Rasmenia

“I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.” -Albert Einstein

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Ok, here’s the thing about me & blog tags: I usually ignore them.  On the rare occasion that another blogger writes a post about something & then “tags” me to tackle the same topic, my normal response is to read it, possibly comment on it & then go about with my daily scowling & mocking.

However, I have been known to play along when the topic is interesting enough, if I think that I might be able to have fun with it, the planets are in the proper alignment… & it also helps if I’m kind of drunk.

So it was that my friend Stephanie, on her blog, called me out when she wrote a rather cool post in the form of 3 letters – to her past, present & future selves.

So I said, “giddy up”.

The thing is, if I could go back in time & say something to that dumber, younger me, at which point in time do I have a chat with her?

Maybe I could go back to see her at age 7.  Then I could tell her:

“Don’t put that in your nose.  Yes, I’m serious.  I know it looks neat, but this will not end well.”

Right… perhaps that wasn’t such a crucial moment.  Might be better to visit her at age 12, right when that awkward, terrible insecure shit was starting.  Perhaps I would have been able to provide some sort of comfort.  I might have told her:  “I know it’s embarrassing… & I know that it’s unfair, but kids are shits & they’re cruel.  But, it isn’t going to stop anytime soon, so you’re going to have to suck it up.  Besides, you won’t mind being called “weirdo” later on.  In fact, I promise that you’ll be wearing it like a badge of honor very soon.

As for that other shit that they’re saying, you know it’s not true & when you’re me… well, let’s just say that when you’re me, people will be a little more careful about how they speak to you.

Oh, yeah… & there are those assholes now.  See that one?  Yeah, the one who threw that balloon filled with shaving cream at you.  Well, he’s going to try to hit on you at a party in a few years.  He’ll be drunk & well… you’ll see, but trust me – it’s pretty funny.  And the one standing next to him?  He’ll be dead soon.  And the one over there?  Well, he gets it the worst.  That one, he’s average.”

Ah… fuck it.  Here’s a pen.  Grab that paper over there.  Write it down.”

Then again, what I know now might be a bit more useful to that juvenile delinquent, 16 year-old me…

“Here’s the thing about jail cells, rehabs & whatnot: you’re not going to be spending much more time in them after a while.  Really, it’s not your fault that you keep ending up in situations like this.  You’ll rise above it.  I wish I could tell you how – I really do, but see… it’s complicated & you probably shouldn’t know too much right now.  Something about stepping on butterfly wings – anyway, I think you’re better off not knowing too much.

Well… except that you’re stupid, but you’ll get smarter.  What?  Yeah, fuck you, too.  Anyway, it’s too bad that they don’t let you have a pen & paper in here.  At least you have plenty of books to read.  Steinbeck.  Nice.  Good choice.”

Maybe it’d be easier to have a sit down with me at 19…

“Ok… so, it seems that you’re still a bit of a mess.  But, you’re getting smarter.  That’s a good thing.  Wow… look at that.  I’ve had the scar for so long that I had forgotten what the wound looked like when it was new.

Well… it’s not so bad.  I mean, it’s hell now, I know… but, wounds heal & scars are important.  You’ll be freaked out about knives for… well, at least the next 20 years or so, but you’ll be like the phoenix, rising from ashes & all that triumphant shit.  Actually, you’re going to get really good at that.  Trust me on this one.

I’d almost forgotten how hard it is to be you.  It gets easier & I wish I could help you with all of this, but… I’m afraid that I can’t.  I can’t rescue you, or provide warnings & sage advice.  See, I kind of need you to suffer through this.  It sounds selfish, sure.  But, the thing is, your suffering makes me what I am & well… I’m just not willing to change that.  But, you know this already… don’t you?”

Ah, fuck it.  Younger me never listened to anyone, anyway.  I could just fast forward in time to present me, but that would just turn into a lecture on why she shouldn’t have eaten an entire Domino’s pizza for lunch because now I’m suffering for it.

That really leaves me with only future me & all I can really say to her is, “I can’t believe that you’ve managed to put up with us for all this time.

Oh… & please don’t put that in your nose.  This never ends well.”

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Technocrati Tags: quotes, tag, youth, conversation, writing, self

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American expat bloggers… well, yeah – it’s true that with my little blue passport, WordPress account & carte de séjour, I meet all of the criteria.  But, just wait… hold back your fist-pumping, cries of “hypocrite!” for just a moment.  I might get around to making a point… eventually.

Before I moved to France, I spent a great deal of time scouring the internet for information on the place that was to be my new home.  It was a big move, going from Loveland, Colorado to Paris, France.  I was planning to get married to a French man soon after my arrival – I was nervous, excited, stressed-out & elated.  I was doing this alone, with only my faithful feline sidekick.

Even though I had already been to France a couple of times already, I wanted to find as much information as I could, so that I could get a clearer picture of what in the hell I was getting myself into.

Some of what I found was useful information that provided facts about France.  Most of what I found however, was shit.

- “An American woman can spend a fortune on a new dress & expensive jewelry & look ordinary.  A Parisienne looks terrific & interesting in a simple black dress.”

Translation: You will look like shit simply because you’re a goddamn Yank, no matter how hard you try.

- “Parisians get & stay so thin because they smoke a lot and eat next to nothing.”

I call bullshit. This is just fucking retarded.  Parisians DO eat – likely not as much as the average American sitting in front of a giant platter of Chili’s baby back ribs, but Paris isn’t a city of anorexics.  The fact is, Parisians are walking all over the place.  Cars aren’t practical in Paris & while there are many drivers, most people walk more than the average SUV-driving American.

Oh, & the smoking thing?  I’m gonna toss bullshit on that one, too.  The cliché of the Parisian smoking at a sidewalk café in front of a glass of absinthe is, I admit, an appealing one.  However, less than half of the people here are smokers & approximately 70% of the population in France supported the smoking ban that went into place last year.

See, they exercise portion control better than most of us do & they regularly move around more.  This starving & smoking theory is cliché & asinine.  Besides, the walking & smaller portions better corroborates the low number of heart-disease related deaths in France, compared to the smoking starvation diet.

- “In France, adultery is a national pastime.”

You tell me – is this something that a smart person would say?  There is no evidence that infidelity is more rampant in France than in the U.S. – it’s just that they handle it differently.

I’ve seen blog posts discussing “the look”, referring to “long, lingering glances” with strangers & that this is acceptable among everyone in France.  I don’t know what this is all about – I don’t give strangers fuck-me eyes on the métro & if I ever caught my husband doing it, there would likely be a great deal of pain inflicted.

I’m sure at this point, I don’t need to provide any more examples.

As you might imagine, reading all of this “information” as I was packing my life away into bags & boxes to make my move to France was not helpful.

It was not informative.  It was not interesting.  It was insulting.

Not to mention that it was very off-putting.  What I read was that I would be moving to a country where I would be slovenly, starving & obligated to chain-smoke, which would only lead to my French husband cheating on me.

Huh?

This kind of blog writing about Paris and France only insults the French by perpetuating ugly stereotypes & insults everyone else by feeding them bullshit, which I’ve never really had a taste for.

I’ve come across more since I’ve been living here & I’m sure will continue to find more bits ‘o’ bullshit out there in the blogosphere.

Since I’ve been living here, I’ve discovered that I am never, EVER to wear sneakers or jeans.  I am never to wear my hair in a ponytail, as the bloggers say that only Americans do this & that I should wear my hair in a messy ‘do, with several clips in it, so that I look as though I’ve just gotten out of bed.

Bedhead, but with style… & countless bits of plastic shit stuck in your hair.

I am never to wear t-shirts, carry a backpack or chew gum.  I must always wear a scarf around my neck, which must be tied a certain way.  I must wear a lot of make up that creates the illusion of no make up at all.

This all sounds like too much fucking work.  How can I enjoy Paris, France, or life at all if I buy into this shit?

"You could have at least put on a scarf."

Now, don’t get me wrong.  There is still a great number of very well-written blogs on France that are out there.  Some of them are even written by journalists (remember those?) who are living in France & understand that opinions are not facts.  There is plenty of good information out there, among the shit, stereotypes & Americans who see Paris as nothing but clichés & foreign films.

Not a typical French woman.

Paris is great, but it is hardly representative of France as a whole.  Many Americans visit France as tourists, exchange students, or for work.  Unfortunately, many of those people don’t get outside of Paris & maybe only see a portion of the city.  They see some rich Parisienne, or young professionals & jump on their blog to tell the folks back home that all French people are like the ones that they observed in the métro this morning.

Imagine someone from outside the U.S. who is visiting L.A. telling everyone back home that all American women look that.  Get it?

Average, everyday Americans.

They want to impress & excite the people back home with exotic tales of fabulous French-ness.  There’s really nothing wrong with that, as there is a lot to be impressed with here, as long as it’s realistic.

One day, after reading a random blog post written by an American temporarily residing in France, Olivier & I were talking about this blogger’s claim that all American wives living in France do nothing except lounge around Paris, popping out babies & refuse to learn any French.  (To which I say, va te faire foutre.)

Olivier shook his head & laughed.  “People like this don’t know us,” he said.  “They come to France, they spend a short time in the rich quarter of Paris & think that we are all like this.  They don’t see France as it is, only their France – the France that they want to see… & that doesn’t exist.”

I guess that explains why I have seen French people wearing sneakers, ponytails, jeans, & t-shirts while chewing gum & wandering about without a damn scarf.

It’s a pity, because it’s likely what they aren’t seeing that is the most charming.

The point – which I said I would get around to eventually – is that no single expat blogger is an expert on France as a whole, or all of its people.  What they are an expert on is their France & their experiences, which may be limited or extensive.

Moving here can be intimidating & isolating, especially in the beginning & I’m sure that many people who come here feel a great deal of pressure to fit in, so they convince themselves that they have to saunter about Paris in high heels & scarves to make that happen.

The truth is, it’s probably more important to learn the customs, etiquette & language of a place as opposed to trying to dress in a way that you normally would not.

The truth is, feeding ridiculous myths & negative stereotypes about a place & what its people are like won’t make the adjustment any easier – for anyone.

But, don’t take my word for it – I’m just another expat with a little blue passport, a WordPress account & a carte de séjour, just like the rest of them.

The only difference is, I’m dressed comfortably & am probably having a good laugh.

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Technocrati Tags: Paris, France, American, expat, bloggers, blogging, cliché, Humor, Parisienne, ridiculous, smoking, stereotype, style

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Author Bryce Corbett – wait a minute. I hesitate to even use the word “author” here. These days it seems like any jackass who can sit himself upright behind a keyboard likes to refer to himself or herself as an “author”.

I wouldn’t refer to Corbett as an author – more like a blogger gone pro. Each chapter of “A Town Like Paris” reads like a long-winded blog entry, riddled with references to his friends & outings as if the reader actually cared enough to keep track of Corbett’s lifeless & bland ancillary characters.

“A Town Like Paris” is an attempt at telling the story of an Australian expat living in Paris. While I am an American living expat living in France who spent more than two years living in Paris, I wondered with each turn of the page where in the hell Corbett’s Paris could be located on the map, because I had never seen the place.

The picture that Corbett paints of Paris is nothing more than clichés & stereotypes that he has managed to collect & string together during his time in Paris. He succeeds at insulting French men & women – the reader is told that French women are difficult, that they play games & are basically all psycho – that is just the way of the French woman according to Bryce Corbett. We’re also informed that French men aren’t as good in bed as Australian men & it must be true since Corbett said so.

Did I mention that he uses the phrase “The City of Lights” to death? I suppose he felt that it helped to add a touch of romanticism to his writing – even if it took using the expression several times per page.

There are few places in the book that as an expat living in Paris, I was able to relate to. It is true that in France, the customer is never right & the entire business of customer service has almost nothing to do with serving the customer. As can be expected, Corbett does mention the strikes in Paris – that the French seem to go on strike simply because it’s a nice day outside. As an outsider living in France, these are a couple of examples of the “quirks” of the country that are sometimes infuriating & at other times amusing. I would have liked to read more about those observations from Corbett, but he seemed to be more focused on recounting his social life & stroking his own ego. It’s unfortunate that he didn’t spend more time pondering why some Parisian kitchens have showers.

In the second half of the book, Corbett tells a stale love story about meeting & falling in love with a fellow Australian who happens to be a showgirl at the Lido in Paris. Had he made a bit more of an effort to focus on the story of these two people rather than constantly referring to his bride as “the showgirl”, it might not have been so colorless and infuriating. Hell, had he fleshed her out a bit & not have been so arrogant about her line of work, it could have even been charming. He never even bothers to give any hints to the reader as to any of her character traits.

It’s obvious that Corbett wants to impress all of us. He states that by telling the reader that a French person will “fall on their knees in reverence” once they discover that one is dating a Lido dancer. I’ve asked a few French people about this one – the truth is, they don’t give a shit.

I got the impression that this book was written for those people completely ignorant of Paris & its inhabitants. But, even more than that, I felt that “A Town Like Paris” was mainly intended to be read by those Australians back home who had never been to Paris & might actually give a damn about the shallow thoughts of Bryce Corbett & whatever events might occur in his life.

The epilogue was one part of the book that I actually liked – not because the agony was coming to an end, but because it was here that Corbett talks about the plight of the expat – being trapped between two worlds, where you always miss home, but can’t go home again without longing for your newly adopted country & how home isn’t quite the same now.

It’s too bad those thoughts were wasted on his book – they would have made for an excellent blog post.

Technocrati Tags: books, Bryce Corbett, expats, Paris, France, Australia, American, a town like Paris, blogging, French