I left Tel Aviv early Saturday morning, told airport security I was trying to learn Hebrew and thinking about making aliyah and they let me right on by, and when I arrived in Paris the passport control barely looked at me, said bonjour and stamped me on through.
Because in my mind, 80 degree weather in Tel Aviv equaled 80 degree weather everywhere else in the world. I was a bit surprised when I stepped out of the airport and into a cold, cloudy consistent rain. I had the vague idea that it was slightly colder in the rest of the world, and hence brought a pair of jeans and a long sleeve sweater, bu really didn't think much beyond that. Not the smartest idea. Over the course of my time there I managed to buy an umbrella, a coat, gloves and a hat. Because I chose the following shoes as my Paris in November footwear, I spent much of the time without being able to feel the tips of my toes.
Having perhaps a case of selective memory, I spent the first couple of days popping in and out of shoe stores, holding up a pair of boots and asking politely, avez vous le taille 42?, But, the looks on the faces of the people working in the stores, and their quick switch to English asking if truly I meant I wear a size 42 (that's size 11, US style) and perhaps was I confusing my numbers, I was quickly reminded that in fact I have enormous feet, and thus, the French have no shoes for people like me. And so, I resigned myself to four days of switching stockings and tights and trying to maintain slight feeling in my toes.
On Saturday after I arrived I took a quick, xanax induced nap and then headed out to stroll the city. My first stop was to buy an umbrella, and then a bit of homesickness for New York struck me and so I bought an enormous coffee from Starbucks which I clung to for warmth as I walked along the Seine. With the homesickness still intact and the need to warm my feet, I decided to treat myself to an American day and went to my favorite Canadian bar where I drank a beer and watched the Michigan football game. Then I headed to see a movie, and torn between the only English movies, The American or The Social Network, I went for the American. Bad choice. It was a terrible movie, and the man sitting next to me was laughing at the melodramaticness of it all. It's a sad day when a French man is mocking an American movie for taking itself too seriously.
On Sunday I remembered that France is a country that, for the most part, closes on Sundays. But, in desperate need of a coat, I headed straight for the people I knew would have open shopping on a Sunday morning, the Jews and the gays! After a brief croissant and espresso (praise the lord for a country that does not think instant coffee is coffee!), I headed towards the Marais, but of course got a bit detoured. I stopped into Notre Dame and enjoyed a bit of mass, until the whole eating of the body of Christ thing came up, which I took as my cue to leave. Right behind Notre Dame are the steps of deportation, a memorial to the Jews were taken under Vichy France. There's a moving memorial which, a sign told me, is "exceptionally close". Unclear as to what that means, but the monument was closed. Either ironically or sadly or something, when I just googled Steps of Deportation Paris, all of the hits that came up were "France Steps up Deportation of Roma."
Whilst trying to find my way to the vintage stores of the Marais, I found myself walking down the Avenue of the Righteous, a dedication to the righteous who saved the Jews during, not the Holocaust, but the Occupation.
Leave it to me to leave Israel with the intention of pretending that politics and war and blah blah blah don't exist and stumble upon France's own history with being occupied. The Avenue of the Righteous turns out to lead to the Memorial of the Shoah, which I had actually never been to, and because it was still cold and because it was free and because I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad to remember that the Holocaust happened, I went into the museum.
For the most part, the museum was the same as every Holocaust museum, with a touch of French passivity thrown in for good measure. Of course the museum is filled with horrifying tales, and disturbing images, but as I have been spending so much time in Israel and Palestine talking to people about "narratives" I was much more interested in looking at the way the French chose to tell the story. Of course the most obvious distinction is the focus on occupation, that it wasn't really the French who had taken any part, active or passive in the mass deportation of Jews. I wrote down a few lines and the best one was, "The obligation to wear the yellow star and the Vel d'Hiv round up caused a change in public opinion because prosecution of section of the population was distasteful and upsetting." The actual French word used for "distasteful and upsetting" is frapper, which means to hit or to strike. How they got to distasteful from there is beyond me, but I can't help but appreciate the European appeal to manners and dignity. Sigh.
After feeling thoroughly depressed by the morning, I finally made it to the vintage store of my choice where I bought two new handbags and one much needed coat and felt proud about being able to have the entire exchange in French. As it turns out, I pass for French much more easily than I pass for Israeli, and hence was spoken to in French. Such a treat! And, my shopping and restaurant vocabulary seems to have been sitting somewhere in the depths of my brain for the past two years, waiting eagerly for the opportunity to be used! Occasionally, waiters or people in stores would switch to English, but it was so nice to not feel like a complete idiot when trying to communicate and to be able to practice a little French. People say that Parisians are rude but I really do think that if you try, they appreciate it!
The rest of my days were spent in the magic of Paris. I sat in cafes and bars and drank coffee and wine and wrote and read a wonderful collection of short stories. I practiced my French. I was a lady who lunched with just me and my book. I walked and walked until I honest to goodness couldn't feel my toes, I attempted to be a photographer. And I succeeded in buying only one article of clothing (aside from the much needed winter wear) in the form of an adorable day to evening dress! Practical!
The luxurious ease of it all took a rather frustrating but entertaining turn when I arrived at the airport. I got to the airport too early to check in, as did everyone else on my flight. About ten minutes before they let us check in, the Israelis started pushing up to the front, followed by the French Jews, followed by me. It was then that I realized that Europe truly is much more civil about everything, and remembered that Israelis do not in fact understand the concept of forming a line.
Once I got up to the security woman, she insisted that I prove to her that I had a return ticket from Israel within the next three months, and luckily I have one for December that I pulled up on my blackberry. However, this must have frustrated her in some way because when I got to the regular security screening I was pulled aside for separate screening where I was felt up by a nice French lady, was made to take every single thing out of my bags by a not so friendly French man, and had my hands checked for explosives by another French man. About ten minutes into this adventure, while they were examining my key ring as if it were an exotic device they had never seen before, I asked why exactly I was being searched. The second French man said to me, "Oh, it's not you, just ten to twenty percent of passengers going to Tel Aviv are searched."
All this while looking at a sign that said, "Passengers traveling to the United States are not permitted to bring printer cartridges over a certain size." Really? Really? Yes, forbid printer cartridges and that will foil terrorists, surely they can't think of another method in which to carry a bomb. And, to quote my father, they didn't make anyone stop wearing underwear last winter. And sure, search the innocent looking white American girl so that you don't feel bad searching the vaguely Arab looking man. Seriously, I don't mind being searched if I felt like there was any purpose to it. For me it is just a rare, annoying, but frankly somewhat amusing exercise in what it's like to be made to feel like you are doing something illegal, but I do wonder what it must feel like to have this be a routine, to constantly have people be suspicious of you. Sigh. At least the Daily Show can make it entertaining. Jump to 7:20, it's where the flying related humor begins.
Now, my fear of flying is based primarily on the belief that people are not meant to be 30,000 feet in the air and that mechanical failures happen. But after this little package bombing episode and the extreme displays of stupidity demonstrated at airports, I really do feel like there are other reasons to be nervous about flying. Le sigh. At least they didn't take my cookies away.
When I finally got through security (turns out I was explosive free!) I spent my last few euros on one delicious cup of coffee. I was standing in line behind an American woman wearing a purple name tag with a cross on it and as she took her coffee she took a sip of it and said, "Oh my goodness, I had a feeling you people would make your coffee too strong! Can I have a cup of hot water?" She looked at me and I smiled sympathetically and offered that she should ask for a cafe americain, so it wouldn't be so strong. She thanked me and after I ordered my coffee in French she turned to me and said, "And are you French? Are you from Paris?" I was just feeling oh so proud of myself for appearing to be French, even while the barman laughed to himself at the exchange we were having, that I almost told her I was French but was feeling so happy to be in the company of this grandmotherly like American that I told her I was from Michigan. She was from Kentucky but as it turns out was on a tour with a group of people from Michigan! I spent the flight talking with a lovely woman from Tecumseh, Michigan and reveling in the Midwesterny-ness of it all.
Making sure not to dress like a drug dealer so as not to be stopped the second I stepped of the plane like last time, I made it past the first round of security and at the passport control my learning Hebrew and making aliyah speech worked like a charm and I was on a train and into a cab and back at my apartment in no time at all.
And now here I am, back in Tel Aviv where it is in fact 80 degrees and I sweated my way around town today, longing for my toes to be freezing. Luckily in one short month I will be back in gay Paris, proper footwear in tow.
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