I worked all Thanksgiving day. The French don't celebrate Thanksgiving because they didn't murder American Indians and steal their land and shove the whiskey-sotted, small-pox-scarred survivors onto reservations. Oh, I'm sure the French murdered somebody over the last 100 years or so and at least tried to steal their land (after all, it's a country that has been and still is run by white men, so it's an easy bet) and they have their own celebration for that. And in America, I imagine we don't recognize any other country's traditions, either. Other than Cinco de Mayo, but that's just an excuse to get drunk and eat chips and salsa. And if we happen to encounter anyone from another country in a shop or on the street, we say, "Speaky dee Eenglish, wetback?" Or some such thing as that. So much for the "Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free." Oh, I forgot, the Statue of Liberty was a gift from the French. Damn socialists.
But, I digress.
It was a long day - standing up and bloviating in front of students from 9-5. But it was satisfying, since they laughed at at least one of my jokes and I got to say the word "bullshit" in reference to corporate America. Some might call this heaven.
As I trudged wearily but happily home, I stopped off at my local, fittingly named L'Insolent. I used to go to the other local, Desperado's, but they have new owners and a new name, and I don't feel as welcome. I used to tell people that I lived somewhere in between Insolence and Desperation, but now I can't say that any more.
Thomas and Teddy, the Iranian-born, French-raised owners of L'Insolent were in the midst of their shift change but welcomed me to the bar and gave me a Picon Bierre (beer with a dash of orange bitters). I perused the menu and lo and behind, the special was Dinde Normande. "Dinde?" you may ask. So did my former boyfriend when we first arrived in Paris and would spend hours exploring the exotic magic of the local grocery store. "What do you think din-dee is?" He asked. I shook my head, fixated on the fact that I knew he was slaughtering the pronunciation and wondering myself if it was pronounced danduh or dahnduh. You might think you could look at a piece of flesh in the grocery store and know immediately which animal it came from. But you would be mistaken. Well, dinde is turkey in French. And Dinde Normande is turkey in a Normandy-style cream sauce.
The turkey was lovely and tender. I could cut it with a fork. I ate and watched the constant horn-honking, near-death traffic confrontations on the busy corner and all of the people scurrying home in the rain. I had warm apricot tart for dessert and Thomas, who is always trying to make me stay longer so I can keep him company, plied me with some Armagnac. Finally, it was time to go home and I realized I'd forgotten my umbrella, so Thomas gave me his. It was kind of him, and also it was like girls who leave their underpants at a guy's house. It's an excuse to go back. Thomas wants me to come back, and so I will.
Earlier in the week, one of my students asked if she could make a short announcement in the class, and I said yes. She said, "You guys...(such an American phrase)...I'm having an American Thanksgiving dinner at my place Friday night, so please email me or come talk to me at the break and tell me if you're coming, so that I'll know how much food to make." I raised my hand a tiny bit and said, "Um. Can I come?" Ha! Inviting myself! Terrible. Of course she's going to say yes. Poor girl. But I was lonely for a Thanksgiving meal and therefore, had no shame.
She lived right near the Eiffel Tower, so it was a bit of a trek for me. And as usual, I suffer from the always-early disease, and left my apartment an hour ahead of time. I stopped into my local Franprix and bought a bottle of Mercier, a Champagne that I love. There was an "incident" somewhere along line 13 (yawn, tell em something new) and the crowds on the platform and in the train were massive. Me and the Mercier were crushed in between woolly coats, listening to everyone breathe.
Finally, I popped above ground right along the Seine and the Eiffel Tower was sparkling in blue and white lights, as it does every hour on the hour. I walked across the Pont d'Alma and watched the wind stir up waves in the Seine. As I walked past the Quai Branly museum, someone came up behind me and said, "Is that you?" It was one of my students, a handsome Brazilian. We walked the rest of the way and when we got inside the building and into the beautiful glass and wrought-iron-filigreed elevator, we got stuck. It was stopping halfway between floors, so the door wouldn't open. He kept pushing the buttons and we'd go up to the 5th, then down to the 3rd and up to the 4th, but no luck. I started to think that we might just have to sit down and start drinking my Mercier and his beer. But alas, we finally got to the ground floor and escaped. We were relegated to the winding, red-carpeted stairs.
Inside the apartment, a few people had arrived before me (thank you!) and it smelled like heaven. There was a huge roasted turkey on the counter, two roasted chickens, creamy mashed potatoes, au gratin potatoes, lentils with fried onions on top and stuffing. Other students brought dishes from their own countries - Japanese sushi, Moroccan eggplant (incredibly good) and a green vegetable soup with chick peas. In the end, I think there were about 40 students there, et moi. I was honored that they included me.
The coup de gras was dessert. My student announced that she had New York cheesecake and pineapple upside down cake, among other things. Oh my. Now, I've actually had Junior's cheesecake in New York and my mother used to make pineapple upside down cake all the time when we were kids, so I was drooling. And I wasn't disappointed. Both were delicious and authentic. When I complimented my host, she was happy to know that her food was authentic and said, "I just went to Thanksgiving.com and got the recipes. I couldn't get Philadelphia cream cheese, of course, so I used mascarpone." Well, there ya go. Student ingenuity at its best.
The familiar sound of American football was never in the background that evening, like it was when I was growing up. But suddenly there was loud salsa music and a Venezuelan student started teaching the girls to dance salsa. "Madame Wines! Madame Wines! You must dance." They didn't have to twist my arm. I got up and moved my hips as if I still felt sexy, which I don't. So it was a nice change for me. Recently, bad-boy Teddy at L'Insolent told me as I was standing at the bar that he'd be right back and then he'd throw me down onto the bar. He says things like this. Strange, but true. I said, "OK, I'll go home and find my sexy body and be right back, too. I know it's somewhere. In a box probably. But I'll try real hard to find it."
So, I danced and sweated off the huge meal and had a grand time. I talked for a while with one of my students' boyfriends about mortgage-backed securities, debt risk tranches and the worldwide financial crisis. He works at the same bank where they busted that guy for his risky trading. I can't tell you what he told me, but if you were following the case at all, you'd know what he said. Then I spoke to a Chinese student who is from the town where they had the terrible earthquake last year. We laughed about cultural differences - Chinese, French and American. Another student's boyfriend was from College Station, Texas, where I know I've been at some vague point in my corporate life, probably staying in a no-tell motel on my way from somewhere and going to somewhere else. I probably got stuck there on the way to Waco. Who knows. But when I said, "Remind me of where College Station is." he showed me on his face. Houston was his left cheek, Austin his right cheek, and College Station was his nose.
Another student's boyfriend said, "I think it's amazing that you would come to a party thrown by students. French teachers would never do this. They think that they must maintain their distance in order to maintain respect and control." Ah. And they're probably right. But I see my students as fellow human beings, who have as much to teach me as I have to teach them. Unfortunately for me, I've always seen titles - like Professor, Vice President, CEO, etc. - as illusions. Which means that I never gave corporate owners and managers the bloated respect they desired. I have respect for all human beings, because they're human. If I suddenly put on a suit and call myself a Professor, do I instantly require respect just because of the title? If I do, it's a mirage. If I teach them something worthwhile, that they can use in their life and career, then I am a Professor.
I decided around midnight that I'd head home and leave them to their partying. Filled with wonderful food and the graciousness of my students' hospitality, I walked back to the Metro. I'm thankful to have the opportunity to live here, meet and talk to students from all over the world and hopefully give them some useful tools that will serve them well.
This wasn't the only Thanksgiving meal I had. On Saturday night I was invited to a lovely feast, that I'll tell you about soon. Especially the hilarious clusterf*ck of a pumpkin dish that I made. But for now, I'll sign off since I have to prepare for school tomorrow. À Bientôt!
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