Welcome to this, the first French edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle. We're pleased to launch our product into this new, virgin territory which has thus far remained unscathed by our particular brand of loving sarcasm.
For those of you who are acquainted with both parts of me, I need only say that Rajul has arrived in Paris. The Ed. however, is still wandering somewhere. If you're wondering who's writing this edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly-Bugle, wonder on. So are we.
Il y a beaucoup de Tams ici!
Where one travels, I believe one forges an identity eventually, but on first look, I've been accustomed to being judged purely on what I look like (or what my name sounds like). In India, depending on whether I'm on the phone (where unanimously everyone assumes I'm a dude), or meeting someone in person (you're Bengali?), my initial identity varies. In both cases, an immediate correction is required (in the former case, generous lashings of syrupy meanness of spirit accompany the correction).
Now it's easy enough in India. In Sri Lanka, it wasn't quite so easy. The poor chaps so desperately wanted me to be Tamil. I felt fairly awful disabusing them of the notion that all Indians are Tamil. No really, there's a lot of variety, lots of flavours to choose from. If there's one thing we're not (um, apart from being at the door of extinction I mean), it's that we're not homogenous. No sir. We can't really even be stratified. A bit like Haggis really. Lots of weirdness lumped together.
The last place I'd expected to find a similar bias would have been Paris, but there you have it. I live in a small bucket located in what I can only term "Immigration Central"... a place populated by francophone arabs, africans, chinese, vietnamese (on a side note, vietnamese food, yummy!) and Tams. Yes, you heard it, Tams. Sri Lankan Tams. Indian Tams. Second generation French Tams.
The internet cafe dude is Tam. His wife is Tam. An African dude who loves Indian movies started a conversation with me asking if I knew Rajesh. Or Govinda. Or Raj. Or Vijay. It was only when he got to Mithun that I realised he was speaking of the actors... R. Khanna, Govinda (duh!), SRK, A, Bachchan and M. Chakraborty respectively :D But that's not what is important. What is important is that his wife is Tam.
And they all want me to be Tam. I feel awful again. Why, oh WHY me? On another OT aside, at Sacre Coeur, they have signage asking for donations in French, English, Spanish, German, (what I assume is) Chinese, and of course, the ever present Tam.
Je parle un peu de Francais, s'il vous plait
Now if I've given you the mistaken impression that apart from the immense (unspoken) pressure to be Tam is all that I have to be going on with, let's address the rather bemused (pink) elephant (why pink? I don't know, but pink elephants seem cuter) in the room.
I may as well tell you now, that what follows will sound a lot like a whinge and an unnecessary one at that, but bear with me here. One expects, on reaching Paris, to encounter the French. And to have communication misfires. However, I was wholly unprepared for the special brand of French miscommunication.
Here's how a typical conversation goes.. the frenzied traveler starts with broken french and manages to get a question across, with liberal use of keywords and unconjugated verbs. Hallelujah! Now watch closely as the Frenchperson (to be politically correct) ignores the said liberal use of bad French and proceeds (presumably) to answer the question in a flawless variety. Did I mention spitfire fast? Incomprehensible? No? My bad. Of course, he/ she could just be cursing me out, cos they usually just lose me after the first sentence.
My take on the situation? The blank "you soooooo lost me at hello" please slow down and talk look doesn't work. You have to say it, or it's not official. It's like a real life version of "Are you smarter than a fifth grader?"... you may have the answer (in a way) to your question, but you have to admit that your mental processes rival those of a meal worm and no, you're NOT smarter than a fifth grader.
S'il vous plait monsieur, je veux du ketchup!
So I'll veer sharply away from the whinge and focus on what (not) to do in Paris. I know I promised to write of what I have done in Paris, but again, bear with me. A friend of mine in the MPA recently told me of a study that concluded that while Americans (as they grow richer) collect tangible wealth, the French collect experiences. In the month that I've been here, I've realised that this may be in all probability true (a quick mention here of my statistics professor, who staunchly maintains that a true statistician never speaks in absolutes).
When in Roma, do as the Romans do usually translates as such: Order gelato with at LEAST 3 flavours and nod vigorously when asked if you'd like cream... nevermind that the small cup is already groaning under the weight of the overflowing gelato. Repeat this exercise in nodding whenever asked if whether you wouldn't like more cheese... everything goes well with more cheese. Or face the wrath of Jupiter.
In Paris, it is difficult to define such simple laws of avoiding public shame, and given my propensity for falling over and such, my month of experience gaining has been a melange of near misses and well.. sometimes unsuccessful near misses. As Douglas Adams once put it.. the secret to flying is to launch yourself at the ground and miss. Sometimes I forget to miss :)
So what have I learnt? That there is a fine line between being a resident and a tourist in Paris. The Parisian doesn't sneer at visiting the Tour Eiffel.. but only if accompanied by a picnic and the customary bottle of wine. Preferably more than one. Sacre Coeur is acceptable, but if you go there to hang out and goggle at the spectacular view through a beer-fuelled haze. Ile St. Louis? No problem. A hamper with boulanges, cheese and wine should see you through. Don't forget to spring for gelato. Does the pattern begin to appear yet?
Of course, the correct alcohol must be used in each instance... that's one I still haven't mastered, so I'm (for once) going to refrain from inserting my throbbing foot into my mouth.
The Whole Sorry-But-I-Gotta-Go Section
I know I haven't touched on my school, class or (and this is most important) my classmates, but I will. Inshallah. Given the fate of the half dozen Bugles lying incomplete strewn across my literary landscape, the probability is low, but given how amazingly wonderful these people are, the odds become better :)
Till next time.. A Bientot!
The Small Print:
To Suhail... I hope this suffices to an extent. I will write more; and more personally at some stage, but I still need your signature on the exchange contract :P
To Lavanya... I know this is hardly what you wanted. You want me to write and write more often, but I'm hoping you will be at least mollified. The next episode will hopefully cover more of my (mis)adventures :)
