A-me-souvenirs

How I Spent My Halloween Abroad

2007-11-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

My first Halloween abroad was celebrated in an unusual fashion, by attending my friend Farida's jazz singing class. Those of you who have been unfortunate enough to karaoke with me know that this in itself is quite scary. While Farida and her classmates worked to put finishing emotional touches on their blues renditions, I was stuck on the warm-up exercise of pursing my lips together to make the "broken down car" noise. Funny, when I opened my lips to sing, plenty of broken noises were easily produced! Some good laughs (in private) were also enjoyed at the expense of the other students. What killed me most was to hear middle-aged French women sing soul music (in English of course) with lyrics they do not always understand and, thus, to which they did not always lend the right emotion. (But I have to point out that my friend's English is perfect.) I kept wondering how their teacher, a New Yorker with a voice I think belongs in Harlem, found herself in this station. As for my report card, she told me after class that there is hope for every student.

Outside on the streets, I enjoyed some glimpses of Halloween spirit, mostly thanks to the fact that the jazz class was in the 'burbs of Paris. Ghosts were the strong majority. The 10-yr old daughter of my friend was out trick-or-treating. Though I don't know if you can call it that if kids simply knock on doors but do not actually say « Trick or Treat ! » « Smell my feet …give me something good to eat! » is lost on them. These poor kids! Some sources in lab told me that Halloween just came to France a few years ago, by which time they were too old to partake. These deprived adult ! No adult in my lab could be convinced to dress up with me.

My conclusion for the 31st of October in France is that it goes unnoticed. Except for the few haute chocalatiers with Halloween-themed window displays. What a waste of the ample time they have to fete the eve: The entire week around the 31st is a school vacation, and the 1st of November , Toussaint Day, is a national holiday. Still , the seed of Halloween has just been planted, 3 or 4 years ago, courtesy of McDonald's, Hallmark, etc. So with careful care, it could fluorish. Though more likely it will fizzle, as it's already doing, seen as another imposition of American culture. I did my part to continue the imposition by disseminating amongst my friends here the virtual pumpkin carving link, http://www.coasttocoastam.com/timages/page/pumpkin_sim.swf, sent to me by my wonderful aunt, and by sharing the Peeps candies mailed to me by some wonderful New York friends. Though if the holiday does take off here, Peeps must be renamed. The word is already used in French slang to mean either a joint of marijuana or a sexual act that has been illegal in some countries.

La Rentrée

2007-09-19T15:11:00.001-07:00

Even though La Rentrée* has already come and gone, I am now sending a few pictures of highlights from this summer's travels. Hey, and what do you know?, I made it just in time before the calendar end of summer (the 21st of September, no?)!

I am posted the pictures as a Shutterfly album accessible through this link
http://www.shutterfly.com/view/pictures.jsp

I dont know if this link will work and, if not, I will repost it in good time. Due to the recent and WAY unforeseen crashing of my laptop, in other words the instruction manual for my life, I am a bit at a loss and using random public computers. Please cross your fingers for the recovery of my hard drive! And let this post double as a reminder to you to be smarter than me and back up your data. It is after all La Rentree, time to get one's act together!

*"the return" to work after weeks and weeks of summer vacation

The 4th vs. 14th of July

2007-07-23T15:14:00.000-07:00

The theory that patriotism sets in when you leave your country held true for me on this 4th of July. I felt giddy in the days leading up to the USA’s birthday more than I did in America with the media there to beat excitement over my head. Instead I was the media. When I cheerfully wished my boss, a fellow American, a Happy 4th first thing that morning, he admitted to having forgotten the holiday. I have heard how years of ex-patriotism will erode a person’s ties to its nation’s traditions. How sad. My French lab-mates were a more excitable bunch, if slightly clueless. The first reaction of one lab-mate to my Happy 4th wishes was, “Yes, that’s the Thanksgiving.” The graduate student in my group got it right. I spelled out the 4th of July traditions to her: BBQ, fireworks, parades. She was with me: “Parades with pom pom girls?” Some French think American equals cheerleader. Alas, Independence Day parades ARE just where those pom pom girls would pop up.

To ensure the 4th of July did not fizzle out without even a minor spectacle, I organized a small American-themed dinner a couple days later. Truth be told, this meal has been promised almost since I arrived in France. My reminiscing about American dishes at dinners prepared by Italian, Japanese and French friends got me commissioned to put my cutting board where my mouth was. A few months of mild stress and shipments of missing ingredients from New York, thanks to Matt!, went to put together an American meal that wasn’t really Italian, Japanese, French or some other origin at heart. I have been shocked by the lack here of what I consider to be kitchen basics: baking powder, whipping cream and Rice Krispies, to name a few. On the long-awaited American menu was artichoke dip (as a Superbowl favorite, what could be more American?), chili (which, after some heavy-handed convincing, was found not to be Mexican) and cookies (every French person’s quintessential American dessert image). The portions were huge and doggy bags were available, just like in the motherland! I think my guests were satisfied with the outcome, or at least took a night off from picking on American cuisine. And at the end of the meal, we performed a medley of the Star-Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance to my American flag pin-up. The latter of which the French could not believe we are made to say before school each day. In some ways, maybe we have more traditions than them!

The real 4th of July came 10 days late this year. After learning that the 14th of July does not go by Bastille Day here, I do not even know what to call it. National Holiday Day or something. And, as it signifies somehow the uprising of the Revolutionaries rather than independence of France, it cannot go by Independence Day. But what I do know is that, other than its name and significance, it seems a lot like the American counterpart. Fireworks, fried food and weekend getaways. Feeling very Parisian, I skipped out of Paris for the weekend of the 14th. An hour’s train ride north of Paris with some girls from lab (the Italian and the Japanese) and we were in Lille to visit the home of another lab friend and her family.

While the point of the trip was to visit this friend and see Lille and, while we were at it Belgium, noone wants to miss a fireworks display. Feeling very French, as in the salt-of-the-earth and camembert-of-the-farm French, we followed the crowd to the field in Lille. The show there was quick to disarm my prejudices that only the USA can pull off pyrotechniques. The French can do fire too! Needless to say, they had to try to intellectualize it by broadcasting some historical narrative that noone could understand. Below, I tried to capture the action, and the reactions of my friends.

And the walk to the field from the car was transporting. Only for the carts of fried food heralding “La Frite, C’est la Fete!” I found France’s shared appreciation of fair food very reassuring.

Below are a couple better day-time pictures of the friends with whom I shared the National Holiday Day. The day after the festivities, we crossed the border to Brugges, Belgium, “the Venice of the North.” From the start, I kept my eyes open for Hercule Poirot. But in the day’s visit I learned that Audrey Hepburn was born in Brusesels, so I have a new favorite Belgium. Aside from Hercule, Audrey and a handful of others I have yet to learn of, the Belgian may live up to their stereotype in France. Stupid. They take the place of the Polack or dumb blond in the French joke formula. The few waiters and shop attendants we dealt with sure did not help their nation’s case. One waiter was so dull that he had to ask us to define a carafe d’eau when we requested one. To his credit, maybe he was just too Flemish and proud to attempt speaking French. But, bonjour!?, you live in a bilingual country. Still if Belgians are only a pretty face, at least their showing them off in a pretty county. The beauty of Brugges is undisptubale!

And finally a picture of me biting off a piece of classic fair food on that holiday weekend (in Brugges, therefore a REAL Belgian waffle)!

Busy Bee-keeper

2007-07-03T15:21:00.000-07:00

According to some trivia source, honey is the only animal product whose manufacturing does not harm or disrupt the animals. That might be true, but what about the bee-keepers? This weekend I got to walk a mile in their high rubber boots. I joined one of the directors in my lab, who is a Saturday apiarist, and his team in their twice annual honey harvest!

We hit the farm about an hour outside of Paris. (It becomes rural very quickly!) There, a few steps had to be fulfilled before heading out to the hives. (1) Getting the hand-held smoker started. Used as the first line of defense, the smoke released around the hives prior to their opening sends the bees into a protective mode. Such loyal servants, their response is to swarm inside around their queen mother. Not to mention their motherload of honey. (2) Gearing ourselves up in the hooded suit. The second and real line of defense. I learned the hard way. I first thought the beekeeping team was joking when they instructed me to put on a pair of rubber gloves. (Suit and gloves, I said, this is too much like spending a Saturday in lab!) (3) Checking your suit and others for holes. (4) Repeat step 3. (5) Repeat steps 3 and 4….

We eased into the day’s work by first tending to the “sick” hive. Due to some contamination, possibly fungus, this honey shack had to be sealed, trapping the dirty inhabitants inside to die of starvation. Poor little guys! Then we soaked the tools in chlorine to avoid passing on the contamination (just like in lab), and moved on. Just as I was tending to the smoker, before I could even notice what buzzed under my suit, I got stung on the arm. Painful, but quick and decisive. Nearly at the same time, another woman got it good on the face. I could almost hear the victory cry buzzed out that enemy lines had been compromised. The two of us victims had to retreat back to the fields where it was safe to take off our armor and pop anti-histamines.

I still underestimated those buggers enough to go back. If early/pre man has been apiculturing since 13,000 years before Christ (Wikipedia), it cannot be that bad. Or, I was thinking at least that, as long as my skin was covered, I was fine. When I felt 2 or 3 hovering directly over each arm, I realized that the seal between my gloves and the suit should have been airtight! And then my retreat to the fields was less calm. Trapped in my suit, the invaders had to die and, most hopefully, before they stung me. Feeling their wings flutter on me was a quick but excruciating hell. The chief bee-keeper was even alarmed at this point, and started slapping squeezing and folding the suit above my arms. Unbelievably his technique worked to kill the invaders. The only sting I got was the first one.

Back at the homefront, we compared battle scars. I was by far the most untouched. The chief beekeeper had a rear-end sting that may now be preventing him from sitting down. And the labmate who I went with, well, see for yourself below. He got one under the eye. Apparently it was a bad day for bee-keepers. One explanation was the bad weather. Just like the Parisians during the May and June grayness, the bees were not out and about and doing their bzzz-ness. Instead they were all home lounging and ready to attack/defend.

Collecting the wood frames of honey from the hives was only the first step in a long process. But, thankfully, the least painful one. Before the frames could be further processed, they were stored in the cold room at the farm for an hour or so while we ate lunch. This served an important function to anesthetize the stubborn bastards who had clung on to their frames. Work then begun to extract the honey from the frames, by scraping off the hard outer wax, and then centrifuging the honey off the frame (again, am I at a bee farm or the BL3 in lab?). Work went fast, in part to avoid allowing the cryopreserved insects to thaw and attack. I was there with my wax scraper to bludgeon any resuscitated bees. (Kind of like killing a fly with a machete, this behavior felt good. But also unfortunately fulfilled the farmers’ stereotype of a violent American.)

The centrifuge to spin-force the honey from the enframed combs.

And here are the unfiltered fruits of our labor, complete with dead bees, pollen and wax. The finished stuff like we buy in jars in the grocery store won’t be ready until after weeks of sedimentation. I could not wait and tapped into this raw stuff, eating it by the finger-full. It felt kind of savage. But then again, so does any type of hunting and food gathering activity these days where man actually puts himself in danger.

Weekend in Normandy

2007-06-10T11:10:00.001-07:00

Last weekend I went to the Beaches of Normandy for D-day (June 6) and I am proud to be an American.

A woman who works in my lab, Astrid, lives in Caen, the capital of Normandy (long commute she has to work every day!). Almost since I joined the lab, I have been telling her how I wanted to see the Beaches of Normandy, where Allied troops invaded on June 6, 1944. And that fairly well sums up everything I knew about D-day before this weekend. Thanks to Astrid making my dream a reality, I got a mini-lesson in WWII history and a new-found sense of national pride.

Before making our way to the beaches, Astrid took Saori (the Japanese post-doc also from my lab) and me to the War Museum in Caen, where we familiarized ourselves with the key role the region played in the turning point of WWII. Even before entering, I felt moved by the serene and powerful show of flags. Even Germany’s was represented, so apparently they are not only the Allied flags.

The inscriptions on the wall read “ The pain broke me. The brotherhood lifted me” and “From my injury gushed a river of liberty”.

And along the side of the wall were numerous smaller plaques quoting diplomats from different countries after the war ended. Most read simple messages like “Son, defend the freedom your Father won.” The two plaques from Germany were complicated, practically philosophical proofs on human rights and culpability. I guess it is hard to justify a war that the entire world blames you for. (What would the US say about the War in Iraq?)

Inside, the layout of the museum made you feel like they were descending into the depths of hell, as you spiraled down a ramp where the lighting became increasingly darker until finally you walk through a doorway under the projection of a larger-than-life image of Hitler. I was curious to see how a French museum would present France’s role in the war. Much more emphasis was placed on Resistance heros, like Charles de Gaulle and Jean Moulin, and less on the Vichy government and Nazi collaborators. I have seen elsewhere, like the Holocaust memorial in Paris for example, France depicting itself solely as victim of, not conspiring at all with, the Nazi government. In this museum, you were left to believe that the Vichy government was more passive, more forced into being, a means of survival in a way, in a German-occupied, war-torn France. More research is needed, and I want to know if this is accurate.

After feeling almost a sense of information claustrophobia, I was well ready for the open air of Omaha beach on Sunday. The clearest signs that D-day, or Jour-J (or Day-D, short for Day-Day) was only 4 days away were the men driving 40’s style open-top Jeeps and French flags that we passed on the highway. I am sure that if I had been at the festivities 3 years ago, for the 60th anniversary of D-day, and the first to which the Germans were invited, it would have been much more raucous.

Otherwise, nothing about our trip there or our initial walk on the beach would have given away the upcoming anniversary, and especially the atrocities that occurred there. The beach was gorgeous, the golden sand was soft and covered with pebbles (as well as shells, starfish and dead sea life), sand dunes and cliffs lined the shore. Even some foolish (probably Northern Europeans) were swimming in the frigid water. Astrid explained to us that the beaches, and in fact the whole of Normandy is very marshy. In fact, some of the buildings in the town of Caen lean, like the Tower of Pisa, on soft earth. So the German forces thought the area would be difficult for the Allies to access and were caught off-guard by the attack.

Walking up the hill away from the beach, to the American cemetery, we did run into gnarly vines and overgrowth. I complained about this pesky obstacle, but then felt bad considering under how much better conditions I am visiting the beach. An interesting fact about this American cemetery, maybe like all of them around the globe, is that it is owned by the USA. We actually passed a fence, shown below, where we left France, and entered the USA (no passport required). I asked Astrid if a baby were born IN the cemetery, which nationality would it have. She did not have the answer.

We did not do much talking in the cemetery. It was more beautiful and touching than I expected. There were rows and rows and rows of crosses, and some Stars of David, for almost as far as the eye could see, and beyond that, the sea. Inscribed on the crosses were the name, homestate and date of death of each soldier. Many lost their lives in June or July 1944. But I was surprised to see some dates well after, October or November, and even more surprised to see that some people actually died before June 6, in March 1944 even.

The memorial in the cemetery was also quite beautiful. There were large maps outlining the paths that the United States, Canadian and British divisions took as they invaded the Beaches of Normandy and spread inward. I counted about 10 United States units for every 2 or 3 British or Canadian or French. I know that the number of troops per capita was probably similar, and that Britain had been fighting for long on home turf. Still, I was proud in the war that the USA fought.

On a lighter note, Saori and I were treated to staying in a real home. Astrid lives in the heart of the old quarter of Caen, the one that escaped WWII ruin. In an old home, with exposed stone and creaky floors, almost giving you the sense of being in a castle. Cream sauce is a specialty of Normandy and I incorporated it into each meal. Her kids seemed very interested in an American and a Japanese. Her daughter, age 18, was furiously preparing for the BAC, like the SAT, but more important as it will determine if she is accepted to university. Her son had a concert with his middle school that we attended. In fact, noone in the house really payed much attention to pre-D-day other than us tourists. Life goes on.

Addendum to Dorca's and Dan's Paris Blog

2007-06-10T08:50:00.000-07:00

Dorca and Dan say they were excited to check out "la ville des lumieres" back in April, but was I ever excited to receive them! For one, it has been too long since I have seen these good friends (see my Barcelona blog). But, for another, they are travellers more informed on their destination city and its "must-sees" than even good ole' Rick Steves. D&D came armed with a mile-long list of restaus, streets and shops to check out (Lenny Kravitz's L'As du Falaffel cafe being only one of the many highlights). This list, and many of its sites, will now be incorporated into Carina's Tour of Paris, for the benefit of future vistors!

Despite their superb blog about Paris, those jet-setters the Shaymanzars neglected a few details. They say they loved their hotel because of the hoppin' neighborhood and aroma of sewage, which then turned out to be delicious cheese. But, I think what really drew them to this quarter of the 6th arrondissement was the Catalan Cultural Center one block away. Coincidence? I think not. I think they are so entrenched in their Barcelonian ways, that they turn their noses up at us French (and our stinky cheese). They would have dined there on tapas every night if I (and Lenny Kravitz) hadn't pulled them away...

Where their adventurous side came out was in their eagerness to tap into the unusual. The wealth of free Parisian sidewalk toilet stalls is certainly not normal. So we all made a pitstop. Not only was it an educational experience, but social too. We found ourselves discussing the logistics of the toilet's "sanitizing system" with fellow anglophones in line. The picture below is so sweet that I think it should be framed next to their wedding portrait. (As you can see, by the man in the background getting his picture taken, this stall was a popular backdrop.)

I learned something else on their trip: Docra and I are museum compatible with each other, incompatible with Dan. Here you can see Dorca and Dan in the Musee D'Orsay sharing ther iPod to hear the Rick Steve's Audio Guide of the museum. Dan is already ready to move on. Just right after this picture was taken, he got fed up with Dorca and me for going through the museum at the pace of turtles and ditched us. (Maybe that explains why I had to plead with the museum guard to let us run through the that rooms we had missed before closing...)

Besides several cute new restaurants and neighborhoods, D&D introduced me to oyster stands. Sure I had seen them everywhere, was even intrigued, but never dared try them. Maybe it was new-found knowledge of how to use the port-o-potties that made us willing to risk food poisoning. And now you can see clearly that, if they were willing to eat raw seafood from the street, Dorca and Dan were quite open-minded eaters, not at all stuck on eating Catalan.

And, finally, a truly sweet picture, one that really should be framed next to their wedding portrait. Thanks so much for visiting me, and showing me so many new sides of Paris. The City of Lights---and I---miss you!

Lovely Lyon

2007-06-10T08:31:00.001-07:00

LYON is the third largest city in France, the capital of the region of Rhone and my first area explored outside of Paris. Matt was the vehicule for getting us to Lyon (figuratively, the high-speed TGV train was the literal vehicule). At the end of May, he visited a collaborator’s lab there, giving him another good excuse (besides yours truly) for a fourth trip to France. In addition, his visit happened to coincide with a 1-day conference on viral drug resistance, a topic that happens to touch on both of our research. Thereby, even giving me another good excuse for a “sejour.” And, what could be romantic in the very picturesque town of Lyon than attending a science meeting together?!

To see all the pictures(que) for yourself, link to http://lyonmay2007.shutterfly.com

I aint LYIN’ when I say I was LOVIN’ LYON. (I blame my pitiful play on words on a deteriorating grasp of the English language…) Matt and I took advantage of being on the outskirts of the city for the conference to visit the charming and proper park of Lyon: Le Parc de la Tete d’Or. Despite its name, I encountered not one head of gold, and I think such a thing would be hard to miss! Especially because we allowed ourselves a nice slow meander through the park after our original plans to rent bikes were thwarted. Lyon is well-known for its “Velo’V” rent-a-bike system. The pick-up and drop-off stations would be super accessible, and indeed we saw more Lyonnais on rented city velo’s than their own, if they were only not French-operated. As such, they were convoluted and required special cards and information not available to the standard tourist.*

Matt’s host lab was looking out for us, and put us up in a hotel smack dab in the heart of Lyon. The hotel itself, Hotel Bayard, was a bit of let-down after reading on their website the promise of “period-decorated rooms.” (Matt and I got the 1993 period.) But it was something to be in the heart of Lyon, which is the “Prequ’il” or “almost peninsula.” A slab of land that juts out, dividing the Rhone and Saone rivers. Etymologists may differ but Lyonnais claim that the Rhone is a man, the Saone a woman. You can see the PG-13 rated statue depicting their “meeting” just below.

Lyon has culture up to its red-roof tops and oozing out its traboules. Like Paris and, well, probably every European city, Lyon was founded by the ancient Romans. But, unlike Paris, Lyon has artifacts that have lived to tell about it. The stones in the Lyonnais forum, for example, were not completely ransacked and reincarnated as a city wall to protect from invaders, as happened in Paris. And the city also escaped WWII destruction. As a result, there is a Vieux Lyon district that really IS old.

Just a short walk from our hotel room, across one of the many bridges, and Matt and I could check out the old quarter. In the narrow streets, there are bouchons, literally corkscrews, but really tiny restaurants, a plenty. I have the impression, and I think I am right, that no matter which bouchon you stumbled into, you would end up with a fine meal. Many of the narrow streets themselves are interconnected by these hidden “traboules,” or tunnels between buildings. We never quite ventured into a traboule, mostly because the doors to them are unmarked and we heard you could get lost for the day. A short ride up the very vertical funiculaire car and you ascend to the top of the Fourviere hill, the site of the original Roman settlement, and the forums. As a compliment to the ancient, there are some rather new buildings atop the Fourviere hill: A huge glitzed-out and not unkitschy Basilica and a miniature Eiffel Tower (and they say they do not want to be Parisians!)

The sites were great, the history was great, but who am I kidding??-- Our first priority was the FOOD. As any Lyonnais was quick to point out, their city is the French capital of gastronomy. (Perhaps, in a small way, this is their consolation prize for losing the fight with Paris to be the REAL capital of France.) Our first night we dined at the recommended Comptoir des Marronniers. Actually part of a chain AND on one of the more touristy streets. But, of course, the meal was excellent. Matt had a sublime Mediterranean salad and a very typical dish, cassoulet (in America, it would be called pork and beans). Me, my theme was fluffy: I started with a whipped salmon and egg appetizer and then a mousselet (velvety white fish mousse, much better than it sounds). The restaurant itself was decorated with homages to the region’s culinary accomplishments. For me, their plaque listing the Nobel Prize Chefs took the cake. We sat next to two Lyonnais on official business. They were trying to convince their Japanese guest to some sort of agreement. Of the many doozies they told him was that, if you have only ONE glass of wine with your meal there, you will be regarded as very strange, and possibly on your death bed. ONLY in LYON!

Finally, some other Lyonnais curiosities: The brothers Lumiere who invented the first color film (if I remember correctly) were from Lyon. Supposedly, when they got caught up in some brotherly rivalry, Mr. Kodak scooped their invention and all the money from the patent. Another supposed fact is that Lyon is the origin of murals. True, many buildings had one entire side covered in an elaborate trompe l’oiel scene. Word is that these sides were exposed after really old neighboring buildings had to be leveled. A Lyonnais artist decided murals would be a good way to beautify. Thirdly, besides gastronomy, Lyon may be a capital for miniatures. An entire museum is devoted to miniature houses, restaurants, any scene you can imagine. In other words, every young girls dream!

*An aside: The Velo’V system has been so successful in Lyon that Paris is adapting its own version. I have anxiously been monitoring the progress of the stations, set to open 15 July, one right across from where I live, another right near where I take ballet class. You may wonder why, after my blog about my wonderful new bike, I would need a rented velo. Alas, said wonderful new bike was stolen two days after I posted the blog. So 15 July cannot come soon enough!

Tour de Paris

2007-05-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

My legs are pretty numb and useless right now. The top half of me, though, is very excited to have a new used-bicycle! (Skip to the picture on the bottom if you are as excited to see it as I am…)

Since the weather has turned so sweet and warm, I have been stricken with bike fever, and really coveting all the cyclists swarming the city. The fever turned into sickness when I found out that used bikes are even more expensive than new ones. Vintage is hot. Thanks to Craig’s List Paris I found some guys who sell some cheap bikes out of some garage. A shady garage in the bottom level of a nondescript parking lot. I wondered if I would make it out of there with my life, let alone a bicycle. But the salesman was very straight, extracted 3 from his stash that were in my price range. The choice was made by fate: I live near the neighborhood of Alesia and I chose the “Alizée” model. (Fate, and that choices #2 and #3 had either weak breaks or a missing tire.)

Riding back to lab after the transaction rather than walking was most satisfying. Today after lab, I brought Alizée home. This entailed going from the very north to the very south of Paris, in a Tour de Paris that even Lance Armstrong should not snub. (Travel time=2 hr:15 min:59 sec. In the same amount of time, Lance could probably be in Belgium.) The trip was every bit as exciting as I thought biking here would be. It was like working out a geographical jigsaw puzzle, riding by and recognizing different spots and piecing them together. From a pedestrian’s perspective, I doubt I looked so exciting. French “femmes au vélo” always look impossibly chic. I am just hoping to get away without needing a helmut and kneepads!

The picture does Alizée a bit more justice than she deserves. She is actually not shiny, but pretty dirty and rusty. Aaah!, but I still think she’s the prettiest in the pile outside my building.

Get out the Dance!

2007-04-25T15:58:00.000-07:00

Here is a happening that does not make it in the weekly “Pariscope” entertainment listing but should: Le Bringuebal! A monthly balls-out dance party. This month’s took place in an outer arrondissement near Belleville (as in the setting for the Triplets of Belleville).

I went on Saturday with some girls from lab. I do not know if this is a popular Parisian activity (as I said, it is not in Pariscope), and I do not think it is a typical “boite de nuit” (night club) ambiance. But I do know that it is an activity made for me!

Not many people there were NOT moving to the Bringuebal beat. And wildly! I think the French let out all their inhibitions on the dance floor. Different groups took turns on stage, with no coherent musical theme other than danceable. Big band swing-style, Ska-ish, even a little bit Oompa band.

The very loose theme of the party was the next day’s presidential elections. (They take place on Sunday. Bizarre, non?) A few dancers turned out in mock conservative garb, but looked to me just like the hipster sort crawling Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Some musicians were waving bunches of leeks on stage, in either a related theme (as a rally for the Green Party?) or not.

The finale of the night was a Conga line led by a guy holding a sign reading something like “Attention! La Gauche s’avance” (Watch out, the left is moving ahead).

In the next day’s presidential elections “first tour,” the Socialist candidate Segolene Royal did make it through. Voters were not too tired from Saturday night’s activities or too anxious to flee Paris for the weekend to come out in high numbers. As I am told. Me, I wallowed a bit on Sunday in the feeling of not having a voting voice, surrounded by fellow mute non-citizens at La Cité. I am not decided if I would have put my ballot towards Sego or the Centralist Bayrou. Sure Sego is strong, not to mention a fashion plate in her knee-high boots and accessories. But Bayrou is a candidate who might have stood a chance at defeating the Bush wanna-be Sarkozy. The second and final tour is in two weeks. Yet, it seems like most people, in my lab at least, have conceded to the fact that the fate has been sealed. Even before the one and only presidential debate. The majority of French are delusional and already in line behind Nicolas Sarkozy.

February Follies...with Julie

2007-04-04T13:59:00.001-07:00

February was visiting month with Julie, Matt and Marcy coming over back-to-back weekends. I have finally surfaced to talk about it. Here you can even take a “virtual tour” with Julie or Marcy and me. (Julie is a friend who, way back, used to work in the same lab as me at Columbia. Marcy is a friend who was in the same class as me at Columbia.) Matt has set a schedule, of which I approve, of a visit every 1 1/2-2 months. So his Paris photo album has many pages left to fill. Some of which I will post on later blogs.

Julie taught me a new French expression when she was here: “leche vitrine.” Window shopping or, literally, window lick. And that is just what we passed our time doing. The first day she was here, we used as our base a street that I like to call the foie gras district because it is lined with boutiques selling and serving this delicacy. It is at the geographical and emotional heart of Paris. Of the shops that we discovered that day, the highlight was Dehillerin. (Julie did great pre-visit research!) This is the oldest cooking store in Paris, according their site, established in 1820. This remarkable establishment sells every type of appliance or ware for every item deemed fit for culinary consumption. Julie found her coveted lions-head detailed porcelain bowls. And walked in the footsteps of the Celebrity Chef Barefoot Contessa, as shown below.

Me, I took a load off in a pot big enough to cook a small child.

Of course, obligatory trips to the Eiffel Tower and Sacre Coeur (through a taxi window) were made in between shopping expeditions.

We launched expedition numbero deux from the Golden Arches (of Café McD) in front of some other famous arch (look in the background).

Julie and I happened upon LaDuree, supposedly the first tea salon in Paris. It was there that I discovered God. In the form of a Macaron. Anyone who has eaten a macaroon at Passover knows that, while good, it is not exactly divine. But this is not exactly a Passover macaroon. Rather the best cookie in the world. A crunchy sugar shell encapsidates a chewy cookie with a cream or jelly (depending on the flavor) core. This picture captures Julie at the perfect instant: before the first bite of the best of the macaron flavors, pistachio. I am a little embarrassed to admit that, since our LaDuree discovery, I have been back about every week.

After the feast for the palate, we had a feast for the eyes at Le Louvre and his gardens. Julie, inspired by the Louvre Pyramids, gave me the Cliffnotes version of The Davinci Code. (Thank you for saving me from the time of reading the book!)

For our Last Supper, we went to a restaurant behind the Louvre. Probably a mistake in such a touristy area. Definitely the worst, and only bad, meal I have been served in Paris. Julie’s French onion soup came in the form of a clump of powder at the bottom of a bowl of broth. With the support of Julie and a couple righteous Parisian girls at the table next to us, I complained to the waiter. (I am becoming less timid and more vocally disgruntled the longer I am here!) The waiter was less than accommodating. He finally took the bowl away and came back, approximately five minutes later, with the exact same soup. When we still weren’t having it, he directed me to the owner. The owner pointed out for me that, as I am American, I do not understand food or restaurants, and I will eat what I am served. I was proud of myself for telling him, “I am sorry, I thought the French had pride in their cuisine!” He gave me such an icy cold stare I was afraid he would serve me a head-butt Zidane-style. He didn’t. But he taught me an important lesson: Unlike in the USA, the customer is NOT always right. The Parisians at the next table confirmed this general truth. I suppose, though, that with boutiques like Dehillerin and LaDuree, the customer can tolerate being wrong once in a while!

...and with Marcy

2007-04-04T13:33:00.000-07:00

Oh! the places we went on Marcy’s whirlwind tour of Paris. Paris is the prettiest city I have ever seen, and so an easy tour to give. But besides that, Paris was Marcy’s first stop in the developed world after her experience working and living in Cameroon, Africa. So she was especially easy---she just wanted to eat DAIRY! (At one point, I think we stocked my mini-fridge with more varieties of yogurts and puddings than the Monoprix mega grocery store.)

We bopped about almost* without stop.
*Almost except for 3-4 hour long dinners

Marcy’s friend Syd came down from London for the weekend to bop with us. Syd is such a globe trotter that, between his stories and Marcy’s from Africa, I felt like I traveled the world in that weekend!

Who can take so much travel without a little vertigo? I don’t know if it was the elevator trip that we took to the top of the Eiffel Tower or the actual being at the top of the Eiffel Tower that was so disorienting. You can see from this series of pictures that none of us could tell which end was up!

(Marcy is a good photographer, non?)

Despite Syd’s vow that every time you go to the top of the Eiffel Tower, you will witness a marriage proposal, we unfortunately did not see Tom Cruise or anyone else get engaged. But we still saw plenty of Paris and the ‘burbs. At such a height, we caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty (the spec just behind the 3rd bridge up from the bottom of this picture) even with New York City exactly 5,849 km away.

(Incidentally, these are two of the cities where Marcy has hung her hat in the last year….We are missing San Diego!)

Standing on the top level put the “wind” in “whirlwind” tour of Paris. I think the gusts up there were rattling my brain, and that is why I look so deliriously happy to be at the exact spot where France hoisted its flag for the first time after Nazi occupation. (Merci beaucoup USA!)

I eventually had to return to earth and to lab. But Miss Marcy and Syd continued the tour. To Montmartre, one of the highest (natural) points in Paris. Marcy tracked down the Moulin Rouge, a symbol of Montmartre's pre-WWII artist’s haven. Finding the famous cancan theatre was very special for that dance fanatic! (I think after posing for this picture, Marcy started to recruit dancers for FRANZA!)

The trip ended on another high: We saw, from one of the very top rows of (one of) the Paris Opera house, LE Paris Opera Ballet’s production of Don Quixote. Check THAT off my To Do In This Lifetime list. The Paris Opera Ballet puts on a fraction of the ballets in a season as the New York City Ballet or ABT. But when it does, it pulls out all the stops. Don Q is a show-stopper all around! Marcy and I were especially impressed by the elaborate set!

Maybe it was the thrill of being at the ballet. Or all the travel. Or too much dairy. I like to blame it on Marcy for being a vehicle of some mysterious African-borne stomach bug. Because I started to feel sick up in our top row. And, what do you know was waiting in my mailbox when we got home from the ballet? MA CARTE VITALE! Finally. The magic green health card that is my pass to hypochondria-land (aka, France). With it, I can see any doctor I want and pay even less than the pittance somebody not in the Social Security system would pay. I considered seeing a “medecin” for motion sickness!

Barcelona or BUST!

2007-03-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

Ironically one of my first blogs from Paris will be all about BARCELONA. (For an alternative definition of irony, and hopefully one better than “1,000 spoons when all you need is a knife” (c. Alanis Morissette) see Installment 1D of this blog.)

I couldn’t get down to Barcelona soon enough, early in February as it turned out, to see my dear friends Dorca and Dan and to see this thing that I vaguely remember from my childhood in Florida called the “sun.” Since I arrived here, these friends have been my same-time-zone Skype buddies. They, like me, defected for a European postdoc and lifestyle after grad school. But unlike me, they actually knew the language of their host country. That, and the fact that they settled in Catalun-town a couple years ago made them ideal tour guides. Even though the Spanish sun turned out to be more stingy than I would have liked the weekend I visited, I always felt like I was basking in its warmth with the lovely D&D around!

Whoever came up with the saying “a picture is worth a thousand words” may well have had Barcelona on the brain. So I will let pictures do most of the talking, with some supplementary narrative.

This corner of a gate in the picture (top left below), while lovely, seems like nothing after you look at the rest of the gate or the buildings in other pictures. But it was the very first shot I took of Barcelonian architecture so you could say I was easy! What steals the show, and probably what puts this formerly residential gate on the map of Gaudi’s work, is the frightful metal dragon rearing its head. Wow! Talk about a punishment for breaking curfew and trying to sneak through the front door late. In the bottom picture, I am rescuing from the dragon’s jaws my sheep-wolf, a stuffed animal who I kidnapped indefinitely from my cousins to be my travel companion. (He will appear in more pictures.)

After dragon-wrestling, Dorca showed me around the old city center. But what I found more picture-worthy was the self-serve tapas spot where we dined. You take as many little plates, each garnished with a toothpick, as you want, then pay based on your number of toothpicks. I guess it’s honesty policy than no toothpicks are “dropped.” The tapas were the “nouveau” flavor, meaning, I guess, that they contained ingredients OTHER than just ham and olives. Dan and their friend are color-coordinated because, as I was informed, Barcelonian men like to match when they go out.

I was very drawn to the “sea-side” of Barcelona, old but not as old as the city center. (Perhaps I am butchering my history and geography lessons from D&D….) So, be prepared for a lot of pictures in this series. First off, the maritime museum (top left below). I was kind of awestruck to learn that one of Columbus’s ship was built in it (like the birthplace of the birthplace of America, sort of). In all my shock, I was not prepared to go INSIDE. Maybe next time. So, you pick up your ship and head out to port (next picture to the right). Depending on which direction you take, you set your course for the Americas (right) or Africa (left). Leave it to the Barcelonians to plunk a Miro sculpture down in the middle of all these old buildings, as you see on the bottom of this cluster.

Espresso break #4 of the day. (I think their cafés are better than in Paris!!)

The tour continues in the more modern district up from the sea, a district jam-packed with Gaudi’s and other Modernista (is that the right word?) architecture. And my awe continues….If you look-squint to see the building in the top few pictures, you can see most peculiar awnings and roof. Word is that it tells a story of a dragon (again with the dragon!) by Gaudi. The next building on the right looked so much like a wedding cake it made me want a bite. Next stop (next picture down on the left): La Pedrera. Or "The Rock," I think. Yet another Gaudi creation. For some reason, I am posing how I think Salvador Dali, another Barcelona son, would---MADman is my motivation here. What’s mad, besides just this building itself, is that if you have a few thousand Euros a month to spare on rent, you can live here. We took a tour of one of the noninhabited apartments. Sweet, but so circular and curvy that I felt like I was in the Gravitron ride that I used to ride at State Fairs before I got too old and wussy. On the rooftop, you can see more unique window awnings and----I don’t know, giant chess pieces, as they are called? And, off in the distance looms Sagrada Familia for tomorrow….

Out on the town that night, Dan and Dorca posed in front of one of their favorite apt building (they are SO many jems, you can really be picky!) where they may one day buy an apt and their newfound favorite furniture store (where they will go to interior decorate), and Dorca and I pose (Dan’s cinematography adds to the bizarre effect).

And finally…Sagarda Familia. It took the last decades of Gaudi’s life to start to build. But if you compare what has been done (spectacular) to what is planned, based on extrapolation from Gaudi’s vision (super super super spectacular), I doubt that he could have finished even if his life hadn’t been taken in the tram accident (see Installment 1D). As the cranes indicate, construction continues. And a crane in the neck would be required, I think, to see the top of the highest steeple, once it’s finished. The differences between the old and new sections, the old and new styles (angels vs. more of those creepy chesspiece figures) are striking. Sheepwolf particularly liked how many flora and fauna Gaudi included in his baaaah-reliefs! It seems like maybe, just maybe, Spaniards, or at least Catalunians, are more religiously devout than Parisians.

This trip ends on a sweet note. The crowns on Dorca’s and Dan’s coat rack are the only remaining evidence of our Fete de Roi cake. The big “Feast of Kings” holiday is celebrated early Jan-Feb in both Spain and France. Each country has its signature cake. For comparison’s sake, I brought a flaky Parisian version to compare to the flufflier Southern counterpart. Dan got the piece with the toy. As long as doesn’t have dental damage from biting into the small ceramic figurine, he should have one year of good luck! Go Dan!

And I brought from Spain one of their own signature sweets: chocolate-covered pork rinds! All around, Mui exitante!

Installment 1A: Un pied à terre

2007-02-12T16:07:00.000-08:00

J’habite à Paris donc je blog. I figure I’d better start blogging now that I have one foot on the ground (UN pied à terre) but before my illegal status gets me kicked out.

When I first landed here over two months ago, I marched with my visa from NY in hand, straight to the police precinct, where such matters as residency permits are handled, to get mine. Such is the first step in becoming legal (temporarily). I went in bright-eyed and came out in tears. Long story short, my fellowship agency---only THE biggest national funder here---gave me a document that was not official and instead looked like something that had been whipped up out of construction paper and markers. So my visa was never valid to begin with. Try again: Just wait to get the, eh, valid document and swing it back by the Consulate IN NEW YORK. What? Good thing I already had a return ticket to go back to NYC for New Year’s Eve. Because if I had had to turn right back around, I likely would have just made the trip one-way!

After being treated like a big jerk at the Consulate in NY (again), I was granted a valid scientist visa. Part of the obnoxious ambiance at that consulate could stem from the fact that its employees are French. (The madame there tried to call me up to the window to pick up my visa, with a “Mees-Stor.” After several confused guys (misters) stepped forward, she yelled at me: “MEES-STOR!!! that ees your name eesn’t it?!" Well, it’s more like “Miss _ _ _ _ _SSSSS”, but how could I argue??) So the French people do not want anyone invading their country. I understand this behavior is not French specific but applies to all consulates. For reasons I do not understand, maybe they are trying to compensate for all the generosity granted at centers such as Ellis Island.

That consulate confusion, compounded with the bureaucracies here (as a wise friend pointd out, “bureaucracy” is a French word), have thwarted the way to residency permit. At the time of this posting, I am waiting for my temporary permit, with which I may apply for the real macoy, only after passing a rather demoralizing ( I am warned) medical exam. I may be legal by May. The silver lining is that I will truly appreciate my permit and, moreover, have new-found respect for my family (really all of our families) and friends who have struggled much more than I have to move to a new land.

Installment 1B: Chez MOI

2007-02-12T16:05:00.001-08:00

Let the pictures posted, if you have not already seen them, be your guide to my current accommodations. I say someone was smiling on me when I got a spot at La Cite Universitaire. I prefer to think of my studio as 2-room, including the foyer, that by NY standards is HUGE. OK fine, decent. It is nothing if not functional.

In picture one, you can appreciate the desk from which my nighttime activities of Skyping with Matt, Skyping with Matt, emailing, surfing the web and Skyping with Matt are conducted. And where I sit as I write this.

Snapshot #deux shows what YOU would see when/if (hopefully) YOU Skype via webcam with me. (And, if YOU were Pablo Picasso during his cubanism period.)

Notice in other pictures the purple wall that came with the room (even Paris dorm-style apts have character!) and the impressive magnet collection on my less-impressive, but tres-cute, mini-fridge that was amassed during the days in my dear old lab. Food from this mini-fridge is toted, on most nights, down the hall to the community kitchen.

My hygiene standards have slipped. In the beginning, due to the poor upkeep of the kitchen, I frowned upon any cooking beyond defrosting frozen dinners in the microwave. You can get that sense, I think, from the picture of me in the kitchen. Now I cook, though I still cringe when guys (it’s all guys on my floor unfortunately) use MY pre-soaped sponge or the hotplates to light their cigarettes.

Now before you off to say, and I KNOW you want to, that my flat is so “charmant”, let me tell you that other “real” Parisian apts are TO DIE FOR. Small, yes. But with more kitsch and character than could fit into a mansion. Whereas most Americans reserve the “theme-style” of interior decorating for their vacation/weekend homes, Parisians go hog wild, “full foie gras” if you will, on their full-time residencies. I have seen a Moroccon/Impressionist theme, Theatre/Maritime theme, Algerien theme, all working for its inhabitants. Still my dig is cozy, and I am afforded great views from my window of dogs on walks, en route to the park across the street. (So far, only one pug spotting. Zero Italian greyhounds. Terriers, poodles and labs are more a la mode, alas.)

My apt is tucked away in the campus of La Cité Universitaire, or Cité U, in the neighborly 14th arrondissment. (www.ciup.fr) How do you know that it is neighborly and not touristy?: NOTHING is open on Sunday. (Save the Chinese takeout and Jewish café, probably trying to compensate for Saturday closing. I frequent these lovely est.) A walk around the campus (which I have not done entirely), and past the residency halls representing each country gives you (1) a representation of that country’s architecture, or rather the Cité U founder’s impression of it (I feel bad for Mexicans!), and (2) an idea of which countries have money. The latter I say because only countries that are more, and usually Western, economic powers have buildings here. Because my building also hosts a lot of events for its residents (brunches, dinners, parties), I would say that Britain funds its hall here plentifully. And, oui, I have picked up more than one complimentary croissant at said brunches! As I am not British (despite the suspiciously inbred-like small hands and feet), I am part of the required 50% "outsider" contingency. This mandate applies to all halls to keep things international. However, French is the predominant language spoken in my building.

In addition to the residency halls, Cité U boasts a theatre (featuring more than your college musical), “salle de masculation” (gym either for your muscles or masculine people or both), swimming pool, restaurants, etc. About the restaurant, I explained to a kitchen mate that I only eat at that rest. when I am “sans espoir,” meaning literally “without hope.” I meant to say only when I am desperate. She told me that “sans espoir” is a most dramatic way of saying that your soul is devoid. Well, that too is an accurate description of the rest. situation here. They are not listed in Zagat's Paris. Hence, I cook. Or eat out out.

Installment 1C: Au labo

2007-02-12T12:25:00.000-08:00

After years of graduate school, at the mercy of a growth-challenged virus, I am a chercheur post-doctoral and a real virologist. My projet is up in the air for the moment or few, rather I am familiarizing myself with the techniques in the retrovirologist's toolbag. These require suiting up and entering the chambers of the Biosafety Level 3 (BL3) space. (This suit that can transform even the skinniest of the minis in my lab into a Stay-Puft Marshmallow man. I anticipate the day when, all robed and committed to serve my BL3 time, I have to PEE!) Luckily my level of anxiety has gradually lowered in this area of heightened risk.

I won't lie, it is unnerving to be working (for the moment!) with an amorphous undefined project. I have been in this business long enough to know few things are certain, even after the mind is made up. But still. On the bright side, my boss---the only other American in the unit---is pathologically thoughtful. I believe he reads approximately 5 lbs (I am not nearly on the metric system yet.) of papers per day, deposits around 10% of these on my desk, and I feel overwhelmed.

Communication skills have come a long way. An example:
BEFORE: My first day of work coincided with their weekly lab meeting, conducted in French. The head of the unit presents me, en francais, and put in a plug saying people should talk to me, "She speaks French!" I understood most of that bit, and believe he has moved on to another, safter topic. I realize I am not in the clear about 5 min. later when I recognize my name again and everyone is laughing. Merde. "What? Ah yes, funny..Ha! Ha Ha HA!"
AFTER (by 6 wks or so): With no introduction, it is my turn to present at our lab meetings. While I seized the chance to take the freebie "What I Did in Grad School" talk and kept the slides in English, I presented en francais. Despite labmates telling me it was not "necessaire," I a) did not believe them, and b) figured I had better take the plunge. Throw myself in the water, as they say here. The ultimate challenge in my lab meeting was to understand questions posed at me, which I did, which means I was spoken to in baby French. But I'll take it! A few translational errors were brought to my attention post-humously. The painful of which (that I know about) was using the wrong word for screen, as in genetic screen, and instead explaining to them that a Yeast Two-Hybrid Television screen had been performed.

As with any place, there are good and bad. People, I mean. And it depends on the day, my mood, their mood, X other factors (X=infinit) which faction wins out. On the days of the bad, it is still really only 2 or 3 people who make me jump when they enter the room and keep my stomach in knots until they leave it. The lady I work with closest has grown tolerable, even endearing (on a good day) now that I understand her. I understand that she will not divulge to me what she has done unless I ask her directly, preferably in questions that require more than a yes/no answer. Yet, she will beat me to telling my boss exactly what I did. She makes up for these shortcomings by complimenting my progress or explaining to me the lunch formula strategies in the cafeteria, when noone else is around catch her being nice to me. With her, I do believe she is looking out and hopes for the best for me. The leader and chief member of the bad is like a rash for which there is no cream. I plan to stick true to these feelings for she has become a convenient sink for all my negative karma. I believe that when she is not calculating how to keep me from stealing her projects (of course!), she is searching for minute details to criticize. And on her lunch break, she reminds me how my life at La Cite U (see Installment 1A) must be so sad. I want to say to her "Hmm, I believe you are confusing the two of us." Even were I so forthright, I doubt my French abilities would allow it.

The more than dozen others in the lab, including grad students, techs and all the PIs, I categorize as full good. In particular I like a group of girls who talk about what they do outside the lab like it's OK to have a life and ask me what I do outside the lab like they care what the answer is. They make me want to be a better French speaker! My answer to most of their questions or comments tends to be "What?" I feel like my grandmother requiring them to repeat themselves at least once. After one brief squirt of verbal diarrhea, a lab mate switched to slow mode for me after she remembered that she must "speak to [me] like a child." Either a toddler or geriatric, same thing in this case. It hurt to hear, but I have to admit, it's true!

Installment 1D: Les divers

2007-02-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

The "divers" other things I have been up to, with one foot on the ground, between chez moi and le labo are several and scattered. Despite my best efforts, I have been unable to figure out a schedule. Stores close sporadically, lines are more like pyramids, so generally my attempts to multitask have been thwarted. On one visit to the Social Security office to claim my number, I was turned away due to the entry door being broken and the risk of it causing injury to us medically-undercovered. Irony, I believe. A fellow SS SOLer actually seemed happy when he read the sign on the door telling us to return in an hour or so, thrilled at the NEED to while away an hour at a cafe. Differences like this in daily routine have thrown this creature of routine into a tizzy. But I'm getting there...

One constant in my routine is the 45-50 min. commute each way between maison and laboratoire. Due to the need to cover the entire city and the complex metro workings, about 5 different routes are feasible. My favorite involves, for one ankle of the journey, a ride on the tram that, in its entirety, circles Paris. Le tram! On the day I moved in, I noticed a phantom tram with no passengers. In the weeks that followed, I began to think it would NEVER take passengers, and believe the official name of the line was "IN TESTING." Apparently at least 4 weeks of testing are required for even the most seemingly benign modes of public transportation. I suppose a trolley rolling at a max of 10 mph can cause harm not just to a rat terrier but also to full-grown humans, like the beloved Spanish architect Gaudi (see forthcoming Barcelona entry). On the glorious Saturday afternoon that the tram opened its doors, so much fanfare was made you would have thought the Second or Third Coming of Christ was behind them!

While not still so glorious, I use my tram ride and the subsequent journey on the metro wisely. On the days when they are available, I check out the free newspapers. (We have our own Metro, and instead of AM New York, "20" Minutes!) When they are not, I read France's version of smut celeb news, like Public, or perverse French comic books---both great for picking up real slang!---or I just thumb through my French-English dictionary.

At least several times per week my homeward journey is broken up by a class in "danse classique." I followed the recommendation of a ballet buddy NYside to a great teacher and studio. In the trendy neighborhood of Le Marais, the only other area in which I now have a faint inkling of my way around. (Marais, I learned, means "the swamp," and learning this served me well in another instance to explain to my building's maintenance staff my bathroom situation when my shower drain kept clogging.) While I kill my share of time there after these classes, I am sure not to linger in the dressing rooms. They are co-ed, and also the lounge where our male teacher greets the dancers as they arrive for class.! Maybe these arrangements were suitable in the days of Degas, but in the here and now I thought a little gender segregation was accepted as being a good thing! So, perhaps this situation brings out the truism in another American stereotype: Americans ARE prudish (and I am an American)!