Parisaurus

It's almost 18 months since we moved here, so I thought I'd mark the occasion by sharing some terms I've come up with to help describe the unique experience of being an outsider in Paris.
If you've ever lived in, visited or even read about this city, I'm sure you can think of many more... feel free to share any others you come up with and I'll compile them in future posts!

aisle high n.
The dizzying sense of euphoria experienced by Australians when they see the range of alcohol available in French supermarkets.

bark de triomphe n.
The self-satisfied yap uttered by a poodle when it sees you step in its freshly-laid crotte.

Dionify v.
The mystifying tendency of the French to elevate Canadian singers to god-like status.

expatois n.
The curious brand of franglais spoken between expats with varying proficiency in French. “Why don’t you pop in chez moi pour un apéro around six-thirty?”

FNAC jacket n.
Extra-thick skin required to shop at the customer-unfriendly retailer of cultural and electronic consumer products. “The guy in the DVD department just laughed at me when I asked for help… lucky I had my FNAC jacket on.”

haught couture n.
A certain look and attitude cultivated by sales assistants in the boutiques along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. “Epitomising haught couture, the Chanel shopgirl looked down her nose and spat at me as I gazed at the window display.”

height stroke n.
Seizure caused by climbing too many monuments to get a bird’s eye view of Paris.

hellivision n.
Saturday night in France without cable.

kafkardiac arrest n.
The heart-constricting climax of frustration when, after 8 hours of dehumanising bureaucracy, you are told you need 2 more passport photos, 17 more copies of your birth certificate and another chest x-ray before you can get your Carte de Séjour.

métrognome n.
A diminutive underground train busker, usually playing the accordion. “The mournful strains of the métrognome halted abruptly as I tripped over him.”

mood poisoning n.
A sickening change in outlook caused by a random act of rudeness. “He was really cheerful this morning, but picked up a nasty case of mood poisoning from the bitch in the Post Office.”

phlegm brulée n.
A special dish served by proud French chefs when Anglo-Saxon philistines send back an “underdone” steak.

sacré blur n.
What a tour-group tourist sees of Paris in 48 hours.

sneer campaign n.
The relentless process between entrée and dessert whereby a waiter completely undermines your self-confidence and makes you question what on earth you’re doing in Paris.

unwhinged adj.
Describing the sudden evaporation of negative thoughts precipitated by a glimpse of unexpected beauty. “I stormed out of the Préfecture in tears of anger, cursing and swearing, when I looked up to see the spire of Sainte Chappelle glowing in the afternoon sun, and I was instantly unwhinged.”

waterlouvre n.
The sinking feeling experienced in a museum when you finally surrender to the fact that you can’t possibly see everything in one day.

Pop goes the Pinacothèque

It’s almost a week and I’m still smarting from the slap of being ripped off. I went to slake my curiosity at the newest cultural attraction in Paris – the Pinacothèque, opened in mid June. It is a privately owned museum magnificently sandwiched between the gastronomic temples of Fauchon and Hediard on the Place de la Madeleine. Its opening exhibition highlights the work of Roy Lichtenstein, the primary-coloured king of comic-strip Pop Art.
Now I’m generally a glass-half-full kind of guy. And I will say that I enjoyed the exhibition itself; it was an illuminating and surprisingly intellectual study of the artistic process and the derivative/transformative nature of inspiration. (Gosh – even I don’t know what that last sentence means… how impressive is that? I might have to consider a new career as art critic or wine connoisseur.)
Howsomever.
I couldn’t help but feel that this particular glass was on the half-empty and outrageously overpriced side. Firstly, the space has not quite finished being transformed from its previous incarnation as the Baccarat Crystal Museum (which apparently was as tacky as it sounds). So the paint is still fresh and smelly, the concrete unfinished and the electrical wiring still disturbingly visible. The Lichtenstein exhibition is in the basement, so it feels like you’re looking at pictures in someone’s garage.
Secondly, the guards all seem to have graduated from the Rude and Surly Academy of Museum Personnel, with first-class honours in Aggressive Photo Prohibition, and a minor in Unnecessarily Heavy-Handed Direction-Giving. Before descending to the substratum, we had wanted to have a quick look around the ground floor’s light-filled spaciousness. One of the guards actually shouted at us, instructing us to go down the stairs to the exhibition. Other guards, possibly needing a break from strip-searching art lovers and confiscating cameras, actually stood gossiping sourly right in front of the canvasses, breathtakingly oblivious to the polite neck-cranings and throat-clearings of the frustrated aficionados.
Finally, and most gallingly, there was the price. Eight Euros. You’ll appreciate that this is a not inconsiderable sum for an Expatrician. Not that I condone anything as crass as putting a price on Art, but when you consider that you pay less than that for access to numberless masterpieces at the Musée D’Orsay, it does seem insultingly steep for a hundred-odd works, no matter how good. So unless you’re a Lichtenstein loony, I’d think twice about popping in to the Pinacothèque.
Call me a philistine, call me cheap. I guess I’m just looking for a bit more brush for my buck.

image © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein New York / ADAGP, Paris (2007)

Outrageous fortune

Apologies to all my readers for the blog lapse – and thank you both for your patience. Naturally I have an excuse for my postlessness; I even have a doctor’s note to prove it. It seems I have suffered a traumatisme and have une épaule fragalisée – a fragile and very tender shoulder.
We need not go into any lurid detail regarding the cause of my accident: let’s just say that I’ll think twice the next time I consider riding a vélib home after a few quiet drinks at a friend’s place. What I would like to discuss is my new-found appreciation for orthopedic appurtenances and physiotherapeutic paraphernalia.
The doctor I eventually found, obviously bitter at being the only one stuck in Paris in August, had filled a page of prescriptions with even more indecipherably spidery handwriting than strictly necessary to sustain the cliché. The pharmacist duly worked through the list, building an impressive mountain of analgesics, calmatives and relaxants, but eventually had to admit defeat concerning the last item. Four pharmacies and much head scratching and colleague-consulting later, I found someone willing to hazard a guess. And so I became the mystified yet impressed owner of une contention bandoulière: a shoulder-immobilising arm sling.
It took me a good hour to put on. It has so many straps, velcro tabs, adjustment buckles and padded bits that even now I’m not entirely sure I’ve got it on the right way. So I went (clumsily, left-handedly) online to look for some helpful diagrams or simple instructions. Here’s what I found:
What do you notice about the above sling shots? That’s right. All the supposedly post-traumatic sling wearers are smiling. Cheerfully, inanely, and in that disturbing last photo, sultrily. Now you have to take it from me; if you’re wearing an arm sling, chances are you’re not smiling. And you’re certainly not feeling sultry. I’d like to see some models with a bit of verisimilitude: wincing in pain, sheepishly bruised and orthopedically unsexy. Broken bones are not fun... or are they?

Just when I thought I’d seen it all, I discovered Broken Beauties, “bringing a more uplifting and appealing look to your broken arm or arm injury.” What next – bedazzled neck braces? Crocheted crutch covers?
Speaking of crutches, I have a theory: French doctors prescribe almost all patients with crutches, regardless of the injury or illness. It is incredible the number of people you see in the streets of Paris, walking briskly along, waving a crutch about. No limps, casts or bandages in evidence. Whenever I see someone with crutches now I try to guess the ailment: sore throat? Insomnia? Pink eye? The next time you’re out and about in Paris, keep an eye open for healthy crutch-bearers. I guarantee you’ll see them everywhere: parking their car in disabled spots, jumping the queue at the post office, elbowing ahead of you in the marathon, edging you off the dance floor with a high-kicking Charleston.
Of course they probably did have something wrong with them, and their doctor actually did prescribe antibiotics and eye drops, but the pharmacist just couldn’t read the handwriting, and wanted to get rid of those dusty béquilles in the back of the shop.

Another step

Panting up Heartbreak Hill at the Parc Montsouris this morning, I called on an image which often comes to mind at such exhausted-to-the-point-of-giving-up moments.

It is a sweltering Sunday morning in Hong Kong. I am nine years old, and sulking. As part of his campaign to get me interested in physical exercise, my father has taken me jogging. I am dragging resentfully behind, gasping and gulping the viscous heat, considering tears. We are plodding up a dusty road to the headland reserve above Clearwater Bay, where the cliff top pagoda shimmers distantly. Hearing my exaggerated huffs of pain, Dad turns and waits while I, sweating and scowling, catch up.

“I can’t run any more. It’s too far”
“Come on, you’re doing well. Just think how great you’ll feel when you get there.”
“I won’t feel great. I’ll be too dead. Look how much further we have to go.”
“Don’t think about what’s ahead – just look down and concentrate on the next step. Putting one foot in front of the other. Just one step. Then, concentrate on the next one. Foot after foot, step after step, and before you know it, you’ll be there. I promise you’ll feel great.”

So I pouted, and then put one foot in front of the other, and I suppose I eventually made it to the pagoda. I’m not sure if I felt great or not – I was probably too busy feigning heatstroke or limping with intent. I don’t remember much beyond that one gleaming moment of paternal encouragement, magnified and polished over the years of recollection.

Cherished even more now that, years later, Dad’s campaign has borne such unexpected fruit, and I find myself enjoying my morning jogs, craving the satisfaction of physical effort. I would give anything to run with him now above Clearwater Bay, and thank him for his words which have helped me through all sorts of trials.

Step by step, day by day. That’s how we go on.

I miss you Dad.

Expatrician

I spend more time at the supermarket these days. (And it's not always because someone pays by cheque in front of me.) It's because I've started comparing prices. Any brand loyalty I had is unceremoniously ditched wherever I can save a few centimes.

This penny-pinching behaviour is not really like me at all. I don't enjoy it, and I dread the day I start clipping coupons. There comes a point in one's bank balance, however, when thrift happens.

Back in Australia, coming from a comfortably owner-occupied DINK household, it had been many years since I'd had to worry about price checking. I'd pile my trolley high with premium brands, blue-ribbon cuts and over packaged gourmet goodies, rarely even looking at the total as I punched in my PIN. Yesterday, replacing the outrageously priced packet of heritage Puy lentils with its generically cut-price "Euroshopper" cousin, it dawned on me.

I am an Expatrician.

We're quite common here in Europe. You'll often find us spread out on a picnic blanket somewhere, pretentiously al fresco, quaffing a sensibly reasonable rosé. (Have you seen how much they charge for drinks at cafés here?) We also congregate in the Louvre on the first Sunday of the month (no entrance charge). Free outdoor cinema? The grass is thick with tight little groups of us. Frugal foreigners, trying to wring a champagne experience from a backpacker budget.

I recently met an architect who traded her Sex and the City loft studio in Sydney for a student dive in London. Shared bathrooms, cleaning rotas and no closet space for the Manolos. At least she's earning pounds sterling: I am paid in Australian Dollars, which come in handy if you ever want to play Monopoly. So I walk instead of taking the métro. And do creative things with chickpeas. And suggest drinks at our place instead of going to a bar.

And now you may ask it. The question that's been bubbling and growing inside you as you read this self-pitying bleat of a post.

Why the HELL are you still here if it's all so hard, you pathetic whiny foreigner - why don't you just GO HOME where you were so much more comfortable?

It's a question I've been asking myself a lot lately, as it happens. And in searching for an answer, I've come to realise a few things.

"Back home" in Sydney, I had started believing that my main purpose was to buy stuff. My partner and I would find ourselves with nothing to do on a weekend, and so we'd go and buy a new LCD TV. Or a stainless-steel side-by-side fridge. Or a few Ben Sherman shirts. We consumed out of boredom, not necessity.

Giving up jobs and moving to the other side of the world is, it turns out, an excellent form of priority-shifting shock therapy. It forces a complete reappraisal of what's important, and what you need to be happy.

I'm re-reading a book called Stumbling on Happiness. In it, Daniel Gilbert reviews the research behind the psychology of happiness. He reminds us of a fact which resonates with my newly-embraced Expatrician outlook; that more money does not always mean more happiness.
"Wealth increases human happiness when it lifts people out of abject poverty and into the middle class but [...] it does little to increase happiness thereafter."

So until I hit abject poverty, I must conclude that I am still, essentially, happy. And so much happier to be petit bourgeois in Paris than soulless in Sydney.

Although I wouldn't mind, just occasionally, not having to scrimp at the supermarket.