Chickens and Cabbages.

Le 1 décembre 2004.
Victoria commented last night during tea that France is really a big country, and in comparison to the rest of the European countries, it really is rather larger than the others. But it made me consider distances and relativity of- such that, to drive from home to school in the States, it would take me about three and a half hours. In three hours, I can get from Metz to Paris. If I drove from Metz to Toulouse, I assume it would take about eight hours; in that same amount of time, I could get from my home to Chicago. In the time it would take me to get from Los Angeles to New York, I supposedly get from Paris to St. Petersburg. The map of Europe on my map makes me realize how much distance does exist within the subcontinent, but still my own, proper country still outmasses the almost 40 countries that make up Europe. That is still something that actually does frappe me.

Speaking of subcontinent, one thing that the French educative system teaches is that there are five continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, the American continent, and Australia. But with my Midwestern United States educative system upbringing, I find it difficult and ridiculous to give Europe status as a proper continent while denying that the American continent is actually two separate continents and the right to Antarctica its own proper status. It’s all rather pretentious in my book. But it’s also just another aspect of another country and culture that I must just learn to accept and not criticize—just that that little detail is so easy to criticize.

French bureaucracy is like a spoiled child. Just as you think you’ve managed to placate the brat, it comes running straight into the back of your legs, tackles you to the ground and demands that you acknowledge its presence fully. The securité sociale sent me a letter, after I was assured that my dossier was complete enough to receive a provisionary number, stating that they needed my pay stub from October, even though we had explained that we wouldn’t receive one until January. So I went back in today, with a photocopy of my attestation of pay (attestations are the most useful things and as such are the most annoying things to receive) hoping that it would placate this demon of a child. All I received for my effort was a papercut, a curt “merci” and was told that the girl behind the desk didn’t really know if the attestation would work or if I would receive my provisionary number, have a good day.

Wandering into Centre St. Jacques on my way to ATAC to get juice for our French breakfast at dinner, I was walking passed boulangerie row when I overheard a forty-something man on the phone, presumably to his wife, as he was saying something along the lines of “oui, j’arrive bientôt, mon poule.” In that moment, I found myself hard pressed not to burst out laughing, and the other endearment I know French people to use, mon chou, came into my head. For Anglophones, it does seem funny that French people refer to their dearly loved ones as my chicken or my cabbage, but it can’t truly seem that much more bizarre to here Anglos use honey or sweetie in the same context. But I still can’t help but to laugh when I hear someone being called my cabbage or my chicken, especially at forty years old.

It’s easy to take for granted sometimes that I’m in France, and that I live in a nice sized city that’s only three hours from Paris. Yet, it only takes a trip to Paris to remind me that I can just up and go to Paris. It’s still quite magical I find to just say, oh I’m going to Paris for the weekend then. Truly, loads of people can say that, but really a whole load more cannot just say that! So, yes, now you know. I am going to Paris next weekend to meet up with Kristen and some new French friends, and hopefully to see Amelia and Liz before they leave, as sadly, they will soon be doing. So once again, I will see Paris lit up for the Christmas season, and I’m really rather excited! “Imagine, Paris at Christmas!”