Ode to ma chère Barbara and her sweetheart Yann…

It was the beginning of my first semester at Madison, the moment where the students in my program were to meet their French tutor. What a treat, a personal tutor coming from one of Paris’ top commerce schools by our side for the entire semester. Barbara had my heart within minutes… offering me salted caramels from her region and a French fashion magazine. But, my admiration lay deeper than my tummy’s appreciation for her goodies. I was impressed by her knowledge of several subjects in my field of interest, her objectivity and open mind. But one thing shines above all the rest, her sincerity. She is a real peach… genuine and kind. I’ve showered her with compliments from the start and she never got any better at accepting them. I think this is in part, a French thing. If someone praises you, you down play it as much as possible, or just completely ignore it. Even now, Barbara will read this and feel a little uncomfortable… "ah shucks, Lili, you are exaggerating!" But no, not at all. It is my pleasure to provide a multide of proofs.

During Barbara’s semester abroad she had a lot more work than she was used to. On top of that, she was doing correspondence work for her internship based in Paris. Even with her very full schedule she made our weekly meeting a priority. She was a devoted teacher and helped catch even my most subtle errors. In the beginning, I must admit, I was intimidated. She was always on point… prepared and ready to go, with an answer for everything. If she didn’t know right away, by the evening I’d have an email in my box with the pertinent grammar rule and an explanation. When I was tired or a little lazy and repeatedly made the same mistake, she would get concerned. It still makes me laugh… so adorable, “Ah Liliane, oh no, I’m not a good tutor”. But on the contrary, it was the pupil who wasn’t rising to the occasion.

On top of everything else, she would always come through in a pinch. I had several papers to write over the course of the semester in french on some heavy topics. All together, I wrote probably 7 papers… at least 80 pages in all. A mix of procrastination and a super busy schedule resulted in many stressful late nights of racing the clock to finish my work on time. Babs never let me down. I could always send my work to her for one last revision before handing it to the professor. I have never felt so good about my work.

We shared her first “real” Halloween. My room mates and I threw a huge costume party at our pad. She also came over with her boyfriend Yann for Thanksgiving. They were completely dumbfounded by the amount of food… granted, it was a lot… hee hee, the sous-chef and I wanted to do it up right. 15 large dishes for 5 people… but it was the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had! In France, turkeys are not common and I’m not sure that the big ones even exist. Yann was super cute repeating “That’s just the biggest chicken I’ve ever seen!”

Obviously, I was very sad when Barbara left. I remember driving her home on her last night in Madison. Their was a beautiful downpour of snow but it was making it hard to see, especially with eyes all teared up. But, we kept tabs on one another as I finished my year and got ready to leave for France. Once again, Barbara came through… she put me in contact with people looking for sub-leasers. I ended up with such an awesome deal… I LOVE my apartment and my sweet room mate, Fanny.

Since I’ve been in Paris, Barbara and Yann have completely taken me under their wing. In a foreign land, they are the closest thing I have to family. They invite me over for dinner on a regular basis. They include me on almost all their outings. They introduce me to interesting, cool new people. Gosh, I feel so lucky.

And, Baraba is a lucky lady, Yann is fabulous. He and I share 2 of my biggest passions; photography and food. He is an excellent photographer, he definitely has the eye. Eventually some of his shots will be on my blog. And he is a terrific cook. Even when Barbara was in Peru for 3 weeks, Yann made sure to keep in touch, check up on me… he invited me to the school bar for brewskies and pool, we made gourmet dinners together. Lot’s of fun.

I hope to keep these 2 precious people in my life… I’m excited for the rest of my time here with them. It will be great when my honey is here and we can do geeky couple stuff. And, they have each invited me to visit their home towns and to meet the family. Wow, what a privilege… so you can expect to see a blog on Bretagne and Lyon.

Merci Babara, Yann… vous êtes si chers à mon coeur…

Amendment Matters

Sundays in Paris… just delightful. A day of calm and rest after a charged Saturday of running errands, making plans and a late night out with friends. Ahhh, I wake, make myself a cup of coffee, snuggle back in to bed with my laptop to read the news and write a bit. Today is particularly beautiful… blue skies with puffy white clouds, cool and crisp, and scents of autumn lingering in the air.

Yes, it is the perfect moment to stop and reflect on the bombardment of thoughts arising from the constant collision with new experiences, new people and changed conceptions. As I reread my “project” section on my website I realize it needs massive amendments. My work with l’ASSFAM and further research has made me rethink my entire master’s thesis.

During my studies, every article, book and essay on my topic underlined the difficulty of the young Maghrebins; their psychological rupture between Islamic values and those of the Republic, their rancour for the brutality and oppression of the colonial past, the “ghettoization” of their neighborhoods, the lack of good schools and resources necessary to get a decent education and job. Result: increased violence, alienation, rejection of French culture and acute poverty…. the perfect recipe for a fatalistic existence.

In my mind, all of these things made sense… clear causal chains. But, I was wrong. There are several problematics with my original understanding of the Maghrebin issue. First, is the use of the categorical term “Maghrebin”. Originally, Maghreb was just a geographical reference, but was appropriated by the French to designate a people. This offends many Algerians whose past differs greatly from their Moroccan and Tunisian neighbors. And worse, it doesn’t take account the various peoples, such as Arab populations and the original “Berber” tribes. It was pointed out to me that using this arbitrary label was short-sited and would only complicate my work.

Second, I was expecting the Algerians to be the most obstinate group when ceding to French lifestyles. With decades of bloody war and more than a century of subjugation by the French it seemed logical, as many sociologists contend about the ex-colonized Muslim world, that backlashes occur. This manifests as a revalorization of their heritage, culture and religion as means of protest, teetering towards fundamentalism. Again, wrong. I was taken aback on my daily bus ride to work with middle and high schoolers; Lacoste trainers, fancy sneakers and 3 carat cubic zirconia in their ears. So funny. I was anticipating an angry group of young men, rejecting Western values and instead discovered the most enthusiastic imitators of the American rapper.

At the same time, I had expected to find a much larger population of women adhering to “traditional” values. Rather, most of the girls with North African origins are extremely stylish and self expressive. Very French. Even those who wear the headscarf, such as the other intern at L'ASSFAM, manage to adapt their Islamic practice with the realities of French life.

There is however a group of immigrants in France that fills all the stereotypes I believed in; the Turks. From my observations, they are in large part closed and communautarian. At the welcoming platforms for legal immigrants, the government asks the newcomers to sign a contract proving their willingness to integrate in to French society. It obliges them to a one day course on French civics and to register for free language classes if their spoken French is weak. 95% of people sign the contract. The Turks very rarely sign and the women almost never do. Many are Kurd refugees, and all immigrants with refugee status must pass by an ASSFAM social worker. As a Western woman, I can not help but be disturbed by the relationship I witness between the men and their wives. In most cases the Turkish men do not allow their wives to sign the contract because they do not believe the woman should leave the home. They feel it unacceptable that the wife go unaccompanied to classes for a language they do not feel she requires. I never knew Turkey had such a large percentage of conservative Muslims. And, I never realized how many Turks are in France. Apparently, the Turks are growing in numbers all across Europe. Up until now, Germany has taken in the largest number, causing a very tense political scene.

Third, I thought I was heading for the projects. My readings gave me the impression the banlieus were crime ridden, dangerous. But, no. Granted, there is a dramatic change in scenery with the Arabic butchers, bazaar style shops, tagging and a lower standard of cleanliness. However, these densely populated burbs are mainly made up of families. As noted before, the most flagrant feature is the shared poverty. These neighborhoods have a high concentration of government subsidized housing; tall, depressing cement complexes that stuff in as many families as possible.

And in my more recent research, I’m seeing a change in tides since my first set of readings. A growing number of statistics prove an inflated conception of the problem. One car is put on fire and it creates a sensationalist nightmare. In banlieus with a large percentage of foreign populations (by and large descendants of immigrants) the violence levels are no more elevated than the national average. And the nature of the crimes are important to note. Young North Africans are most often implicated in petty crimes such as destruction of public spaces. They tag and less often, put things on fire. Moroccans, specifically, are involved in drug trafficking, mostly hash. Culprits of serious crimes such as grand theft, rape and murders are by in large committed by the French. Terrorist style attacks are carried out by an extremely small minority involved in militant organizations who usually do not have family ties in France.

Though my original thesis is no longer valid which requires me to restructure and rework my ideas, I am excited about the process. I feel very lucky to be so engaged in the milieu I’m studying and am hoping to use these experiences to carve out an objective synthesis of what many French consider a real crisis. Is there a true crisis? Is there really a serious security issue? Are the immigrants and their descendents veritably responsible for an exhorbitant amount of government spending? These are all questions I’m seeking to answer more concretely. In a country where immigrant populations get a very bad wrap, resulting in a wide-range of discriminations (particularly in employment), combating media sensationalism with the facts seems just a noble cause as any.

Today's Market Loot

Tour of the Saturday Market

RUE DE LEVIS

Welcome to the Saturday market in Paris’ 17th arrondissement. I became attached to this bustling, pedestrian street full of specialty shops and gourmet foods when I studied here in 2002. I love this typical french district; shopowners who know most of their customers by name, young families getting their errands done together, produce men selling fruits and veggies like in an auction. "2 Euros les fraises, messieurs dames, regarder, les jolies fraises, 2 Euros!"

Flowers galore.

If I could, I'd fill my apartment to the brim with pots and vases. However, I am happily making do with a window sill of herbs and a few small plant throughout the apt.

Stinky cheese.

The cheese selection is overwhelming. I have been going chevre crazy as of late. It is just too delicious with the last of the season's heirloom tomatoes, arugula and a warm bacon vinagrette.

MARCHEE BIOLOGIQUE

The neighborhood is also home to a fabulous organic market. Though you pay an arm and a leg for their products, the difference in taste makes it hard to resist. I have gone there every Saturday since my arrival to purchase veggies and fruits for the week. Slowly but surely, I'm starting to get French market culture. As with everything else here, the act of purchasing from a stand is chuck full of cultural codes. If you don't understand the rules, you either wait a long time or get snipped at. The first two weeks I was pathetic. Completely lacking confidence, I would sheepishly wait until someone offered me assistance. I felt so silly preciously holding a single tomato for twenty minutes, hoping someone would eventually notice me and take my money. Luckily now a days, I know how to get in to the system, though not without a few bumps along the way.

Les Reines du Marchee

So, I've learned, the most important skill in the market is to know how to "faire la queue" or wait in line. In the beginning, I didn't think there was such a thing. I thought it must be a free for all. Apparently, nothing could be farther from the truth. And to make things even more complicated, for each seller, there's a specific place you are supposed to stand. With large crowds seeming to aimlessly roam around, it can be dizzying to figure out who is waiting to be helped, who is just looking, and behind whom to stand.

And then, one must be prepared for the Wild card. Old Ladies. They will not wait. They are allowed to break all market rules! One day, this mean little ol' lady, pushes me to the side and shoves a euro in to the merchant's hands, takes her bouquet of herbs and walks away with her nose high in the air. Meanwhile, I had been standing there for 15 minutes with no more than she in my hands.

Another time, I walked up to a stand with no one waiting, just one other person being helped. I made eye contact with the merchant. I just needed a couple squash. After the other customer finished his transaction I thought surely it was my turn. As I extend my money towards him, a woman who walked up after me and stood to me right starts fussing, "excuse me, but you are not in line, what are you thinking, why should you be served first?" Confused, I asked the merchant, "well, I was clearly here first, where does the line begin?" Well madame, to the right of the stand. But, since you have so little, I'll let you go ahead". Let me go ahead??? Just because I was four steps away from the spot. Unbelievable.