I'll just call this: The Dollar Sucks.

Cher Reader,

Cher, or it's female equivalent, cherie is one of my favorite French words, for two reasons: Firstly, that it indicates one who is dear, or darling. Secondly, because of Cafe Cheri(e), a lovely little spot near my house that is a funky coffee-shop/workspace by day (think Spiderhouse meets Flightpath) and a funky bar/DJ spot by night (think Spiderhouse leaves Flightpath to put away its computer and dance). Great spot, and since it's up here in my 19th, the cafe creme is only 2.60, whereas the same drink, down south or west (in the polished parts of Paris) is twice as cher.

Wait, what? Twice as darling?

No, twice as expensive. Cher is also the word for expensive, which I was mulling over today while I walked all over Paris, avoiding the metro to save all my Euro (to change into pounds) for my trip to London this weekend. It makes sense, that something expensive would be dear, in a way. The extent to which I've been budgeting this week (to save for the pound/anything exchange rate, which is nuts these days) has made even centines cher to me.

Dear Money, please kindly stay put in my pocket. Thanks. Love, Kelly

Or, to turn it the other way, I think what I know about family life: I love my children. They're very expensive to me.

As you probably know by now, the US dollar sucks. 100 US dollars buys you 40 British Pounds. Luckily, 100 Euros fares a little better in the translation (70 GBP). Still, yikes.

And still, I am very much looking forward to my London trip. I'm taking a train to get there, and we all know how romantic a train is. Not enough has been written about trains, and I say that knowing how much has been written about trains, and how high quality some of it's been. I just mean that not enough could ever be written about trains, and I can't wait to board one tomorrow, maybe spend 2h15minutes writing about trains...

...and end up at St. Pancras, the new 800,000 pound (multiply THAT by 2.something) station in London. Then I'm off to find Mary, who's living there now, and a few other friends who've found there way in that direction. Then, its off to free museums, free walks, and free food from trash cans on the side of the road. No. Well, maybe.

I can't wait to see the city in person, having at one time been a huge fan of Victorian literature, which almost always finds its way to London. I just finished (on a more modern note) Virginia Woolf's Orlando, which was delightful, so if you ever find yourself holding it at a library, wondering whether to get it, do.

And of course, speaking of England, there's Robin Hood, which animated movie has become Adam & Meyer's new favorite film. Thankfully, we've moved on from Lion King 2, which contains possibly the worst dialogue since the movie Scream 2. Robin Hood, which I suggested on account of it being MY favorite film, next to Cinderella, is as good now as it was then, for those of you who remember.

I wonder, absentmindedly, if Robin Hood turns kids into socialists or if it just imbues them with disdain for big government. Here's the question for you: Is it Republican propaganda? OR Democrat? What Robin Hood taught me is that it's okay to steal, in certain circumstances, so long as you're socking it to the Rich. And if, in college, if you're feeding yourself, because you counted yourself as poor. Wine-poor. Anyway.

Stealing brings us back to things being expensive. And Robin Hood to things being dear. So I believe we've wrapped it all up here, which is nice because now I can focus on getting ready for my trip! Oooooo-de-lally!

La greve est grave

I am going to introduce a new word into your French vocabularies, the import of which has only sunk in, for me, after a long and difficult ten days. The word is "greve" and it means: Strike.

The metro workers are on strike, and in fact they have been for over a week now. This means that it's nearly impossible to catch a metro train. Some are running (instead of every 2-6 minutes, comme d'habitude) every 15-50 minutes, depending on the line. Some are running not at all. And if, by chance, you are in the right place at the right time and you DO catch a train, then they are absolutely, horrifically, terrifyingly packed.

I go back and forth about my feelings about this. On optimistic days, walking, I think, "How nice! I get to see the city on foot! I get to learn so much about Parisian strike culture!" And on bad days, I think "Merde." And a host of other explatives.

For example, one night, having realized there was no available metro, I got into a cab to meet Ally at the cooking class she took (my job was just to eat). But the traffic was so heavy, from everyone taking their cars while the public transportation was "quasi nul," that I ended up paying 37 euro & spending an hour in a cab...for a ride that theoretically should have cost me ten minutes and maybe ten E.

Merde. (But the food was delicious.)

It would be just to point out that just because the metro workers were on strike, doesn't mean Ally and I were. We managed to get our walk, our drink, and our goodtimes on regardless. But when have you ever known anything to get Ally down?

We visited the Musee Luxembourg for the fabulous Arcimboldo exhibit, the Centre Georges Pompidou (one of my favorites here), some shopping sites, some live music, and some great restaurants: La Cafe Constant & Chez Germaine were two of my favorites. On down nights I introduced Ally to the wonders of the Savage Lovecast: www.thestranger.com/savage.

My sympathies oscillate as far as the metro is concerned. Sometimes I think, "Democracy in action! Woohoo!" But sometimes I think the metro workers' demands are unreasonable, and that in the meantime it isn't the politicians who take the metro or the bus. It's everyone else. So all the other people of Paris are suffering interruptions in their business/work life, and yet they're in no position to meet the metro workers' demands.

Which, by the way, consist of wanting to continue to retire after 26 years of work, rather than 40, like everyone else.

But then again, I believe in unions and even to some degree in strikes. I just wish direct political action didn't have to affect me personally. I mean, I'm just a normal everyday girl trying to get to the cooking class her friend took so i can eat some g.damn mousse. Is that SO much to ask?

Apparently, in 1995, a strike like this lasted six weeks. Merde! I'm not sure I can keep my optimism up that long, especially given the drear we've been experiencing in terms of weather. It's one thing for the metro/bus drivers to strike. It's another for the sun to do it.

In the meantime, as I slurred to some Frenchmen on Saturday, Ally's last (three bottle of wine) night, I have decided to go on strike against the metro. I'm not taking it. So there.

So, marooned for the most part in my part of town, marvelling at the power of the union culture here in France, I wonder who will cave first: the metro workers (who aren't getting paid while they strike), Sarkozy (who heads up a government losing literally tens of thousands of euros each day the strike lasts), or the sun (I don't know what it's problem is). Or me. If this keeps up, I might strike against Paris, and leave the city entirely! On december 15th. Just like I planned. It all remains to be seen.

So in conclusion...er...power to the people? I guess. Merde.

What do you think this is? A blague?

Well, I've got news for you. It's a blog. And it's serious.

A blague, pronounced the same way, is the French word for "joke." I learned this word because it caught my ear and I pursued it to the point of actually opening my French/English dictionary; a drastic measure I seldom take. It caught my ear because I thought maybe they were talking about a blog.

A blog, according to the online etymology site I frequent, is short for weblog, a combination of web + log, first coined sometime in '94. Sadly, it is not a combination of we + blog, as in "We blog!" - a protest made in lieu of "We kid!" - after someone was offended by some particularly crass joke made in an online web journal. Because that would have been one hell of a linguistic coincidence.

You may think I'm taking this blog/blague pun too far, unless you, like me, are an avid fan of the O.Henry Pun-Off, held annually in Austin. Not to divert too far, but this cheesily brilliant word parry contest is just about the most fun a time as you can have north of the US/Mexico border. And it's free. It happens in May. I'll see you there.

I should bring every French friend I've ever met with me, too, because the French LOVE word plays. They are a punning sort of people. Apparently, they just can't get enough of playing with words. For example, Ratatouille (the movie) featured an advertisement poster that read, "Rat D'egout" (rat of the sewers, literally) and "Rat de gout" (rat of taste). And I'm sure the French thought that was, like, the cleverest little thing ever.

There are some interesting cross-lingual puns, too. For example, "Parfait." The word for a delicious snack combining yogurt, fruit, and granola (which McDonald's now sells as conclusive proof that they are, in fact, a restaurant dedicated to your health) is also the French word for "perfect." As in, "Wow, those McDonald's parfaits go perfect with the rubber chicken meat and the huge blocks of lard. Let's go there for dinner!"

Adam, who had been learning quite a bit of French at his school (and who has decided that Mommys are people who speak French, and Daddys are people who don't) asked me, the other day, how to laugh in French. I said to him, "Well, you're in luck, because it's the exact same." And he paused for a moment and then said, "Ha!"

What I didn't explain to him is that even though you laugh in the same way in French, you don't necessarily laugh at the same things. As my humour "research" in Tibet once proved, humur can be distinctly culturally relevant experience.

Perhaps this will help illuminate this phenomenon: In Germany, we were enjoying the company of Zane's friend Ralph, who informed us, enthusiastically, that his favorite American sitcom was "Home Improvement."

Him: "I love Tim the Toolman Taylor. He always says, 'More Power!' Ha ha ha ha."
Me: "Really?"

This, interestingly, led to a discussion of puns, and me trying to explain to people who spoke English only moderately what a pun was. The Germans, you know, have no sense of humor (see above paragraph) and so were confused as to why this seemingly inane, slightly toolish pastime was funny. We asked if they had puns in German and everyone was pretty much stumped.

Them: Okay, give us another example of a pun.
Me: Well, you have to give me a category to start with, so there's something to play off of. That's how the Pun-Off works.
Them: Um, the ocean.
Me: Water you talking about?
Them: You know, like the ocean. The sea.
Me: I know, that's why I made the pun.
Them: [not laughing] Oh.

Anyways, the French would get it. They're masters at this. It's hard to see what else they laugh at, though, besides the old classic: I let my dog poop in the street and now you just stepped in it. I bet if I could figure out the French word play for that I'd have pretty much the quintessential France blague.

Can you catch a virus through a blog?

Je suis malade. Which means, "I am sick." You'll recognize the French malade, of course, from the English malady, a cousin-word meaning the same thing. The English word "sick" is from the Old English, seoc, in turn from seukaz, of uncertain origin.

Interestingly, the Germans replaced that derivative with "krank," their word for ill, which originated in "twisted, bent" - and hence, the word crank. The things you learn.

Anyway, I blame Fannie. Fannie, in case you're wondering, is the 2,3, or 4 year old trollop who had a birthday party at Adam & Meyer's school last Friday, right before they went on the epic two-week vacation we're now about halfway through. Due to Fannie's selfish, selfish party, the children, I'm sure, must have all gathered around and shared - ugh, god, gross, fingers - cake & ice cream.

Those of you without children, who do not work with children, may not have an accurate idea of how gross children are. And I say this with love for children, but it cannot be dismissed or denied. They are disgusting.

Adam & Meyer, for example, two of my most beloved young ones, sneeze violently into communal food. They stick their fingers in their snot-effusing noses and dine like kings on the products mined. Then they touch each muffin in turn to see which one has the right consistency for them. Yug.

So I can only imagine the dreadful state of affairs at little Fannie's little party - what germs are spread when a group of children celebrates. Shudder. And of course the teachers, knowing that a plague would surely ensue, did nothing to stop the horror because, hey, whatever, they're about to send the germballs home for two weeks.

So Adam, Meyer, Lisa, Ben, and now me, have all had various manifestations of the same, weird, French disease. And of course, I mean the English manifestation (version), rather than the French (protest) because we were not able to protest the illness at all, having been doubly weakened by the virus & the vacance. My version involves me wanting to sleep all day long. Their versions, sad to say, have had more disturbing, though relatively short-term, repercussions.

I was a little worried, yesterday, that I would be forever etched in a trainful of French hearts as "That American girl who lost her dinner in the subway." But I avoided that crisis. I was not, thankfully, malade on the crowded train, which would have been gross & a big pain in the ass because the whole train stops when someone is malade. I know because once I was on a train stopped for 15-20 minutes due to someone - maybe Fannie - being malade up the line.

Another train stopped for a while yesterday - though I was not on it to witness, thankfully - due to a "serious voyager incident." This is the French euphemism for a metro suicide, which claims the life of some 60 or so people a year. The attempts always triple in frequency during the Christmas/New Year stretch. When I heard about this serious voyager incident on line 2 last night, I thought two things:

1. So the French have euphemisms, too. (In fact, the word is euphemisme.)
2. What must the driver experience?

And my heart went out, perhaps wrongly, I don't know, to the driver first & foremost. Because it is obviously not his/her fault, and it is obviously an awful experience. According to some brief research, most metro drivers are likely to experience at least one attempt in their life, and many - even after months of counseling - are never able to drive a train again.

The driverless metro line, line 14, has a complete glass barrier between the platform and the tracks, with doors that open to the tracks only when a train is in the station. This would obviously prevent attempts on other lines, but the infrastructure is too expensive. In much the same way, a real, effective guard rail on the Golden Gate Bridge would cost some outrageous amount of money & affect the careful engineering to such a degree that the state of California is reduced to posting hotline help signs at great frequency on the bridge. Maybe the French could explore that option, except I'm really not sure how effective it is.

Huh. Well. That was...cheerful. And now I feel awkward. But it recalls a conversation last night, with my friend Amy, when she received the text telling her of the serious voyager incident on line 2. She asked us, "What do you reply to that? Is there any possible witty follow-up?" We decided, after various attempts that I won't share here lest you think I'm twisted and bent, that no, there is no socially acceptable quip to follow such a piece of information.

So, I just have to end my blog, now, awkwardly. And this is what you get for reading the blog of a sick person.