LA en vie

The exchange student

Universities in France are a sad sight compared to American campuses. This building is the single location of Paris Dauphine, one of the more sought-after ordinary universities in France (i.e. it's not a grande école).

A girl I know from Paris, Laetitia, has been visiting a friend who is an exchange student here. They came for lunch and we ate outside on the terrace, amid the bougainvillea. It was hot, but they refused to let me open the sun umbrella. "On aime bien le soleil!"

They were both blown away by the American campuses. "They're so big and so beautiful!"

I had heard that HEC was a French school that had a pretty, American-style campus, but the girls poured scorn on this idea. "C'est tout petit! You can't compare it to USC, to UCLA... All the American campuses are nicer, even the small universities'."

"What do you think of the other students?" I asked.

"So diverse! They come from all over the world!" said Laetitia's friend. "But I am the youngest one. Most of them have had several years of work experience, but in France we go straight from university to business school."

I recalled the words of an American I met who had been teaching English at HEC. "The kids are all such babies compared to American students," he had said. "They go home to Mommy every weekend."

"I wish I could study here for a year or so," said Laetitia. "Or I could work here."

"You wouldn't get much vacation to enjoy it," I said. "Americans get one or two weeks a year."

"I wouldn't like that," said Laetitia. "I live for my summers in the South of France! But for a year it would be wonderful."

When did pimps and hos become a good thing?

The other night I took A to a huge costume store to find a Halloween costume. A ran into some friends from school, so I wandered off into the other aisles. I was very tempted to buy a large python which wraps around your shoulders and whose mouth fits over your head like a cap (it's eating you); I would have bought a Darth Maul costume if I could have found an adult version. He's my favorite Sith-- he's so graceful.

But I was most amazed to see the Halloween costumes for women and especially for little girls. Whatever happened to fairy tales and pumpkins and historical figures? Almost everything for females was short, tight, skin-baring and sexy, even for six-year-olds.

A handsome young black guy was in the store buying a white wig and Snow White costume. He said he was going as Snow Ho with the Seven Pimps. He actually looked really cute in the white wig ("I'm Snow White in reverse," he said).

But since when did pimps and hos become something people admire? Since I left the States, for sure.

An equestrian store in Malibu advertises, "Pimp your ride!" and PimpMySpace is the biggest site to help you jazz up your page there.

I'm just asking.

The restaurant dinner

We went out to dinner with some couples I didn't know, with the mandate to make one of the spouses love California so her husband will move here. Being the oldest woman and naturally bossy (I'm from a large family), I told everyone where to sit.

"That'll be fun!" said one of the men enthusiastically.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, usually everyone just sits next to their husband or wife!"

"They do?" I said, astounded.

"Well, yeah!"

How boring would that be? Luckily among most of my friends, the French rule applies. In France, it is unheard-of to sit next to your spouse at a dinner, unless you're newlyweds. You are presumed to know your spouse fairly well already.

The host and hostess sit opposite each other at the center of the table, if it's rectangular-- not at the ends like the anglo-saxons. This means that there is a distinct sense of hierarchy at the table-- the most important man is seated to the hostess's right (or else), and the most important woman to the host's right. (The anglo-saxon habit is kinder, as people who aren't in the important seats at least get to sit at the middle of the table, not exiled to Thule.) If you are off at the end of the table, you are far from the action. Believe me, everyone notices.

"We all make jokes about it, but we really do care," said my friend Frédéric. "We have a saying, marrying for love is not worth a lifetime at the end of the table."

Crocs: why?

So many people wear these here. Why? You have to admit they're hideous.

They're one of those styles, like Uggs boots* and pants falling down, that may not make it to France.

"It's the first time my kid's feet don't stink," said my sister. "They're anti-bacterial."

"You can eat them, you know," said A. "They're made of soybeans or something."

* which got their name from "ugly"

Self-criticism

The comments on the last post reminded me of one of the lovable things about France. The French love to gripe about themselves.

"We Fransh people like to beetch, beetch, beetch!" said one of my favorite bosses. It was the first I'd heard of it.

Americans don't gripe about themselves much. No, we think we're pretty great!

Vive, la différence!

--The lights are on, all the time, everywhere. No minuteurs that leave you stumbling in the dark if you don't hurry.
--The elevators are big. The smallest ones fit six people.
--The cars are huge. If you don't have an SUV you feel dwarfed on the road.
--The restaurant servings are enormous. Everyone takes the leftovers home in boxes and doggie bags.
--The newspapers are stuffed with special ad sections.
--The stores are open all the time. You can buy a sofa on Sunday.

"I lived in Paris for six years," said the woman who delivered two chairs to me yesterday. "First on the rue Saint-Anne, then near Place Pigalle. It was kind of a funky neighborhood, full of hookers."

"Do you miss it?" I asked.

"It was a different time in my life. The Easter chocolate parade was cool, though."

"What Easter parade?"

"Didn't you ever see it? The Easter parade, with these giant chocolates. It was over by the Opera. Six-foot-tall giant Easter eggs."