No man is an island, except on the Paris Metro. There, the diametrical opposite holds true: every man is an island. People often bandy about this hypothetical question: what ______ (book, CD, DVD, etc.) would you bring with you if you were stranded on a desert island? The Metro is a perfect demonstration of that. Older people generally choose thick paperbacks or newspapers. Younger individuals catch up on their pressing business with their cell phones, or else stare off into space, carefully avoiding other people’s space, as if looking at it will cause it to wilt and shrivel. Small children climb all over the upholstery. Everyone keeps to themselves. This happens even in the most stressful times. For example, traveling home tonight from dinner, a man began to mutter loudly (you know a stage whisper? This was a stage mutter) to himself. I whipped my head about, as did some other individuals who were clearly also tourists or foreigners. We, the foreigners, soon returned to whatever we were doing previously when we realized that our Parisian counterparts were not paying the man much mind. Then, at the next stop, he made his way to the door, said “Excusez-moi” and “Au revoir” in much louder tones than any sane Frenchman would. Still no one paid him any heed.
The only force that can cause Metro travelers to abandon their islands is Metro performers. I myself find them annoying, but they often receive applause and change. But Parisians in general appear well-disposed to street performers. When I saw a trio of street performers today without an audience, I wondered whether I was going insane: could only I see them? Then I realized they were awful and that was why.
Not that I should be too contemptuous. I couldn’t perform to an audience, nor could I fulfill the hype man function. Every street-performing troupe has a hype man, who gets the crowd enthusiastic. My French is so awful I’m afraid I couldn’t communicate in the effusive banalities that the hype men revel in.
The awfulness of my French was reinforced with our orientation session today. It was hours upon hours of information force-fed to us. I had to pay perfect attention in order to really follow along, but once you’re dealing with four, five hours of one-way talking, your attention wanes—it’s natural. Fortunately they repeated all the important information in English.
We were taken on a tour of the building where our classes will be held. It’s in ISEP, Institut Superieur D’Electronique de Paris, which is an engineering school. Anyway, we’re somewhat integrated into the school—we can play sports with them, etc. (basketball!)—so, during our tour, we would often meet up with people who were the heads of various offices and branches. And the most amusing thing was how softly everyone spoke. For nearly every person to speak, the entire American group leaned forward in unison.
To go back on a zag. Basketball, and height. There was a theory, back in the day, that the buildings one lived and worked in would determine your height. So the reason kings grew tall was because of their massive castles. Paris confirms this long dead theory: it’s not the tallest of cities (I’ve seen very few tall people), and all of the Metro stations have distressingly short ceilings. I would hate to be 6’3” and above in Paris Metro. Which means, of course, that I’ll do great in basketball! This is a lie. I will not be great or even good, because that’s my skill level. I’m just making myself feel better.
Two major chores confronted me after the marathon orientation session. First, a cell phone. Second, a “plan de Paris,” a booklet that contains detailed maps of every arrondisement of Paris.
The first task was partially completed for me because of my previous purchase of a cell phone from a Stanford student who left fall quarter. The cell phone, in of itself, is fine. Minor complaints: it was not charged and several numbers are programmed in the SIM card already, and for whatever reason, one can’t delete numbers off the SIM card. The instruction manual does not mention the possibility, so I will assume it does not exist.
The major problem to solve about the cell phone is the plan. Shockingly, I don’t want to sign a two-year contract. So that means I have to pre-pay for a plan. After some awkward interactions with the salesman, involving much garbled French and pointing at a piece of paper, I had bought my plan. At least I didn’t speak English with the salesman, as some other individuals did. I’m, uh, going through a trial by fire. Anyway, once you buy the plan, one must then call a number and input a code. Simple enough, right? Of course not; otherwise I wouldn’t be telling the story, now would I? So after I call said number, I listen to the prerecorded message. The message goes by at a speed that implies that the speaker has somewhere else to be, so I had to listen to it again. Then I punch in the code. But it rejects it. Not only must one tap in the code accurately, but also quickly—if you pause at all, it rejects the code. After a few tries, it gives me a success message. I wish I could tell you exact words or phrases, but I was listening for the sense of the paragraph, thanks. Then comes some stuff about texts. I listen to it again. It costs money, and I couldn’t figure out what was being sold. So I rejected it. I think. No, I’m pretty sure I did.
The other major task—actually quite minor—was to purchase a “plan de Paris.” This was surprisingly difficult. The common claim is that every tabac and supermarket and newspaper stand and souvenir stand and lemonade stand sells these things. This is untrue. Some of all of these sell them. At any rate, I purchased mine. It fits comfortably in my jacket pocket, less so in my jeans.
Interestingly, the space that the actual maps of France occupy is less than the space of the index for the maps. This provides proof for a pet theory of mine. Because of the superabundance of information nowadays, it is difficult to know what stuff is important and what isn’t. How can one know if this newspaper story about, say, the culture of suburban China is important, or whether this street in Paris is relevant? If you’re a novice, you don’t. So more important than information is the interpretation of it for the uninformed. I generally prefer interpreted information, which is why the fake-objectivity of the media, pretending that their information is unfiltered and unbiased, bugs me so much. The value’s all in the interpretation if it’s good. Of course, it would be terrifying to see the media to unleash its interpretations on us—generally what we see is pretty knuckle-headed—but you get my point, I think.
Anyway, we have another day of orientation tomorrow, and then yet another the day after that, so I’d better settle in for the long haul.
*****
Paris has perhaps the best cheap food of any city I’ve been to. Any big city is bound to have at least decent cheap food, because of the demand. But in its variety and quality, I’ve not seen the city that beats Paris. At the same time, one can get food for amazingly cheap as well, even at a high quality (for cheap food). I’d take the crepe stands alone, guys, you don’t have to spoil me with more options.
*****
It should go without saying that Starbucks operates in Paris. Starbucks probably serves aliens, so it’s no shock to see it in Paris. But it’s been curiously empty whenever I’ve seen it. I asked some of the Parisian students whether it was popular. They replied that it was fairly popular, not a huge thing. But after passing Starbucks a few things, I’ve realized this: Starbucks does business, but people treat it like a fast food restaurant rather than a café.
On the general subject of chains, McDonald’s appears to be quite popular. It’s always been quite full whenever I see one. They have free wifi. Their menu is more upscale than the US’. So I suppose it’s no surprise. Also, I saw a Royale With Cheese. I feel as if a movie rite of passage has occurred for me; so, in terms of my Paris movie checklist:
1) After a long police chase, lie motionless on the ground and mutter “c’est degueulasse” (it’s disgusting) at a French girl, who will, due to a nefarious police office, misinterpret the phrase as “tu es degueulasse” (you’re disgusting)
2) Write a letter explaining La Vie en Rose while it plays in the background, after having attended cooking school, where my soufflés will be awful initially.
3) Fight in Eiffel Tower
4) Miss someone at a Paris train; later, exclaim, “We’ll always have Paris.”
5) Get in fight with singing friendly gargoyles as allies against evil priest at Notre Dame
Back to chains. KFC, McDonald’s, Starbucks and Pizza Hut are the major American chains. There are actually a few London chains here as well, including the surprisingly omnipresent Pizza Express. I swear Pizza Express had Starbucks-level ubiquity in London.
Anyway, a few chains seem to model themselves after American chains. For example, there’s one ice cream place that, décor-wise, seems influenced by Coldstone (it serves gelato, however). Or a fast-food restaurant that serves burgers, shakes, fries, etc. There’re a surprising number of chains, but unlike London, the small places are, in terms of numbers, holding their own.
*****
So in many Metro cars, there is an advertisement to improve your English. Its name is Wall Street English. Just goes to show you, no matter what ridiculousness, Brangelina or Bush, that you add to America, the business of America’s still business.
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