"Remember that credit is money"
This little wonder of a statement wasn't uttered by a CEO of a major financial institution; nope - Chase is not even to blame for that one. Surprising, I know.
Believe it or not (and you American citizens may all know this valuable piece of information; in that case I do apologize most sincerely; I really don't want to waste your time: I heard it's money too) the author of the quote is one of the Founding Fathers of America, the beloved and awfully hair-styled, the one and only Benjamin Franklin.
He had to be some kind of visionary, or was struck by genius or something (living in such close proximity to thunder had to have some side effects, right?). Had he known that his future countrymen would so blindly follow his lead, he would have thought twice about what he was saying. Or twirl his tongue in his mouth seven times (French exercise recommended by grandmas and political advisers all over the board before you start talking. Exhausting but effective.)
So let me tell you a little bit about my experience with credit. No long financial talk (I would be totally incapable and most of all, unwilling to do so) and no miserable stories (not yet at least), just a few anecdotes to share...no worries.
Meet Sandra, former colleague of mine. On her first trip to IKEA (the mandatory thing to do when you arrive in a new city, especially in Chicago where you have the luxury of choice: Northern or Western suburbs? It determines your whole future so please pick carefully) she found herself confronted to a riddle. Something so big and incomprehensible that she was at loss for words (which didn't seem to happen very often according to the people who knew her much better than me. I believe them.)
The scene takes place at the check-out line; it's time to pay. Sandra opens her wallet to get her card.
IKEA Cashier: Credit or Debit?
Sandra: ...............
IKEA Cashier (slightly annoyed): Credit or Debit?
Sandra (looks at Mireille, her driver and co-shopper for the day, for help. She doesn't understand a word, or rather understands the words but cannot make anything of them. Sweat begins to pearl at her eyebrows, her heart beats faster. She mutters): uhhhhh....I dunno...really...I just have a blue card.
IKEA Cashier (out of her mind): Honey, I don't care if your card is blue, red or yellow. I just want to know if you want to pay credit or debit. OK?!?!?
I am sure that just like Sandra, you now need a few words of explanation.
French people have a much simpler relationship with means of payment; we have of course old hard cash, checks and cards. ONE TYPE OF CARD that we use to withdraw money from the ATM (or distributeur automatique) AND pay for whatever we buy, wherever we buy it. It can be Visa or Mastercard (aren't we an advanced civilization. FYI the electronic chip on cards - a basic security feature - is a French invention. So please shut up and let me go on with my story); but back in the days everybody had a carte bleue or blue card; most people still refer to their debit card as 'blue card' (which is indeed very often blue, as in the color. Just sayin'.)
Hence her reply.
The question for her didn't make any sense. There is one and only one way to pay with your card, and you really insist on names that would be 'debit'. You hand your card, the machine takes your money right there and now (or at least in the amount of time it takes to process the transaction) and you are done. No question asked; no hassle; no existential crisis.
Plus - you don't even have to decide between plastic or paper. French supermarkets are remarkably sweet and understanding towards their stressed out, tired and grumpy customers.
So the first trip to the grocery store comes as a surprise to most Frenchies, totally oblivious of the wicked and tortuous ways of the American financial system.
I still remember mine. Since I was by myself and didn't want to be spotted as a newbie who didn't know anything about the world, I chose blindly: 'debit', I said. That was easy: I had been told my whole life (at night time along with my prayers) that credit was a bad thing for you. The mere utterance of the word was enough to keep me away from it- and for quite a while.
So imagine my surprise when one day, someone took the time to sit down with me to try and explain that here, in Uncle Sam's country, the country of freedom, opportunity, big cars and gigantic candy bars, credit was actually something to pursue. You NEED credit. If you want to buy a car, a house or anything of importance you need to be able to show off a good credit history in order to get a better rate. In short, you need to show that you are able to successfully manage preexistent debts in order to be allowed to get more in debt.
Implacable logic.
I was lost.
It took me years and a banker-boyfriend to really understand what that was all about. But even now I still cannot believe that you can build a viable economy on such a flawed system. I guess that the last year or so has proved its limits but it hasn't shaken it to its roots. Credit is still desirable and sought after. I, for one, carry five credit cards. I keep my balances to a minimum, pay them on time and therefore has a credit score labeled as 'good'. I am still not quite sure of what it entails at the end of the day, and I am fine with it.
One day, when I am American - I'll get it.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Big is beautiful? or The Misadventures of a French Gal in the US
"French Women Don't Get Fat"
Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.
Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.
Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.
So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......
And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.
My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.
Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.
Why?!?!?!?
I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.
It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.
But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.
And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.
________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.
Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.
Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.
Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.
So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......
And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.
My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.
Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.
Why?!?!?!?
I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.
It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.
But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.
And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.
________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Teaching Game
When I realize that I have been teaching for almost 10 years now, I get a little scared.
First - because time goes by so fast.
Second and foremost - because if I never knew what I wanted to do as a grown-up, I have always known what I didn't want to be: a teacher. And I remember being consistently quite vocal about it since I was 6.
Now that I have been living in the skin of the impostor for a decade I can't help looking back on all these years where I believed that being on the other side of the border would be the end of me. Like - the death of my soul or something. I was thinking back then that becoming a teacher would be synonymous with failure. The sure sign that I would not have been able to find my way, a job, a real career to pursue and thrive in; becoming a teacher was like never leaving the student world and that simple fact was damn depressing. So I chose the high way and looked up to foreign politics, law and diplomacy.
I didn't last long.
I got my first teaching job in the Fall of 2000. I had just finished my master's degree, was not sure of what the next step should be and had to earn money since my boyfriend back then had to leave his - guess what? - teaching job to serve in the army (10 months of military service in the music section. Such a treat.) So I got into the system and become overnight a Latin sub for a posh junior high in a chic suburbs.
Weirdly enough I don't remember much about my very first time. I was nervous alright but I cannot quite recall what was going through my head as I was climbing up the stairs to my 3rd floor classroom. Nobody had really told me what to do; I had no book, no experience, no training and I was supposed to teach a bunch of 11-15 year olds grammar rules that nobody in their right mind cared about. That was sort of challenging, not to mention petrifying. Cursing myself inside for not proceeding with yoga I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Things went well. I was a demanding teacher and found out that students liked that. Giving hard tests was a way to acknowledge their analytical and logical abilities; they were grateful. Talking about the Antique world was not as foreign and irrelevant as I had feared; we sometimes engaged in deep discussions of current events and I remember discussing quite passionately the American elections with my 9th graders.
Being a sub I was sent on 'missions'. After the posh establishment came the rural and oh so sweet school close to the Luxembourg border, and the difficult high school in the project. After a year in the French system of secondary education I had had a taste of pretty much everything it had to offer, and even if I tremendously enjoyed my interactions with the young crowds I hated my colleagues and their closeted thinking.
I was ready for a change, and had set myself for a big one.
Teaching here has of course been a whole other experience. New country, new rules, new environment. Keeping in mind that you are dealing with students who are also - and sometimes foremost - customers. What a world of difference. I had to forget the French ways to embrace new ones, quite happily sometimes: our habits of systematic belittlement have always revolted me. But I have to admit that making everyone believe that all their ideas are brilliant and worth listening to is almost as irking. But when in Rome...
I am still surprised today to realize that I do love teaching. Not only because of what I can bring to the ones who are sitting across from me but also for the job itself makes for me, makes OF me. I used to be the shiest person in the world. Hot flashes, wet palms, stuttering, yep: that was me all the way. So that first day when I was getting ready to push the door to face the most dreaded public that can be - a room of hormone-loaded teenagers - you can only imagine my stress level. But facing kids worked wonders: it helped me to get out there, and stop giving a fuck about what people might think of me, my butt, the stain in my blouse or the leaf of parsley stuck in my teeth. I am now enjoying the representation part of the teaching job so much that I am going to miss the character I slowly forged along the years. Miss Labenheim, strict but fun and upbeat is not entirely me. Teaching is a lot like role playing: I enter the classroom like I enter the stage. I educate and I entertain; I am the master and the fool, I impose the rules and make fun of them. Sounds like a delicate balance, and it is. But I blossom in it and hardly ever gets tired of the game. It comes with challenges, like introducing debate in French 203 through the theme of death penalty, the legalization of cannabis or the blatant inequality in French political life. Heavy stuff that can be handled through the absurd because, well, it's the only way to really handle them in a language class. Comparative merits of the guillotine over the ax execution? No longer a secret for us. Slang terms for marijuana and cannabis? We have a long list of them. Detailing French congressmen outfits and ranking them by 'hotness level'? Betcha.
I learned so much on myself by teaching to others. I am going to miss my schooling persona, for sure but I am now ready to let it go and face at last the REAL world.
Next year.
First - because time goes by so fast.
Second and foremost - because if I never knew what I wanted to do as a grown-up, I have always known what I didn't want to be: a teacher. And I remember being consistently quite vocal about it since I was 6.
Now that I have been living in the skin of the impostor for a decade I can't help looking back on all these years where I believed that being on the other side of the border would be the end of me. Like - the death of my soul or something. I was thinking back then that becoming a teacher would be synonymous with failure. The sure sign that I would not have been able to find my way, a job, a real career to pursue and thrive in; becoming a teacher was like never leaving the student world and that simple fact was damn depressing. So I chose the high way and looked up to foreign politics, law and diplomacy.
I didn't last long.
I got my first teaching job in the Fall of 2000. I had just finished my master's degree, was not sure of what the next step should be and had to earn money since my boyfriend back then had to leave his - guess what? - teaching job to serve in the army (10 months of military service in the music section. Such a treat.) So I got into the system and become overnight a Latin sub for a posh junior high in a chic suburbs.
Weirdly enough I don't remember much about my very first time. I was nervous alright but I cannot quite recall what was going through my head as I was climbing up the stairs to my 3rd floor classroom. Nobody had really told me what to do; I had no book, no experience, no training and I was supposed to teach a bunch of 11-15 year olds grammar rules that nobody in their right mind cared about. That was sort of challenging, not to mention petrifying. Cursing myself inside for not proceeding with yoga I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Things went well. I was a demanding teacher and found out that students liked that. Giving hard tests was a way to acknowledge their analytical and logical abilities; they were grateful. Talking about the Antique world was not as foreign and irrelevant as I had feared; we sometimes engaged in deep discussions of current events and I remember discussing quite passionately the American elections with my 9th graders.
Being a sub I was sent on 'missions'. After the posh establishment came the rural and oh so sweet school close to the Luxembourg border, and the difficult high school in the project. After a year in the French system of secondary education I had had a taste of pretty much everything it had to offer, and even if I tremendously enjoyed my interactions with the young crowds I hated my colleagues and their closeted thinking.
I was ready for a change, and had set myself for a big one.
Teaching here has of course been a whole other experience. New country, new rules, new environment. Keeping in mind that you are dealing with students who are also - and sometimes foremost - customers. What a world of difference. I had to forget the French ways to embrace new ones, quite happily sometimes: our habits of systematic belittlement have always revolted me. But I have to admit that making everyone believe that all their ideas are brilliant and worth listening to is almost as irking. But when in Rome...
I am still surprised today to realize that I do love teaching. Not only because of what I can bring to the ones who are sitting across from me but also for the job itself makes for me, makes OF me. I used to be the shiest person in the world. Hot flashes, wet palms, stuttering, yep: that was me all the way. So that first day when I was getting ready to push the door to face the most dreaded public that can be - a room of hormone-loaded teenagers - you can only imagine my stress level. But facing kids worked wonders: it helped me to get out there, and stop giving a fuck about what people might think of me, my butt, the stain in my blouse or the leaf of parsley stuck in my teeth. I am now enjoying the representation part of the teaching job so much that I am going to miss the character I slowly forged along the years. Miss Labenheim, strict but fun and upbeat is not entirely me. Teaching is a lot like role playing: I enter the classroom like I enter the stage. I educate and I entertain; I am the master and the fool, I impose the rules and make fun of them. Sounds like a delicate balance, and it is. But I blossom in it and hardly ever gets tired of the game. It comes with challenges, like introducing debate in French 203 through the theme of death penalty, the legalization of cannabis or the blatant inequality in French political life. Heavy stuff that can be handled through the absurd because, well, it's the only way to really handle them in a language class. Comparative merits of the guillotine over the ax execution? No longer a secret for us. Slang terms for marijuana and cannabis? We have a long list of them. Detailing French congressmen outfits and ranking them by 'hotness level'? Betcha.
I learned so much on myself by teaching to others. I am going to miss my schooling persona, for sure but I am now ready to let it go and face at last the REAL world.
Next year.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sunday Bloody Sunday
I used to sing these words out loud, alone in my bedroom. Walkman in hand, earphones carefully positioned, probably holding whatever would remotely look like a microphone (hair brush? pen case? a super cute retractable dotted umbrella? you name it. I had it)
I liked U2 alright. Séverine, my best friend at the time, had the biggest crush on Bono (she fancied really weird-looking guys. Gary Oldman was definitely her worst pick. She loved him in Dracula, which makes the whole thing even creepier....right? She ended up marrying a selfish prick, and never spoke to me again) and since we were spending together quite a lot of time hanging out aimlessly, teenager-way - I had to listen to Achtung Baby, The Joshua Tree, Rattle and Hum. And War.
Sunday Bloody Sunday particularly spoke to me. The real meaning of the song escaped me for a long time because instead of listening to the actual lyrics (which I would have had to read previously, my understanding of sung English being pretty limited at the time) I was focusing on the title. For me the cool Irish dudes were just like me: they hated Sundays with their guts. So much so that they had written a song about it!!!!!!
I was feeling in total harmony with them. Soul mates?
Of course later when I learned that the song was in fact referring to the Derry events of 1972 I felt pretty stupid. But that is another story.
Since we are in the magical realm of music there is indeed a French song that I should have adopted as a personal hymn: "Je hais les dimanches" (I hate Sundays) by Juliette Greco. But I didn't really know about it since, you know, she is WAY less exciting and sensational than contemporary rock'n roll.
Still - she was unto something.
Sundays for me have always been the worst day of the week, and not only because Mondays come immediately after. Since I was 6, every other week, I had to go to my dad's for the weekend and that was torture enough. I don't want to talk about him here but without going into much detail let's just say that the aforementioned mention of 'selfish prick' is wonderfully appropriate to qualify the character.
Then - there is the whole desperation of French Sundays.
If you never have been subjected to it the phenomenon is really difficult to describe. Being in Paris one Sunday doesn't count; not only is ONE SINGLE Sunday not even close enough to qualify as an experience in French misery but Paris is, like everything else, an exception. To understand the full concept one has to get himself lost in one of the innumerable smaller cities that constitute most of the country, and patiently stay there all day long. It's only after the last bakery closes around 1pm that things get really bad.
All of a sudden you are transported in the middle of nowhere. No man's land. Emptiness. Desert. If we could have them tumbleweeds would invade the streets.
Seriously.
Everything is still closed on Sundays. Stores are required by law to shut their doors except for the glorious 3 or 4 in December when it is allowed for them to make business with Santa. The fact that it does not make ANY sense in a country where Church and State have been separated since 1905 doesn't seem obvious to our law makers. Or maybe they choose to keep it for the sake of old tradition and blablablah but still I keep wondering when everybody is going to come to their senses and stop this non-sense (pun intended).
So you would think that having lived in the 24/7 USA for eight years now I have come to terms with my Sunday hatred.
Well....not even close.
I was thinking about it no longer than two days ago - a Sunday. Now that I can go to the pharmacy, the mall, the gun shop any time of the week - even Sunday at 3am/pm if I wish - I should be totally fine, right? Sorry to say - I am not. But I cannot really figure out why. Is it only the sheer force of habit? In that case it would be really sad and incredibly depressing to think of me as an old owl so set in her routine she is unable to evolve, even at 25.
I don't know what's about it. But there IS something. Like a sort of pressure. The implicit rule that people have to have fun on Sundays, even more so in English than in French where one is definitely not allowed not to make the most of one glorious Day of Sun.
I don't like being told what to do. Like these first few days of Spring where nature offers an indecent display of its wonders and people are elated and won't shut up about it. I usually beg to differ. Season changes affect me deeply, in a bad way. I can't help it. But most of the time I cannot even voice my opinion without being labeled as an unwelcome killjoy who is unable to enjoy life's beauty.
Which is entirely unfair and totally false.
I need time.
So despite the splendor of brunch and bottomless mimosas I will probably never hold Sundays close to my heart. I came to terms with this last Sunday when I decided that I wanted to celebrate the end of the day with a mighty good meal, French style. You know - just to close the Sunday loop.
Having dinner at Cafe Matou with my two favorites biches was a wonderful way to deal with my Sunday blues. All the flavors of my childhood were on the plate, wine was being poured in glasses, tastebuds were satisfied. I had the best meal I have had in a long time, and part of the perfection pertained to the time of the week.
Magic happens; it was Sunday night, and I was happy.
I liked U2 alright. Séverine, my best friend at the time, had the biggest crush on Bono (she fancied really weird-looking guys. Gary Oldman was definitely her worst pick. She loved him in Dracula, which makes the whole thing even creepier....right? She ended up marrying a selfish prick, and never spoke to me again) and since we were spending together quite a lot of time hanging out aimlessly, teenager-way - I had to listen to Achtung Baby, The Joshua Tree, Rattle and Hum. And War.
Sunday Bloody Sunday particularly spoke to me. The real meaning of the song escaped me for a long time because instead of listening to the actual lyrics (which I would have had to read previously, my understanding of sung English being pretty limited at the time) I was focusing on the title. For me the cool Irish dudes were just like me: they hated Sundays with their guts. So much so that they had written a song about it!!!!!!
I was feeling in total harmony with them. Soul mates?
Of course later when I learned that the song was in fact referring to the Derry events of 1972 I felt pretty stupid. But that is another story.
Since we are in the magical realm of music there is indeed a French song that I should have adopted as a personal hymn: "Je hais les dimanches" (I hate Sundays) by Juliette Greco. But I didn't really know about it since, you know, she is WAY less exciting and sensational than contemporary rock'n roll.
Still - she was unto something.
Sundays for me have always been the worst day of the week, and not only because Mondays come immediately after. Since I was 6, every other week, I had to go to my dad's for the weekend and that was torture enough. I don't want to talk about him here but without going into much detail let's just say that the aforementioned mention of 'selfish prick' is wonderfully appropriate to qualify the character.
Then - there is the whole desperation of French Sundays.
If you never have been subjected to it the phenomenon is really difficult to describe. Being in Paris one Sunday doesn't count; not only is ONE SINGLE Sunday not even close enough to qualify as an experience in French misery but Paris is, like everything else, an exception. To understand the full concept one has to get himself lost in one of the innumerable smaller cities that constitute most of the country, and patiently stay there all day long. It's only after the last bakery closes around 1pm that things get really bad.
All of a sudden you are transported in the middle of nowhere. No man's land. Emptiness. Desert. If we could have them tumbleweeds would invade the streets.
Seriously.
Everything is still closed on Sundays. Stores are required by law to shut their doors except for the glorious 3 or 4 in December when it is allowed for them to make business with Santa. The fact that it does not make ANY sense in a country where Church and State have been separated since 1905 doesn't seem obvious to our law makers. Or maybe they choose to keep it for the sake of old tradition and blablablah but still I keep wondering when everybody is going to come to their senses and stop this non-sense (pun intended).
So you would think that having lived in the 24/7 USA for eight years now I have come to terms with my Sunday hatred.
Well....not even close.
I was thinking about it no longer than two days ago - a Sunday. Now that I can go to the pharmacy, the mall, the gun shop any time of the week - even Sunday at 3am/pm if I wish - I should be totally fine, right? Sorry to say - I am not. But I cannot really figure out why. Is it only the sheer force of habit? In that case it would be really sad and incredibly depressing to think of me as an old owl so set in her routine she is unable to evolve, even at 25.
I don't know what's about it. But there IS something. Like a sort of pressure. The implicit rule that people have to have fun on Sundays, even more so in English than in French where one is definitely not allowed not to make the most of one glorious Day of Sun.
I don't like being told what to do. Like these first few days of Spring where nature offers an indecent display of its wonders and people are elated and won't shut up about it. I usually beg to differ. Season changes affect me deeply, in a bad way. I can't help it. But most of the time I cannot even voice my opinion without being labeled as an unwelcome killjoy who is unable to enjoy life's beauty.
Which is entirely unfair and totally false.
I need time.
So despite the splendor of brunch and bottomless mimosas I will probably never hold Sundays close to my heart. I came to terms with this last Sunday when I decided that I wanted to celebrate the end of the day with a mighty good meal, French style. You know - just to close the Sunday loop.
Having dinner at Cafe Matou with my two favorites biches was a wonderful way to deal with my Sunday blues. All the flavors of my childhood were on the plate, wine was being poured in glasses, tastebuds were satisfied. I had the best meal I have had in a long time, and part of the perfection pertained to the time of the week.
Magic happens; it was Sunday night, and I was happy.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Cheeeeese!!!!
Warning: this - is not a posting on this type of 'food prepared from the pressed curd of milk, often seasoned and aged' (dry dictionary definition. My words would be more along the lines of:
'the best thing ever created by man since the beginning of times, so good in fact that it might be the only and ultimate evidence that there is a good-natured supreme being above us. And she is female'. But then again I am not paid to write entries in the American Heritage® Dictionary, or any other one for that matter...)
I have to say that it would be damn tempting. And interesting. Appetizing. Drool-inducing. And probably too much to handle for someone who is on a good pace to lose a fraction of the pounds she gained over the last 3 years of couple food debauchery.
(The cover of the RedEye read last week: "My boyfriend makes me fat". I wanted to kiss that girl for sharing my misery.)
Truth is - I absolutely adore cheese. All of them. At all temperatures, with anything, any day of the year. It took me a little while to become an addict but once I started there was no going back. I even learned to master - at the venerable age of 9 - the stinky Munster of my home region (which has nothing to do with its American homophone) by eating it while plugging my nose. Patented technique that I would recommend to anyone planning a trip to the Vosges.
Anyway - cheese has been the longest love story of my life. Well - with chocolate and pasta. Imagine the desolation that washed over me the first time I stopped in front of the cheese aisle in a supermarket lost in the middle of the Connecticut forest. Big Y, Mansfield Road. My heart must have skipped a few beats, and color leave my face.
If one day I am not to live in a city anymore, I want my own herd of cows, goats and sheep and produce my own fix.
No other way.
But I am digressing since I said that cheese was not the subject of the day.
Teeth are.
Yeah....cheese....smile....you know...
Cheesy, I know.
I am going to the dentist next week. Nothing major - just a cleaning, probably a little cavity to fix. And the dreaded discourse on my gums.
See - my gums are not in the best shape of their life. They are getting old, bloody at times and tired of supporting their alloted pieces of enamel. Gingivitis runs in the family, what can I say. My mom had to have her teeth pulled out a couple of years ago - good, strong and healthy teeth. Lots of tears of frustration and shame. You see the picture.
All this because we French don't believe in floss.
I had never flossed up until 3 years ago. We never talk about it. It's not taboo - no, you DO find floss in pharmacies all over the country - but it never crosses anybody mind to actually buy the thing, let alone USE it. Must be for tourists. Even dentists discourage you from doing so.
"Don't do this, it's bad for your gums" I was told one day, staring at the ceiling and trying not to choke on the latex fingers tickling the bottom of my throat.
Oh cool, I thought at the time. One less thing to worry about.
The first time I went to a hygienist in Chicago I got a horrified reaction as soon as I opened my mouth. Talk about a boost of self-confidence, huh. I have always known that I was not blessed with a blinding Hollywood smile, but still...come on...
She almost fainted when I told her my floss history.
I left her office with a couple of toothbrushes, toothpaste, Listerine and about 5000 yards of menthol floss.
So now of course, I do it. Not as religiously as natives because I am not good at picking up new habits (um-umm). Maybe it's because I want to remain true to my homeland where people are supposedly dirty,stinky and just overall disgusting. Or is it because I am just a little bit lazy ?
The truth is - I will never be a true American gal with nice, pearly, perfectly aligned toothies despite 3 years of braces and a pretty good dental hygiene. That's how you can spot me in the crowd: bottom teeth slightly crooked and overlapping, enamel more beige than white and a lot of gum showing when I am flashing you a big smile. That's me, Aurore the French with her imperfect teeth, always somewhat self-conscious around her more perfect-toothed friends but who learned to live with it as she did with the rest of her flaws.
I postponed my appointment three times already.
No more pushing back.
Time to be a big girl and lay on the chair.
I'll keep you updated.
'the best thing ever created by man since the beginning of times, so good in fact that it might be the only and ultimate evidence that there is a good-natured supreme being above us. And she is female'. But then again I am not paid to write entries in the American Heritage® Dictionary, or any other one for that matter...)
I have to say that it would be damn tempting. And interesting. Appetizing. Drool-inducing. And probably too much to handle for someone who is on a good pace to lose a fraction of the pounds she gained over the last 3 years of couple food debauchery.
(The cover of the RedEye read last week: "My boyfriend makes me fat". I wanted to kiss that girl for sharing my misery.)
Truth is - I absolutely adore cheese. All of them. At all temperatures, with anything, any day of the year. It took me a little while to become an addict but once I started there was no going back. I even learned to master - at the venerable age of 9 - the stinky Munster of my home region (which has nothing to do with its American homophone) by eating it while plugging my nose. Patented technique that I would recommend to anyone planning a trip to the Vosges.
Anyway - cheese has been the longest love story of my life. Well - with chocolate and pasta. Imagine the desolation that washed over me the first time I stopped in front of the cheese aisle in a supermarket lost in the middle of the Connecticut forest. Big Y, Mansfield Road. My heart must have skipped a few beats, and color leave my face.
If one day I am not to live in a city anymore, I want my own herd of cows, goats and sheep and produce my own fix.
No other way.
But I am digressing since I said that cheese was not the subject of the day.
Teeth are.
Yeah....cheese....smile....you know...
Cheesy, I know.
I am going to the dentist next week. Nothing major - just a cleaning, probably a little cavity to fix. And the dreaded discourse on my gums.
See - my gums are not in the best shape of their life. They are getting old, bloody at times and tired of supporting their alloted pieces of enamel. Gingivitis runs in the family, what can I say. My mom had to have her teeth pulled out a couple of years ago - good, strong and healthy teeth. Lots of tears of frustration and shame. You see the picture.
All this because we French don't believe in floss.
I had never flossed up until 3 years ago. We never talk about it. It's not taboo - no, you DO find floss in pharmacies all over the country - but it never crosses anybody mind to actually buy the thing, let alone USE it. Must be for tourists. Even dentists discourage you from doing so.
"Don't do this, it's bad for your gums" I was told one day, staring at the ceiling and trying not to choke on the latex fingers tickling the bottom of my throat.
Oh cool, I thought at the time. One less thing to worry about.
The first time I went to a hygienist in Chicago I got a horrified reaction as soon as I opened my mouth. Talk about a boost of self-confidence, huh. I have always known that I was not blessed with a blinding Hollywood smile, but still...come on...
She almost fainted when I told her my floss history.
I left her office with a couple of toothbrushes, toothpaste, Listerine and about 5000 yards of menthol floss.
So now of course, I do it. Not as religiously as natives because I am not good at picking up new habits (um-umm). Maybe it's because I want to remain true to my homeland where people are supposedly dirty,stinky and just overall disgusting. Or is it because I am just a little bit lazy ?
The truth is - I will never be a true American gal with nice, pearly, perfectly aligned toothies despite 3 years of braces and a pretty good dental hygiene. That's how you can spot me in the crowd: bottom teeth slightly crooked and overlapping, enamel more beige than white and a lot of gum showing when I am flashing you a big smile. That's me, Aurore the French with her imperfect teeth, always somewhat self-conscious around her more perfect-toothed friends but who learned to live with it as she did with the rest of her flaws.
I postponed my appointment three times already.
No more pushing back.
Time to be a big girl and lay on the chair.
I'll keep you updated.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Borders
I know it happens and is unfailingly there, luring in a corner.
It came this week, and as always I was - am - unprepared for it.
It's often a matter of time; sometimes an unexpected trigger does the trick. Pressure release. Then the building up starts all over again.
A walk in the neighborhood worked small wonders two days ago.
Boots on, camera on the go - I just wanted to get coffee in my favorite little joint, Z&H (pronounced 'a la French' "Zed et Hasch" please). Crisp air and a jolt of caffeine were the elected remedies of the hour to fight the dreaded anti-matter.
As soon as I stepped out though I realized that I wanted more.
Was it the strap around my neck, the sunlight playing on the leaves or the solemnity of my thoughts? I decided here and there that I wanted to celebrate my surroundings. Discover all their secret beauties. Unveil their overlooked treasures to the world. Let the ugly sister - the
forgotten, neglected, slandered one - rightfully shine.
As I was strolling among the impressive mansions of Kenwood I remembered the first words I really wrote about the neighborhood. It was under the form of a Yelp Review on Promontory Point. A pleading for the South Side:
Chicago suffers from one terrible plague.
One cannot immediately see it when one walks or drives around the city.
But they are there.
The invisible lines.
The "last" frontiers.
The streets one cannot cross without losing their neat and proper Northside identity (and God forbid, their wallet) : Western and Roosevelt.
Let's say California and 18th street for the bravest souls.
That is such a shame.
As an outsider I will never understand why people in this city are so closed-minded. I have been living in the infamous South Side for a few years now, gone to school there for longer than I'd want to and I am still alive, in one piece, safe and sound, thank you very much.
Guys, here are some news:
The other half of the city is worth the trip. And by "trip" - I don't mean an endless bus/train/horse-carriage ride.
Hyde Park - for one - is pretty well mapped out by the CTA and hosts a few crowned jewels: my building (uh-hmm), a few Frank Lloyd Wright houses, a pretty famous intellectual box where fun comes to die, the president house, and a lot of other hidden treasures.
And the Point.
So yes, of course some sad or mean-spirited people will tell you that the Point is not that idyllic or charming. Gosh, there are rats running out there!!!!!! Really?!?!? A natural park by the lake with rats? I can hardly believe it........I heard you can also encounter bees, flies and ants....so beware.
But really Promontory Point is one of the best spots in the city to host a bbq, an impromptu picnic or just to relax after a long bike ride.
And to jump in the water for a swim.
Some of the things I like about it:
- you have a kick-ass view of the city skyline. Almost unobstructed. Pretty sweet IMO.
- FREE parking!!!!!!!!! Yes - you read that right. There is a full free parking lot exclusively reserved for the Point AND lots of free street parking on 55th street and around. No millions of quarters needed.
You've got to love it. South Side perk, guys!!!
- bbq pits, lots of garbage bins, coal disposals = perfect for all the grill fanatics out there.
- drinking foutains!!! My fave is just at the entrance - after the underpass. It's is a nice sleeping deer - I call it "The bi-biche statue". Those of you who know me will know why it's close to my heart....
- 2 watering holls nearby : Bar Louie and The Cove. Winners!!!!!!!!!!
Nothing better than cold beer to heal your sunburns .
- lots of grass and trees. Shade or sun, you choose. A lot of space to play frisbee, volley-ball, badminton, or to improve the Guiness World Record of pit spitting. Whatever you are into.
- one of the most diverse crowd of the city. Spotted last weekend: shirtless U of C students lost in their textbooks (a rarity - well, the shirtless part at least), families grilling and dancing to Michael Jackson (RIP), couples cuddling on patchwork blankets, frat boys trying to impress the girls around, little kids learning how to ride their bikes, older dudes coming for their daily swims. Black, white, Asian and everything in between.
Love the rainbow.
- a great spot to swim. No beach but rock access to the lake. Makes it more adventurous and give you the chills!!!
- bathroom access
- excellent bride spying-spot (!!!)
It's all worth it.
Go and enjoy.
I remember wanting to shut up all the loud mouths who kept saying that they would never set foot in the South Side for fear of being shot. I knew of course that that was incredibly naive and childish and probably really limited 'range-of-action-wise' but I still wrote it. And posted it. 104 people found it useful, cool and/or funny according to cryptic Yelp criteria.
And it was even voted ROTD (review of the day) on September 2nd.
Some people out there were, are ready to listen.
But I am probably only preaching to (already) converts. The ones that do live around here, even deeper south if possible (yep, it is and it doesn't make you die); the ones that work here, in our desolated part of the city where everything seem to be so different.
I am not going to repeat what I wrote about the Point, and our 'half' of the city. But I am still not over the narrow-minded people I come across each and every day. This segregation de facto that is so ingrained in their minds just doesn't make the slightest sense to me.
To say that we don't have to face the same problems in France would be a lie. Of course we do - and if you fly to Charles de Gaulle you will most probably be welcomed be the grisly Northern Parisian banlieues. Long bars of buildings, tags on the walls, a general feeling of abandon and despair that is hard to pin down with words. The banlieues are our ghettos. Broadly speaking.
But what is totally fascinating here - in the worse sense of the word - is the clean-cut delimitation of things. One side of the street is good, the other is evil. One is white, the other black. Getting off at the Austin station on the green line tells the whole tale: Austin in the boulevard that delimits Oak Park from the city of Chicago. West of it - Frank Lloyd Wright and young Hemingway, bourgeois families and young professionals in search of living space. East - the last stretch of what is surely one of the worse parts of town. Going down the steps from the platform to the street was the beginning of the partition. At the bottom, two lines would clearly emerged - and each one would go its own way without as much as looking at the other.
That happened every day of the 10 months I lived there.
Hyde Park is different. Borders still exist - and unmistakably so. Most people won't go west of Cottage Grove, north of 47th and south of 61st. It's an unspoken rule at the university. But still Hyde Park is an exception to the 'rule' of American urban neighborhoods (and as an avid reader of Loic Wacquant I am painfully aware of how schematic all this is) in the sense that it hosts an extremely diverse community. Races, social backgrounds, educations, nationalities - it's almost the epitome of the melting pot. A simple trip to the produce mart sums it all. It's incredible to witness, and the richness of its people constitutes one of the reasons why I came to love it so much.
Hyde Park and his twin Kenwood are great places to live and take another pulse of the city. A slower one, less fancy, less glamorous but more real. And the mansions on Woodlawn and Greenwood, between the 51st and 47th streets have nothing to envy to the Lakeview ones. They are gorgeous. Rusting behind ivy, proudly showing off their red brick facades or the detailed craftsmanship of their wrought iron gates, the residences of Kenwood bask in their former and present glory. Yes, criminals do live here too and burglaries, assaults and murders are committed every year. But there is also this sense of peace I don't feel anywhere else in the city, a a sense of completion and authenticity that I deeply cherish.
I know I won't convince anyone who doesn't want to listen to come on the other side of the border. And I might even be happy about it. Because it makes it our own, and maybe we don't want to share it after all.
It came this week, and as always I was - am - unprepared for it.
It's often a matter of time; sometimes an unexpected trigger does the trick. Pressure release. Then the building up starts all over again.
A walk in the neighborhood worked small wonders two days ago.
Boots on, camera on the go - I just wanted to get coffee in my favorite little joint, Z&H (pronounced 'a la French' "Zed et Hasch" please). Crisp air and a jolt of caffeine were the elected remedies of the hour to fight the dreaded anti-matter.
As soon as I stepped out though I realized that I wanted more.
Was it the strap around my neck, the sunlight playing on the leaves or the solemnity of my thoughts? I decided here and there that I wanted to celebrate my surroundings. Discover all their secret beauties. Unveil their overlooked treasures to the world. Let the ugly sister - the
forgotten, neglected, slandered one - rightfully shine.
As I was strolling among the impressive mansions of Kenwood I remembered the first words I really wrote about the neighborhood. It was under the form of a Yelp Review on Promontory Point. A pleading for the South Side:
Chicago suffers from one terrible plague.
One cannot immediately see it when one walks or drives around the city.
But they are there.
The invisible lines.
The "last" frontiers.
The streets one cannot cross without losing their neat and proper Northside identity (and God forbid, their wallet) : Western and Roosevelt.
Let's say California and 18th street for the bravest souls.
That is such a shame.
As an outsider I will never understand why people in this city are so closed-minded. I have been living in the infamous South Side for a few years now, gone to school there for longer than I'd want to and I am still alive, in one piece, safe and sound, thank you very much.
Guys, here are some news:
The other half of the city is worth the trip. And by "trip" - I don't mean an endless bus/train/horse-carriage ride.
Hyde Park - for one - is pretty well mapped out by the CTA and hosts a few crowned jewels: my building (uh-hmm), a few Frank Lloyd Wright houses, a pretty famous intellectual box where fun comes to die, the president house, and a lot of other hidden treasures.
And the Point.
So yes, of course some sad or mean-spirited people will tell you that the Point is not that idyllic or charming. Gosh, there are rats running out there!!!!!! Really?!?!? A natural park by the lake with rats? I can hardly believe it........I heard you can also encounter bees, flies and ants....so beware.
But really Promontory Point is one of the best spots in the city to host a bbq, an impromptu picnic or just to relax after a long bike ride.
And to jump in the water for a swim.
Some of the things I like about it:
- you have a kick-ass view of the city skyline. Almost unobstructed. Pretty sweet IMO.
- FREE parking!!!!!!!!! Yes - you read that right. There is a full free parking lot exclusively reserved for the Point AND lots of free street parking on 55th street and around. No millions of quarters needed.
You've got to love it. South Side perk, guys!!!
- bbq pits, lots of garbage bins, coal disposals = perfect for all the grill fanatics out there.
- drinking foutains!!! My fave is just at the entrance - after the underpass. It's is a nice sleeping deer - I call it "The bi-biche statue". Those of you who know me will know why it's close to my heart....
- 2 watering holls nearby : Bar Louie and The Cove. Winners!!!!!!!!!!
Nothing better than cold beer to heal your sunburns .
- lots of grass and trees. Shade or sun, you choose. A lot of space to play frisbee, volley-ball, badminton, or to improve the Guiness World Record of pit spitting. Whatever you are into.
- one of the most diverse crowd of the city. Spotted last weekend: shirtless U of C students lost in their textbooks (a rarity - well, the shirtless part at least), families grilling and dancing to Michael Jackson (RIP), couples cuddling on patchwork blankets, frat boys trying to impress the girls around, little kids learning how to ride their bikes, older dudes coming for their daily swims. Black, white, Asian and everything in between.
Love the rainbow.
- a great spot to swim. No beach but rock access to the lake. Makes it more adventurous and give you the chills!!!
- bathroom access
- excellent bride spying-spot (!!!)
It's all worth it.
Go and enjoy.
I remember wanting to shut up all the loud mouths who kept saying that they would never set foot in the South Side for fear of being shot. I knew of course that that was incredibly naive and childish and probably really limited 'range-of-action-wise' but I still wrote it. And posted it. 104 people found it useful, cool and/or funny according to cryptic Yelp criteria.
And it was even voted ROTD (review of the day) on September 2nd.
Some people out there were, are ready to listen.
But I am probably only preaching to (already) converts. The ones that do live around here, even deeper south if possible (yep, it is and it doesn't make you die); the ones that work here, in our desolated part of the city where everything seem to be so different.
I am not going to repeat what I wrote about the Point, and our 'half' of the city. But I am still not over the narrow-minded people I come across each and every day. This segregation de facto that is so ingrained in their minds just doesn't make the slightest sense to me.
To say that we don't have to face the same problems in France would be a lie. Of course we do - and if you fly to Charles de Gaulle you will most probably be welcomed be the grisly Northern Parisian banlieues. Long bars of buildings, tags on the walls, a general feeling of abandon and despair that is hard to pin down with words. The banlieues are our ghettos. Broadly speaking.
But what is totally fascinating here - in the worse sense of the word - is the clean-cut delimitation of things. One side of the street is good, the other is evil. One is white, the other black. Getting off at the Austin station on the green line tells the whole tale: Austin in the boulevard that delimits Oak Park from the city of Chicago. West of it - Frank Lloyd Wright and young Hemingway, bourgeois families and young professionals in search of living space. East - the last stretch of what is surely one of the worse parts of town. Going down the steps from the platform to the street was the beginning of the partition. At the bottom, two lines would clearly emerged - and each one would go its own way without as much as looking at the other.
That happened every day of the 10 months I lived there.
Hyde Park is different. Borders still exist - and unmistakably so. Most people won't go west of Cottage Grove, north of 47th and south of 61st. It's an unspoken rule at the university. But still Hyde Park is an exception to the 'rule' of American urban neighborhoods (and as an avid reader of Loic Wacquant I am painfully aware of how schematic all this is) in the sense that it hosts an extremely diverse community. Races, social backgrounds, educations, nationalities - it's almost the epitome of the melting pot. A simple trip to the produce mart sums it all. It's incredible to witness, and the richness of its people constitutes one of the reasons why I came to love it so much.
Hyde Park and his twin Kenwood are great places to live and take another pulse of the city. A slower one, less fancy, less glamorous but more real. And the mansions on Woodlawn and Greenwood, between the 51st and 47th streets have nothing to envy to the Lakeview ones. They are gorgeous. Rusting behind ivy, proudly showing off their red brick facades or the detailed craftsmanship of their wrought iron gates, the residences of Kenwood bask in their former and present glory. Yes, criminals do live here too and burglaries, assaults and murders are committed every year. But there is also this sense of peace I don't feel anywhere else in the city, a a sense of completion and authenticity that I deeply cherish.
I know I won't convince anyone who doesn't want to listen to come on the other side of the border. And I might even be happy about it. Because it makes it our own, and maybe we don't want to share it after all.
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