Well you're dirty and sweet...Look back...And I love you...Dir-ty!

Each Thursday evening for the past few weeks, I have been walking to a squat located in my neighborhood. It's a place where people without other places to go sleep. It's a place where singing groups and aspiring artists and dance groups can practice their respective arts in relative comfort. It's a place where a group called Radis Rose comes together to sing rock and pop songs from the 50s-80s (after partaking in a convivial hour of wine-drinking, naturellement).

I have a friend who is in the group, and after attending one of their concerts at a bar, I decided that this would be a fantastic way to practice my French, to exercise my constant desire to sing and dance, and to meet people. And so I've been doing all of the above.

It's a group that welcomes everyone. It's not about elitism. It's about the fun. It's about the art. It's about learning. This is not to say that the members are not serious about what they do, but just to say that with them, being in a choir is about joy and not about stiffness, as I know many choirs are.

And so I've been brushing up on my Four Tops, my Irving Berlin, my Wilson Pickett, and my Beatles and learning anew Joe Dassin, Adriano Celentano, and Gérard Blanchard. And I've been surprised by French versions of "I'm so excited" ("Je suis excitée" doesn't carry quite the same meaning here) and "Bye Bye" (the French version of "My Guy," whose meaning is completely opposite to that of the original). And my pronunciation of Franglais is really getting better too!

So, with no further ado, get "radis" 'cause here they come:

Radis Rose- Get It On
Radis Rose- Rock Amadour

(These are rehearsal versions.)

My heart will beat after I'm dead.

One of my recent out-and-aboutings was going to see Christian Boltanski's Monumenta 2010 exhibit at the Grand Palais. He's one of France's most famous contemporary artists, and with the sheer size of "Personnes," the installation he created for Monumenta, I can understand why. The Grand Palais is a gigantic nave lined with rod iron and floored with concrete. Even without the exhibit, it would have been a haunting space. But the installation consists of hundreds of rectangles laid out on the floor, filled with empty coats and sweaters. Directly opposite the entrance, there is a giant pyramid of clothing, several stories high, with a crane claw that keeps dipping in, lifting, and dropping the clothes in a brief flutter back to the top of the pile. It's a never-ending process of lifting and dropping. Hold and flutter.

And the space is filled with sound. The sound of heartbeats. Each rectangle has a set of localized speakers, blaring two different heartbeats. Together, the grand, grey space of the Palais is filled with the muffled, beating, white noise of hearts, certainly not in unison. Boltanski has said that the exhibit is meant to toe the line between being and not-being, and he has certainly succeeded. There is so much life and so much emptiness all in one massive space.

But perhaps my favorite bit of the installation is the "Archives de coeur," a space where you take a number, and wait for a doctor to call you back to a room so that you can have your heartbeat recorded. The heartbeats will be stored away and will become part of an exhibit (designed for long-term (and I mean long-term)) display, where the 15,000 heartbeats will beat on Teshima Island in Japan at the Naoshima Fukutake Art Museum Foundation, with the theory that the hearts will continue beating long after their owners have died. It's strange to think that in 80 years, some little kid in Japan will be able listen to my heartbeat (which, thanks to a small murmur, was irregular enough to make the woman recording it look at me with shock and a bit of concern). "C'est bizarre," I told her. "Non, special," she replied.

I happened to forget my camera that day, but here are some official photos.

For anyone considering going to grad school.

This article is very depressing, but in my experience, it's very true.

http://chronicle.com/article/The-Big-Lie-About-the-Life-of/63937/

Culture Shock

Parents visiting for Christmas. Dinner at my favorite local restaurant, Les Artistes, which if you'll remember is run by one man. A very sarcastic man.

My dad, after eating his first course: Care, how do you say, 'I liked it a lot?'

Me: Well, literally, you would say, 'Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.' [Writers' note: Actually, I think it may be better in the imperfect, 'Je l'aimais beaucoup.']

Dad, wonderful Texan accent in full force: Je l'ai aimé beaucoup. Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.
Man comes to table.

Dad: Je l'ai aimé beaucoup.

Man (in French, but translated here): Oh, you like me? You LIKE me? That's great! Oh...wait...you liked IT. Oh, how sad. I thought you liked me.

Dad, red: Care, did you tell me to say the wrong thing? I think you sabotaged me!

Me, protesting.

Man returns to table with the main course, which for Dad happens to be lentils and Toulousian sausage.

Man: Now, be careful when you tell a Frenchman that you like his sausage. He may get the wrong idea.

Me, translating. Tyson, laughing.

Dad, red.



(I love you Dad! And I swear, I didn't sabotage you!)

I'll Take a Generation Love Plate with a Side of Generation Party

It's been quite some time, I know, and I fully intend to enlighten you as to my whereabouts, my doings, and my hullabaloos. Since I last posted, the parents have visited France (Howdy!), I've rung in the New Year with a fair bit of champagne, I've been to England, and I've seen a naked French man onstage. (It was theater, people. Nothing more.)

I don't have time for a full update at the moment, largely because it's 1 a.m., and I'm due in bed. I start teaching on Monday, so tomorrow will be filled with the joy of writing a mini-lecture and getting my class materials together. It's been hectic here, what with the teaching prep, working on a paper for a workshop, and taking care of all of the enrollment business for French classes (which will be two nights a week, starting the week after next). Yesiree, busy indeed. But more on that later.

For now, I will just say that in France, I tend to get two types of mail:

1) Useful Numbers sheets: At least once per day, I get a sheet of telephone numbers telling me how to reach emergency plumbers, hospitals, police, laundresses, tofu-grillers, and banister-shiners. All very useful. And they (whoever this nameless, faceless "they" is/are) feel the need to tell me precisely how useful repeatedly. I guess if I need those numbers, I can rest assured that I can go to my mailbox, and there will be a new reminder. But what if I have an emergency lost-postbox-key? What then, useful numbers?

2) Pamphlets for local sushi restaurants: I have no idea how many of them there are, but it's starting to seem like a lot, and they all have names like "Club Generation Sushi" and "Neon Space Sushi Club." And only in France will you get a "California Foie Gras Roll" and a "Goat-Cheese Chive Maki." I love sushi, but I'm very afraid.

If I one day wake up, and all the useful numbers are for take-away sushi joints, my head might just explode. But Tyson will know where to go to have it emergency-replaced with a cooked tuna maki wrapped with scrambled-egg. (Yes. I kid not.)

The French don't play around, it seems.

I can tell that Christmas is drawing near since my corner grocery store (not a fancy place, mind you) is filled with the most decadent meats possible. On one shelf, and one shelf alone, I spotted foie gras, gésiers, magret, boudin, rilletes, terrine, and paté.

Happy holidays!

Number one: My bank account is up, running, and functional. I have checks. I have a card. I have a working online banking set up. In short, I have triumphed. Now it's on to getting a subscription metro card and perhaps a monthly movie pass. It may be a few days late, but I know what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving.

Which speaking of, Tyson and I passed the holiday in pleasantness, but without any of the traditional trappings. We had a workshop at the Paris Center that day, and two of our friends also have seminars, so we ended up ditching the turkey and pie and stuffing and casseroles in the name of very hearty Vietnamese food. We lived up to the expectation that one becomes so stuffed on Thanksgiving that it's impossible to move, but it wasn't quite the same. But we did have a few other friends who had family visiting for the holiday, and they tried to put together the traditional American experience. First, it seems that few Parisian butchers stock whole turkeys. Ask for pig ears or whole rabbits, and you will come out well-served. But a full turkey? Not unless you special order it. So our friends decided to do just that, having finally found a butcher that would oblige. Except he then offered them a "dinde americaine" (American turkey) weighing somewhere in the arena of 16 kg (roughly 32 pounds). Our friends politely declined and asked for a "dinde française" which ended up coming in somewhere around 4 kg. I guess it's true that Americans do everything bigger.

Another roadblock to an American Thanksgiving would be the paucity of cranberries. Somehow, these little rosy gems haven't made it over here as a usual fruit. And don't even think about canned pumpkin. Of course, at the market you can approach a stand with a massive, probably-16-kg pumpkin (it must be a "potiron americain") and ask them to hack you off a slice. So pumpkin isn't unavailable, but don't look for Libby's.

That said, there are a few import stores here, one of which is called, aptly enough "Thanksgiving." Another one, whose name I forget, specializes in Cajun goods, for some reason, so I guess I know where to go to get my Tony Chachere's. I have not visited these stores, mostly because I'm sure their prices are marked sky-high, but perhaps there is hope for an American Thanksgiving in Paris.

And if you happen to need mushrooms for a particular casserole or other dish, France does have a lovely option for you. If you pick your own, and you're unsure of whether eating those lovelies will kill you, take them to any pharmacy. The pharmacists here are required by law, apparently, to be trained in mycology. I love the idea of toting in a huge basket filled with mushrooms and being told whether they are safe by a white-coated official who can also provide your ibuprofen and cough drops (all available only in an actual pharmacy). What a country!