Appendix A

I have a riddle for you. What’s white, has an albedo of less than 4%, and moves like a plastic substance when more than fifty metres thick?

Give up?

Yeah, I give up on glaciers too. I absolutely hate them. Glaciers should all die. I don’t mean that they should all melt, because that would raise the sea level by four million kilometres or something and then we would all die too. All I’m saying is that I wish glaciers would pack up and completely leave my life.

Today I had my first test in France, and it was about glaciers. Actually, I was surprised by how much like McGill tests it was. I was expecting to have to do something really strange: maybe to build a to-scale diorama of Antarctica, or to put on a skit demonstrating global warming. Actually, that’s a lie. But I did expect to have to do a lot more writing than I did.

The test was essentially like this: given a really pretty mountain scene with lots of numbers on it, do the following for each number: Give the name of the formation labelled, give its definition, and then draw a diagram. Which should hypothetically have been easy, had you anticipated that this would be the subject of the test and had the test been in your native language, neither of which were true for me.

But you know what? I’m an exchange student receiving pass-fail credit! And I don’t speak French, as far as this professor knows! And furthermore, this is a subject that I care less about than nearly anything else I’ve ever learned! Now this is kind of fun!

So I did as well as I could. My definitions were slightly clumsy and my pictures a bit avant-garde. Furthermore, I flagrantly abused my translation-dictionary privileges. And I’m pretty sure I accidentally made up a few names of things. Any physical geographers out there, is there such thing as an “ice spike”? Cause there is now. Please add it to your notes, ‘kay, thanks.

We were allotted thirty minutes to finish the test, which I thought was ample. I finished with five minutes or so to spare: more than enough time to go back and perfect my horrid (but very, uh, visible) diagrams. My answers were one page, front and back, mostly single spaced. When the professor came around to collect the tests, I simply submitted mine without fanfare. This is what happens at the end of tests: we give them to the prof to grade.

But I have never experienced the kind of heel-dragging that these French students exhibited at the end of this test. After I submitted my test I gazed around the room, and nearly everyone was still writing. Each time the professor tried to take someone’s paper, she evoked a “une-seconde-une-seconde!” or a “oui-oui-j’ai-fini!” Some of the students had coloured pencils in hand and had drawn gorgeous mountain landscapes, the kind you get on “I Survived Mount Deathstruction” tee shirts. Others had required two or three entire pages to fit their answers. Jesus Christ, just how much do you have to say about terminal moraines? Do you bore people at parties with this knowledge? In fact, do you have time to go to parties at all?

Of course, I don’t really care. This professor is a rather foul person, so it suits me fine that she’s going to be spending the next week reading someone’s drivel about sediment and erosion. Serves her right. She mocked me two weeks ago for being North American and having horrible handwriting and ugly notes. Look, professor, not every student takes notes in six colours plus two shades of highlighting. And not every student has Times New Roman for handwriting. Mine is about half-way between Verdana and Wingdings.

—–

It’s really amazing how quickly things seem to change. I spent most of Sunday miserable in bed; Monday went by in a sickness-induced haze. And Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were all among the best days I’ve had here. Let me run through a few highlights:

• I visited a professor’s office to ask him some questions. At first he was reluctant to speak to me, fearing I guess that I’d ask him ridiculously stupid things about his subject material. By the end I had completely won him over, to the point that he told me his door was always open and that if I had any more questions at all to pose them to him. Wow.
• I actually got to talking to the other Quebecer here at Université Paris 1. He’s an interesting guy, a Francophone who lived exactly three blocks from me last year in the West End. We immediately set to talking about Montreal nightlife and then bam – straight into the language debates. He’s a separatist, so this ought to be fun. Both of us were really relieved, I think, to finally be dropped into debates from home.
• I did a second installment of the French-English conversation group. I get the sense that the francophones already knew each other and just wanted to find some English speakers to listen to them, but whatever. It gives me the added benefit of French contacts, and anyway they’re an interesting bunch. The English speakers are also cool cats, and the location is great: good ambiance and reasonably priced drinks. Je me régale.
• I ran into a French girl, a convert to Judaism, who wanted to ask me about Birthright Israel. And I think she might finally be my in to the Jewish Community here at school, which is a Good Thing.
• We had also had homework in the class which had had the test, and I had been a bit lost. I was lucky enough to run into some natives who were in the same class, who turned out to be really nice and answered all the stupid questions I had. Then, when everyone was done with the work, they had tons of questions to ask about North America. I’m telling you, we exchange students are novelty number one here. And now I have French people who say hi to me in the hall, which is endlessly cool.

And perhaps most importantly: today, for the first time, I joined the mob that always stands at the front of the Institute of Geography. I had met some people in class, and for a period of time I stood with them talking. The fact that I was able to keep up with them psychs me to no end, and plus, I got invited out with them for tomorrow evening. Man, some days I can hardly utter a word of French, but some days it just keeps coming, and thank God when it happens on the right day.

My name is Sam, and I’m a sarcasmoholic.

(Hi, Sam.)

I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. In middle school and high school I walked around sullenly a lot, quipping at people. Somehow in university, I started managing to make people laugh when I did it. I guess I realised that if you added just a drop of randomness, you could get people to laugh at your stupid little digs, and were therefore no longer the sullen and cold one. This is probably one of the most important things I’ve learned in the last five years.

And then France entered my life. The French, you see, are not into that sarcasm thing, no-sir-ee. In fact, they don’t even seem to notice it. When I try to be sarcastic with a French person, the results are rather unpredictable.

On the Iraq war:

Me: “I think most of why we went into Iraq is that all Americans have no human compassion. That’s because we’re robots.”
Girl: (Blank stare)
Me (in robot voice): “ne-ver-mind”
Girl: “What?”
Me: “Nothing.”

And yet the other day, when I was out with a bunch of Greek people, I made an almost identical joke in English and it went off fine. In fact, one of the Greek girls launched off of it and by the end of the evening, the truth came out: I wasn’t all robot. Only my dad was a robot. My mom was from Jupiter. And all that ridiculous chatter led to an interesting conversation on American politics.

But if I can’t do any of the sarcastic stuff when I’m with French people, then I have a problem on my hands. In normal informal conversation with friends, I have trouble not joking around, at least a little bit. Yes, sometimes I majorly screw up, in which case I can put a lid on it, but otherwise sarcasm is as natural to me as garlic salt on popcorn.

I can think of two equally plausible reasons that this problem exists. First, it’s very possible that the words aren’t coming out my mouth correctly. I’m no UN translator, so it’s very possible that instead of saying “robot,” I said, oh I don’t know, “Al Roker.”

Me: “I think most of why we went into Iraq is that all Americans have no human compassion. That’s because we’re Al Roker.”
Girl: (Blank stare)
Me (in Al Roker voice): “ne-ver-mind”
Girl: “What?”
Me: “Nothing.”

On the other hand, that might be getting closer to the truth than the robots bit. I might be arriving at some kind of existential truth here. And come to think of it, the French would understand a joke about Al Roker even less than they would a joke about robots. Google “Ségolène Royal” if you want to know about the new hotness in terms of objects of French ridicule. And I used the phrase “new hotness” with her because it works on multiple levels.

To avoid any future awkward moments like the above one, I have decided to run all future jokes through Babelfish before using them. I believe that will be fail-safe.

But I digress. My second theory regarding French people and sarcasm is that somehow it simply isn’t ingrained in them culturally. I don’t know how that works, not being a sociologist or whatever myself, but I do know that I see French people laughing with each other all the time. I suppose it’s possible that all they laugh at is Youtube videos of skateboarders launching into each other (set, of course, to Macedonian hip-hop). But somehow I wouldn’t bet on it. The question is, of course, exactly what they are laughing at.

Anyhow, I’m trying to acclimate myself to the French. I’ve decided that one of my goals for this year is to get invited to at least one party held by real live French people. It’s kind of tough because I’m doing exchange in the third year of their studies, meaning they’ve all already chosen their friends, but it definitely isn’t impossible. Until then, I will continue to improve my language skills until I am even more of a French-speaking juggernaut than I am now.

—–

The only other news is that I’m currently sick. I’ve caught some kind of stomach virus, which explains the delay in posting this. I think that pretty much caps my recent string of frustrations, and it can only get better from here.

I’ve made light of the paperwork in earlier posts, but I have to emphasize that I really am quite frustrated with all the papers that have to get submitted to the right places to get anything done. As you may remember, I have no cell phone because I have no debit card because I have no receipt for my carte de séjour. Now I’m in the waiting game: the receipt for my carte de séjour is supposed to come by mail. Generally you go and pick it up, but thanks to – irony of ironies – the student paperwork reduction program, I have to wait for it in the mail. Having no cell phone and no real steady Internet connection makes me incredibly isolated, which alone does a number on my mental health.

On top of that, I’ve been trying to learn a year’s worth of physical geography so that I can understand what’s going on in this class I have to take which is about glaciers and polar climates. I’d bought a book and was a few chapters into it when I got sick. Now I have a test on Thursday about glaciers, and I’m completely doomed. Oh well. Maybe I can pull the dumb-American card. Or pretend to be a robot.

Monsieur Sadik is one of my favourite people I’ve met in Paris. He’s the liaison between my university in Paris and the Paris police préfecture, which I suppose officially makes him one of the functionnaries I love to hate. But trust me, he’s different.

Firstly, he’s actually helpful. When I ask him questions, he answers them fully – in other words, if he discerns through my question that I’m misunderstanding a process, he sets me straight and avoids the half-answers that the French love. He has a permanently sunny disposition and laughs a lot. He also has a disarming openness about himself, and I learned later on that despite the flawless Parisian accent, he was actually of Tunisian descent. So it probably helps that he isn’t actually French.

The first time I met him was my fourth day in Paris, when I had just come to the international student office to register for school. After going through all the papers for my inscription, I was led downstairs to talk to him about the carte de séjour – that’s the card I needed the bank account for.

“Where are you from?” he asked on that first day. A logical question, since it would change the process I would have to go through. European Union citizens, for example, don’t have to go through the carte de séjour process at all.

“I study in Canada, but I’m American,” I answered.

“Where in America?” he asked.

“New Jersey,” I said.

“New Jersey? Oh my God!” he said. “The home of Bruce Springsteen! The Boss!”

I’ve gotten that before. But when I decided to study in France, I hadn’t anticipated sitting in the Université Paris 1 international student office, three thousand miles away from the nearest Turnpike exit, being asked whether I had ever been to Asbury Park. And I was grateful enough to hear someone talk about something from home that I smiled and gladly answered the curious guy’s questions about New Jersey geography.

Two weeks later, when I had amassed all the documents necessary to submit the carte de séjour application, I went back to see him to submit the nest of forms. He told me to sit down and went through them one by one.

“You know, you have an interesting last name,” he said in the middle of a form. “Where does it come from?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “My ancestors on that side lived in Germany. I’m Jewish, though. Ashkenaz.”

“Ashkenaz. Ashkenaz. Interesting.” He paused. “That’s Eastern European, right?”

I nodded.

“And the other is . . . don’t tell me . . . Sepharade. North Africa.”

I smiled. “And Western Europe too. But you’ve studied well!” I said.

“Come on,” he said, “there is a Jewish community in Paris.”

“Yeah, so I hear,” I said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with them. I sent a few e-mails. I was going to call.”

“Well, that’s your problem then. You can’t just e-mail anyone and expect an answer. Just go in there and talk to them. That’s the only way to get anything done.”

It’s true. One hundred percent true. And I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet.

I sat for a good half hour after that talking to the guy – after all, no one was waiting in line, and he was interesting.

That evening was also the Université Paris 1 international student cocktail, and I felt that I should make sure to say ‘hi’ to as many of the students I had already met as possible. But, since Monsieur Sadik was there, I figured that I ought to greet him as well. He was slumped against a wall.

“So if I remember correctly, you’re a Bruce Springsteen fan,” I said.

Monsieur Sadik immediately straightened up, his face illuminated. The man was a genius, a visionary, said Sadik, and French people never delved into the lyrics like he did. Before I knew it, the functionary was singing parts of “Born in the USA” and we were arguing over whether The Rising or Born to Run was the better album (though, Monsieur Sadik was quick to say, they were from two very different phases in the musician’s career).

When I told him that Max Weinberg, drummer in Springsteen’s E Street Band, had graduated from my high school, Sadik looked at me as if I were just one step, one itsy bitsy step, from true greatness. Never mind that the closest I had been to the semi-celebrity was at a taping of Late Night with Conan O’Brien which I had attended almost at random.

The next time I saw Monsieur Sadik was a week later when I had to visit an upstairs office to get a form signed. I make a point to visit him, not only because I like him, but also because in France it helps a lot to get to know people who are in positions to help you. When I stepped into his office, he greeted me warmly, shook my hand, and instructed me with a flourish to sit down.

“I wanted to stop by and say hi,” I said, “but while I’m here, do you know if there were any problems with my dossier?”

“I haven’t heard anything from the Prefecture, which is probably a good thing. So you’ll probably just have to wait for them to send it to you by mail.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ll be waiting?” I asked.

He sighed and leaned forward over his desk, his elbows pushing into his torso.

“Look,” said Sadik. “I always say that when you’re talking about France, you can talk about three different time periods.”

He cupped his hands as if he were holding a baguette by the ends.

“You can talk about geological time, where continents smash into each other and species evolve. And you can talk about historical time” – the baguette shrunk to half-length – “where civilizations conquer each other and generations pass.”

The baguette grew to twice its original length. “Then you have administrative time,” he said. “The time it takes for a piece of paper to go from one end of an office to the other.”

“Is it faster or slower than glacial time?” I asked, smirking.

“Do I even have to answer that?” he said with a grin. “There’s no competition.”

——

There’s only one other thing to say about this guy. At one point I accidentally referred to him with “tu,” as opposed to the more formal “vous.” This is generally considered a massive faux pas when speaking to people to whom you owe respect or don’t know. I apologized profusely until he stopped me, saying that “English was much better about that,” and that he didn’t understand the whole ridiculous veneer of formality. It was all bull, he said, and from now on, we might as well se tutoyer.