the problem is that my landline doesn’t make outgoing calls. the landlord has thoughtfully restricted it so that i can’t make calls without a calling card. which is why cola’s cell phone can call it, but it can’t call cola’s cell phone. it only took me about 4 times hearing the recorded message before i understood what it said.
I hate the telephone. And I’m downloading skype right now.
Tag: Celesteh
Starting to get some survival skills. There are somethings that I can’t manage, though. When I’m walking straight towards someone, I step to the right, so we don’t crash into each other. This is clearly not what the French person expects. I get really uptight in crowded spaces because I don’t know how to go around people.
Yesterday, I went to put money in my new bank account. The nice woman at the bank spent like 20 minutes explaining that I should get cash out of the ATM, and then go talk to the teller next door to deposit it. After a few more explanations, and some pointing, this mission was finally accomplished. Then I went grocery shopping which has become easy enough to revert to being mundane. Then I went to buy a bike pump (as Cola has a flat tire) and decided that maybe I should just buy a helmet already. Simple questions and simple answers I can handle. “Which is the least expensive helmet?” “I have the head, she very small.”
Then we went to get Cola a cell phone. For this transaction, they needed to see my identity card. I guess that’s why the copier felt free to read it, since it seems like it’s public anyway. There’s hardly a thing you can do without it. I spouted off more barely comprehensible french. Then we went to dinner. This was our first dinner out since arriving. We went to a tiny vegetarian place in the 4th, very much a tourist area. The food was pretty good. They didn’t have carafes of house wine, so we were forced (forced, i tell you) to order a whole bottle. Anyway, afterwards we wandered into a church that was built in 1520 or something. I was surprised to see it open so late. There are informational signs inside, so tourists are definitely welcome. But then I saw they were doing an adoration of the Holy Eucharist, so we left.
In the very very old days, all Christian churches faced east. Between that and the stained glass windows, Christianity looks a lot like a cult of sun worshipping (that pun is English-only, alas). In the middle ages, there started to be a cult of relics, where pieces of dead saints were displayed as a holy objects whose proximity enhanced prayer and holy meditation. Tied up in this was the emergence of the idea of transubstantiation. The piece of bread used in the Mass actually becomes Jesus, according to catholic belief. Because the presence of relics (pieces of dead saints) in gold reliquaries (holders for said relics) enhanced prayer and meditation, a piece of Jesus would certainly have even greater potency. A special reliquary for the consecrated host (transubstantiated bread) was invented and was called a monstrance. It’s a round glass holder which holds the round host within it. Then, radiating outwards from the host like rays of the son, there are gold decorations. It strongly resembles a symbol of the sun, perhaps demonstrating a strong unconscious link with sun worship, even though the official symbology is that of a death cult. There is an uneasy mingling of solar symbols and death symbols, with vibrant stained glass windows and macabre crucifixes. Anyway, given that adoration of the blessed sacrament is extremely holy, when I saw the monstrance, I thought it would be disrespectful to try to take unobtrusive photos of the requisite Joan of Arc statue (in every Catholic church in France, afaik) and exit.
Then we went to an abandoned gay bar and then drunk biking home. Good thing I have a helmet.
Today, we have occupied ourselves trying to discover the mysteries of Cola’s new cell phone. Not since the Pharaoh’s tomb was first discovered have people scratched their heads so violently at mysterious hieroglyphics. For instance, what the heck is her phone number? I called the information code and pressed 0 for operator. (bracketed [] text is in english).
“What is the number telephone with we talk now?” Strangely the operator failed to catch my drift. “[Yesterday] I purchased cell phone. I’m not acquainted with number of telephone.” She told me to call another number, so I did. It read the number in fast french. I got all but two numbers. What was ‘swason set’ and ‘trant weet’? We covered numbers in my French class over the summer. Everything between 1 and 100 000 000 in about an hour or less. I saw the concierge outside and rushed down to ask her. “Hello, madam, please excuse me for disturbing you, but I’m having a problem. I buy telephone cellular and number ‘swason set.’ I don’t understand the number ‘swason set’? Write it please?” She was very helpful, perhaps impressed by my memorized introductory phrase. But I tried calling the phone number and it didn’t work. So I rushed back down with the phone. “I don’t understand number. Phone, she says number. I don’t understand.” The concierge went for her glasses. “no no. She says number!” The word ‘ecoutez’ escaped my brain. Finally I put the phone to my ear. She wrote down the same number as before. I thanked her profusely and then realized I had locked myself out of my building. “I forgot mine key!”
Maybe the phone needs to have cash put onto it? We went to an ATM but couldn’t figure out how to use it to charge the phone. (It is possible, according to the phone company’s web page (which is just a ton of fun in google translator, since about half the text is in image files).) Ok, so we went to a tabbac and bought a phone card and have spent the last hour or so trying to figure out which numbers to press. French is hard. Maybe the second most difficult spoken language (not as hard to read as German, but way harder to speak and understand spoken) and doubly difficult over the phone. finally the recorded voice said the phone card had already been used. Yay. But we still can’t call the phone. The web page for the phone company says no such number exists. (Inspiration strikes as I type this! no, alas, a false lead.)
MY school has not yet posted the schedule. Which is too bad, because I really need to know when I’ll have time for French classes. Maybe a cellphone class. I’m going to go get out a dictionary and figure out what I want to ask, write it down poorly, and then go back to happy phone and ask some questions.
Tags: Paris, Celesteh
I just went to Café Adonis. I’ve wanted to go there for years. So cheesy. So gay male. The kind of place that plays madonna and I Will Survive exclusively on the jukebox or whatever. Like the Castro, it’s in the swank part of town. Which means ancien. Old wood beam ceilings. Stone walls. Archways. Old. There was a candle burning on every table. And an ash tray with the official adonis book of matches. I swaggered in, having already finished off more than half a bottle of wine. I ordered two Hoegartens, mostly by pionting at the tap, my French already departed under the influence of alchohol. I needed a place to sit and drink until I sobored up enough to bike home. The bartender, in her low cut black dress, gestured towards an empty table. She didn’t want a non-francophone at the bar. Nicole and I shrugged and walked over to the table. She brought us our beers. We toasted each other. Nicole gave me a dour look. It might have been then that I noticed that there were exactly three people in the building counting Cola, me and the bartender.
We collected a copy of every gay publican, but not a gay map, which is what In hoped to find, especially given the 17 or so rainbow flag stickers dotting the doors and windows. We drank our beers after discussing life, madonna and everything. I got up to powder my nose. Then Nicole did. When she left, I became maudlin, which is often the case after I’ve been drinking. I perused the rack of free postcards, thinking who I might want to send one to. My mom, of course, but c’est impossible. Well, maybe I could send it c/o Gate of Heaven Cemetary . . .. That’s when I noticed the cigarettes on the table. I lit one to change my train of thought.
Nicole returned and flipped open her cigarette case, exactly like a socialite from the last century, if only her case didn’t have Donkey Kong on it. She confessed to attempting to ensnare me into smoking, rejoycing in her sucessful plot. It was then that two lesbians came into the bar. One of them started pounding on the bar. The bartender didn’t stir. She was passed out on top of the CD player, left skipping tracks to The Best of Madonna. Finally, the punding elsbian went around the bar and woke the bartender up and the had a long embrace. The bartender lit a cigarette and teetered over to a homeless-looking man who had wandered in and ordered him out. The she went to the door to smoke and came by my table and complained about the smell of our cigarettes, pausing only to take a drag off hers, as if she had studied the art of sultry smoking from black and white films starring Gretta Garbo and all the stars from previous generations. I apologized in French and she patted my shoulder and smiled. I asked for the bill.
When we finally left, she was outside, consoling the woman who woke her, who was crying in the doorway of a closed business next door. The butch woman who came in earlier was left minding the car. “Merci, avoir” I said to her as we passed this private scene of misery, drunkeness, drama and grief. She smiled and waved.
No part of this story is made up. I think I love this place. I want to go back.
Tag: Celesteh
I have an identity card! Well, I have a temporary thingee. My landlord fedexed the gas bill to me and it came this morning. So I hopped on my bike and rode all the way out to the southern edge of the city. My route took me near up Montparnasse, sort of, but it was not much of a hill where I was, or it would have been too much for a heavy, single speed bike. I passed the Luxembourg Gardens and the Pantheon and all sorts of interesting diversions, but instead, I rode to the Prefecture de Police where I was finally allowed past the gate keeper of document inspection.
Forms were filled out (with essay questions! (which got remarkably short answers from me)). Lines were waited in. Functionaries were spoken with. It was whirlwind of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, waiting to be called! Actually, the chairs were pretty good, especially in comparison to bearucratic situations in the US. So I have an ID thing that’s got stamps on it and is valid through most of October. On the 11th of October, I have to go have a medical exam. I think I will have to miss class for the morning. I don’t have a schedule yet. I hope it’s not the most important day or something. After I get certified as healthy (hopefully), I get to pay a tax and return to the Prefecture and get a longer term residency card.
I biked back home and felt so dern tired. I still have a cold (which I want to be over). So I took a nap. Travel colds suck. I wonder if they sell Sudafed here.
Last night, I felt pretty good, and so went out to see if I could purchase an eclair. Alas, I could not, but decided to walk to the Place Stalingrad. Since it was impromptu, neither of us were carrying a map. We made a wrong turn at a homeless encampment and ended up at the St Martin Canal. It’s pretty. In some spots I was looking up at the water from the street and wondering if they just open all the locks when it rains a lot or what. However, neither I nor Cola had any idea how to retrace our steps nor were we sure which side of the canal that we lived on. We walked past a bar that looked like it was a set from a movie. There was a guy inside actually wearing a beret. The window said it had performances inside sometimes. I could hear someone playing the piano and singing. I think it may have been called Che. I want to go back when I’m not lost and feeling cold-y. Fortunately, though, Paris has signs all over it directing wheeled traffic towards major destinations like the Place Stalingrad or the Place de Republique. We finally saw a sign for the later and walked there, purchased a crepe and then walked home.
When I locked up my bike today, the wind was blowing and chestnuts were raining down in the wind, striking everything around them. They’re so dark brown and shiny and perfect and look like they would smart if they hit your head. There are broken, smashed ones in the streets that have been ground under the tires of busses and taxis and cars. I wanted to pick the ones all around the bike racks and stuff them in my bags and take them home and cook them, but nobody else seems to be foraging beneath the trees and I lack the courage to break possible taboo, so they go to waste.
In language news, it turns out that the word for soy “soja” is not pronounced “soya” like it is in many other languages, but instead is called “so-ZHA.” And they say TV rots your brain. Soy yogurt is apparently huge here, there’s Danonne and Yoplait and a million other brands running TV ads. I also had some pronunciation help from the guy scheduling my medical appointment. “It’s by Metro baSTEE.”
me: “oh, basteel”
him: no, baSTEE
me: basTEE
him: baSTEEEEEE
me: baSTEEEEEE
I should have asked him how to say “plan”
I heard rumors a long time ago that Shakespeare and Co hosts English-language poetry events. As soon as I have my class schedule, I’m going to go by with a CD and talk to them about text sound.
Everything is much too exciting for me to have cold.
And I have a bank account! The first bank I walked into said they couldn’t help me until I have a permanent carte de sejour and that nobody would be able to help me without a permanent identity card. So I went to the bank down the block who seemed unaware of said restriction. Tomorrow, I get to go back to get the numbers I need to wire money and then I get to go online and perform said wiring.
Do they have bank insurance in France like the FDIC in the US? All I know about my NEW BANK (w00t!) (Credit Lyonnaise) is that they were part of a massive government bailout several years ago. And they have a branch across from my metro station.
This is nifty: When you get the address to something in France, they also tell you the nearest metro station. Since there’s one every two blocks or so, this is a great help in locating any address. Also, the last two digits of your Parisian postal code are the number of your arrondissment.
French people don’t smile automatically like some Americans (it’s hardly universal even in the US. Yankees don’t walk around grinning either). Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember not to smile, even though I tend towards not-smiley by California standards. Yesterday, I accidentally smiled at a woman in the bathroom. (I was nervous. I forgot. Anyway, she was kind of butch, which was validating for me.)
There is a guy down the street who has a photocopy place. He has an adorable brown dog tied up outside. The dog is super-friendly and will play with passersby such as myself. I went to get some photocopies made before going to the bank. The man is the opposite of the dog. I’ve been in his shop before and I think I may have accidentally been rude, trying to do self-copying rather than have him copy things. They have a self-service machine, but anyway . . .. Today I came in and he was dour as normal. I told him his dog was cute and he broke into a grin and started asking about my studies. “Electronic music? In France??” He also took the time to read all of my paperwork that I needed copied. It’s not exactly secret, but, um, I think this must also be a cultural difference.
On the weekend, I took a picture of the statue of Joan of Arc in the 1st, by the Louvre and wrote that I couldn’t remember why it was important (aside from La Pen’s misdirected admiration). I think now that it may be over, or at least very near, the spot where she was injured while attacking Paris. She got injured while attacking one of the gates of the city: Saint Honoré. I don’t know where that was, but the city wall used to be right next to where the Louvre is now. Tuileries was outside, the Louvre was inside. And the rue Saint Honoré comes closest to the Louvre where the statue is. Let’s Go Paris 2001 reports that she was injured in the 1st, but doesn’t say where, probably instead devoting space to snark about popular uprisings and the superiority of American Hegemony and how you can get in to see the Mona Lisa and back out of the museum within 15 minutes (no really, they have said paragraphs. God forbid you see any art or anything). I will look for confirmation of where she was injured and report back.
Every single shirt I brought with me is blue.
My internet modem is here, but is not here. The concierge has it. She takes a lunch break everyday until 4:00(!). It is 4:15. Why has she not returned to give me my wireless modem?
I got Nicole’s name added to my bank account. I have to put some money into the account or I sense it will cause some problems. When I get my internet set up, I can use it to wire money to my new bank account.
Today, like yesterday, I am dressed entirely in blue, including my socks, but not my back shoes. If I had the right sort of white hat, I would be a smurf. I seem to have accidentally adopted blue like Jean once adopted purple. I must make a note to avoid the blue man group, lest things get out of hand.
She’s still not there!
It’s making me feel blue . . ..
Obviously she doesn’t work 24/7. During which hours is it acceptable to ring her buzzer?
Tag: Celesteh
That gigantic baptismal font clashes with the stations of the cross and has got to go. Hello? The renaissance has been over for centuries.
I don’t have news articles, but I saw a tagline from the Chronicle’s RSS feed: “The Vatican may soon issue a document saying homosexuals should not be ordained as priests, but without clearly defining the term ‘homosexual’ or specifying how intrusively the church should look into the sexual background of seminary applicants, Vatican watchers and church officials said yesterday.”
‘Vatican watchers’ might recall that the previous pope made a similar proposal in late 2001 or early 2002, but fell under a mountain of criticism. One of New York’s firehouses was very close to the WTC and pretty much everyone there was killed on 9/11. Their chaplain was an openly gay catholic priest and was also killed. Firefighters were deeply moved by how heroic he was and at the time, they were pushing that he be considered for sainthood. Five years have to pass before a bishop can consider such claims. That gives people time to forget. And apparently they have forgotten, since the pope hasn’t been forced to drop it this time.
When the current pope was head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (formerly known as the Holy Inquisition), they authored a document that was the definitive church document on gay issues. In it, they said that gay was not something you do, but rather something you are. Any attempt to ban “gay” priests is stepping away from this stance. If they ban celibate gay priests, they are acknowledging gay as an identity rather than an action. Their anti-gay argument are approaching inconsistency and falling apart.
Anti-gay reasoning draws largely from Natural Law Theory. God created nature and we can figure out his divine laws by watching nature. Some nature. Grazing animals, mostly. God doesn’t want us to go around blindly killing for fun like some felines, nor eating our young, like rabbits when they’re frightened. And are there gay animals? No! Well, except that there are a lot (although I understand the gay penguins at NYC Zoo broke up and one of them has taken up with a girl. Social pressures finally got to him. He always seemed too much like Anne Heche anyway. ahem.).
Then again, it could be that sex is only for procreation. Except that the rhythm method’s explicit goal is non-procreative sex. And old and infertile people are allowed to get married and get busy. Furthermore, the Immaculate Conception (the conception of Mary without Original Sin) became a Holy Day of Obligation in order to help quell an anti-sex heresy creeping within the church. So, sex is good and it isn’t always for making babies and animals do it with same sex mates, so the reason same sex mating is a sin is because . . .?
God apparently disapproves of the majority of human behavior according to religious conservatives. In their world, he must sorely regret having made us. Heck, even a good chunk of his angels turned against him. The problem with being perfect and creating other beings is that if you make them perfect too, they become rivals to you. So you have to make them imperfect. And then it’s nothing but headaches as you’re forced to toss them into hell. Stay out of the creation racket, that’s my advice.Tag: Celesteh
chez moi!
Tag: Celesteh
Since I don’t have all my paperwork together, I skipped dealing with the Prefecture for today and instead ordered DSL (will have it in 8 days! w00t! 512K, though. I wonder if it will be fast enough for VOIP) and then rode my bike to the Arc de Triomphe. On the way, we passed the Joan of Arc Statue behind the Louvre. I stopped and took a few pictures. I’ve been wanting to see that statue for years, except now I can’t remember why. La Pen places flowers there every May 1st, thus doing a right-wing hijack of both Jean d’Arc AND International Workers Day. There’s something else important about the statue. I should have brought my Joan of Arc books with me.
The Champs-Elysées is a wide, broad, scary, traffic-filled street, filled with insane car drivers heading as fast as possible for a gigantic, lawless traffic circle of doom. I got behind a perfectly insane bicyclist who was cutting in and out of traffic. Every time he cut in front of a car, I did too. And every time I cut in front of a car, it almost hit Cola. So brilliant. Or not at all, really. And no helmets.
We walked around the base of the arc, but did not ascend. The tomb of the unknown soldier from WWI is there. And there was gigantically huge flag of France hanging down from the center, billowing in the wind. It sort of made me feel patriotic, but uh . . I’m not French. Confusing.
We biked over to the Princess Di monument and had lunch nearby. The princess Di monument is actually a scale model of the Statue of Liberty torch (remember the statue was gift from France) which happens to be almost directly over the spot where she died. I’ve been there once before, 4 years ago. There were more flowers and whatnot then. Maybe people are beginning to forget Di. But we must never forget!
Then we went over to the Eiffel Tower. The Rough Guide informed me that at 300 meters tall, the tour was the tallest building in the world when it was constructed for a World Fair in the late 19th century. It was supposed to be temporary but became useful as a telecom antenna tower. No really. It’s covered with cell antennas at the top now.
We bought ice cream and sat on the grass below it, in the shade. The weather has been really lovely and warm the entire time I’ve been here. The chestnut trees are dropping chestnut on the ground and loosing their leaves, but they just turn brown and fall off. It’s not like the east coast of the US. Autumn in New York. Springtime in Paris.
I have a picture of my mom, my grandma and my grandma’s three cousins standing in the same park in the 1960s with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Everyone in that picture is dead now.
We decided to bike over to the city museum of Modern Art, which is free. The Avenue de New York is even scarier than the Champs-Elysées. I thought for sure I was on a freeway or someplace where bikes were not allowed. The tunnel where Di met her end in a high-speed crash is on this same Avenue, not far down from where I was riding. We were passing the museum on the other side and I became very alarmed and stopped to get off the street and onto the sidewalk. I stopped too suddenly. Cola was hit by another bike and nearly hit by a car. There was a 3 bike accident behind me, which I caused. Nobody was hurt.
The museum is closed until the 10th of October. The museum next to it, which has 1€ admission for art students is closed until the 7th of october. So we biked home.
Biking in Paris is actually pretty scary. Some places they have helpfully separated bike and bus lanes which are protect from the rest of traffic. Except 72193647839264 taxicabs which seem to also be allowed to use it and motor scooters who go wherever they want anywhere including sidewalks, etc. And the busses. The bike cost the same as 100 metro rides. 96 more bike rides to go.
I have a cold. Stayed indoors all day yesterday and watched TV. The plots of cop shows are generally easier to follow than other programs. Dubbed American cop shows are even easier to follow because the French vocal talent is miced very closely and clearly and also the cultural conventions are ones that I’m used to. If you watch a stupid american cop show, it makes you dumber. But if you watch it in French, it makes you smarter, or at least theoretically makes your French better. I also watched French cop shows. All cop shows all day. Channel 2 is the cop channel. Anyway, now I’m scared to go outside. One of the shows was trying it’s derndest to make Paris look gritty. The relied a lot on greenish lighting. Cola is now frightened of the Paris police. Apparently, they shoot people with little cause and detain people for no reason and beat them in jail, you know, on TV . . ..
Today, I thought I’d set up a bit of computer music at my desk. Oh my god the wiring it sketchy. The three prong plug (lies!) has a very thin lamp extension cord as it’s sole source of electricity. No grounding. The little Ikea lamp plugged into the outlet actually has a thicker cord. So . . . I need to run an extension cord from the other room (heh, where the wiring might be just as sketch), or just risk overloading the itty bitty wire and causing a fire. Have I mentioned that there are no smoke detectors in my apartment? No fire extinguisher. None of the bicyclists wear helmets. France is a dangerous country.
Tag: Celesteh
If anybody knows dave garliz’s email address, can you tell him to call me if he’s in paris: 01 42 06 26 71. Thank you
Tag: Celesteh
A guy just came up and asked if he could take my picture of being online at a pub. Hrm. Nobody else here has computers out. I feel awkward, but the price of the beer is way cheeper than the cost of going to an internet place and it comes with beer.
Last night, I swear I had the best carrots I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. I’ve grown my own carrots and they weren’t so good. They’re just random carrots I bought at the Monoprix. They didn’t seem like anything special, but my god, I never thought I would encounter better produce than I used to get in California. How is the food so good here?
I grudgingly awoke this morning and then called my school. They don’t have a “number of existence.” All the Paris Universities are numbered. CCMIX does not have such a number because it is not a university. The director of the school couldn’t help me, he explained. What the prefecture wants is impossible. Ok, he could help me, but not until tuesday when the secretary comes back, as only she could write such a letter. Ok, he could help this morning, I should come right over. hahahaha. This guy is American, but has acculturated very well.
He very thoughtfully wrote a letter for me that covered every point raised by the prefecture. Then he had a studio tech guy who is French look it over and correct it. He changed some phrasing and tweaked the formatting. “It’s more pretty (jolie) this way, that’s important when dealing with bureaucracy.” He explained.
Then I went to the Prefecture de Police and talked to a new person this time. Right off, she says the phone bill I’ve brought won’t be enough. I must have an original recent electric bill. Otherwise, maybe I don’t live in the city. Keys? Bah! They could be for anything! Phone bills? Who knows who has a number some place? But a resident pays electricity! I expected this. I came to see if my school letter was good enough.
She glanced at my new letter. “I don’t know this school. What’s it’s numero d’existence?” she turned to the person next to her. “Have you heard of this school?” He hadn’t either.
“There is no existence number.” I said.
“What? No number?”
“No. It’s not part of the university system, but it’s sponsored by the Ministry of Culture.” I explained in French although not nearly as fluently as I’ve transcribed it here.
“Oh, this won’t do.” She handed it back, “You need a number.”
“What should I do??” I asked in English, flustered.
“Change to a different school.”
My jaw dropped. “Change to a different school!” I exclaimed in English.
This got the attention of the person next to her. He said that if the school was endorsed by the Ministry of Culture, then it was good enough. A supervisor was consulted. The supervisor agreed.
All I need now is an electric bill. Theoretically, by tomorrow.
In other mundane news, I bought some electrical cables for my musical gear. This is exciting because the entire transaction was in French. Boo-yeah. I mean, I didn’t just grab what I wanted off a shelf, I had to describe it. W00t.
A waiter was giving me a hard time last night about my poor language skills. I think it was friendly teasing. I’m going to make that assumption. Some Americans have an idea of rude, arrogant or unpleasant French people. These same Americans have the same idea about New Yorkers. Maybe they are going to different parts of Paris or New York than I am. There are a few unpleasant people here and there, but if they want uniform unfriendly grumpiness, they should go to Connecticut! (heh. kidding) Even the stamp-witholding police here are fairly friendly, they just have their rules.
Tag: Celesteh
It’s not what you think
I know some of you are thinking “soy milk? She’s going to France and looking for Soy Milk?!! Sacre bleu!” Well, oh my god, this is the best soy milk I’ve ever had in my life. I am in love with the soy milk. When I go home, I’m going to go to French import stores to buy soy milk.
I went to the Paris University today to register with the police as a foreign student. Alas, I do need a birth certificate. Fortunately, the woman explained, my consulate can provide one. She even wrote down the address of the consulate. She was monolingual, which forced me to speak in French as much as I was able. These encounters are good for my language skills. So really, there’s a silver lining to the mad amounts of paperwork. Oh, and she told me I need a new admission letter from my school because the one they sent when I was admitted was “too old.” «C’est ancien!» Right-oh. And I need an original electric bill, not the fax that I used with French Consulate in San Francisco. (Don’t ask why I need electric bills.)
For those of you keeping score at home, this was my third time through a metal detector at a police building.
I went from the Paris University directly to the American Consulate, but they only deal with people from 9:00 – 1:00. They’ve gone native! Or they just want to help people as little as possible. Either way, they’ve got some fine real estate. They’re right next to the Champs Élysés. After being turned away, I had lunch with Cola at the Jardin des Tuileries, near a large fountain and fine art statue with american origin from the late 1920s of two people getting it on. I’m immature.
I went by my school for the first time today to get an admission notice that wasn’t “ancient.” They tried to give me one with a photocopied signature, but I protested and so got a real signature AND an official stamp. (The word for stamp is “tampon,” which explains why I’ve seen signs about official ones.) The folks at the school seem nice. It took like an hour to get there and it’s definitely not something I could just bike.
Speaking of which, I have now been to every used bike shop in my arrondissement and in the ones immediately neighboring mine. I have not gone to every single used bike shop in the entire city, maybe I should look at ones near the university while I’m there tomorrow.
And lastly, I cannot say the word “plan” to save my life. It means map. I failed to buy a map of Alfortville today. How do you pronounce “plan?” I’ve been going for a sort of a “plah” with a very nasal implied n at the end. This is clearly not right.
I went today to the American Consulate to ask for a birth certificate. (Why would anyone need proof that I was born? Isn’t it obvious?) They gave me a print out of a web page which told me to go a web site in california to request one. As I was on the way out, I noticed that the print out said I would need a notarized, sworn statement as to my identity in order to get a birth certificate. I got back in line and asked for a sworn certificate of identity thingee that perhaps I could use in the month or so it would take to a birth certificate. I got a form. I filled out the form. I got back in line. The new person asked why I wanted a statement of identity and gave me a different form to fill out. I filled it out. I got back in line. Then they sent me to a different line. Then I got into a fifth line to wait to be called. There were two windows assigned to help people with birth certificate-related matters. In front of me in line was a woman who spent over an hour explaining to the birth certificate man that she was a victim of government sponsored mind control experiments carried out by the KKK. She fled to Europe but was followed and now has no money whatsoever etc. It was sad. Also, she had the attention of the birth certificate consular guy.
Are there more crazy Americans than there are crazy people from other countries? Is it fluoride in the drinking water? Mercury in childhood vaccinations? A government conspiracy to paint certain people as mentally ill?
So I swore to a government guy that I had spelled my parents names correctly and he gave me an official stamp. It’s a much nicer stamp than CCMIX’s official stamp. All textured and notary-like.
So after spending all morning and a good part of the afternoon at the US consulate, I went to the Paris University again. I was back out within 10 minutes. CCMIX’s official stamp failed to impress them. “I haven’t heard of this school.” the woman with the magic stamp that I need explained. I need a third letter from the school complete with it’s “number of existence.” Also, I need an original of the electric bill at my apartment and it must be much more recent than the one I found in a drawer in the living room. I have no such document. It’s unlikely I’ll have one before the next bill comes. Which is unlikely to happen before Friday. Which is the day by which I must be registered with the police.
So I went and bought a bicycle. It’s a Dutch cruiser single speed with coaster breaks. yee-haw. Since I think I need a monthly subway pass anyway, I was wondering if the bike was actually a wise purchase, and then I started weaving around traffic like a real Parisian. Biking rocks. Also, like a real Parisian, I am totally sans helmet. Whee! Um, but I may go correct this shortly.
Tonight will email the school with the requirements set forth by the cop with the stamp and email the landlord to see if she can overnight me an electric bill or something. (Maybe if I show up with a phone bill, the cop will have forgotten that she earlier demanded an electric bill. Maybe she will be so impressed with the array of stamps that I will eventually collect that she will offer me citizenship if I get PACSed with her.)
at a free wifi pub. beer is cheeper than internet places.
Tag: Celesteh