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sometimes the world that i think in is completely disconnected from the world that i live in. i'm grossly out of touch with reality, and i believe that this is cause for concern.
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Flânerie
(all of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies)
07 February 2008 @ 06:02 pm
In Paris, I'm a "nanny" for two french children: every day after school, i pick them up, take them home, feed them, entertain them..... I do it to keep up my french, to keep my bank account balance in the positive range, and of course, to get my daily dose of cute. That special brand of cute à l'enfant parisien, to be specific.
I walked into la crèche today to pick up Alice, the 13-month old, and it hit me. Tout d'un coup. She is the cutest baby at that day care center. By far. And i'm not just saying that because i know her.... she's just in another league .... and, well, some of those other babies really are quite ugly.
But what of the stereotype that ALL French babies belong to a special cult of über-cuteness? These ugly babies certainly did not. Perhaps it is not until the French child reaches the toddler phase that he or she becomes heart-wrenchingly adorable? (do they need to learn to speak french first?) Or maybe, i thought, French children aren't really cute at all. When i pass a young Parisian in Saint-Germain des Prés, is that tiny little person only irrisistible for spouting so perfectly the language of Baudelaire and Apollinaire? Or for sporting on its tiny frame the perfect ensemble of babyDior, children's converse, and skinny jeans?
I looked at Alice as Martin and I walked to her stroller. Such a cute baby, i thought, in refreshingly normal clothes. Holding her in my arms, i let out a smile, happy to know that, while she isn't my baby (thankfully! ... although it has been suggested... ), i do have the priviledge of pushing her stroller, preparing her bottle, and putting her to bed every weekday afternoon.
I think that taking this babysitting job was one of the best decisions I made in Paris. It's stressful, sometimes boring, and, as one of my friends pointed out recently, is making me "old." But when Martin innocently asks me, "when i grow up, when my dad dies, will i be my sister's father?" or comments, "you don't speak french, because you have a different tongue. Here, let me teach you some French so that you'll learn. This is how you say 'table' . . . ," it makes it all worthwhile.
Right now, i'm in their living room watching cartoons. Martin is dancing tecktonik for me. And i think my heart just melted.
Current Mood: 
happy
happy05 February 2008 @ 01:27 pm
I take back everything i ever said about homeless people playing for money in the subway, and if i ever have to hear another frenchman butcher "Besame" on his accordion, i may throw myself onto the tracks.
If you're going to sing in public - and ask people to pay you for it - PLEASE try harder.
Try not to suck. try to get the notes right. and try to at least pretend you're putting on a show for the passengers in the train car.
please excuse me while i turn up my ipod some more.
If you're going to sing in public - and ask people to pay you for it - PLEASE try harder.
Try not to suck. try to get the notes right. and try to at least pretend you're putting on a show for the passengers in the train car.
please excuse me while i turn up my ipod some more.
Current Location: Les métros
Current Mood: 
nauseated
nauseated04 February 2008 @ 04:23 pm
A homeless man screamed at my dad today and it really made me think.
We had eaten a big meal at a restaurant in "chinatown" Paris, and of course my dad wanted to take home the leftovers. Since the owners weren't French, they actually gave us to-go boxes, and my dad's need to save every last bite of food was satisfied. I hadn't really enjoyed this particular dish - which was precisely why i had left it on the plate - but nonetheless agreed to carry it home. I knew that neither of us would actually want these leftovers later, so i convinced him that we were better off sharing our food with someone else. The homeless population in Paris is considerably large, and i figured we would run into someone asking for food on our way home.
Somehow, on the one day i had something to give away, there was no one there to ask for it. It was not until we arrived at Montparnasse that we passed one of the local homeless men; he was sitting up in his usual spot between the France Telecom store and the BNP Paribas. I was worried that we wouldn't get rid of the leftovers before getting home, and quickly suggested to my dad that we offer our food to this man. I handed him the takeout box, told him how to say food in french, and waited as he walked up to the man (who i could not see from where i was standing). I heard my dad mumble the words i had tought him and watched him as he offered our food. A shrieking "NON!!" echoed across Boulevard Vaugirard. A woman who was walking past us literally jumped aside. My dad turned to me, taken aback. He shrugged, and said the man didn't seem to want it.
Is it wrong to offer someone food when they have not asked for it? I wondered if we had made a mistake. Every day in Paris I pass by so many people in the streets, in the metro; they ask for money, a food ticket, a meal. You can't listen to them, even though you want to.
I come out of the Sèvres-Babylone métro stop almost every day to meet the gaze of a young woman holding her baby and a paper cup. Later on, i'm in the métro again: another woman i see all to often, her hair wildly out of control, the skin under her eyes sags into almost perfect half-moons. Her shoes do not fit. She "sings" for us an old French ballad, grumbles a plea for spare change, a dinner ticket. I answer shame with shame, and i look at my shoes. I can't help but turn up the dial of my ipod and within moments, my mind is elsewhere.
How is it that we let each other suffer? Why is it that we suffer to begin with? Every time i pass the "local" homeless man, i try to imagine the story of his life - the events, misfortunes, decisions, flaws, or social conditions that allowed him to call this torn mattress, all too carefully nestled in the shadow of a heating vent, a home. I hear myself calling it a home, and i don't even know how to respond.
How does his life differ from that of the woman at Sèvres? I have to admit that i don't know where she sleeps at night. It may be indoors. She may have more, yet ask for more. She has a child, she speaks to those who pass by her. The local man does not even look up at the world around him. I think about him and wonder if there may be a point at which the human spirit gives up, or adjusts to a situation of permanence in a temporary setting.
I'm afraid to write more, because quite franky, i don't know shit about being homeless, about begging for change. I don't know what the homeless man sees when he wakes up every morning next to the Gare Montparnasse. I don't know what the woman feels as she sits on the steps of the métro, watching Longchamp-carrying Sciences Po students file to and from class (or l'Abbaye).... I don't know what motivates the "singer" to sing, if she knows, or even cares, that she is horribly out of tune, and i don't know if everyone looks at their shoes as she walks by, arms outstretched, asking for aide.
We had eaten a big meal at a restaurant in "chinatown" Paris, and of course my dad wanted to take home the leftovers. Since the owners weren't French, they actually gave us to-go boxes, and my dad's need to save every last bite of food was satisfied. I hadn't really enjoyed this particular dish - which was precisely why i had left it on the plate - but nonetheless agreed to carry it home. I knew that neither of us would actually want these leftovers later, so i convinced him that we were better off sharing our food with someone else. The homeless population in Paris is considerably large, and i figured we would run into someone asking for food on our way home.
Somehow, on the one day i had something to give away, there was no one there to ask for it. It was not until we arrived at Montparnasse that we passed one of the local homeless men; he was sitting up in his usual spot between the France Telecom store and the BNP Paribas. I was worried that we wouldn't get rid of the leftovers before getting home, and quickly suggested to my dad that we offer our food to this man. I handed him the takeout box, told him how to say food in french, and waited as he walked up to the man (who i could not see from where i was standing). I heard my dad mumble the words i had tought him and watched him as he offered our food. A shrieking "NON!!" echoed across Boulevard Vaugirard. A woman who was walking past us literally jumped aside. My dad turned to me, taken aback. He shrugged, and said the man didn't seem to want it.
Is it wrong to offer someone food when they have not asked for it? I wondered if we had made a mistake. Every day in Paris I pass by so many people in the streets, in the metro; they ask for money, a food ticket, a meal. You can't listen to them, even though you want to.
I come out of the Sèvres-Babylone métro stop almost every day to meet the gaze of a young woman holding her baby and a paper cup. Later on, i'm in the métro again: another woman i see all to often, her hair wildly out of control, the skin under her eyes sags into almost perfect half-moons. Her shoes do not fit. She "sings" for us an old French ballad, grumbles a plea for spare change, a dinner ticket. I answer shame with shame, and i look at my shoes. I can't help but turn up the dial of my ipod and within moments, my mind is elsewhere.
How is it that we let each other suffer? Why is it that we suffer to begin with? Every time i pass the "local" homeless man, i try to imagine the story of his life - the events, misfortunes, decisions, flaws, or social conditions that allowed him to call this torn mattress, all too carefully nestled in the shadow of a heating vent, a home. I hear myself calling it a home, and i don't even know how to respond.
How does his life differ from that of the woman at Sèvres? I have to admit that i don't know where she sleeps at night. It may be indoors. She may have more, yet ask for more. She has a child, she speaks to those who pass by her. The local man does not even look up at the world around him. I think about him and wonder if there may be a point at which the human spirit gives up, or adjusts to a situation of permanence in a temporary setting.
I'm afraid to write more, because quite franky, i don't know shit about being homeless, about begging for change. I don't know what the homeless man sees when he wakes up every morning next to the Gare Montparnasse. I don't know what the woman feels as she sits on the steps of the métro, watching Longchamp-carrying Sciences Po students file to and from class (or l'Abbaye).... I don't know what motivates the "singer" to sing, if she knows, or even cares, that she is horribly out of tune, and i don't know if everyone looks at their shoes as she walks by, arms outstretched, asking for aide.
Current Location: les rues de Paris
Current Mood: 
contemplative
contemplative