Weekend In Paris

Last day of meetings, this time at the lycée hotelier where we'd had dinner the night before. By that time I was on information overload, so I'm not sure I really processed anything that was said that day. Annie brought her niece so that we could role play the conseils de classe, which are meetings held each trimester with an administrator, the teaching team, two student representatives and two parent representatives to discuss the progress of each individual student in the class. Yeah. Totally looking forward to that.

We said our somewhat emotional goodbyes, even though Mr. Moto brought us the good news that we'll meet again at the end of January (except for Maureen, whose third world location makes travel costs prohibitive).

I took the metro to my friend Caroline's office, then sat quietly while she finished working on a project. We got to the train station with about two minutes to spare and Caroline asked if I really wanted to take the time to buy a ticket because nobody ever checks and it's no big deal. I told her I'd already been controlled twice, so we got a ticket. And no one checked it.

Her new place is in a town 3 miles outside Paris, and it's adorable. It's on the fourth floor, which is a painful climb, but it's bright and airy and spacious and absolutely beautiful. We had a delicious dinner of ham-and-cheese crepes, with pastries for dessert and a respectable amount of wine.

Saturday we went to the market in town and it was awesome. They sold everything there from fruits to fish to rastafarian caps. The guy selling melons offered to let us sample one, and his sales pitch went like this: "You've probably had better, but you've probably had worse, too." He was right, so we bought three. And happily they were even tastier than the sample melon.

Caroline's mom came by and we went into the city. The artists' neighborhood in the 20th was having an "Open House" day, so you could go in to the artists' workshops and look at all their stuff. It was pretty cool. After that we checked out an exhibit called "Frigos sur le Pont des Arts," which was kind of hilarious-- refrigerators on a bridge.

There was a disastrous episode wherein I complained about my jeans not fitting any more and Caroline decided she would help me find some new ones. Only we haven't shopped together too much, so she didn't realize what would happen: I'd try on two pairs and become unreasonably frustrated when they didn't fit, would refuse to ask anyone for help and rashly declare that nothing would fit, no matter where we went, and I would just want to go home and feel sorry for myself.

Frankly, I don't know if it was mental exhaustion from meetings or emotional exhaustion from this first month of school, but I was in total shut-down mode. In short, I was a terrible house guest, no fun at all, and poor Caro just had to put up with me. So we went back to her place and had dinner; we'd intended to watch a movie but ended up watching about two hours of Les Simpson instead. Somehow it's funnier in French.

Sunday we headed back in to town; only when we got to train station, both ticket machines were broken and there was no one at the window, so it was impossible to buy a ticket. Argh. At any rate, off we went to the Mémoriale de la Déportation, the Holocaust Memorial. It is stark and striking and moving. I was taking pictures like crazy and Caroline was standing very far away from me looking perturbed. Finally she came up and whispered that she didn't think pictures were allowed, so I stopped. (I never did see a sign, but I guess I believe her.) Anyway, profit from my contraband photos now:

We had a fantastic lunch at a Lebanese place near Boulevard St. Michel, then it was back to Caro's place to pack up my stuff. She walked me to the train station, but I guess we were a little behind schedule, because the train was pulling away and I had to literally run to get on it.

And yeah, I got controlled. Obviously. Without a ticket. I tried telling the guy that the two machines were broken and there was no one at the window (which was true enough, in the morning), but he whipped out a cell phone and called the station to verify, so I was SOL. I had a few seconds to recall a book I read about French people and what the author calls Persistent Personal Operating, where you essentially have to make them care about you personally, generally by giving them a sob story and throwing yourself at their mercy.

And so... I cried. Isn't that such a wretched girl thing to do? But French men... well. Anyway, it wasn't my intention to cry, but I was just so tired and fed up and sick of everything that I got all choked up and went the Noble Martyr route and said of course I'd pay the fine immediately but could we please hurry because I was going to miss my train to Le Mans. He asked to see my ticket, then fussed at me for only booking a ticket Paris- Le Mans rather than a Caro's Town-Le Mans ticket. I told him how sorry I was (not particularly true) but that I didn't know that was possible (which was true) and got a brief lecture on How To Buy Train Tickets. I choked up again and said I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm just a poor little foreigner, etc. He asked my nationality, I told him, he said, "That's a beautiful country. I don't know Alabama, but I like the U.S." Then he said that since I was an American he would let me go this time. "But go quickly or you'll miss your train. Take the 13 line for Chatillon and that'll take you directly to the Montparnasse station. Now hurry!"

French people. I will never understand.