TooMuchInformation

Last weekend my friend Michael visited from Boston.  Michael was the first person I met when I moved to Boston.  He was sitting on a bar stool in a coffee shop up the street from my apartment.  I asked for the sugar, he handed me the Sweet n’ Low, I asked if that was a hint.  He had just moved to Boston from Wisconsin a few months earlier.  We talked about being new in Boston, how New Englanders are difficult to meet, and became friends. 

While he was staying with me in Brooklyn, we went to a bar in the East Village.  A few other friends of his were also down from Boston and met up with us.  One of them was a man whose name I can’t remember.  But he had lived in New York a few years ago and he was excited to be back.  It came out in the conversation that he was born in Pune, India.  “Pune?” I asked. “Did you ever take the train from Pune to Delhi?”

“Of course!” he said.  Everything about his conversational style was exciting.  “Whenever I go home to visit relatives I always go to Pune and Delhi!  But now the airfare is not so expensive, so I fly instead of taking the train!”

“I see,” I said.  “And tell me, on the train between Pune and Delhi, is there a stop called ‘Monkey Hill’?”

“Oh yes!” he said. “How do you know about Monkey Hill?!  It’s a wonderful place.  The train stops and everyone gets out and feeds peanuts to the monkeys and takes pictures and laughs and has a great time!”

I knew about Monkey Hill from my friend Nisha.  She was another English teacher in Grenoble and grew up in Pune.  She wasn’t as excited about Monkey Hill as this guy, but close.  I can’t imagine being on a train, probably in a rush to get from one place to the next, and have it stop halfway so everyone can go feed the monkeys.  I can’t imagine buying a ticket on a train with a scheduled monkey stop.  “Express train only, please” I’d probably say.  “I’m in a hurry and not much of a fan of the monkeys anwyay.”

Nisha would smile when she spoke of Monkey Hill.  “They dance and do tricks and pose and wave for pictures!” she told me.  I wasn’t sure if I believed her.

But, here I was, walking down Avenue A with a stranger who glowed at the mere mention of Monkey Hill.  We started our conversation discussing the differences between Boston and New York, but ended with him reliving his childhood in Pune, feeding the monkeys.  “You should see all the pictures I have of Monkey Hill!” he told me.  

Lost in thought, I wondered what the US equivalent of monkeys would be.  Squirrels, perhaps?  Buffalo?  Rats?  I wondered if Amtrak added a stop called Groundhog Hill on the route between Boston and Philadelphia if more people would make the trip.  And with the growing ease of air travel in India, what will happen to Monkey Hill if train traffic becomes a thing of the past?

Someday, I’ll visit my friends in India.  I’ll be sure to see the Taj Mahal, the faithful bathing in the Ganges, and the Aga Khan’s jewels.  And I’ll pack a bag of peanuts to feed to the monkeys at Monkey Hill.

One warm night in Grenoble, I was walking home from a drink with three friends: Emma from England and Leena and Nisha from India.  We turned a cobblestoned corner to walk down a narrow street and came across a huge pile of plastic coat hangers.  As if someone had taken a 5 bushel box of them and turned them out onto the street.  Leena and Nisha had just been complaining about not having enough hangers when drying their laundry.  So I said, “Hey! Free hangers!”   

Nisha and Emma, being only 20 years old, were cautious of anything found lying in a heap in the street and stood back.  Leena and I, being over 30, were delighted at the sheer luck.  We each leaned in to help ourselves.  In a bent position, a hanger in each hand, I pivoted to the other two and said “C’mon!  Just take three.”

All of a sudden (I love this part, because when I retold the story in my French class I got the “all of a sudden” part correct), two police officers came running up the alley shouting - in French of course - “blah! blah, blah, blah?!  blah!!!” 

Still in a bent position, my mouth turned into an O.  My brain couldn’t translate fast enough.  Giving up on explaining the situation in the here and now, my head leapt ahead to what I would say to Douglas in my one phone call.   “They were the clear plastic kind, with a metal hook sticking out the top.  …. No, I don’t think I’ll get to keep them.  …  You’ll probably need to bring my translated birth certificate, the housing contract, a bank RIB form, and a representative from the American consulate in Lyon.  ….  I haven’t seen the Indians, but I think I hear ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I Seen’ in Hindi.”

Apparently caught red-handed, with the loot firmly in her hands, Leena tried to explain “We just found these here”.  Emma and Nisha took another step away from us. 

Finally, a voice screamed from the walkie-talkie (or a talkie-walkie as the French call them) that a vandal had been spotted at a store up the street.  The two cops ran off as quickly as they arrived. 

Leena and I put down the hangers in our hands and the four of us slipped away into the shadows.

I’ll be back in the US this month.  I’m flying into Washington on November 28.  I’ll be staying with my ex George and his partner Rudolph for a few days.  While in DC I will be attending the memorial service for my friend Matt and his colleagues from the WWF who perished in a helicopter crash in Nepal.

And then I’ll be heading up to New Jersey and staying with friends Luswin and Fritz while I get settled. 

Douglas has a job interview in Berlin at the end of November and is planning to head to New Jersey in the first week of December.

 

 

On Easter Lionel invited me for dinner at his parent’s home. I was happy to accept as Douglas was in Germany for work and it had been a long time since I’d had a holiday meal that didn’t involve a Chinese restaurant.

Easter morning I went with Vincent to church. We chose one that used the Latin mass. Why should I be the only one to not understand anything? After church we walked back to Cours Berriat where Lionel and his father were waiting with the car.

The Dutrucs live in Seyssins, a village next to Grenoble, sandwiched between the Drac River and the Vercors range. The new tram line that opened this summer goes there. It’s a community of bedrooms and garages on streets lined with blooming bushes.

At dinner were Lionel’s parents, his brother and sister-in-law, Lionel and Vincent, and me. I brought a banana bread.

Mr. Dutruc handed me a martini shortly after arriving. A martini in France isn’t the dry combination of gin or vodka, an olive or onion, and vermouth in an easily spilled glass that can be seen on M*A*S*H, Sex and the City, or in front of Viv Ladd. The French martini is either red or white and poured from a bottle with a label reminiscent of the London Underground logo. Mr. Dutruc gave me a red martini, which tastes something like Pepsi and something like Heineman’s ice wine. It’s easy to drink.

I’ve found that in some settings alcohol makes my French flow more easily. I speak it as poorly as when sober, but less self-conscious. If the people I’m speaking with also have a drink in hand they seem more at ease with my struggling too. Alcohol makes it easier to be laughed at.

Being the curious foreigner in the house my friend was raised in I decided to ask some questions. Why should I be the only one feeling awkward? “Did you ever break any windows?” I asked Lionel. I hit the nail on the head with my first try.

Lionel told us about a time in high school when his parents were out of town and he and his brother were arguing on the way home from school. (I was on my second martini, so I might have some of the details wrong) When Lionel reached the house, he slammed the door so hard that one of the panes of glass broke. Or maybe someone was locked outside and a fist was involved. Maybe a rock. I can’t remember, but I do recall that Madame Dutruc said, “that’s how the window broke? You told us it was stormy weather.”

Awkward foreigner no longer in the hot seat, I held out my glass and said “yes, I’ll have another.”

Dinner was great. There was probably some lamb with rice and carrots and a salad and a green vegetable. Maybe broccoli. Some excellent bread. Dessert was yogurt with honey and fruit spreads. And the banana bread.

“What are the little black things?” the sister-in-law asked.

“Little bits of cooked banana,” I said. I wanted to say ‘the meal worm exoskeletons’ but it’s hard to be funny in a foreign language. No matter how many martinis.

When I got to Lycee Vaucanson this morning I was met by the familiar sight of a large group of students mingling outside. The front gates were blocked, again, by dumpsters. I greeted a few of my students and then, as the pattern’s become, walked down to the teacher’s parking lot entrance.

Today was a little different though. Normally, a staff member stands inside the gate of the parking lot opening the door for students and staff. Today there was a second group of students and more dumpsters blocking this gate. ‘Hmm,’ I thought.

I watched a teacher drive up in her car. She inched in, honked a little, waved a lot. A student went to her passenger side window and they spoke for a bit. She parked the car halfway in the street, emerged, and walked up to the gate with her magnetic swipe card. The gates didn’t open. She got back in the car and drove away.

Then another teacher walked up and we spoke for a bit. I can’t remember what she said. My mind was running through ‘How do I say in French ‘Should we climb the fence?’ followed by tyring not to imagine her doing it in her 6 months pregnant condition. Then she told me we could try the service entrance on the other side of campus. So, we walked around the block and were met by a staff member at this third entrance. He let us in. There were no students or garbage blocking the way.

The teacher I work with at 8am was already in the classroom. Alone. I asked her how she got in. “I’m a wreckless driver,” she joked. (She arrived at 7:30, before the students) Four students showed up for class, all of them boarders who were blocked in just as I had been blocked out. I wondered if they knew about the service entrance.

Everyone I spoke to was surprised that the strikes continued. After Tuesday’s large national protest the major unions called on the government to withdraw the CPE before April 17. Everyone thought that the strikes would be on hold until then. I guess the students thought otherwise.

Today I skipped school - and by skipped I mean I called ahead and asked if any students showed up instead of walking to campus and sitting with the teachers comparing notes on how few students showed up - today I skipped school and watched the demonstrations in Grenoble. It’s was close to 70 degrees today with clear skies. This, coupled with the national anger at President Chirac’s speech last Friday, made for a large turnout.

I left the house at 10am to meet some French friends and other language assistants at a cafe near the start of the protest march route. Eve brought croissants which we ate with our coffee while waiting for everyone else to show up. Around 10:30 we set off with the crowd, feeling slightly awkward by our non-French status.

Buses and trams were halted for the day. The demonstrators had full access to the streets. Observing police in riot gear stayed on the sidewalks and traffic cops redirected traffic.

Like most protests, there was an energetic feeling. Several people had drums and banners and loudspeakers playing music. It wasn’t a large stretch to make jokes comparing it to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. (What corporation would sponsor a labor march? Certainly not Wal-mart.)

Later in the day, after eating lunch (picking a restaurant was like herding cats) we stopped to watch a crowd of more angry, confrontational demonstrators taunt and antagonize several dozen riot police in the center of town. We lingered for a while to see what would happen. Would there be broken bottles hurled at the cops? Tear gas? Would the McDonald’s be looted? Not taking the bait, the bored cops held their composure and the protestors put on more sunscreen.

We went for coffee.

It’s now 9pm and I can hear occasional chanting and sirens continuing through the open kitchen window. I’m in for the night, not tempted to see what happens next.

Is it a revolution? Not really. Is it a sideshow? Not at all. It’s another example of the conflict growing within France. It’s French democracy. It’s a visually stunning display of controlled anger by a highly literate, informed, and educated population.

We’ll see if any of them show up for school tomorrow.

She made me love her. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to.

I wanted to walk into the supermarket and pick up some aspirin with the eggs, frozen pizza, and corn flakes on my shopping list. But I couldn’t. They don’t sell aspirin in the supermarket. Or in the chain of German toiletries around the corner. Over the counter drugs in France are strictly held behind the counter.

Rolling my eyes at the notion that I need to get someone’s permission to treat a headache, I walked into one of the pandemic pharmacies in town, its tell-tale green fluorescent cross flashing above the door.

“Bon jour,” she said, smiling. I’m still caught off guard by the initial friendliness in every store and restaurant. But I kept my attitude. I explained that I wanted some aspirin, inside my head cursing the Orwellian situation. ‘Who’s business is it that I drank cheap wine last night?’

And then she got me. Continuing with her smile and soothing voice she asked if I wanted a synthetic or liquid or disolveable. I didn’t realize aspirin came in so many varieties. “Just a tablet,” I explained. She was chic in her cotton knit sweater buttoned at the shoulder and draping across her chest like a cape, forgoing the white lab coat popular with her comrades.

She left the counter and opened a drawer on the wall of drawers behind her. Then she pulled out a box and set it in front of me. I opened it and looked at the tray of pills inside, each larger than a nickel. My eyes opened wide. My mouth followed suit. My head throbbed. How did she expect me to swallow these? “They’re chewable,” she said.

I felt three. Three and well cared for.

I paid, popped a pill in my mouth, and walked home.

The French are so civilized. Yesterday I took a bus to school. On the light board that scrolls the name of the next stop there was an announcement. Basically “The TAG will not be in service between the hours of 9:30am and 7pm tomorrow during the demonstrations against the CPE”.

On the way into class I bumped into a teacher I work with on Tuesdays. She told me not to come in since she would be on strike and the school would likely be closed as a result.

Yesterday afternoon I received a phone call from my French teacher letting me know that there wouldn’t be a French class on Tuesday because of the demonstrations against the CPE. She made it clear that the Alliance Francaise was not on strike, just mindful that others may not want to come in.

The courtesy surrounding a strike is charming. We’ve known since last Friday that Tuesday would be another demonstration. Just how big was clear through the weekend as more unions and groups promised to join in.

Demonstrating is one of the national past times. The seriousness of the issue at hand can be measured not only by the frequency of the protesting, but by who participates. Students and unions? They have something to complain about every year. A day or two publicly displaying their dispute is normal. A few more days and then people notice. If transportation joins the strike, then everyone is affected. If butchers, bakers, grocers, florists join then the country slows down drastically.

Today the water company came to check our meter. It was scheduled last Friday, but I was curious to see if he’d show up. I went to the post office to pick up a package. Closed. But a quaint sign was posted to the door “closed for the duration of the strike”.

I asked another teacher what she could remember of May 1968 - heralded as the ultimate in demonstrations. I was born 1971 and can’t remember learning anything about France in the 60s. She was 14 at the time and living in Paris. The depth of her experience was having to show identification on the subway. Which I’m sure she did in a gracious and dignified manner.