Well, here's hoping these photos actually load onto the blog. The last one is of the Arche de Triomphe as seen from the Place de Concord. The next is the metro station Cite. The top right is Notre Dame. The first is Hezbollah's flag being flow at a pro-Lebanon march in downtown Paris.

In non bitching-and-moaning-about-the-excruciating-minutia-of-everyday-life related news, things are going well here. I am settled rather well in my room, which has roughly the square footage of a Chevy Astro-van. Residence life seems like it will be fun. Most evenings there is at least one group of people in the kitchen with a few bottles of wine, baguettes, and cheese to share (berets are optional).

I signed up for courses, some of which seem interesting. In truth, my primary rubric for class choice was finding classes that would allow me both Monday and Friday free to facilitate travel. I am a touch trepid about commencing class with the French students here at Sciences Po. This is the school in France for political sciences (I think something like all but one of the French prime ministers during the 5th republic are Science Po alum). To be honest I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Their much touted ‘Science Po method’, my methodology prof freely admits, to a focus on style over substance. One must be able to concisely present information in a symmetric rhetorical form. This is not, on its own, a bad goal, but it becomes a suspect academic attainment when it takes priority over depth of analysis and understanding.

Science Po instated four or five years ago the first affirmative action program at an elite French school. The program, which would hardly make waves on the other side of the pond, has aroused considerable controversy here. The students benefiting from this program, by definition the children of immigrants living in a select number of Paris suburbs, are virtually the only Arabs or Blacks in the entire school (excluding of course the cleaning staff).

I recently saw a brief interview with one of Sciences Po’s ‘more traditional’ students, who complained that affirmative action degraded the republican ideal of equality of opportunity. When the reporter asked him where he was from and where he went to high school it turned out he was from one of the most posh suburbs or Paris and went to one of the two most exclusive high schools in France. To see this kid spouting off about equal opportunity, without a glimmer of irony, was jaw-dropping. One of my classmates, an American of Indian or South Asian descent, admitted to being worried about what the French students might think about her presence, especially if they mistook her for someone who had benefited from this program.

Oh, as a completely unrelated side note, I found out one of my residence friends was involved in improv in Montreal, and, more interesting, that Science Po has an improv group that offers open workshops.

Anywho, I am off to buy a baguette and some cheese. Vive le cliché!

PS. As I am not able to post from home, you may notice several seemingly simultaneous posts. In reality, I have taken to saving posts in word until i have access to an unfiltered internet link.

Huis clos’d to our own incompetence

Well, i now know where Sartre drew the inspiration for Existentialism: the French banking system. That feeling that nothing really matters, that personal choice is an illusion, and that you are damned no matter what you do is clearly and obviously a result of trying to interact with a French bank.

Suite to my last post, i received four letters in the mail on Tuesday. One told me my bank card was ready for pick-up at the bank and that the pin code would be sent separately; the second was the pin code for my bank card, the third informed me that my visa card was ready for pick-up at the bank and that the pin code would be sent separately; the fourth was the pin code for my visa. Now, there are two interesting things about this batch of mail. Number one, i was not aware i had even signed up for a visa card, no one explained that i was signing up for a visa card, and i don't really want a new visa card (see above for personal choice being an illusion). Number two, by sending the pick-up letters and pin code letters separately yet on the same day it seems evident that French banks are working under the assumption that mail thieves only steal odd numbered pieces of mail.

Anywho, off to the bank. Finally having documentary evidence that my bank card(s) had indeed arrived, i was confident i could pick them up and never have to deal with another human being at my bank for the duration of my stay in Paris. But no. Upon presenting them to the receptionist i was informed that these letters, which clearly said my bank cards were ready to be picked up, did not actually mean my bank cards were ready to be picked up (it was an exchange worthy of Beckett). She informed me that they were just sent out automatically and that i would have to wait for a real notice to come and pick up my cards. I am assuming this notice will manifest itself as stigmata on my hands and feet or perhaps as a discarded Russian space capsule crashing outside my window.

So, until you hear about any new miracles, or vodka-related space accidents, you can safely assume i remain sans bank cards.

ps. I held back two days on posting this just to think up a semi-clever title. ... Yes, you're right, i should be ashamed.

Ken vs. French Bank (or how i learned to love the bomb)

So, here i sit in McDonalds using their free wi-fi (which is pronounced wee-fee here (think the cost of nintento's new system)). I feel justified in its use as i just returned the five euros in extra change the cashier accidentally gave me after i paid.

So, i imagine you may have heard about what a nightmare French beauracracy is. Let me say this: the exagerations are true. My story begins last week when i was ambushed in the lobby of Sciences Po by a representative of BNP Paribas, the largest bank in Paris. It seems the French banks fight tooth and nail to get Sciences Po kids to open accounts, and, thusly, this seeminly nice lady was offering me eighty euros just to open up a bank account (which i needed, among other things, to pay for my annual metro pass). I happily signed her forms and made an appointment for the following friday. She told me what to bring in and promised that 90% of the work would be done before i arrived and that everything would go quickly. Ha!

Arriving at the designated hour on Friday i couldn't help but notice that the young women in front of me seemed to be talking to the secretary about the same lady who i had an appointment with. This young woman explained she had called and cancelled her 2:30 appointment and was slotted in instead for 3:30, the precise time of my appointment.
When i got to the receptionist and explained, appointment card in hand, that i in fact had an appointment with same individual at the same time she didn't seem to believe me. Without looking at my appointment card she said, "Yes, yes. Have a seat and i will see if i can find someone to help you."

I took a seat in the tiny, busy waiting area. After half an hour I went back up to the desk to see if i had been forgotten. "No," she shrugged, "someone will see you when we have someone available." Fifteen minutes after that she seemed to just notice me sitting in the now empty waiting room and called me up to the counter. "What exactly are you here for?," she queried as if she had never seen me before. After explaining that we had talked twice before and that i had an appointment for 45 minutes earlier she decided to check my appointment card.

"Oh, look at that.", she said, "It says right here, 3:30 on friday." To this point her simple literacy was her most admirable quality. She again asked me to have a seat and said she would find someone to help me. After another fifteen minutes she called me up again and informed me that none of the account people would be available before the end of the day, but that my dossier was already set up and i had only to sign a few things. She had her young assistant take and photocopy my i.d. and school documents, then produced a sheaf of papers that all required signatures and initials in multiple places.

After signing these i was handed your usually legal mumbo-jumbo and told that i could be on my way. "Um," i ventured, "is that all? Don't i get cheques or a bank card or something?"

"Oh, you will have to come back next week for that. Bye."

"Do i need an appointment?," i asked, if only to rub in how useless my previously made appointment had been.

"No. Bye."

So, off i went.

---

Today, girding myself for another beaureucratic guantlet, i headed to Sciences Po's administrative department to get my ID at the time allotted for those of us who's last names began with R or S. I arrived half an hour ahead of time in hopes of getting out of there before Christmas.

Long story short, it was explained to me that insurance proof i had was insufficient and i would have to provide further documentation. But, if i left a cheque to cover Sciences Po's own insurance program i could have my student card and would be able to return with the proper documents tomorrow at which time said cheque would be returned.

And so, once more into the breach. I went back to BNP, it now being well into 'next week', hoping against hope that i might be able to come away with some cheques. After ten minutes in line at reception i was speaking with the very same woman i had seen on Friday. After checking her computer to see if the chequebook was in she informed that my account was not open and that i still had papers to sign and should have made an appointment.

Fuming, i reminded her that i had signed the papers in question on that very reception desk using her very own pen. I pointed to her assistant who confirmed my story. Well, she announced, i would have to see someone.

I got put with a young fellow who seemed to be in on his day off judging by his jeans and t-shirt. Upon arriving in his office he requested all the same documents i had provided the week before. I furnished them again, complaining loudly that i had done all this. After several trips in and out of his office, and furious taping at his computer, he announced that, yes, i had in fact already done all of this.

"So," he asked, "did you get an email telling you your cheques were ready?"

"What, what email?"

"Who told you your cheques were ready?"

"The receptionist downstairs told me to come in next week."

"So you didn't get an email?"

"No."

"Oh, well that explains why your cheques aren't ready. You have to wait for your email."

Not being a total prick he was able to provide me with a direct withdrawal form which i could use for Sciences Po and to get my metro pass. With my not fantastic french, though, he was initially under the impression that i wanted a withdrawal on credit, and not an authorized withdrawal form. I had to preempt his little speech on how it looked bad to make an overdraft withdrawal before i had made my first depost.

Anywho, off i went to Sciences Po to spend fifteen minutes waiting for the particular secretary, who had helped me early, to become available. It turns out that, after checking with her supervisor, the original insurances documents i had were sufficient and i didn't need that automatic withdrawal form i had fought so desperatley to get.

In sum, i have a student card but still no cheques: Bank 2, Ken 0.

For some reason i am able to post small files, but not large ones. I have lots of lovely pictues, but I am pulling my hair out trying to post them. I may have to break down and haul my computer to use the free wi-fi at McDonalds. Argg.

Hello avid readers. Sorry for the dearth of posting but i am having considerable trouble posting to blogger.

Of all the statues i have seen in Paris since my arrival, i think this one has to be my favourite. Is it because of its artistic merits, its fame, or the aching wound left in my heart by the death of Mufassa? No, none of those things. Its the inscription on the pedestal: "A la defense national, 1870-1871."Now i know why France lost the franco-prussian war. Instead of, oh, say fighting the Germans, the French were building a statue of a lion. The Maginot Line may not have been any more useful in the end, but at least it wasn't built in the middle of Paris.

testing, testing... is this thing on?
Hmm, urhmm.
Reasons to start a blog:
1. All the cool kids are doin' it.
2. Less expensive/painful than a facial piercing.
3. If Dan ever tried his famous pick up line on my, i could now say, "Why yes, i do have a blog."
4. If i can't write well in french i may as well write sarcastically in english.
5. I just moved to Paris.

Potential uses of said blog:
1. Keep people updated on my life (egotistical).
2. To be able to post on other people's blogs (you know who you are).
3. To complain (the campus my residence is on smells of cat urine).
4. To lampoon copy editors and the media in general using my dry, British wit (may already be taken).

So, on with the show.