Starbucks and Mama DiBelli's Family Restaurant

While Americans are told to practice defensive driving, I’m pretty sure Parisian drivers adhere to offensive driving. I think they conform to that joke Jerry Orbach told in Law & Order, “My dad told me that the first rule of driving is to make the other guy miss.” But I hear that the Parisian drivers have calmed down in recent years. If so, I would scarcely have wanted to go to Paris in the eighties or early nineties. They generally accelerate randomly and tear off to wherever they’re going.

The motorcyclists are the worst. Because of their compact size, they can scoot in between lanes. I’ve even seen a few canter down sidewalks. To be honest, I’m more worried about some businessman on a motorcycle creaming me than some working class stiff getting to me. Judging by the clothes worn, it’s the pinstriped businessmen riding the cycles and the blue-collar guys driving the cars. It’s fairy egalitarian though: I’ve seen a number of women opting for motorcycles over cars. I’ve even seen a family with two young boys travel by motorcycles. They all had matching red and yellow helmets. They cut a dashing figure as they zipped around the stalled cars.

French cars, even those produced by American companies, have subtle differences that are dramatic to see. The same basic prototypes exist in France. So you’ve got your trucks and minivans and sedans and the like. But the whole design is different. First the lines are all curved. Everything is a curve and the trunks are all hatchbacks. Second, the taller cars have become small. Almost everything is the height of a sedan. Last, cars are slightly less wide than American cars. The effect is one of vague recall but not total recognition, like when you see a cousin who likes somewhat like the friend you know.

You see many cars that are older in Paris. It’s not uncommon to see some real clunkers with rust spreading gently like moss. Also there are fewer luxury cars. In comparison to London, where a Bentley or Rolls-Royce is a not uncommon sight, I can’t recall the last super high-end car I’ve seen.

I get the impression that cars are far more functional for Parisians. No one seems to be having fun driving (although between the traffic and the aggressive drivers, who would?). I never hear music from the cars. Cars never sport decorations. The bumper sticker, “I’d rather be _____ing” would be perfect for Parisians if they deigned to put such a decoration on their cars.

****

There was more orientation events today. Even when small components of information are interesting, the sum is overwhelming. Combine that with the need for perfect attention for the French, and orientation is truly wasted time for many of us.

We got a break for lunch. Instead of traveling to a touristy area or area I’ve already been to, I looked at the Metro map and chose a stop that was relatively close to Paris randomly. I chose Chateau d’Eau in the tenth arrondisement.
To be honest I thought I made a mistake when I left the station. A crowd of African males ringed the Metro exit. One of them shouted something at me. I ignored him. Then I glanced at the other exit for the Metro, on the other side of the street. There was another group of Africans, likewise grouped about the exit and also harassing the stoic exiters about something-or-other.

The neighborhood surrounding the Chateau d’Eau station looks exactly the same as any black neighborhood in the States, except with French Africans of course. On the street with the Metro exits, there were perhaps eight or nine barbers catering to black people. You can tell by the pictures that are displayed in the windows.

The people hanging around were much different than other Frenchmen. For one, many were dressed in stereotypical African-American “hip-hop” attire. A lot of Yankees caps in alternate colors, baggy jeans (but not baggy shirts!), all that jazz. The ones who weren’t were very snappily attired, though, more so than the average Frenchmen. Many wore suits. Also, people were much more familiar with one another than in most residential neighborhoods.

Each street’s shops had a theme. I started in barber shop street. I moved on to cheap clothes street. Unlike most French stores, the bargain basement prices were prominently advertised. If I were in the market, I would’ve pounced—but I wanted food, not leather shoes (cheap!...err…pas trop cher). After the cheap clothes street came sports street, with various sporting apparel and equipment sold. And, most bizarrely of all, children’s clothing street. There appears to be a market for children’s formal clothes, as there were three within a three-block walk on one street.

But I was here for food, and thankfully, a food area awaited me. Different types of restaurants were clustered together: Turkish, Greek, Italian, and the like. I chose an Italian place, because it advertised a Five Cheese Pizza (with camembert…mozzarella…provolone…and more!) for a good price.

The Italian restaurant was, like the neighborhood I had just left, reminiscent in décor and attitude to a certain type of American restaurant. If this restaurant operated in America, it would be called something like Mama DiBella’s Family Restaurant. The décor was very minimalistic: one or two paintings but not much more. The clientele was surprisingly mixed, with different ages, races, and professions represented. Even more, the different demographic groups within clientele mixed, so that there were quite a few tables with older white French people and younger African-French people, or whatever permutation. To add to the oddness, the two waiters seemed to know everyone and greeted many, whether in denim or suit, with handshakes or bises (the cheek-to-cheek kissing) as appropriate. Even more strange, the two waiters must have been brothers, as they wore similar hairstyles and facial hair. Their sartorial choices were similar. Their walks had the same rhythm. I for one was often confused, but none of the diners seemed to be.

To top it all off the Five Cheese Pizza was excellent. The cheeses mixed together well. The crust was thin, even thinner than what Americans would call thin-crust pizza, and also surprisingly soft. Nevertheless it was quite good and I was quite satisfied, both because of the food and the unique environment.

*****

More orientation after lunch, of course. We are not quite done with the whole thing—there’s still one or two more events, depending on how things work out personally.

*****

After orientation, me and one of my Stanford friends from the Fondation, Tim Edmond, grabbed dinner and then went to see the Brave One, the Jodi Foster film. But first we had to go through the subway and kill some time in the Odeon area.

We had reached our stop and were walking up the escalator stairs when we saw an interesting thing in front of us. It was a man, dressed in a blue pinstriped blazer. He had dark curly hair. We couldn’t see his face or front yet. To his right was a girl with blond hair. From the back, she appeared pretty.

Because our collective comprehension of French is not perfect, and gets weaker in emotional situations (people speak faster and less clearly), neither of us knew what they were saying. But it was something important. The taller French man had his arm around the girl’s shoulders and was leaning close to her. He was agitated and yet he seemed, somehow, from his posture, to want to kiss her. Occasionally he would lunge with his lips only for the girl to lean slightly away. As for the girl, she was also agitated, judging from her tone. But there was a joking quality to the exchange. In discussing this later, we both agreed on this point. Something about the tones of their voices indicated a good-natured flight.

Then we reached the top of the escalator. They had done so firstIn this particular area of the Metro stop we were at, one of those conveyor belts for pedestrians that you see in airports was running. But it was running towards us and away from the exit. At any rate, the pair were speaking with one another near the conveyor belt. We could see their faces now. The man’s had a narrow, mean quality about it, while the woman was less pretty from the front than the back. Part of this was probably due to her emotional state: she appeared panicked and this did not improve the beauty of her somewhat mismatched face. Something about the discussion had boiled over. The man still embraced her, but it was rigid rather than relaxed. As for the woman, she was trying to escape. We had no choice but to pass them by. But we discussed it because it was fairly strange: something had run from joke to anger in a few seconds.

We went to the theater, and because we were quite early, Tim decided to get a Frappucino from Starbucks. Starbucks is very, very similar in France as it is in America. The atmosphere and décor is exactly the same. This particular Starbucks serves fresh-squeezed orange juice from an orange juicer that appears intense. It is a metal box with a transparent window, where one can see the oranges being squeezed. The top of the box is apparently a funnel of some sort, because it is filled with oranges that periodically drop down into an assembly line in a box, that peels and squeezes and dispenses juice from a spout.

The other differences are those of drink sizes. The sizes are Moyen, Grand, Venti. I.e. Medium, Large and whatever Venti means. This is the only concession I’ve seen in drink names to the local culture. The other difference is drink sizes: they are smaller, and they even sell the shots of coffee that are so common in French cafes. In general, it is absurdly overpriced: cookies are two euros each when I could go next door and save eighty centimes. The only patrons appear to be Americans who sit around for a while and French who use it as a hit-and-run fast food restaurant.

Speaking of French who use the Starbucks as a hit-and-run stop, guess who we saw? That’s right, the pair from the metro! They appeared to be a generic couple now. How strange.

Anyway, after that we went to the movie. Because Tim was not done with his Frappucino, I attempted to smuggle it into the movie theater. We quickly ran into trouble: there were three ushers who blocked the entrance. In other words, one could not simply slip past them and continue on one’s merry way. I attempted to play it cool until one of the ushers asked what’s in my jacket, when I played the stupid tourist who doesn’t know French. This, too, was unsuccessful, but instead of throwing it away, Tim was allowed to drink it in the lobby.

This led to another odd incident. We were speaking in English to one another, leaning against various things near the food concession as we did so. Two tourists speaking English come up (they had American-sounding accents), and ask Tim, “Do you work here?” Fact: Tim is black. Fact: Tim was dressed in a purple velvet blazer. Fact: All other employees of the movie theater dressed in white dress shirts. Draw your own conclusions. I will note that the excuse proffered was: “Well you guys were hanging out in the worker area.” Ah yes, because workers just hang out in France, chatting in English. This makes perfect sense to me.

It was time to go into the theater. We were confronted by an inordinately long commercial experience. There was a half-an-hour of commercials and trailers! It was remarkable, though, considering the lack of literal understanding that I had, that I could follow the gist of most of the trailers simply from the music and the images. France appears to be capitulating to Hollywood filmmaking techniques, because I was guessing the next image even before it came up. Hmm…Serious War Film…We’re going to have the conflicted hero philosophizing about war…booom! Hmm…Serious Relationship Film…We need kissing in the rain…there it is! Also interesting were the commercials. There are cigarette-style warnings for most of them now. For example, the one for M&Ms warned viewers to avoid too much sugar and fat.

Then came the movie

******

MOVIE REVIEW: THE BRAVE ONE.

Some of the best moments in crime dramas, which The Brave One is a member of, come from the subtle confrontation between cop and criminal. There are only so many things one can do with guns, really. But when two characters really collide, that’s something. That’s why the Al Pacino-Robert DeNiro scene in Heat is so justifiably celebrated. There’s one of those moments in The Brave One, between Jodi Foster, a radio show host turned vigilante after her boyfriend’s brutal murder, and Terence Howard, the good detective.

They both know that Jodi Foster is a vigilante, and must be brought to justice. But because of the gray area, it was hard to say—Foster has killed someone who Howard had wanted to get, somehow. But they both know that the other knows and they play it well.

What the scene brings out is common to most revenge films: the system cannot deal with my needs; I must act out for my own needs. And yet, Foster’s character acts beyond a narrow conception of her own needs and visits mayhem on many petty criminals of New York. She begins to seek out the killing. There’s a moral ambiguity in her actions that the film feints at but never fully explores—there’s a great visual motif of Foster cleaning herself after her killings that is simply discarded.

Unfortunately, the obvious visual motifs are used like a balpeen hammer. Foster muses again and again how she’s become a stranger to herself and, then, lo and behold! entering through Stranger’s Gate in Central Park (I presume it’s Central Park) becomes a crucial plot point. The camera work is beyond shoddy and oftentimes some strange choices are made. A particularly egregious example is a tilting camera, back and forth, that reminds one of a ship tilting at sea. The music is, if possible, worse than the choices of shot: thanks, Director, for providing me with those sad chords—I would’ve never guessed that Jodi Foster was feeling sad about her boyfriend’s brutal beating otherwise. Certainly not through her very expressive face; no, the music must do the job there.

It’s too bad that the ham-fisted moments (don’t get me started on the ending) must outweigh Jodi Foster and Terence Howard’s work through the bulk of the film. But it does. Ultimately the ideology of the film—the uncaring system that is uncaring by necessity—is interesting. Unfortunately, the film is more interesting than good.