Paris: Tennis at Roland Garros

The French Open, or Roland Garros as it is known here, has started. When we in France say Roland Garros, we mean the tournament and not just the place where it takes place (as when we say Flushing Meadow for the US Open or Melbourne Park for the Australian Open…it is more equivalent to the sense that the name Wimbledon evokes a whole lot more than just the name where the tournament takes place, at least among tennis followers).
That said, Rolland Garros cannot be more different than Wimbledon. Whereas Wimbledon is played on grass, Rolland Garros is on red clay that is whole lot slower than grass. In Wimbledon, you may blink and miss a great shot, at Rolland Garros, you can take a long siesta and you might not have missed a thing. The French are mighty proud of Rolland Garros (and don’t even dare saying that at Rolland Garros even insomniacs would fall asleep…the French would patiently explain that on clay, one has to “construct” points and that patience, patience, patience really are the magic words that make a difference between winners and losers on the slow clay). Watching Roland Garros on tv, it is also interesting to hear running French commentaries (normally by male commentators) exhalting the physical beauty of certain women's players (the model-like young lady Miss X; the beautiful smile of the young Miss X....for instance) that just would not pass in American or Australian tv!

An observation that might strike non French at Roland Garros is the enormous pressure it seems to place on home players. If American players seem to relish and shine when playing at their home turf (the US Open), French playes seem to positively wilt at Rolland Garros. It is no accident that Amélie Mauresmo, the most reveled French player at the moment, has won her two Grand Slams in Australia and at Wimbledon and has never gone further than the quarter final at Rolland Garros. And who is the last French winner at Rolland Garros? None other than the very French Mary Pierce (who to her credit can now speak French fluently…since a couple of years now) and has more and more affirmed her “Frenchness”.

Why do French players wilt like fragile flowers under too strong light at their beloved Roland? I ask myself this question as a tennis fan. The answer might very well be what the press has been saying all along and more: too much pressure, too high expectation on the broad shoulders of these players. But there is more. Granted the French I find very tolerant of shortcomings that are human nature. For instance, they may think that you are a jerk for holding an opinion that differs from their own, but they still respect you if you stick to your gun. Or they may indeed recognize loudly your shortcomings (unlike the rule of silence like “when you cannot say something nice, don’t say anything at all”) but this does not mean that they like your good qualities any less! Yet, despite this, the French still like winners and hate losers. I think this was beautifully put by Mary Pierce who has had her share of love and hate relationship with the Roland Garros public: I am French when I win and not French when I lose. Now with an attitude like that, no wonder that the loveable Amélie is often so rigidly wooden whenever she enters the main court to play. And no wonder only French lesser players shine up to a certain point (the may win a round or two more than expected) at Roland, but never those who are expected to win. The stand-up French comic Roumanoff said it beautifully about what the French think of their sportpersons and athletes (often of minority groups except for tennis): You are French when you win and Black when you lose!

This year’s Roland Garros started in a fashion that unwillingly resembled Wimbledon: it rained, rained and rained. But thank goodness the sun is back if a bit shyly. However, after the loss of both Serena and Venus Williams, the organisers might very well have wished for rain the day when both sisters lost unexpectedly (the Williams though not near as dominant as they used to be still represent a huge draw card for women’s tennis….and to their credit, they still make even bigger news when they lose). Now that the exciting players (at least on the women’s side) are gone, and the moist clay is making play even slower, we can take long siestas and not miss a thing…..Apart from Serena in 2002, no American has won the French open for a long time (Mary Pierce is French remember, even if she sounds more American than French even when speaking French). Well, patience never being a valued trait among Americans, we may have to wait a long long time before seeing an American champ at Roland.

Hint for tennis enthusiasts who happen to be in Paris during Roland Garros: You can get a ground ticket (gives you the right to see all the outside courts but not the central court) in ticket booths at the entrance for the same day. In the early days, all outside courts may just feature your favorite players.

Paris, metro and lovers

Whenever I start complaining about life to visiting friends, they never failed to look at me funny as if I had just said the dumbest thing! Inevitably they would then look around and raised their arms as if to say 'words escape me," though the message is clear: You live in Paris, how could you complain about anything at all? Well, this really gets my goat (hey, I think I am beginning to be a real Parisian) and will start reeling off my bad Paris list. Here now, I want to complain about the metro. If as a tourist long ago I used to marvel at the convenience and the freedom the metro offers and admired the stations that reflect the quartier where they are (Metro Musee du Louvre, for instance, has the look of a museum complete with statues and other art; and when you step off the train at Arts et Metiers you'd think you had just stepped into a submarine) and even danced to the music of the accordion played by street (or metro) musicians. Living here has changed all that a bit. Now the word metro, like for most Parisians, evoke crowd, sweat and basically a means of transport to get from A to B (sad, huh). The Parisian life has indeed been summarized as ‘boulot metro dodo” which basically means “work, metro, sleep” (and some lucky bastards would say it’s more like boulot metro sodo dodo..need I translate 'sodo"? oh well).
As I am not a morning person, my mornings would be spent sipping my coffee and under the hot shower way too long before I rushed out to go to my metro station. At the moment, I live near the metro Anvers. Now this metro station only has one exit/entrance, yet it is a major stop for most tourists as it is also the station closest to Sacré Coeur. But tourists are tourists, and they don’t think there are other people who have to get to work and have to move fast. So after waiting for a group of tourists looking for their ticket, figuring out which way to put the ticket into the turnstile etc. etc. while standing there preventing other people to pass, I made it into the train (line 2) which would be crowded all the way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile (where the tourists also go to visit l’Arc de Triomphe or the way too famous for reasons that are probably long gone now: the avenue Champs Elysées). Getting off at Etoile I would be huffing it to get my connexion (line 6) which is no mean feat when the corridors are narrow and the tourists move leisurely in groups that just cover the width of the corridor. Anyhow, still huffing and puffing I got to the train just as the signal sounds and made it to the train after almost being cut in two by the closing doors. Now, after all that, the train moved soooo slowly and stop at the next station for ever and ever. The conductor then said something that is incomprehensible as the speakers evidently were always either too muffled or too loud that you just cover your ears.....the train finally moved again only to stop for another eternity at the next station. Now if you’re already late for work, this is becoming quite a cardiac sport.
Finally, my stop. This is also another major tourist stop (Trocadero). So, you understand if I look at tourists now with dagger eyes! They are blocking my way to get to work and they make the train ride crowded and uncomfortable. But mostly, Ok I admit, I guess I am jealous that I have become a jaded Parisian and have somehow stopped taking the time to admire all the beautiful things that surround me, hey, that I live with everyday! I suppose I should get a lover…since it is said that if you are in Paris with a lover it’s like you experience Paris all over for the first time again…but who has time to find a lover when there’s a metro to catch …

Hints for visitors: You can buy a one week ticket if you stay that long in Paris (called Passe Navigo which can be valid for a week, a month or a year). There are also Paris visite tickets that give you discounts to museums and other attractions. Or you can buy a carnet de tickets (a set of ten tickets with reduced price compared to buying ten individual tickets).

Paris non smoking

Finally, the (no) smoking law is here. The day that I dreaded arrived on the 1st of the year. And typical of the French, this was declared the day of ‘tolerance.’ Forget about tolerance as we know it among people of different creeds and colors (France despite its apparent multiculturalism still has a hard time thinking that it is a multicultural society), tolerance here means that on that day, we could still puff away in cafes and bars and restaurants. After that, it’s some seven hundred euros fine for the restaurant or bar or café owner and 68 euros for the person smoking.

The first non tolerance day actually went quite well which really surprised me. The French think that rules and laws are there to be broken (you can observer motorcyclists on sidewalks, drivers who do not respect traffic lights or going to the wrong way of a one way street!). Yet the smoking law actually got respected despite complaints that I hear from everyone all around me.
As for me, never had I felt so deprived. Gone are the days when I will bring work to a café, find my favourite table from where I can watch people go by when work becomes too boring, get served good strong coffee and smoke many cigarettes.

The familiar sight in Melbourne where people (office workers) are huddled against building trying to protect themselves from rain and wind whist smoking a cigarette, can now be seen here. And given that cafes often are found on the ground floor of residential buildings, I am sure those living just above the cafes have much to complain about as smokers talk loudly just below their windows. There are also stories where restaurant clients under the guise of smoking a cigarette went outside and never came back and leaving their bill unpaid.

What I have noticed in my circle is that our time in restaurants has really been shortened. Whereas before, we would smoke a cigarette between courses, now that this is not possible, we would speed through the courses and clear out to smoke a cigarette. This is a sin in a place where food really is part of the cultural activities that is supposed to be enjoyed leisurely…
In neighbourhood cafes where generally we whiled away the hours discussing nothing passionately, people now just come drink their coffee and go. How I missed those times when you can really bond with people you normally don’t cross in your everyday lives.

Luckily there are terraces and now that the weather is improving somewhat (but yes, I have sat outside in freezing weather to drink my coffee with a cigarette, as do many Parisians). But this is not the same as standing at the bar and chatting away with whoever is there. I supposed that’s another aspect of Parisian life that is gone now.
I remember with a pang the complaints Americans always had arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport: people (you bet they were French) smoking under the no smoking signs and the smoky terminal building despite it being a smoke free building. Well, now the air is clean and life is just, how will I put it, a little bit less French?

Hints for smokers visiting Paris: At CDG airport, you have to get out of the terminal to smoke. In the city, many terraces now has outside heaters where you can take your coffee or meals and have the right to smoke. A packet of cigarettes cost about 5 euros 30 cents in France.

Paris frogs and prince charming

They say that you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before finally finding your prince charming. Well, I don’t know if the person who uttered this wise thought was referring to the French (=frogs) or not. But certainly kissing lots of frogs in search of the one big love is much more enjoyable in France. To begin with, most of them are quite charming, at least when they are feeling sexy. Being charming or being brilliant indeed is a characteristic that seems necessary for survival in France. Whereas in the US and Australia being nice seems to smooth a lot of social interaction (and get you lots of goodies), here charm and wit seem to be more important. Being charming includes a lot of things like appearance (you look at someone and you can say Mmmm he looks just charming), behavior and body language (such as smile and how you move) or verbal behaviour (how you speak). Last but by no means not least, the content of what you say is important too. Related to this last, you just have to be smart, or have the conviction that you ARE smart (no matter what the reality is).

My French friends all consider themselves a bit of smart (if not charming) politicians and seriously take themselves as somewhat experts (or at least no less expert than others) on the subject. This makes for interesting if somewhat a bit tense for my taste dinner parties. In Australia and in the US, at dinner parties we attempt to get to know other guests. In Parisian soirée, people indeed would introduce themselves to everyone present (and kisses are exchanged between men and women…and handshakes between men), but after that it’s all fair game to impose your convictions on diverse subjects and to quash the opinion you don't agree with. I try to figure this out, in my American and Australian dinners, we get interested in new people and attempt to get to know them and expect the same interest in return. There is a law of reciprocity there and the norm guiding our behaviour is to maintain involvement of everyone (I bet you have tried, in one of your dinner parties, to change the subject of conversation so that everyone will be included). The norm that guides dinner parties here seems more self-affirmation against a public that one supposes by default is ready to say that you are not who you think you are, mate. In both cases I guess we strive for confirmation of who we are, by nicely affirming the self image conveyed by others (that I am a nice guy, and you show me that you find me nice) or by imposing on others to acknowledge who we are even if begrudgingly.

I have to admit though, that on average I think the French are more informed about the political situation, domestic or international, compared to the more insular American friends that I have. Still, I do miss dinners where we just get along and forget “performance” for a while…I remember a dinner party in Melbourne where practically everyone there had a doctoral degree or equivalent and all night long we talked about sex from A to Z…At 3 am, someone piped out saying : Gee, I wonder what the uneducated people talk about at dinner parties?

So, to get your prince charming, getting on your knees when he enters the room and speak only when spoken to is not going to do it...you have to bedazzle him with your charm and wit and knowledge. If that sounds like a tall order, don"t despair, if you stay with the frogs long enough, you will find them charming in the end too. Familiarity breeds liking remember ?

Hints: Tha major newspapers in Paris (France) are Le Monde (center), La Liberation (left) and le Figaro (rightist). English newspapers such as the International Herald Tribue are often available in newsagents (kiosks presse). When invited, best not to come early or on time, there is the quarter of an hour rule of lateness that hosts or hostesses could use to tackle last minute rushes. A bottle of wine is always welcome when invited for dinner.

Paris ccccchhhhhanges

Having finally found an apartment, I moved bit by bit my belongings from the old to the new apartment. Compared to the US, moving in Paris is a big production that can totally occupy one’s existence.
First, finding an apartment is already so time consuming and the process of applying for the apartment extremely nerve-wrecking. Having a permanent job (or what they call Contrat à Durée Indéterminé) does not do it anymore; indeed, you need everyone under the sun to be your guarantors! Parents or siblings or other family members are best, and friends do not really count. This presents a problem for me who rely on friends since all my family is outside France (and to be a guarantor you need to pay taxes in France!). That definitely limits the apartments that I can apply for from the first go. Then, all the money that you have to dish out: The agent’s fee (which when you add the other fees you may not know about can be significantly more than one month’s rent), the two months security deposit that they ask and of course the first month’s rent. Despite a reasonable salary, my application for a couple apartments got refused. This made me lose several nights of sleep (Hey, I had to move out of my apartment by a certain date, and the space under the beautiful Paris bridges are generally occupied already)
Then, when you find an apartment, the next worry is moving. Now, many streets in Paris are narrow and you cannot always park your car right in front of your building without blocking the traffic entirely (fine for 5 minutes but do it longer and you have the crazy French drivers honking and insulting you for sure). And if you lived on the upper floors without elevator (as many old buildings in Paris are), well, 5 minutes is just to negotiate from your floor to the one below your rather big objects via the narrow stairway. Add to that the task of finding friends who could help you. In order to avoid traffic and mad drivers (because your car would be blocking the street even for a short time), most people move either very early in the morning or late at night. In my case, the weekend is hell as well as that is when everyone in Paris and their relations seem to decide to come to the quartier where I was living. So, it was very early in the morning that we had to do it, under the unsympathetic eyes of awakened neighbors. It is no wonder that most Parisians stay in their rented apartment a lot longer than what I am used to in Melbourne or San Francisco for example.
Now in my new apartment, my new quartier could not be more different than the old one. Right in Montmartre at the foot of the basilic Sacré Coeur (ok, in both quartiers you still find lots of tourists, but different kinds of tourists…now I bump into many more bussed tourists in groups), my new quartier is probably more true Parisian with its mixed population from the bourgeois to young professionals to musicians to artists to immigrants. Life here feels more real than it did in my old quartier (Le Marais) where everything and everyone is beautiful even early in the morning but especially late at night. And not being exactly snow white, I must say that I feel less of an intruder in this colourful neighbourhood.
And the bonus, a gay bar with a backroom is only a street away!

Hints for those who wish to rent an apartment in Paris, furnished and short term: There are now real estate agents who specialize in renting short term furnished apartments. They may be more expensive than the market price but practical, consultable via their English language websites and can take care of the administrative rules nightmare that might be unfamiliar to non residents.
The gaybar I am talking about in my new neighborhood is MecZone (Metro Anvers), a bar with backroom frequented by locals and a few tourists.

Paris Grand Amour

Le grand amour, or the real true love in one’s life , of mine (at least until now. Have no idea how many grand amours one can actually have in life) was intimately linked to Paris. OK, he was not Parisian (but from the province not far from Paris. Anything outside Paris by the way is called the province), but our love blossomed in Paris (as I guess would say all lovers who come to Paris) and many of my memories with him took place in Paris. Like the time we walked late at night on the Pont des Arts: The lampposts simmering in the fog and rain, the river Seine reflecting the lights of the city, and his warm hand holding mine. I thought that if this was not love, I would still die a happy man! Then there was the time we met after a month separation at the Gare du Nord. Among the crowd I spotted him and everyone else ceased to exist and I felt such happiness rose from my stomach to my chest and eventually all over. I looked at his face and could not believe how much I loved him and, as the cliché says, could have sworn that I heard La Vie en Rose playing at the station. ha ha.
I also remeber the night we were at the terrace of the Banana Café when he came out to his best friend and introduced me as his Grand Amour de sa vie (the love of his life)! He was happy as a lark having for the first time ever blurted out his non heterosexuality to his stunned best friend who sat there jaws practically on his lap. And then, of course, there were walks in le Marais and long kisses at a corner table at l’Amnesia café.

We lived on the fifth floor walk up apartment in Goncourt (which explained I guess why i had adorable behind at that time) where in the mornings I used to wake him up with a steaming cup of hot coffee and fresh wet kisses. For the first time in my life, I had no desire to have sex with other men. This must be love, I told myself; that must be love, everyone around me told me. In the cocoon of our apartment, we lived in our own world as if the morning sun was there to whisper Bonjour just for us.

But the real world reared its head and broke us apart from the inside (and not exactly knocking on the door as I anticipated or knocking us apart from the outside). He was soon torn between his family who wanted a heterosexual son and a lover that could look like RuPaul on a bad hair day (or even no hair day!). We would be together in Paris and he would be feeling guiltier by the minute, resenting me by the second and finally running to take the train to his hometown, only to call me not long after he arrived to say he missed me and did not know what in hell he was doing there away from me. He shuttled between Paris and his hometown like a crazy pingpong ball being bounced and pulled by different parts of himself that just never seemed to find its rightful place wherever he was. It was no wonder he cracked: He left Paris (in fact, France), married the first girl that looked presentable, and got fat.

So there we are: A happy family in the province that could be proud of his son, an unhappy man with a presentable wife a long way from France, and a lost person wondering the streets of Paris late at night wondering if the Grand Amour will say Hello out of the blue foggy night.

Paris weather, the homeless, birthday & lovers

Weather and the homeless
Today is the 14th of dec. 2007. Paris experiences one of its coldest days. In the afternoon, I looked at the t displayed on a building and saw it was only 3 (Ok, people from Hamilton NY will probably laugh saying that 3 degrees Celsius is cold). Tomorrow morning, they expect -3 ! Though nothing compared to what we could have in New York or NJ or Massachusetts (or Canada), Paris does not really see itself as a cold weather city which means that heating system is not as effective as one might find in North America. My first apartment, for instance, did not have any heaters (I had to buy portable ones. The law has since changed though, specifying that heaters are to be present in rented apartments). But even heating professionals would look at you as if you had just spoken to them in Chinese if you talk about central heating. Snow is even rarer. My first year in Paris, everyone was up in arms with traffic jams and accidents on autoroutes around Paris because of an inch of snow! Never mind the kind of snow we get in upstate NY.
During this cold time, metro stations might be left open (they usually close just after midnight) to be used as shelters for homeless people. The number of homeless people in Paris has increase exponentially since I arrived here 9 years ago. Many new ones I notice in my neighbourhood (they still look very well kept and have few possessions, whereas the longtime homeless people may look unkempt and carry many things from boxes to supermarket caddy). This is a rather shocking situation in a society that is very social(ist, with socialized medical system) and concerned with human issues. Though housing problem has been discussed often on tv, little news concerns the homeless (unless the weather gets very cold like these days). In a true French tendency to render unpleasant things less unpleasant, these homeless people are called SDF or sans domicile fixe or, literally, without fixed address as if they change address everyday! Actually, more accurately they should be called simply sans domicile or without home!

Birthday and lovers
Tomorrow is my birthday. As the (self-made) tradition calls every year, I celebrate it by making love. Last year, I had to wait till the day after my birthday for the love making with my married lover. This year I start early, so, thank you to Michel and to Mario who have made my day and my evening. Both had to come from outside Paris to help me celebrate the day that most gay men beyond a certain age would rather forget! Malik came just before midnight to lessen the pain of the symbolic passage of the age on the midnight hour. These men helped me forget aging, aging and aging. Memorable past birthdays include Marc, my lover who with his youth managed to make me feel younger (assimilation) or, sigh, older (contrast). Marc is gone from my neighbourhood (and from my life) now. But I still remember his likes and dislikes that are not always conventional (like finding a secluded park on a cold night when my apartment is all nice, warm and cosy, to make love in). But hey, to each his own and if that makes him happy I am not averse to a spot of love among trees (nature lover that I am) on a beautiful park in a small island where Paris first came into being, stranded by the river Seine on both sides (hint: Ile de st louis).
With birthdays, one cannot help but count the time until one finally reaches one’s goal of finding Mr. Right instead of Mr Right There. But for now again, Mr. Right There is better than no one right?

Paris Los Angeles

Having spent some of my formative years in Los Angles, it is no wonder that I miss LA from time to time. There is this feeling that I get as soon as the plane touches down in LAX that could only be described as a feeling that one may have upon arriving ‘home’ after a long and tortuous journey or day.
No other two cities can be more different to each other than LA and Paris.
Whereas LA does not really have a city center and is spread out, Paris is compact and almost all of Paris can be considered the center (at least the first 8 arrondissements, which only leave us 12 that are not properly speaking center of Paris). Whereas LA downtown (if we insist on having a center in LA this is the most likely candidate, at least theoretically) is deserted and actively avoided once the sun goes down, Paris center becomes even more lively later in the night. The perception of city center and suburbs and where the rich and the poor live also could not be more different. Talking to a friend in LA about social problems, he talked about the inner city whereas I talked about the banlieus or the suburbs!

So, once in a while I would scrape a few dollars or euros from my miserable salary to get myself an airticket to LA. Bizarrely, it is not that easy to get a non stop direct flight between the two cities. So, one may have to stop in Chicago, New York, Detroit (yes, Detroit! Go figure) or Washington. Arriving in LAX, my first stop would be to the outside walkways to the right and the left of the Tom Bradley international terminal: Here, I had spent many hours watching airlines from all over the world parked at their gates and dreaming of far away places that someday I might visit (I have done most of them now).
Next is the city bus that would take me along Century boulevard towards Hawthorne boulevard. This will take me past the X book store I used to go to (and cruised) when I was young in Inglewood. And the bus will take me to my old hood Hawthorne.

Now, you may get advised not to go anywhere near Hawthorne or Inglewood because of gang problems etc. But I can walk there feeling free as a bird as I recognize every corner that had stayed the same or remember it as it used to be: Like the bleachers at Hawthorne HS athletic tracks where we all used to do naughty stuff whilst the HS athletes are huffing and puffing on the track chased by the coach or the bus stops where I probably spent most of my non driving years and wasted my youth waiting or missing buses, or the mall where I used to hang out and whiled away the time.

LA vs Paris: public transport and superficial friendship
Whereas public transport is the norm in Paris (as in many other large cities such as NY and London), in LA public transport used to be pronounced with so much spite it was no wonder I was floored when I finally realized public transport could be efficient and useful, as when I moved to NYC. In LA, cars are necessary and even though everyone would have spent hours on 12 lane freeways turned into a veritable parking lot during rush hours, the idea of a public transport would give Angelinos a mini heart attack or nervous breakdown. The day I got my driving licence (after a hair raising road test) I felt like a new person. I was able to go to West Hollywood wherever I wanted without having to spend hours waiting for buses and missing the connections. I was able to go to the beach and walked on the sand (about the only place where one can walk in LA actually). Walking is a common everyday activity in Paris and, indeed, one has to walk and just wonder if one wants to discover Paris. Walking in LA can be dangerous to your health (try to cross a boulevard in one go, or as Parisians are apt to do, to cross when the little man is red….).

Whereas LA is colourful, Paris is more sedate. Just look at the Los Angelinos, they tend to wear bright colors (or in the case of little old ladies in my old neighbourhood, pale green and cotton candy pink hair!). In Paris, better not go out with green fluorescent shorts and yellow t shirt or people will look at you curiously (and a tad of disdain for ruining the harmony in Paris) or simply tag you as tourist from outre atlantique (the other side of the Atlantic) with amusement. Los Angelinos are optimists by nature, whereas the smiley and happy people you see in Paris may very well be the tourists. Whereas Angelinos suffer from the reputation of being superficial (rightly or wrongly), no one will ever (dare) say Parisians are such. In fact, the most often heard criticism of Parisians concerning Americans concerns their supposed superficiality. How many times have I heard Parisians say Sure it is easy to start friendship in the US, but it is sooo (with the lift of the shoulder that indicates once and for all that they are so right) superficielle. In Paris, they continue, it takes time to build friendship but it goes much deeper and last forever. Hm ok. Well, that explains why everyone seems to have kept their friends from childhood and how difficult it is to break into existing friendship. There are always friends and FRIENDS!

Paris vs LA: Muscle men
LA men cannot be more different than their counterparts in Paris. You go to any gay bars in West Hollywood or walk around Santa Monica or Venice beach, you probably see muscle men all over the place. In Paris, men tend to be less muscled and skinny. I guess culture does have a lot to do with the idea of sexiness and beauty. If bulging muscles are what’s important in underwear nights in an LA bar, the elegance of the underwear you wear (if it’s classe or not) is what is important in a Paris bar. In Paris, though the cute guy may at first be the centre of attention, at the end, it’s the guy who can hold his own in conversation that will probably be invited again! Conversation is an important part of French life and the French appreciate those who stick to their own even if they don’t agree. So, forget the dream guy who gets on his knees when you walk into the room and speaks only when spoken too. The ideal guy here would not only be able to talk to you about Sartre but also wears D&G underwear.

Tired in Paris

Finally things have calmed down a lot. I am so tired of working, searching for an apartment and life in general. The new French president talks about working more and earning more, with all the law reforms that supposedly will take place. Yes, brilliant as an idea, but already I am working day and night and cannot fathom the idea of working even more (and cannot, even if I want to!).
The thing that really ticks me off is that I don’t remember ever having worked so hard in my life. What’s more, I don’t even think that I am more productive and sometimes think that I am even less productive than when I worked less. Many of our time indeed is spent negotiating how to do our work (calming down colleagues who get nuts thinking we were up to some no good or something that could have negative impact on them in comparison which seems to lead to the idea better make sure others do as little as me), leaving not much time to do the work itself (and too tired).

Working environment cannot be more different between Australia or the US and France. If the default assumption among my American colleagues was trust (for example, I cannot make it to the meeting, and I don’t expect that I will be fucked over just because I was not there), here the assumption is distrust and méfiance. Meetings become extremely important because everyone expects to get the worst end if not present. But of course the important decisions have been discussed outside among cliques. But this does not prevent everyone to have their say in very long discourse that goes right, left, up and down until everyone including the speaker often forget what is being talked about. This explains why meetings tend to drag on and on. And what’s surprising is that often whilst someone is talking the others would discuss loudly among themselves!
As is the rule in French conversation, people don’t wait for a gap to jump in verbally. No, they just speak louder and drown the other speaker (who in turn would turn up the volume too). This will take some time to master for Anglophones who tend to wait for a gap (and of course, among Anglophones, they say that in conversation, the opposite of "speaking" is really "waiting", and not "listening"!).

Back to my complaint, now I work much more for less of a salary than what I had when I was more junior in other countries that seem to pay their workers more. But, I tell myself, I am in Paris (and I look longingly at all the lovely apartments that those moneyed or well connected seem to have). And Paris is Paris is Paris!

That’s probably what you’re thinking too, complaining when one lives in Paris? Actually, these are the moments when I remember fondly being a tourist in Paris. Then, Paris was indeed the romantic city that holds a lot of mysteries, the Parisians did not bug me because you project onto them your ideas formed from films and novels (charming, secretive, daring, impulsive, but always romantic). Well, the more you know them the less you rely on these images and, frankly, like everywhere else, the reality often lags behind the ideas…Indeed sometimes I see a person that would activate the image I used to have of Parisians, but the person has to really fit this image...otherwise, it's just other people like me doing boulot, métro, dodo (translation: work, subway, sleep).

Aging in Paris

Sitting in a Paris café and watching people go by or the other clients, one cannot help but think about things and be a bit reflective (like, when is the arrogant waiter going to ever notice me?). One day, at Place de la Marie in the 4th arrondissement, I watched a group of old ladies sitting on a bench in front of the café, talking, laughing and just passing the time in each other’s company. Everyday after that day, I saw them on the same bench at the same time. I started thinking about growing old. Yes, something that gay men fear most of all. How do you expect to land Mr. Right with wrinkled skin, sagging ass and soft erection? Worse yet, with failing vision, you would probably have a hard time spotting Mr. Right even if he was a mere meter from you.
What getting old means
I wished now that people had told me more about getting old. So many things that I did not anticipate or expect that their sudden appearance can put anybody in a light depression. I noticed my sight was going when I had a bit of trouble reading the small map of Paris métro. I used to love this little map that fits into my wallet. Now, I need a map the size of Manhattan to easily read the names of the station or buy a magnifying glass and keep the little map in my wallet.
Gay men, like adolescents, are avid sms users too which are practical to set up sex RDVs. But now I am obliged to buy the high tech and rather large cell phone because the little cute ones (yes, size does matter, though for once, the smaller the better) that we like so much are becoming too difficult to read!
To top it off, how many evenings have I spent at dinner table without my glasses (thinking I look cuter without them) blind as a bat conversing with someone that looked cute only to find out he was far from it when I took a peek with my glasses whilst he was asleep next to me in my bed?
Being old was something that scared me and of which I tried to think as little as possible. I could not imagine being 30 when I turned 21, let alone turning 40. In subways and buses I would look at old men thinking that I would NEVER get that age. This is an interesting phenomenon as I often imagined myself being rich (unlikely to happen), yet never imagined being old (sure to happen). What does that say about how we think of ourselves in the future? I looked at older gay men in bars thinking that at their age I would probably be at home watching tv with Mr. Right with whom I would have bought a house, a car and raised a dog together. Wrong. I still frequent gay bars looking for Mr. Right and often end up with Mr. Available, still don’t own a house and what’s more I am getting kicked out of my miniscule apartment in Paris. Life can be so cruel!
Being old, being wise?
I don’t know about wise, but certainly old means you know more than you care or ever want to know. The day I finally FELT I perfectly understood the phrase Youth is wasted on the young I knew I did not belong to this group any more. Worse, I very nearly physically felt the saying Now I get up with a stiff back and a soft dick (instead of the other way around!). So, we know more with age, but this is the knowledge that I can do without really.
In most gay circles, being old means you’re finished, done, out. That’s probably why many gay men act young despite their wrinkled skin and sagging behind. They still wear tight jeans (at least in Paris) with t shirt that is at least 2 sizes too small. They shaved their head. They wear the latest Converse on their feet (Hey, it’s like looking in the mirror, writing this).
However, being older does have its advantages. We don’t get all worked out thinking about what other people think of us. We know who we are. Having been there and done that, there’s always something in our past to which we can turn to deal with any situation. We get out of uncomfortable situations more easily and by being nice! A concrete example, after making love and needing my beauty sleep though the guy I was with seemed to still be keen on playing, I probably would not have known what to do when I was young. Now, I can say in my most Blanche (from the Golden Girls, for you who are not of age to know this wonderful series) voice if I could call a taxi for him…Hey, service with a smile! And I assure you that I did not learn that in Paris!