Revolution, with the division of society in three different classes: the aristocrats, the clergymen and the people.

*** reconquering the French language, a phrase coined by many a politician.

**** “Could you babysit the little one next week?”

Bonne année 2012 ?

The New Year is always supposed to start with a bang. First there is some sort of social obligation to have a big party on New Year’s Eve – which always ends up being a stressful, last minute get-together made of people who don’t want to spend The Evening on their own. It is generally the time when I go back home to England so I often manage to flee the issue, which for a long time consisted of an ongoing tug of war between boyfriend and (girl)friends. Thankfully, the boyfriend problem no longer stands, but now even friends start to act all divisive. Anyhow, I spent the afternoon having a massive text-row (the best there is) with my best male friend, and ended up having to split my evening between a really fun all-girl party to a maybe not-as-fun male Wii-playing and film-watching get-together. 2012 started with a personal sacrifice in the name of friendship. Sounds classy but was a bit of a bummer really.

Then begins the endless ring-roll of voeux pour la Nouvelle Année*. Teachers, one by one, wish us une année de réussite. Old relatives, when spontaneously producing étrennes** (not complaining there), wish us une bonne santé. And prépa comrades will write all over their Facebook wall ‘2012, année de la partouze***’. I have realized that the higher the level of education is, the sleaziest the jokes get. Take note, Education Nationale****.

Not to mention politicians. For Christmas, my mother got me an adorable vintage-style, Union Jack emblazoned radio. So now I feel very intello, listening to the news at breakfast time and with my afternoon cup of tea. The problem is that 2012 is the year of the French presidential elections, so that is all we ever hear about. And the voeux présidentiels sounded more like a declaration of war than an optimistic start of the year.

With recent articles proving that detoxes do not keep their promises – ironically, something untrue, in journalistic terms, is called intox in French – what are we supposed to do with ourselves in January? It is said to be the second most depressing month of the year, with November. It is probably the most boring, as nearly everyone I know – including myself – has decided to stop smoking and reduce alcohol consumption. At least, I have given myself a clear limit: until my birthday at the end of the month. If only the economic austerity and political turmoil could also have a clear, stated limit, maybe 2012 would not seem so bleak. 


* wishing people all the best for the New Year
** money that your family (usually the elder members) give you at the beginning of the year
*** when a group of people all have sex together (classy)
**** the institution in charge of education

Les vitrines de Noël

It is barely December, but you can bet that each and every remotely important city of the world has already adorned its streets and avenues with Christmas lights. You there in New York, or in London, or even in Paris, are you starting to feel the long and painful countdown to winter festivities, even if mince pies and turkey are not yet on the calendar and you still have to plough through that dreary beginning of December? Looking for an immediate uplift? Gorge yourself on the displayed opulence of the Parisian ‘vitrines de Noël’, along with all the other not-impressed-by-December people – and millions of kiddies.

Don’t get me wrong – winter festivities are just that: fun. I look forward as much as anyone to the warm meals and snowy evenings, wrapped gifts and roaring fires, and so on and so forth. But I have barely got over Halloween! November is not even over yet that the Champs Elysées are being all lit up – and get this, this year they are using solar lighting. Well I can understand, as I read that the Champs Elysées Christmas lights alone use as much energy as eight Parisian flats, each occupied by four people during a year… Shocker.

Be it on Oxford Street or the Boulevard Haussmann, the real festive attractions are the vitrines. A true ritual for all accomplished citizens. But whereas Selfridges, when I went to London at the end of October (yes, for Halloween, hence my décalage) was decorated in a minimalistic, arty-farty way (basically: just white. White everything. Some sort of statement?), the Grands Magasins – namely the two titans, the Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette – become full-on, heavily adorned, music-blaring gateways to festive heaven. Couture-clad puppets, winter wonderlands, animal kingdoms… None of the subtle stuff. This year, the vitrines are paying a tribute to megalomania, namely housing Karl Lagerfeld’s massive Chanel delirium, a multiplication of strictly tuxedoed mini-mes, a camellia in the buttonhole, and Vanessa Paradis at the inauguration. Yes, you read correctly, an INAUGURATION. For CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. Nevertheless, the world and its very well-dressed friend attended it massively, and the event was a front-pager.

All this makes us think about the everlasting role of traditions. An example: I am going to see Twilight tonight, and I do not particularly care for Twilight. I am meeting a friend at Starbucks after school, and I shall inevitably order the ‘seasonal’ version of my usual skinny latte, only to throw it away after a few sips because it is too sweet. But those are just the sort of things you do come winter. They just announce the advent calendars and foie gras overdoses to come. So even if I am tired and fed up of wading through the ever-crowded boulevard Haussman every time I visit my good friend H&M (hum), even if I am never going to buy anything displayed, even if I shall have to fight against runny-nosed, heavily scarved and completely hyped up children, you’ll be sure to see me, nose pressed against the fingerprint-stained glass, counting the mini Karls. 

Le Tour du monde en 14 métros

Ah, Paris. The breathtaking monuments, the lively streets, the well-dressed women, the hell-hole that is Chatelêt-les-Halles.

Have you even taken the Parisian métro? If so, are you still alive? At my first internship this summer, I met  a guy who had moved from the Nice area to Paris a couple of years ago. He said that taking the métro was a somewhat traumatic experience. Coming from a village where there is only one train every hour, he could not understand why people would push their way through the closing, buzzing doors of a departing métro, when another one would arrive three minutes later. Or why everyone would race to the seats in order not to be standing up for a 10-minute journey. And why they would shout at him, push past him, hurl abuse at him for not getting in - and therefore, for 'blocking' the way to the closing doors. Said collegue now has a scooter.

I'll admit it is mainly a case of Parisian rudeness - the aforementioned collegue also got shouted at for 'walking too slowly'. Everyone thinks they are too important to take their time, they are always rushing to go somewhere. Me included - you just find yourself adapting to the racy pace and end up going with the flow.

When I went to Rome, I marvelled at the fact that the tube there only had two different lines. Here, there are fourteen. And most métro stations are barely 50 meters away from each other. Yes, we are lazy. I remember I used to do three changements so I could arrive bang in front of my prépa. As a result, you can get to just about anywhere in Paris by juggling with numbers : line 10 then 4 then 1 for the Marais. Line 8 for the Bastille. Line 10 then 13 for Saint-Lazare. Bingo!

In a recent survey, I read that breathing in the 'métro air' was as bad for you as smoking ten cigarettes at the same time. Another study showed that on one metro seat, many different kinds of urine and semen were found, as well as rat and human excrements, fleas and cockroaches. Gross. When you think of the London tube, which I find so clean and safe, or even the Korean tube, which my best friend says it is so clean that you could probably eat a meal off the floor, this is just shameful.

Yet take line 6 one evening, and look at the amazing view. That line is a métro aérien, meaning that the tracks run through the city above ground - and above people. That is how I really fell in love with Paris, sighing at the clichéed view of the illuminated Eiffel Tower while crossing the Seine. Admittedly, I was not using a seat. I left the others to rush for them and chuckled to myself when I thought of what they were actually sitting on.