Clarification: Jean Calvin was Swiss AND French

Okay, so I've had more than one person comment on this, so I thought I would just let you all know that I've done some research on sites more credible than the beloved Wikipedia, so here's the deal on Calvin's nationality:

Jean Chauvin was born July 10, 1509 in Noyon, Picardy, FRANCE. He lived there until he went to study Latin in Paris, then Law in Orleans, then back to Paris for classical literature. While in Paris the second time, he made friends with Nicholas Cop. Now Nicky was, in 1533, appointed Rector of the University and, in his very first sermon, said some lovely things that immediately got him branded a heretic. Jean fled to escape guilt by association, first to Angouleme (French town about 6 hours SW of Paris by bus), and then, when King Francis I decided that he really wanted to crack down on those dern heretics, to Basel, Switzerland. Though he returned to France briefly to set his affairs in order, he emigrated permanently to Switzerland in 1536, and spent most of the rest of his life in Geneva.

Though his father's name was Cauvin, sometimes spelled Chauvin, Jean himself showed a preference for Calvin, even as a young man. That explains why the street was named Jean Calvin: Calvin was his own prefered spelling, even in French, and Jean is the only way the French will ever spell what we call John. Probably the only way Jean spelled it too.

So there you are. Thank you to all of you who rightly corrected me, and forced me to probe deeper into the mysteries of history and naming.

Romantic Frustrations of a Foreigner

I know I promised the details of my new Amour this letter, but before I disclose them, I must say a few more words regarding my difficulties with the French courting system.

So I learned my lesson after two frightening experiences with dragueurs, both recounted in my last post. I spent a few hours practicing an intimidating "Non, Merci!" (No thank you!) and "Laissez-moi tranquille!" (Leave me alone!) as well as a few harsher phrases in my mirror, but I must have mastered the icy mask expression because I have not been approached by any strangers since that last occasion. A Frenchwoman told me and my friend Daniela that when men bother me I must look at them with utter indifference and say in a bored, annoyed (though not angry--that provokes them) voice, "Quoi?" (What?). I'm not sure that her mannerisms can be properly conveyed over the internet, but when I get home you will all get an expert performance.

What is surely the most frustrating thing about being in the position of a foreigner interested in romance is that there is very little one can do to educate oneself on the social cues and norms of French dating. I already mentioned the insufficiency of my sociological text, though certain other texts seem a bit more useful. You may have heard of the novel (though the author may prefer the term "dramatized history") of A Year in the Merde, which is the story of an Englishman's first year working in Paris. Now naturally there are the differences between myself and the protagonist as far as age (he's 27) and profession (mainly that he has one), but I find that the crucial difference between us as far as romance is concerned is that of sex. This is an appropriate phrase in two senses: 1) we are of two different sexes, male and female (myself being the female), and 2) being a man, he is therefore stereotypically focused on having as much sex as possible with attractive French women. Perhaps that is a bit harsh, but I think those who have read the book to the point that I have (only through Nov, thus far) would agree. But despite its uselessness as an applicable guide for my French love life, I recommend it highly as a very, very funny book.

Back to French Dating 101:

If there are subtle, unspoken interactions going on between men and women (or women and women, as my audience is anything but heterocentric), my American eyes are too dull to catch them. The proper way to flirt without being brazen or coming off as easy still escapes me.

And asking advice is absolutely no help at all! My host parents are very helpful when I want advice on how to avoid men or refuse an advance (though I wish I'd had said counsel a bit earlier...), but I have no idea how to accept an advance or how to tell if a guy is worthwhile or creepy. Or what if I'm not sure? Is there a way to indicate that I am interested in a casual, non-committal date without inviting "incidents" like those I described before? Must I refuse him, just to be safe? Because if a woman gives the slightest hint that she could possibly be interested, the French seem to view it as the woman's own fault if she is pursued to the point of stalking. The attitude is almost one of, "well, you smiled in public, so you must surely have known that three men would follow you to your house and insist on dating you. You should not have smiled in the first place."

To be perfectly honest, the attitude annoys me. I never realized how much power American women have until I came here. I just feel entitled to having a man respect my wishes when I tell him that I'm not interested. I feel entitled to safety from men harassing me when I venture out on my own. --Don't get me wrong, Paris is a very safe city and the most I ever feel is extremely pissed. I don't feel I should worry for my safety so long as I pay attention and don't do anything stupid. But the French philosophy is that women must protect themselves by venturing outdoors only with other women, because men cannot but pursue a woman alone.

And the pursuit is not in the least bit flattering or enjoyable here. Men look at attractive women (and they're all attractive) so boldly, just staring at whatever body part they happen to favor as a girl walks by. They hit on n'import qui (no matter whom), so if a man approaches you, it is not because he's noticed something particular to you that makes him want to make your individual acquaintance; it's because you're a woman and not repellent. And that's all. And as soon as you walk away he will begin to look for another not-unattractive woman to hit on. It's just tiring and frustrating to be seen as a desirable object instead of an attractive person. Maybe I'm mistaken in thinking that American men are any different (no offense meant to the men on this list), but if I am then at least American men are better at disguising it. Which is to say I'm more used to the American game, really, from a sociological perspective. But I'm a bit homesick for American men, so I desire anything but objectivity.

I am grateful to have found a romantic interest to distract me, but alas! I fear this post is too long already and I will just have to postpone description of my sweetheart yet again. It's too important a subject to deal with hastily and in too cramped a space. Patience, my friends!

The Horrors of Parisian Dragueurs!

So...I think I've put it off for long enough...it may be time to tell you all of my new French love.

First of all, let me say that it is not easy to find romance in Paris. The French cultural codes for courting are about as clear as the air in a Parisian nightclub (read: not). I do have a very good book describing stereotypical French/American social misunderstandings, but the section describing romantic interactions in French society all presume that the couple has already been formed, and, as such, gives no advice useful to one seeking any kind of romance.

The only offers I seem to get are from "les Dragueurs," the men who attempt to pick up women on the street, the metro, wherever. Every American woman finds herself prey to these hunters at least once in France, and after that she learns very quickly to imitate the Parisian women in their frostiness. I had to learn my lesson twice.

First a man in Tours approached me while I was innocently taking "artsy" photographs in a park. Not that they had any actual artistic virtues, but they were atempting some kind of aesthetic, so I suppose that is the most fitting title for them. I had been happily walking through the park, looking around, as one does when searching for photographic things in a park, and my gaze met, for the briefest instant, with that of a man sitting on a bench. But apparently in France one cannot smile at the beauty of the world without issuing invitations to men on benches, and so this man felt perfectly at ease approaching me, asking me about my photographs, my plans for the day, and then proceeding to accompany me as I carried said plans out. Now, in the US, if a woman ignores a man he eventually goes away. And if she repeatedly and firmly, though kindly, rejects his invitations for drinks, dinner, dessert, dancing, etc., refuses his compliments, and, when he expresses remorse that he may never see her again, answers with, "well, it doesn't bother me," he begins to see that perhaps there is the slightest chance that she is not at all interested, and he buggers off, to use the English term. But in France, all of these signals will not deter said drageur from following the woman for a full half hour, forty-five minutes. In fact, it was not until this ...person... had actually been so bold as to playfully poke my stomach that I sent him my Look O'Death, which, I am grateful to say, was effective in getting the wanker to piss off.

But Paris was much, much worse. What perhaps bothered me most about "the Paris Incident" was that the gentleman stalker appeared at first to be the former (a gentleman) rather than the latter. I met him when signing up for my English course at the University; after he helped me find the proper room we struck up conversation. I learned that he had finished his masters in Math and was teaching courses while pursing his dream of opening an Italian restaurant (I know...the Math and the restaurant don't add up...he couldn't explain it either...). He spoke English and found my French charming, and I took his number with every intention of calling it, glad at my success in finding a normal Frenchman to help me understand the nuances of French dating.

But ol' Gabs just couldn't leave it at that. After leaving the meeting with my professor, I ran into him on my way out. I was headed to work, but I was willing to give him a 20 second run-down of the meeting and the customary French cheek kisses before dashing off to the RER station. But about 5 minutes after leaving the building, I heard my voice behind me and found that Gabriel had, without alerting me to the fact, followed me for some blocks. A bit creeped out, I requested that he point me to the Metro, thinking that the Parisian would know a bit of Paris. But he proceeded to steer me in entirely the wrong direction dispite my protests and map, making my detour all the more awful by describing his plans for our date that he had decided would take place the following week. The details of an Italian dinner, a movie, maybe some dancing if the night isn't too late--all of which I like, under normal circumstances--grated on my ears. I wasn't truly angry until I realized that his misdirection had ensured that I would be late for work, and leaving a five year old girl waiting at her school thinking she's forgotten is not something I take lightly. It earned him a Look O'Death... that had absolutely no effect. That's one thing about living in Paris: you get used to public hostility.

As I soon as I'd untangled the knot of a route he had woven, I silently and furiously made my way to the Luxembourg stop. Gabby accompanied me, quite unwanted and unacknowledged, as I descended and caught my first line. As I made my change at the enormous Chatelet stop, I took comfort in the crowds of people that I darted quickly between to evade him. Surely I had managed to loose him. Surely. But no. As I boarded the purple line I was horrified to find my stalker as close on my heels as ever. Something had to be done.
"So where are you going," I asked in my most intimidating and hostile English.
"Weell, were ahr you goeen?" he asked. Oooo, no, I am far too smart for that. A four year old who has been warned by McGruff the Crime Dog not to talk to strangers is too smart to fall for that. Of course, said four-year old probably could have warned me not to talk to this creep in the first place, too...
"I asked you first."
"Weell, en fait, I weell ride zis to ze end of ze leen et meke a connesion zere."
"Well I'm getting off at Madeline. Because it's close to where my job is. Not close to where I live. I live far, far away from there, so if you're going to look for where I live, I'll give you a hint, NOT NEAR MADELINE." (I live about 3 minutes from Madeline, in the same building as the girl I sit for.)
"O. Butt, ah, you weell col me nezt weeek pour la rendez-vous?"
"Yes. Of course." (Not a chance in Hell.)
"O. Okey. Good, becuz I wood laike to eet Italien food wiz--"
"Here's my stop, gotta go!"
I descended and waited to watch the train pull away with my stalker still on it before I breathed a great big sigh of relief and ran to assure a crying Marie that I had not forgotten her.

Horrifying, eh? In fact, retelling these tales has completely exhasted me emotionally, and I simply cannot continue, even to tell you of the charming new sweetheart who freqently occupies my thoughts... *lovesick sigh.* So you may all eagerly anticipate part two of this tale quite soon. Until then, I send you all the love I can spare (though that quantity is deminishing daily!)