Tampon Officiel

It’s not what you think

Tuesday 20 september 2005, 21:33

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.

Wednesday 21 September 2005

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.)

currently

at a free wifi pub. beer is cheeper than internet places.

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Trying to get an identity card, a bike, soy milk

I went today to the Prefecture du Police or something to try to get an identity card. They gave me a form that told me to go way the heck across town to the university area and try there. And the reverse of the address form has a list of required documents. One of them, I’m pretty sure, translates to “birth certificate.” Nobody told me I would need such a thing. The consulate said I would just need my passport, my school acceptance letter and a proof of lodging. Not only do I not have a birth certificate with me, I don’t have one in my possession at all anywhere. I (or somebody) would have to request one from Santa Clara County and then mail it to me, and then it would have to arrive no later than friday, because I have to register within 8 days of arrival. . . . Maybe they’ll just take my passport.

Confusion lead me to wait in two long lines with metal detectors. The first one was in a castle. There’s something very intimidating about going to the “Office of Strangers” in a castle. If I can’t produce an original birth certificate, will they lock me in the dungeon?
Nicole didn’t even get a passport stamp at all. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered with the visa thing.
I went to look at bikes today. They’re expensive. Everything here is expensive except wine. 200€ will get you a headlight (generator powered) front and back breaks, a splash guard, cruiser handlebars and a built-in lock thingee that clamps down the back tire. On a used, single-speed bike. Not that bad. There are some cheaper ones that lack back hand breaks. Maybe they have coaster breaks? I’ve been walking everywhere like a tourist cuz, yeah, well. Really want a bike. There are people biking everywhere.
I went to a largish chain grocery store today called the Monoprix and I bought soy milk. Huzzah! I gave up, however, on finding dried beans. Do french people only eat canned beans? Then while trying to find bike shop #3, I discovered I live very closely to an Indian / Sri Lankan neighborhood. Aha! I can buy all the food items I desire. All I need now is a source of soy sauce.
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le week-end

I am writing Saturday at 23:37

Mark Twain once wrote something funny about how French people don’t even know their own language: they can’t seem to speak it or understand it when you speak it to them. Me: “Je voudrais de la savon sans parfum.” Shopkeeper: “Huh? Savon? Soap? You want soap with perfume?” I eventually got some sort of bar that advertises itself as being “soap-free” . . .
Me: “Je voudrais achetais un baguette si vous plait.” Shopkeeper: “Deux baguettes?”
Me: “Vendez vous lait de soya?” Shopkeeper: “Eh? Lait? Milk? Oui. Soya? Huh? I don’t understand. Sorry.”
I must look up soy milk when I get online again. I understand the larger supermarkets carry it. Not that it will matter if I look it up, because apparently, I can’t pronounce for heck. The only phrases I can get out are “hello”, “goodbye” and “I don’t speak french,” which I seem to be employing more and more often.
My apartment is near the Porte de Saint Dennis which is exciting for some reason that I can’t remember. It either has to do with medieval French drama or the gate was once attacked by Joan of Arc. I think that a long time ago, the king would go sleep at St. Dennis and then process into the city, but I can’t remember when or why. Then he would pass tableaux of people doing mannequin-like poses of scenes from the bible. Eventually, this turned into modern drama, if I remember correctly.
I miss the internet.
I read once about a sleep researcher at Stanford who told his students that if they felt sleepy, they should nap immediately. He gave extra credit if they employed this advice during class. I can’t remember who he was, but I know he took early retirement. Anyway, I’ve been following his advice, which maybe he has a modified version for jetlag, because my sleep schedule is all messed up.
Today, I walked to Notre Dame to go to a bookstore near there, Shakespeare and Company, (they have a branch in Berkeley) where I failed to buy 500 French Verbs or a large French dictionary. I should have bought these things before leaving. I prolly also should have brought my French textbook.
Tomorrow, I don’t what I will do. All the shops are closed, so no running errands. Maybe I should learn the days of the week or something. Monday, I need to get my residency card and then do everything which I didn’t do today.

Sunday 23:25

I’m reading Paris to the Moon. It was highly regarded in 2003 and there was a copy on my bookshelf in Berkeley and so I brought it with me (but not my french textbook). The writer keeps marveling at the strange way the French do things. For example, there are THREE prong plugs on the power outlets?? It turns out the third one is for grounding, a safety feature that’s necessary because of the 220 volt power. Who knew such a thing existed?! Also, the french nail wooden crosses to the bottom of their xmas trees in xmas tree lots. Wooden X-es on the bottom of Christmas trees? Whoever heard of such a thing?
Today Cola and I went to the huge flea market by Porte de Clignancourt. I don’t have access to etymology handy, but this market may be the source of the term “flea market.” Apparently, their used jackets for sale were even more sketchy in the past then they are know. It’s a huge tourist destination with mobs of people milling around the huge area filled with stall after stall selling identical leather jackets, T-shirts that say “FBI”, zipper sweaters, etc. I almost bought a blue corduroy jacket, but 30€ is a lot for a used jacket.
On the way back, we did manage to get me a towel, an alarm clock and other exciting and sundry items including toilet paper. I remember a speaker at one of my elementary schools talking about how difficult life was for illiterate people. They would go to the store and see a box with a picture of chicken on it and buy the box. When they got home, they would discover they had actually only purchased the breading one might use for certain chicken recipes. So it was when I first tried to buy toilet paper, I got a package that looked exactly as if it should have contained same, but alas, was paper towels. My landlord left a few notes, one talking about the importance of avoiding putting strange things in the pipes (as this is Parisian plumbing after all) and anther with the phone number of “the best plumber in town.” “Just in case.”
In Paris, you can’t flush giant wads of paper towels or the pipes get screwed up! And their plugs have three prongs!Tag:

I’m in Paris

So exhausted right now, as I write this, September 16th @ 9:05 pm, Paris (noon in California). Flying to Paris via Boston is the worst of all airline travel worlds. I left Berkeley at 5:00 AM and STILL flew a red eye.

Before I left, I had a small party on Saturday. It was fun. Some people came. I invited people that I haven’t seen since before I started Wesleyan. None of those people came, which is understandable. I want to re-connect, but I think a party invitation is not the best way to do that. It’s almost kind of jerky.

On Sunday, my dad came for diner. He was having some sort of bike problems, which have undoubtedly been resolved by now. He’s on the road again after doing some temp work on micro controllers for flash ROM. His controller is highly programmable and thus is in the new Apple Nano Ipod thingee. Awesome. Sadly, this does not translate into free ipods for him or his family.

On Monday, I took the GREs. Thank god for espresso. I was really burnt at the end and don’t really remember my score, but I have a guess of what I think it might have been, but I may be inflating my score. Anyway, jumped through that hoop, so now I can apply for PhD/DMA anyplace. It’s so stupid. All those tests really ask is how well you do on standardized tests. If anyone wants to know how well I handle grad school, they could, I dunno, look at my transcripts from Wesleyan. I already have an MA, so having to take the GRE is just stupid. Also, I noticed the questions started hard and got easier, which is not a good sign. But I don’t think my knowledge of antonyms has much bearing on composition, but with Text Sound Poetry, one never knows.

On Tuesday, after a fun-filled day of needless panic, Cola and I went to dinner with some of the folks from my French class, including Rudy, Marisa and Paulina. Vachemont Chouette!

On Wednesday, I finally got around to packing and stuff. Cola and I had dinner with Mitch. It is so sad to leave Mitchy and know I won’t be back for months and months. I hope he comes to visit. After he said goodbye, I went to sleep at midnight.

On Thursday, I woke up at 4:00 AM, double checked everything, (but still forgot my binaural microphones) and got on a bus to SFO airport. By the time I got to the front of the check-in line, I already had blisters from my hard suitcase, which was packed with gear. Bah, what was I thinking?

On Friday, I got into Paris at like 7:00 AM and took the RER to the Metro. In Gare du Nord, I found a luggage cart to put under my 50 lbs suitcase. (Bah, what was I thinking? There’s a sticker on it that says “bag status: suspicious.” Don’t people normally take monitor speakers with them on trips?) Oh dear, I was the quintessential horrible tourist on the metro, trying to carry more than I could possibly handle. I have no idea why I didn’t take a cab.

I got to my apartment pretty early, but none of the units are numbered and I didn’t know my number anyway. I found somebody to ask. she asked for some sort of name, so I answered slowly in my ten-weeks-of-french-class way (translated into english for your benefit), “My name is C H. My, um, ‘landlord’ are, um, is called F M.” My french teacher would have been impressed by my complete sentences and use of correct grammar, but this woman was making “get on with it” hand signals.

What do you want after 4 hours of sleep?

Lugged my 100+ lbs of luggage up the stairs and then collapsed in sleep. Around 5:00, Cola and I emerged and went to a grocery store and bought inadequate grocery supplies. I found soy yogurt (which I recognized from the French TV ads which my teacher recorded and showed to us one day in class), but no soy milk. I think I might have spotted tofu, but I dunno. Cola hates tofu anyway.

There are bike lanes all over the place around here. Tomorrow, I’m going to post this and register with the police department for a residency card and hopefully buy a bike soon.

Oh, the apartment is really super. It’s palatial by Paris standards, as far as I know. Has a stereo which sounds pretty good and nice wood furniture. There’s a copy of French or Foe in one of the bookcases. In the bathroom, there is a bidet. How does one make use of said appliance? None of my neighbors are running wireless networks of the sort that my mac can recognize. Alas. I dunno if wifi is the same in Europe and in the US. I brought my own airport thingee anyway, but I dunno if I have DSL. I don’t think so. I don’t know how to order it. My landlord might have to do it as phone service is in his name.

Back hurts. Want to sleep. In 34 minutes is an acceptable sleep time.
Aaaand, Saturday, as I sit in internet cafe, I’ve got email: somebody posted a comment someplace on this blog, I don’t know which post:

Please stop. You know homosexuality is wrong but you use many mother examples of discrimination to justify the very sick act of homosexuality. Since the dawn of time it has never been ok but now we have it shoved down our throates. Please stop. You know it is not right. Please, for the sake of the modern world.

Woot, I can bring about the end of the modern world via blogging. Maybe at least crush capitalism.
But first, I must determine how to get DSL or whatever and where to go to get my identity card.
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durrrr

Ok, so yesterday I learned that visas of over 6 months don’t require return plane tickets. Therefore, I don’t need a return ticket. The thing they put into my passport lists an expiry date less than three months in the future. So I started looking for the piece of paper which has my actual visa expiry date on it. I could not find the paper. I looked everywhere.

This morning I called the consulate to ask about my missing documentation. They said they couldn’t answer visa related questions until 2:00. I checked the website, which did not say which documents I needed or how to request spares. I called back at 2:00. No answer. I tried several times. I went to the consulate (which is open monday – wednesday 9 – noon and 2:3o and thursday – friday 9 – noon) and it was closed. I knocked on the door and the security guard recognized me from yesterday and let me in. I went to explain myself to a guy behind the counter while the entire staff gathered around to see what this flustered person wanted.
The missing piece of paper is apparently completely unimportant, which they could have told me over the phone if they, you know, took phone calls. The police station in France will re-compute the expiry date based on my school admittance letter and the date my travel insurance expires.
At least I didn’t decide I have tetanus or something.
what a wasted day. I was supposed to go to stanford.
(also, the security read me as male, which I think helped gain me admittance AND caused the staff to be extra-curious. I get read as male 70% – 90% of the time by waiters, security guards, clerks, etc: people who see me but don’t spend much time talking to me and don’t really care. So far, nobody has questioned my presence in the ladies room. I don’t see how this is working.)
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i actually, really lost my visa

there’s two parts of it. one is the pretty thing in my passport which i still have which says it expires in december. the other is a piece of paper that says it expires in july. if i try to come in without the extra piece of paper, the french won’t admit anybody with a less than six month visa unless they have a return ticket. which means i need to call the consulate in the morning. ebcause i am a motherfucking idiot. maybe they can fax it to me and i won’t need to go see them two days in a row.

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i leave thursday

I’m taking the GREs this evening. Going to French consulate this afternoon. Right now, while I’m astounded by online free practice tests, Cola is listening to John Roberts’ confirmation hearing. Augh. Imagine taking a math test full of nothing but word problems while listening to Republicans talking about Brown vs Board of Education as evil judicial activism. Expanding rights is eviiiiil. If two airplanes starting from Chiago O’Haire travel at 350 mph. one going north, the other west. How far apart are they after two hours and forty million beautiful children have been aborted since Roe Vs Wade?

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