Out of Money

I've reached an all time low in my financial valley, but thus is life with a salary like mine. Visiting with other assistants is some consolation, as we're all in the same rocky boat being tossed around by the terrible exchange rate and our limitations on further work. Technically we're not allowed to find another job, unless it's under-the-table waitressing, babysitting, translating, or something along those lines. I've just about reached the limit on my credit card (thankfully, no interest applies yet), so that can no longer be my crutch. Live and learn to live more economically, I guess.

I'm leaving Paris today so Celine can get ready for her boyfriends visit later this week. Her school schedule doesn't align with mine, so when I restart classes, she'll have her official vacation. I would like to wander around Paris for the next few days, but that just isn't possible with my lack of funds. I have a plan to help me cope with the rest of my time on my meager wages. March will be my month of economy, so that when my girlfriends come in April I'll be able to show them a good time. (We'll have a good time even if we're couchsurfing and subsisting on baguettes and butter).

In happier news, I figured out how to post pictures and you can see a sample of our week in Spain. ≈

When in Spain

Party like the Spaniards! Last night Celine and I joined several members of the local couchsurfing community for drinks, and ended up bar hopping until four in the morning. We were waiting for a few bars to open (at 4 AM!!) when we decided to head back and sleep. Half American, half French Celine wasn't the only dual citizen, and when we started the night our group included my American self, our ex-pat French host, two German men, a young Sweedish woman, a local of Cuban and Spanish parents, and one born and raised Spaniard. By the end of the night we had picked up an Indian man, and a very annoying American girl.

Our first destination was packed due to their 1 Euro beer special for Valentine's Day. The crowd had piled into the street, and included a huge number of study-abroad American students. The Spanish-Cuban teaches classes to American students at the university in Alicante, and was embarrassed to happen upon his students. I was also embarrassed by some of the Americans on the street, including one girl who said, "Don't you just miss America? I mean, they do, like, everything better there." The same girl grabbed the shimmering sport coat of a passing local and shouted with an awful accent, "Mee goostah les sparkles! Mucho!" Meaning, "I, like, really like your sparkles."

The guy in the sparkly coat worked for a nearby bar offering free shots, so we followed him for the glowing green freebies and cheap beer. This is where we picked up the Indian and American, and lost our host and one of the German men. We headed on to a jazz bar for another beer, where it was quiet enough to get background from everyone in the group. At that point, Celine and I were the only two who had met beforehand, and it was fascinating to consider how this group of interesting strangers ended up drinking and getting to know each other. The other American girl monopolized her corner of the conversation chattering nervously about her bad Spanish and her frustrations with Spanish banks.

I don't mean to get on my high horse, and I could sympathize with this girl's anxiety, but talking to her took every ounce of patience I possess. I tried to avoid walking next to her, but when we fell in stride together I couldn't help making conversation. She explained to me that her study abroad program arranged everything for them -- something that always makes Celine and I jealous, since we're on our own in France. When I asked why this girl had a Spanish bank account even though she didn't work here she explained, "Well, like, my dad gave me 5000 dollars CASH before I left, and I just didn't want to worry about all the exchange fees. I mean, I can only withdrawl, like 200 Euros a day, and that is, like, not THAT much. It's kind of cool that I can use my SPANISH debit card when I go shopping. But my dad puts money into my American account too, so it's kind of frustrating to have to transfer THAT. And I went to three branches of my bank and NO ONE speaks English. I'm like, come on, you guys."

And I'm like, who IS this girl? She doesn't know where she is, or who she's talking to. I personally think 200 Euros is a lot of money, as it's a QUARTER of my monthly salary. Her manner of speaking and ignorance also made me hope that no one would group us together as "the Americans." I hate pretension, and I don't think I'm better than anyone, but I have seen some of the world, and I would hate for anyone to imagine her as a representative of young American women. After this exchange, I did avoid her, and Celine insisted that she pay for the tequilla shot she took with us (she didn't offer, despite her reserve of thousands of Euros). That conversation and my irritaion was tangential to the rest of the night, and I spent most of the time enjoying the down-to-earth members of the group.

The last bar we went to was celebrating it's 10 year anniversary and giving out free gifts with every drink. I won a lighter with the mark of a popular rum from the Dominican Republic, and with my personal appreciation for Caribbean rum, I was more than happy. My prize was coveted by some of the smokers in the group, but they all won T-shirts and keychains. Spain is known for being lax about marijuana consumption, and I watched people roll splifs (cigarettes with hash, or marijuana resin) on the street and in the bars. That is not something you see in France, and certainly not in the States. The night ended with Celine and I dancing, then a stop to try a Spanish favorite, red wine and coke, which we shared as we walked through the streets.

Celine and I are not used to such late nights, so we slept until 3:30 this afternoon. When we woke up, Celine had all the symptoms of a bad cold. We spent the afternoon getting some fresh air, and stopped at a pharmacy, where Celine went in for decongestant and left with an anti-itch allergy treatment. That's what happens you don't speak the language and have a bad dictionary! Tonight we took it easy to spare our immune systems and our pocketbooks. We leave tomorrow after a last look at the city and a last taste of it's cuisine.

"I bought me a ticket; I caught a plane to Spain..."

I'd like to thank Joni Mitchell for inspiring my current adventure. "California" on her Blue album calls me to Spain (or France, or Greece). I arrived in Alicate, Spain early this morning with my good friend Celine. We found the cheapest tickets possible to the warmest destination available on Ryanair. The official price of our tickets was two cents, round trip (taxes/fees amounted to about 30 Euros each). With such cheap air fare, we didn't expect much, and actually had to take an hour shuttle to the airport, which isn't in Paris at all. Checking in and waiting was a bit chaotic, but nothing painful. We were delayed due to a strike at another airport in France (strike? in France? surprise surprise). Despite the zoo at the airport and our late arrival, we were well received by our host last night/this morning.

Alicante doesn't have too much to offer, but it's the perfect spot for a five day vacation. We're here to relax, visit the beach, enjoy some wine, and see a bit more of the world. Today we slept in until lunch time (Spaniards eat lunch around two PM), then headed out to see the city. My roommate taught me a few phrases in Spanish, and miraculously, they worked! I can ask for the bathroom, the beach, and the bus station, and decipher the response based on hand gestures. I can also order wine and coffee and ask how much things cost. Greetings and thanks have been well received, and I'm enjoying pretending that I understand another language. I bought some groceries with my credit card, and somehow understood that the cashier needed to see my ID for the purchase. Not that I understood any word that she spoke beyond, "Hola," but context is crucial.

Today we took a few hours to eat lunch, indulging in the menu du jour (tapas, entree, dessert and coffee, plus wine), then wandered to the beach. It is by no means warm enough to swim, but we left our coats at the apartment, and I took my shoes of to feel the sand. Alicante isn't much of a tourist destination, but there is a huge fort that towers over the city that we plan on visiting. We have no intention of setting our alarms in the morning, and tomorrow may hold another bottle of wine and another walk on the beach. We'll figure out how to post pictures too, and then I'll share a bit of the mountains and sea with you all. Viva l'espagne!

La France, pays des luxes

France is definitely a culture that values luxury. They they take their meals, vacation, and any other leisure time seriously. Once a week I join my collegues for lunch in the school cafeteria. The sectional for teachers is separated from the rest of the dining area, and we're allowed to hop in line in front of the students. The food is served in separate dishes for each "course," and almost everyone eats one dish at a time, first the entree, then salad, cheese, fruit and dessert. Some teachers also sip on a small glass of table wine (something that would never happen in the States), and after eating, everyone chats and drinks coffee to finish the full hour alloted to the meal.

Last week, when I sat down, the professor next to me was shuffling some papers around and complaining to everyone at the table. "What is this?" She asked angrily, "What kind of institution is this?" I asked her what was was wrong and she explained that the secretary had put out an outline for a meeting later that day, "On the table! During the meal! That's scandelous!" Another prof. chimed in that they should boycott the meeting since the administration had the nerve to trespass on their lunch hour and dining space.

It's impossible to buy anything (unless you're at a restaurant) between the hours of 12 and 2 pm. Everyone is eating lunch for two hours. It's also difficult to buy anything, with the exception of fresh bread, on a Sunday. Much is closed on Monday too, but boulengeries are always open limited hours to furnish French meals with fresh baked goods. They don't eat stale baguettes here.

Yesterday I drove to Paris, and I had to stop in Poitiers (where I lived last fall), to change my license plates. I left the car at the garage for an hour and wandered around. I stopped for a snack and took my time mapping out my route to Paris, trying not to miss my former navigator/boyfriend too much as I did it. When I finally felt comfortable with the trip, I checked my phone and realized that I couldn't make it back to the garage before noon.

The thought of delaying my trip two hours lit a fire under my ass and I started walking as fast as I could towards my car. I knew that most things close for lunch, how could I have lost track of time? I was cursing myself and lugging my bag with all my valuables that I didn't want to leave in the car, plus the atlas, plus a litre of water I was too cheap to dump, and all the while praying that this garage was an exception. And heaven smiled down on me, because when I arrived breathless, my car was ready, and the cashier showed no sign of closing. I know if I had chosen a private or local garage, it wouldn't even have been open on a Monday. I went with the chain that doesn't offer close for lunch. Maybe meals are sacred here, but I'm glad that some businesses opt for less leisure when it comes to their hours.

Existential Crisis

Fueled by a caffeen and sugar rush (diet coke and cookie dough -- counter-intuitive, I know), a long conversation about social injustice, and about ten minutes of pacing, I have a huge desire to express myself. My head might explode if I don't vent my current thoughts, and since I'm not at home with my journal, I'll share it with anyone who cares to read my blog.

Kelly and I just had a long conversation over dinner that started with her description of classicism in Columbia. That forced me to recall the economic disparity I witnessed in Haiti and Senegal, as well as a few articles I've read about corruption in several African countries and international drug trafficing. When I was in Jacmel, Haiti, almost every night a black hummer would cruise around the streets with a party in the back seat. That never failed to upset me, because it stood in stark contrast to the glaring poverty that ravished the country. Someone explained that the owner of the vehicle was most likly involved in cocain trafficing.

Just a few days ago the local paper put out an article about the triangle drug trade that involves French "beurettes," or female of North African descent, who go to South America (probably Columbia, in fact) to collect cocain, stop in Haiti or the Dominican Republic, and then return to France to sell the product. This kind of trade is disturbing to me not because cocain is illegal, but because it involves the exploitation of vulnerable third world economies. The thing is, that kind of exploitation is occuring everywhere, and with the legal consent of much of the world.

Kelly explained that much of the trade in her country and other Latin American countries is run by companies in the United States. Columbia has more to offer than cocain, and their other exports (coffee, oil, etc.) are monopolized by North American capitalists. Apparently there is an offer in motion from a large investor hoping to purchase land from a national forest preserve in Chili. How easy will it be for a desperate economy to refuse millions of dollars, even if it means sacrificing an area of sacred land?

Rich North American's are not the only ones seeking profits in such slippery ways. Another article that shocked me, this one from Le Monde, France's national newspaper, revealed the findings from a French investigation of corruption in five different African administrations. These presidents and their families have invested obscene amounts of money in Parisian neighborhoods and hotels. The investigation uncovered multiple French bank accouts for each of the chiefs in question, as well as purchase records for multiple luxury cars. No judicial action will follow these discoveries, because Sarkozy has backed down after the Africans protested with cries of "neo-colonialism" to the corruption charges. The French are basically paralysed, since they can't step in as if they know what's best. The only hope now is that the UN will get involved.

I can't help but feel scandalized when considering all these issues simultaneously. I'm reading Camus' L'etranger, and the combination of his existentialist musings and my current bewilderment are wreaking havoc on my conscience. After four years at my private liberal arts college and six months of world travel (Haiti, US, Egypt, France, Spain, France, Germany, France, US, France), I have spent (and borrowed) a very large sum of money. You have to admire the irony of my current crisis... It was my education and travels that have allowed me to really understand the injustices that I've outlined above, and yet the money I've dispensed on myself could go far in a place like Haiti or the Congo or Columbia.

Camus says the world is absurd, so I won't try to rationalize these exploitations and the consequences evident everywhere. He also says we should enjoy what is beautiful in the world and do what we can to make it more just. I think I often appreciate beauty and experience la joie de vivre (love of life), but I'll have to post later if I figure a way to fight injustice. Right now, my head is empty and pounding, and my blood sugar is taking a nose dive.

French Kissing

I think I've finally gotten the hang of French bisous. When you greet and say goodbye to friends here, you always kiss both cheeks of your companion. When you meet a friend of a friend, you kiss them too. I'm never really sure which side to start on, so I usually just follow the lead of my friend or new accquaintance.

This weekend, I had the oppourtunity to practice this custom when my roommate and I attended a soirée each night. On Friday, we joined a lively but small group for delicious French and Spanish appetizers, wine, dessert, and coffee. I never really imagined that teachers got drunk together and went out to bars, but now it's not all that surprising. Kelly and I were easily integrated into the group of French teachers and often asked to compare America (or Columbia, in Kelly's case) to France. We talked about education, taxes, and music, before we went out for another drink and dancing. I believe I was the only sober member of the party (I drove), but that didn't limit my fun. We left when Kelly started falling asleep at the club and finally went to bed around five. A good night overall.

On Saturday night, we joined a German assistant, and made crepes at another teacher's house. It was a low key, and delicious meal. We didn't do anything besides eat and talk, but with four people from four different countries and cultures, the conversation was constantly stimulating. I left that night with a list of musicians from France and elsewhere to look into and expand my own music collection. The night ended with farwell bisous, as to be expected, and an early bed time after the previous nights adventure.

I feel very fortuate to have been included this weekend, and I think I've learned something about the French. They are constantly stereotyped as cold and snooty, but I think that once you get passed the formality of introduction, you're "in." As Kelly's friend and roommate, I was immediately accepted and included into two intimate gatherings this weekend and didn't catch a glimpse of the famous French frigidity (if that is a word). I think kissing on the cheeks is a good marker of that kind of openness. They aren't immediatly open, but if you can get into the network, you're a part of the party!