A mini-tutorial on becoming a Parisian girl

Six years in France and I’ve got this place down. Baking the perfectly gooey chocolat fondant? Check. Fighting to the death to enter the bank three minutes after it’s closed? Done. I’ve even finished a Master’s thesis in French, God knows how. Yet there’s still something so subtly, so nauseatingly out of reach that it keeps me awake at nights. Indeed, it is the fine art of mastering the seriously aloof cool of a Parisian girl.

Yes, I am aware that this has no relative importance in the grand scheme of things. Yes, I understand that I should be thinking about the French presidential elections or the EU debt crisis or why you can’t recycle yogurt containers in this country, instead. But I can’t. My quest to be cool à la française gives me a certain je ne sais quoi.

It all starts with the coiffe. For those of you who haven’t lived in the land-of-most-dairy-products-per-square-inch, I can tell you that there is a fine art to looking disheveled. It’s the “everything but” effect. Aka, wake up, put on your navy blue-and-white striped long-sleeved shirt, skinny jeans and Converse, a splotch of red lipstick and whatever you do, DON’T do your hair. This will ensure that you look completely put together, except for that unsightly ripple at the back of your head. Maybe this seems counterintuitive but I assure it, it is not. What this does is make it look like you “just woke up that way.” I mean, Parisian girls just do, right?

So it would seem. And it doesn’t stop there. While Americans are known for their doofy, white-toothed grins, most Parisian girls can’t make it through the day without a healthy dose of nicotine and coffee, meaning those pearly whites are more like drabby grays. This is why the red lipstick comes in handy – to offset all that oral abuse. Orthodontia not being big in this country, a lot of those drabby grays are also quite scraggly. But in the most charming of ways. Think Vanessa Paradis’ famously charming gap, not the toothless grin of the homeless man on the corner. So, put your retainer back in its case and let that snaggletooth be free.

Now that you’ve got your teeth in order, you are under strict command to NOT show them. Under any circumstances. Well, that’s not completely true. If, thirty minutes into a conversation with your friend at the bar, she happens to make you laugh and stop complaining about the rain, the sun, the cold, the heat, your idiot boyfriend, the fact that Bouygues Telecom is closed AGAIN for no reason, then and only then should you throw your head back in a most delectable spasm and let out the biggest laugh of your life. It will come so unexpectedly that it will have nearly the same effect as receiving a glass of cold water in the face. The whole bar will be captivated, and the mystery of you will be on the minds of every sad, foreign girl unfortunate enough to be in your presence.

Now, I know you’ve been waiting for this part of my diatribe, so I won’t disappoint. You want to know how Parisian girls are all so damn skinny and well dressed. Ok, let’s begin with the skinny factor. First of all, Parisian girls, much to your contempt, DO eat. They eat a lot. Sausage links. Aged cheese. Baguette after baguette after baguette. After baguette. Throw in some croissants and ice cream on the weekends and it’s enough to make this American girl throw her hands up in exasperation, shouting, “I guess I’ll just go for a run!” But you won’t see many Parisian girls running here. While it’s becoming more common, the best way to burn off all that saturated fat is by walking each and every corner of the city everyday, taking the stairs, having some careless sex here and there, not snacking and MODERATION. I think some Americans just assume French people walk around all day with a buttered croissant in hand and munch cheese rolls at their work desk. Not the case. There is a time and a place for food here and if you want to master the Parisian cool, you must remember that meal times were created for a reason. Snacking makes you fat. Now put down that pain au chocolat and let’s talk about clothes.

Shopping in Paris is like jumping into a pool of sharks. If you actually dare to try to buy clothes in one of the city’s shops, I recommend first that you do not under any circumstances do so on a Saturday afternoon. Refer back to the aforementioned shark metaphor. If you want to come out with the latest Gucci (or H&M, who are we kidding) jacket, you’re going to need strategy. First, stay as far away from chains as possible, unless you’re poor like me, in which case you need to have extremely good taste and impeccable decision-making abilities. If you are of the wealthier breed, I suggest the miniscule boutiques near the Sacre Coeur, where a simple-strand gold bracelet with a black mustache icon attached (it’s fashion, baby) will cost you upwards of 75 euros. Doesn’t matter. Buy it. Buy that, and the overpriced, oversized, mangy patterned sweater that only looks good on women with the hips and boobs of a 12 year-old girl. This will look great over the new pair of skinny black jeans you just bought. I mean, you bought those, right?

Now that you’ve mastered the dirty hair, unpolished smile and fabulous clothes, you are almost ready to assume your full Parisian girl-ness. All you need is an attitude adjustment. Remember all that stuff you learned in school about not saying anything at all if you didn’t have anything nice to say? Yea, well forget that. Being Parisian is not about being nice. It’s about being real. Real, in whatever terms that means for you. If you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, let everyone in your ten-mile radius know it. Got your dream job? Sing it from the rafters. Hate, and I mean HATE your friend’s new boyfriend? Shout it out. Just got a date with that sexy co-worker that you’ve been in love with forever? Talk about him like he’s the biggest douchebag you’ve ever met. Wait, what?

Yes, that’s right. The final piece of the Parisian girl jigsaw puzzle is her interactions with men. Never simple, always ambigious, ever mysterious. This is what you’re after. Think of the bitch from high school who never looked your way. Or Angelina Jolie’s confidently vacant stare. Your motto is: Untouchable. This is not to say you can’t throw in an ounce of American charm once in awhile. While Frenchmen claim to hate it, they do respond well to clarity and enthusiasm. However, keep your over-excitement to a mere minimum. What really gets their goat is flip-flopping, contradiction, and all-out confusion. Why be clear when you can be vague? It’s not about playing games, it’s about playing THE GAME. He asks you out? Wait at least three days to respond. He said he enjoyed your date together? Simply respond, “Yea it was fun. See you.” The insane ambiguity of the situation will make him dream about you until the torture becomes so intense that he has no choice but to fall in love with you.

I’m not going to lie. This strategy will be excruciatingly painful. After all, ignoring natural impulses has a tendency to bring on rage, nail biting, and frequent public outbursts. But if you want to capture that Parisian cool and have a Parisian fella drooling over you, you’re just going to have to turn that smile upside down and suck it up. Now is not the time to employ the stuff you learned as a high school cheerleader.

I think that’s probably enough for now. Your American brain is probably so oversaturated that you can’t even imagine pulling any of this off. But I assure you, it is possible and it will work. Once accomplished, you can have whatever and whoever you want in this city.

The only thing is, part of me wonders if the charm of the American woman in Paris isn’t enough to offset all this Parisian cool. Couldn’t the bright-eyed smiling of this Minnesota girl enthrall Frenchies enough to make them forget all about acting mysterious all the time? Do I really have to start smoking at the age of 32 in order to look brooding? There is something innately ridiculous in all of this. There must be a happy medium. What if I vowed to quit grinning like an idiot every time someone let me pass in the metro and stopped eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, if I were still allowed to spaz out in excitement twice a week and to keep one pair of bootcut jeans in my closet? Would it be enough?

Well, while I’m contemplating that, you should be filling your nearby mug with the strongest Arabica money can buy and choosing the shade of red lipstick best for your skin tone. Because let’s face it, honey, the transformation from nice, happy American girl to aloof, mysterious Parisian chick is not going to be easy. There’s going to be pain involved, and not the quick, painless ripped-off Bandaid kind. But with a little patience and a lot of perseverance, I promise that you’ll be able to pull it off. And it will be worth it.

Riding through Paris in a Sardine Can…

There was a time, long ago I suspect, when I still had some semblance of personal space. Personal space and a wee bit of sanity.

Now is not one of those times. As I march like a member of the national guard through the Saint-Lazare metro station, I wipe that silly Midwestern smile off my face and assume the Paris Stance: shoulders up and back, eyes that could stop a deer in its tracks, and a pair of 2-inch boots that aren’t afraid to step on your heel if you even think about slowing down. I’m carrying a Saint Bernard-sized purse to boot, which not only holds my entire life inside but is also quite practical for taking down those groups of teenage girls who clog up the metro corridors.

As I push past yet another graying man walking 3 mph, I let out a deep and very French huff, puffing my cheeks out to their breaking point and throwing in an eye roll for good measure. I snicker at the woman who has somehow managed to trap herself between the bar of the turnstile and the metal barrier, her four crisp designer brand bags wedged up against her face. I tap my metro card over the barcode reader and slide through effortlessly. No one, and I mean no one, will take me off my course.

But wait, what’s this? A huge crowd has formed around some guy singing Curtis Mayfield for small change. Haven’t French people ever heard soul music before? Apparently not. I break past them, narrowly missing the foot of a blond model-type in a red pea coat, who seems to be entranced by the jams, as she comes at me from the other direction. More huffing and puffing ensues.

At last, line two! But first I have to navigate the throng of passengers exiting before I can go up the stairs to the platform. I feel like a rainbow trout trying to go against a river current. It’s no use. Whatever I do, I’m pressed in from all sides. I go left when the woman coming towards me goes right, so I swing right, only to knock into an angry businessman. I finally get to the right lane and assume the Paris Stance in order to make my way up to the platform without being killed.

After three whole minutes of waiting (I am forced to pull out my 200-page novel to cope), the metro finally arrives. Ugh. I forgot that it’s Wednesday at 7:15: Primetime, baby. I cram in with the rest of the sardines, my already sweaty back pressed up against a stocky old man and my face in a head of black curls. If questioned, I could undoubtedly tell you which shampoo the woman used this morning (Garnier Argan Cranberry, by the way). I’m suddenly reminded of my friend Kass, who once said during a particularly packed metro ride home in Tokyo a few years back, “If someone touches me, I’m going to get pregnant.” We are that close.

At Opera, the cars spit out hoards of people. Only half come back in. I scramble frantically towards a seat. My back is killing me with this humongous bag. My tuckus is inches away from freedom when I spot the doe-eyes of a very pregnant woman before me. I smile pathetically and say, “Allez-y.” I feel like crying.

As I grab onto the sweaty pole in the center of the aisle, contemplating the difference between Dante’s inferno and my current situation, I pan back to a recent email from my friend in the Dordogne, which I have not yet responded to: “Hi Colette! How is city life treating you? I hope you’re still the same person as before and haven’t turned into one of those arrogant and pretentious Parisians!”

Nah.

Originally published in Brit’mag, No. 44

Hold on, we’ve got a crier: Gender equal weeping on the political stage

I was starting to have hope that Americans were finally riding the feminist wave. The U.S. has several women in higher office and Hillary Clinton was a viable candidate for the presidency in 2008. Even Sarah Palin, as embarrassing as she is to my gender, has managed to take a certain lead in the political arena. Yet why, after all these advancements, are women still expected to conform to some antiquated notion of what a woman in power is supposed to look like?

Tough, unemotional, severe, uncompromising. The list goes on. Why must a female politician be a masculine, uncaring brute while her male counterparts are allowed to tear up, whimper and all-out sob at the podium with nothing more than a congratulatory pat on the back for having feelings?

Case in point, Time Magazine’s November 15th article on John Boehner. First, we are expected to cozy up to Boehner’s deep, dark tan and likening to a slightly older John F. Kennedy. Then we are supposed to thank our lucky stars that the man knows how to cry.

“You can tell a lot about a man from his tears, and U.S. House Speaker-to-be John Boehner has always been a weeper. He cried on the House floor while defending the Wall Street bailout and once choked up during a partisan speech accusing Democrats of abandoning the troops in Iraq. But he also used to bawl every year during the fundraisers he co-chaired with his friend Ted Kennedy for cash-strapped Catholic schools. “John’s got the biggest heart in the House,” says Republican conference boss Mike Pence, who lost a leadership election to Boehner in 2006. “My preacher used to say, ‘When the eyes leak, the head won’t swell.”

Now, can you imagine if, say, Hillary Clinton opened herself up to this type of emotional bearing-all? The few times Hillary has showed her feelings on the political stage, it has cost her. She was described as “weak” and many doubted her abilities to handle all the tough decisions that come with a job in politics. While male politicians are rewarded for showing emotion, women are penalized and only praised for expressing uber-masculine traits.

A good example is in the same Time magazine issue, where the Arts section has a special piece on Sarah Palin’s upcoming reality TV show. Among the half dozen pictures are shots of Palin doing the following: Holding a hunting rifle. Driving a four-wheeler. Mounting a log with a chainsaw in hand. Are we supposed to believe that the only way to take this woman seriously is when she is “acting like a man?”

The day we can say that we have reached gender equality is the day when a woman is allowed to dress as femininely as she desires and openly weep during a campaign rally, without being judged for abusing her sexual prowess or lacking emotional stability. Or when a man is not applauded for tearing up over the thousands of civilians killed in a war abroad — not because it isn’t incredibly sad, but because crying is merited by any human being in these horrible circumstances. Until we embrace emotional outpouring as a human condition and not a gender condition, we just aren’t there yet.

And please, for the love of God, someone take that chainsaw away from Sarah Palin. Nothing good can come from that.

Going Home Again

What’s the old adage? “You can never go home again”? I’ve decided that as an American living in France, it is my duty to put this theory to the test to find out if it’s just an old wives’ tale or somehow based in truth. It’s been one year and 10 months since I’ve seen the other side of the Atlantic and I feel surprisingly unhinged about my impending trip home.

The much-loved cliché originates from novelist Thomas Wolfe’s 1940 You Can’t Go Home Again. In the book, Wolfe discusses the themes of a changing America and the passing of time, within the context of a series of events that inhibit his main character George Webber of ever being able to return home again. The title of the book refers to Webber’s realization that “you can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood…. Back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time.” Basically, looking back, much less going there, is emotional suicide.

So, here I am, in my parents’ house in Minneapolis, with remnants of my youth all around me. The first thing that returns is my pre-cell phone memory. I can’t pass a house within a ten-block radius without some long lost childhood recollection crossing my mind. Names I haven’t thought about for years pop back into my head. Old faces trigger experiences long passed. Seeing a former teacher reminds me of who I once was and who I once wanted to be. It’s painful, confusing, gut wrenching, glorious and enlightening. Who knew going back home would be so similar to schizophrenia?

Some things are the same, like good friends. The not-so-good ones show their shadows early and so, like Punxsutawney Phil, retreat into their holes, too deep to dig up ever again. The clothing people wear in the Midwest certainly is blasphemous, but I guess it always was. And the food. Don’t even get me started. If I don’t die of high fructose corn syrup poisoning by the time these five weeks are up, I’ll probably become an addict instead, requiring a drip of the stuff to slowly wean me off when I head back to France.

What I do know is that something has undeniably changed. People have changed. And it’s not because of 9 to 5 jobs or weddings or babies. It’s more than that. Life here has moved on and I am no longer a part of it. Of course, most would say that I left first, that I escaped my life to create a new one with different and more exciting memories – which is perhaps true. But can’t dualism hold a place in life? Can’t we have our cake and eat it too? In other words, can I leave home for good, but still keep a part of it back in Paris?

Whether or not I’m allowed to take a piece of my Minnesota self back to France, I know that I undoubtedly will. My twenty-some years in the U.S. won’t disappear just because I have acquired a certain fondness for buttery pastries, high fashion and the language of love. Being American has never felt so intrinsic to me than it has in these past few weeks – when I was eating my Uncle Allan’s barbecued hamburgers or putting ice in my water glass or laughing about Sarah Palin with my friend Jenny. Call them the small things, but they’re part of what makes me unique over there on the European side.

I hope that after five, or even ten more years in France, I’ll still be able to recognize those so-very American qualities in myself. I also hope that all the amazing French habits I have adopted will be wedged in there alongside. Maybe then, every time I visit home, I won’t have to worry about whether or not I’ve left it too long, whether the life I left behind me is too far back to retrieve. I’ll just know in that intangible sort of way that home is inside of me forever.

First published in Brit’mag, November/December 2010

Former Political Prisoner Roxana Saberi Speaks out

American journalist Roxana Saberi spoke at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota tonight about her experiences as a political prisoner in Iran. In January 2009, Saberi was charged with espionage by the Iranian government and spent 100 days in jail. Her book, “Between Two Worlds: My Life and Captivity in Iran” is just out, and she is on a worldwide tour speaking out about international human rights.

Saberi was working in Iran as a freelance reporter and researching a book about Iranian culture when she was arrested at her home on spying charges. After being coerced into confessing, she was sentenced to eight years in prison. With the help of her parents and the media, Saberi was able to get her story out of Iranian prison borders and was finally released in May 2009.

While Saberi recognizes that her public presence as a journalist contributed to her release, she says that the majority of detainees are not always so lucky. Political prisoners in Iran can go months without anyone finding out about their arrest because, she says, “if you are a threat to national security, you lose your human rights.” That means no phone call, no rights to a lawyer.

Iran’s human rights record has taken a beating in recent months. In June, protests erupted across Tehran on the anniversary of last year’s disputed presidential election, resulting in police clashes across the city. And all eyes have been on the three American hikers detained in Iran after accidentally wandering from Iraq into Iranian territory last year. Sarah Shourd, the only female of the trio, was released last week after Iran faced intense scrutiny from the international community.

Saberi, who says that she has tried to turn her “challenges into opportunities,” hopes that Minnesotans will continue to fight for human rights at home and abroad. While she is unsure about her future as a journalist, she is extremely passionate about raising awareness.

“If we don’t speak out about [human rights],” she said, “violators will think they can continue getting away with it.”

Sarkozy ousts more Romas

As French President Nicolas Sarkozy deports another round of Romas, he is becoming increasingly entrenched in a hell of his own making. Calls of condemnation have poured in from the European Commission, while human rights organizations are calling Sarkozy’s actions an attempt to purify French culture, much like the Nazis did during World War II.

Much of the debate centers around the fact that most of the Romas – or gypsies – in France come from Romania and Bulgaria, which entered the European Union in 2007. As the European Commission explains on its website:

“There are between 10 million and 12 million Roma in the EU, in candidate countries and potential candidate countries in the Western Balkans. Roma people living in the European Union are EU citizens and have the same rights as any other EU citizen.”

The reasoning behind Sarkozy’s deportations are shady at best, and an example of ethnic cleansing at their worst. He claims that Romas are only contributing to more prostitution, crime and violence in the country, and are a burden to the already overloaded social welfare system.

Regardless of the merits of these claims, Sarkozy is in a pickle. Not only are Romas EU citizens, but their wandering lifestyle is protected. As stated by French law, towns of a certain size are required to designate an area specifically for traveling folk and gypsies – or “gens du voyage” – where families have access to schools, churches, and medical and shopping facilities. While some of the people living in these camps are regular French-born citizens in search of a more adventurous way of life, an increasing number are from Eastern Europe.

Sarkozy is no doubt well-versed in French law, but much like Bush’s embarrassing Weapons of Mass Destruction campaign, is trying to pull the wool over our eyes. Perhaps it is his attempt to distract everyone from his very poorly-received retirement bill that recently passed, which will up the retiring age from 60 to 62 by 2018. Or maybe he’s still trying to disentangle himself from the whole Bettencourt affair, where he and his ministries seemed to have taken part in, or at least known about, the L’Oreal heiress’ massive tax evasions.

Or maybe Sarkozy is just trying to implement the most outlandish and shocking new laws before he is ousted from office in April 2012, which he is sure to be. In any case, the French president should plan to feel the wrath of not only his countrymen but of the international community in the days to come.