3 Types of Crazies You Might Encounter in the 10ème

Each Sunday night I work the dinner shift in the 10th. It's not even in the outermost circle of arrondissements, and yet once we get off work around 11 pm there is no shortage of unsavory individuals around. Here are a few of the most memorable.

1. The Gung-ho Athlete

A couple co-workers and I were heading toward the nearest Metro when a tall athletic man jogging in our direction stopped a few inches in front of us. He proceeded to belt out a couple lines of whatever song was playing on his iPod (it was in English but I didn't recognize it), before continuing on his way. Not that weird, right?

Except that it had been snowing all weekend so the temperature was well below freezing and he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and open-toed athletic sandals without socks.

2. The Belligerent Drunkard

Inevitably at the end of every shift, there are a few stragglers who beg us to take their orders before we shut down and start cleaning. I thought this was one such customer, who sidled up with a full pint in hand after the line had dissipated, and asked for an order of fries. I'm fairly certain he was also on something other than alcohol, because after trying and failing to engage us in conversation he disappeared (to unlock his bike, I later learned), returned to toss his beer inside the truck, and began pedaling off on his getaway vehicle.

The beer landed on the hot grill (not in the nearby fryer, thank God), leaving most of us shocked by the resulting steam and acrid smell. My boss, however, immediately took off after him - on foot - and chucked the only weapon she had at the perpetrator: her burger. It hit the guy square in the face.

3. The [Potentially Paranoid Schizophrenic] Conspiracy Theorist

On the same night that we encountered #2, we were chatting near the Metro station when I felt something brush against my bag. Paranoid after being pickpocketed once, I whirled around and found myself face to face with a crazy-eyed black man. (Not tryna be racist here, keep reading).

"I am from Africa," he said in slightly accented English, his attention fixed on me despite the four others standing around me.

"Where are you from? What are you doing here?"

"Uh...I'm a student from the US," I started to say, when he interrupted me with a revelation.

"China is with the al-Qaeda!"

That's when things really started to go off the deep end. He proceeded to tell us he was working with both the FBI and CIA, and at one point even pulled his phone and held it to his ear because he was speaking to one of his "agents."

It was funny at first, but grew tiresome once it became clear he wouldn't leave us alone on his own accord. Also he had the disconcerting habit of getting really close when he spoke to you. It wasn't threatening, per se, but personal space is something I value very highly.

My boss eventually lured him away so I could sneak off into the Metro station by telling him she worked for al-Qaeda.

Lost in Translation

When I moved to Paris in late June with just a single academic year of beginning French under my belt people assured me that, "Oh, you'll pick it right up when you get there!" But nearly six months later, my language skills have all but stagnated.

At school the students, who are all international, either speak English or their native languages to each other. And the food truck, which is predominantly staffed by expats, isn't much better. I never wanted to be one of those people that moves to a new place and makes little to no effort to imbibe the local culture but, oops, I guess I kind of am. It's not that I don't try at all, but rather that in a foreign setting language acts as a security blanket. (Also I've found in many cases that when I speak French to native speakers they respond to me in English, as if to say, "Nice try, buddy, but your accent sucks! Now let me show you up with my English.")

I really admire my friend who, after moving here from Australia knowing virtually no French, took our six-week break from school to enroll in an intensive language course. Last night she invited me over for an informal dinner with a couple of her classmates; the caveat being that on avait besoin de parler français.

It was strange at first, because Steph and I are so used to speaking English to each other. Suddenly it was difficult to make jokes and use sarcasm, and stories that would have taken all of ten seconds to recount became arduous and slow-developing as we struggled to find the right vocabulary. But over time we developed a rhythm. When Ina, a German, wasn't sure of a word she would ask Sabrina, a Swiss girl in a more advanced class, in Deutsch; when I didn't know a word I would look it up on my phone. Sometimes no one knew what the other was trying to say, which inevitably devolved into wild gesticulation and laughter.

"Tant pis," we said, French for, "Oh well." 

I enjoyed it, though, because since we were all beginners it was a rare moment when I didn't feel self-conscious speaking a language I barely know. During the summer when I had a French roommate, I often struggled to keep up with her and her friends in conversations. By the time I understood what was being said and had thought of something to add, the topic had already changed.

But with the four of us there that night it was, as paradoxical as it sounds, a comfortable level of awkward; each pause bringing us together as much as the words that followed because we all knew what it was like to feel able to communicate at only half-capacity. Some things are just universal.

Baby, It's Really Cold Outside

"Um, isn't it cold in Seattle?"

This is the reaction I usually get when I complain about not being able to feel my fingers/toes/face/entire body after being outside for more than a few minutes. Paris cold is a different breed from anything that I've previously experienced - even born-and-bred New Yorkers living here will tell you as much. It seeps right into your bones, making you think twice about leaving the apartment. You dread having to go to class or work and social commitments become a drag, particularly going out. 

What do you wear when it's freezing outside but sweltering in the club? This conundrum is a novelty for me because at Stanford, even in winter, one could easily get away with not wearing a jacket when out party-hopping on weekends. I miss being able to wear open-toed shoes year-round and never needing to use a coat check. But as spoiled as we were by the weather, many students still managed to complain about how "cold" it got during winter quarter. (The worst offenders: SoCal kids who grew up not knowing what seasons are). 

I have it on good authority, via the Weather app, that daytime highs at Stanford are in the 60s. Here? Mid-30s. (Seattle, for the record, is about 10 degrees warmer). I tried acclimating to using celsius, but seeing the lower integers relative to their fahrenheit counterparts just intensifies my perception of the cold. 

But still, we're not even halfway through December. The worst part is yet to come - or rather to stay for another few months. Here's to a long winter of layering and bundling up.

The Cost of Cinephilia

My love affair with movies began in high school, when just about every weekend I went to the theater with friends to catch the latest release. I still strongly believe that films are best viewed on the big screen in the company of others; downloading DVD rips streaming it on my laptop just doesn't cut it. I keep the stubs from all of the tickets, and over time have realized that even as my impressions of the film itself fade, my memories of the people that I saw it with, and what we did before, during, and after remain clear as ever. From my first rated-R movie, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (my mom bought tickets for my friend and me because we were under age), to the countless midnight screenings I've been to for all the big franchises (Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Matrix sequels, Transformers), cinema has had a huge influence over how I remember growing up.

But, unfortunately, moviegoing is an expensive habit. I've been lucky these last couple years to have been able to see most films for free in advance of theatrical release thanks to my status as a student-journalist. Now that I'm out in the real world, however, I'm starting to feel the burn of watching movies like a pleb. Ticket prices in Paris are comparable to those of any major US city, but perhaps slightly worse when you factor in the exchange rate.

The major theater chains here have an incredible unlimited pass, which lets you attend as many screenings as you want for 20€/month. (I did the math and it's worth it as long as you go just once a week). The catch? Subscription is for a minimum of one year. I briefly toyed with the idea of signing up now and selling my pass once I was getting ready to leave the country but then noticed that the application requires an identification photo, thereby strictly limiting the number of people I could potentially pawn it off on later. Bummer.

"I wish they had something like this at home," a fellow American expat/cinephile said to me after we watched Looper together.

But wait - they do! Sort of. The MoviePass service is currently in beta, and from what I've read online is running about $30-$40/month depending on where you live.

If monthly subscription doesn't seem like the right option for you, I suggest you also check out these tips from Not Worth Admission. I'm most intrigued by #7, buying in bulk, and will definitely look into it when I'm back stateside.*

*That is unless I can find someone who will publish my writing and let me watch things for free...​

3 Types of People You Might Encounter Between Concorde and the Louvre

A visiting Stanford friend and I passed a recent weekday afternoon having lunch in the Marais before heading over to the Champs-Élysées to check out the Christmas market. Mostly unimpressed by what the vendors were selling, we decided to keep walking towards the Louvre where the real entertainment was.

1. Witches

Near a fountain in the Tuileries Garden, we came upon a woman playing with two sticks. We watched for a few minutes as she would wave one around in the air above her head, drop it on the ground, and repeat the same procedure with the other. Said woman did not appear to be part of some experimental film project, so I can only surmise that this behavior was purely of her own volition...And that she was casting a spell?

Being young adults of a certain age, we couldn't let this go without making a few Harry Potter references.

"Doesn't she know that the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around?" said my friend.

Or maybe she was a squib. At least that would explain the lack of results from wand-waving.

2. Eastern European Scam Artists

Just in front of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, we were accosted by two girls that wanted us to sign their petition. Initially they pretended to be really friendly, explaining that it was to benefit some orphanage for the deaf-mute and asking us where we were from. But suspicion began to set in when I saw the "donation" column on the spreadsheet.

I said I didn't have any money on me. They pleaded, then begged, and still I refused to take out my wallet. Finally they snatched the paper back, gave me the dirtiest bitch face, and scuttled off...probably to scout for some easier targets.

3. Extreme Photo Opportunists

Crossing Place du Carrousel we were greeted by the sight of a grown man surrounded by a flock of birds. I wasn't sure whether to be concerned or not, but upon closer inspection we realized it was intentional - the man was tossing bread crumbs into the air around him while his wife snapped photos of the action.

I'm not sure which was worse: the fact that the couple decided this was a good idea at all, or that their small child was nearby, strapped into a stroller. Seriously? Have they seen The Birds? Those creatures will not hesitate to attack children.

And We Danced

Weeks ago I justified splurging on a one-day ticket for Pitchfork Paris all because of the time last fall when I missed M83 in San Francisco after my friends were too indecisive to commit to going before the show sold out. I normally wouldn't condone going to a festival just to see one act, but my love for Midnight City prevailed. And a good thing it did, because last night evolved into eight of the best hours of my Paris sojourn thus far. The other artists were a bit of a mystery to me (How To Dress Well? Japandroids? James Blake?) but thanks to the bass, the buzz and the charged atmosphere emphasized by seizure-inducing light displays, I still felt at ease basking in the rhythm even though I didn't know the lyrics.

A college friend once asked me what was so great about going to live music shows. To his mind it was an expensive habit that didn't warrant the cost when you could just as easily listen to the same songs at full blast in the comfort of your own room. But, for me at least, the answer lies in all the things that you can only experience and feel at a concert: the bass so loud it reverberates throughout your entire body; the unparalleled energy running through the crowd as everyone moves to the beat in a way that is both harmonious and yet dissonant; fighting the good fight to get close to the stage. It's a full-on sensory experience in a way that recorded music can never come close to.  

As my first Paris concert experience, I couldn't help but think back to the Stuff White People Like entry called "Standing Still at Concerts" (see #67). Because, yeah...enough said. After the first few sets, though, the crowd finally started to loosen up. Although whether this was because the flow of festival sponsor Heineken had loosened their joints, or rather by that point the expat contingent was out in full force, I cannot say. (I haven't been surrounded by that many native English-speakers since I left California).

Marché Place Monge

​This is my aforementioned local open-air market, open three days a week and featuring all kinds of fresh, yummy things. Each arrondissement typically has several, of which even the smallest puts any farmers market I've been to back home to shame.