Carte d’Etudiant, S’il Vous Plaît

It’s funny the things you treasure in times like these that you would otherwise take for granted. I was so hungry yesterday morning, because all I had were three biscuit packs taken from church at the Midland Hotel in Bradford the day before. I could only drink water with my hand from the tap in the bathroom. Buying food was almost exhilarating – I had lunch: a baguette, of course, along with some cheese and a bag of apples. That would last me several meals at least. Now I’ve just returned from buying some juice, tomatoes, and jam, all of which are so precious. New tastes to add to my palate after several meals of bread, cheese, and apples, as if I’d never tasted them before! And getting a plastic cup was like unlocking an achievement in a video game like Minecraft: drinking ability acquired! All these are thoughts I will soon forget as I settle into the confidence of routine, which naturally I long for in these uncertain times, but as in the past I’ve given others the advice to enjoy the uncertainty, for it is fleeting; to ‘live the questions’, I must heed my own advice now.

This morning we went to see the international office woman to get our signed documents back to release our ERASMUS funds, as well as obtain our student cards, a coveted item that would seemingly unlock all else, foremost being the internet. The woman had not signed the documents yet – she is, after all, very busy – and told us to come back the following day. Then another girl, the girl who’d done her best to take us through the blue form, tried to help us get our student cards.

The problematic requirement was called something like responsabilité civile – health insurance of some sort, I believe. That was what the Americans had been arguing about the day before, because their uni had already made them buy insurance and they understandably didn’t want to pay more. ERASMUS students were supposed to only have to pay €5, well, €20 when you add in some other charge, but they were saying we had to have an EU identity card, otherwise we too would have to pay the full €200. No thank you. I was mentally preparing to put my foot down when the American guy, the one who speaks French well, pulled out his international student identity card (ISIC, which you can get from STATravel which entitles you to numerous discounts) and said he had insurance with that card. Now, I had that card as well, having applied for it during the summer for the discounts on flights and other things abroad. But I didn’t know anything about insurance. Nevertheless I pulled mine out and said, ‘I’ve got that as well.’ That seemed acceptable; the international office woman photocopied them (every time a French person is willing to photocopy documents rather than telling us we need to bring photocopies, even though they have a photocopy machine right behind them, I rejoice, for it’s a rare occurrence) and we trooped down to the payment office.

But I knew we weren’t yet in the clear and stayed on prepared-to-put-my-foot-down mode for when the payments woman balked at a card she didn’t recognise. Miraculously, that didn’t happen, and we got away with paying only €20. Well, I say ‘we’, but the Americans probably really did have insurance with their cards – I doubt I do, I didn’t pay what they did. Thank goodness I ordered that card, though.

Confession: The French have not won me over to their bureaucratic, multiple copies required, filled-out-in-triplicate way of doing things. I tend to think that as long as I can get through the process and obtain the end item or state that is required, it doesn’t really matter if I actually have what they’re demanding – isn’t it just the government making people pay for things they’ll only need in the rarest of circumstances? Or institutions covering themselves so they won’t be liable in any case whatsoever? And then even if young French (who, from what I’ve seen so far, hate it as much as we do) resolve to get into politics to change it, by the time they get to a place where they could potentially change it, they themselves are benefitting from it too much to want to change it anymore. Sly fat cats.

Probably not very morally upright or even completely factually viable, but I am fairly exasperated. You’ll see why in a bit.

Back to the story. Again, I couldn’t pat myself on the back quite yet. We had all the required documents, but we still had to make the actual application. We went upstairs to deuxième étage and joined the queue. Thankfully it wasn’t long. Like at the picnic yesterday, I felt I should talk to people, felt it would be a good idea, but couldn’t quite work up the will. Other than those in our crew. Finally my turn came and I went in. I decided to ask, as endearingly as I could, ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ She looked at me in a sort of cute, helpless sort of way, shaking her head. Guess not. Oh well. Hope there are no problems.

She was stumped with the ISIC as well, and kept asking her colleague things. The colleague was a bit better at English, but not by much, so it ended up being the other student applying at that moment, a German girl, who asked me in English what they needed to know, then told them my answers in French. Germans are so reliable. I bet they’re efficient with their bureaucracy as well. I won’t deny that the thought, ‘Maybe I should’ve studied abroad to Germany after all’ has come to mind more than a few times over the course of this week, but I’m not a quitter.

In the end they accepted the card, but not before sending me back up to the international office woman to get her to photocopy my passport. Thankfully they saved my spot in the queue. The other things required were, of course, two identity photos, which – this frustrates me quite a bit – are so that they can stick one on the application form and scan one for the student card. Why don’t they just scan it and then stick it on the form, and therefore only need one!? I bought eight photos in the UK before coming, wishing I could buy less, and now I’m almost out.

Oh well. No matter. I was on my way to the guy who prints the cards. Could this be it? At long last, was this fabled mythical item, with all the riches and glory that accompanied it, about to be mine? I imagined myself celebrating with hands in the air as if I were back at Far East junior year, right after we won the football championship on penalties. He had me write my name on a list. He put my photo in the scanner. He stamped a single sheet of paper five times and gave it to me. He stuck a blank card in the card-printing machine.

Ennnh. The card came out with half my face blacked out. Ink problems? He adjusted the roll inside the machine and put another card in. That one came out with a thick black line on it obscuring some of the information. He looked at me. I looked at him. No way.

“Vendredi.”

What!! Come back Friday!? It’s only Tuesday! What could possibly take three days about replacing an ink cartridge?? But of course I had none of the French to express these feelings, so I could only muster, “Vendredi…d’accord.”

Then it got worse. As I left the room the girl behind me, the awesome, helpful German girl, sat down and got her card. just. fine.

What.

And everyone after that, including the people with me, got theirs just fine.

What. What. What.

Most of you will be pleased to know I didn’t pantomime the rage roiling within me. I’ve hated foreigners in Japan (don’t take that the way it sounds, foreigners) long enough to know that throwing a fit gets you nowhere, and generally just confirms stereotypes. I’m not about confirming stereotypes, as far as I’m able. So I left with the others. Vendredi? Vendredi.

I did also have that sheet he stamped five times, which contained all the same information as the student card would, so maybe I could procure internet with just that. Our group returned to our Arsenal accommodation and asked about internet. Apparently it wasn’t so much that the student card was the magical item as that the numbers on it became our login username and password details. But the accommodation internet was not, as we’d believed, wi-fi; we would need ethernet cables to connect. Joy. Another thing to buy.

We went shopping. In addition to Monoprix, we’d also found an electronics place yesterday where we were able to by power adaptors (after all my trying to think of how to ask where they were in the shop, the word turned out to be the same in French as in English. Recollections of Japanese…) so we returned there and some of the others bought ethernet cables. I decided to wait until I had my full funding – the soap, shampoo, toothpaste, towel, duvet, and duvet cover that I also bought today nearly cleaned me out. In fact I had to borrow money from my American friend when he and I went food shopping afterward. Not ideal.

[This next bit I wrote this afternoon, whereas the rest I’m writing this evening – or later days and changing the ‘date published’ on WordPress, but never mind – so it is representative merely of my state at that time, not my current state or general state in relation to being in France. It is a comparison of my financial situations in successive study/work experiences.]

The first time around, the only challenge was finding an ATM – there was one in the commuters’ lounge, but it was often out of cash, and the next nearest one was at Wawa’s, about a twenty minute walk away. So I found myself withdrawing large amounts of cash when I was in downtown Philadelphia – two things unlikely to be found together in the same sentence outside of a crime report – to take back to campus. But I’d already had the account, and it already had savings in it.

The following year was a piece of cake as I was earning money and withdrawing from the same account. The most complicated bit was creating that account in Japanese, and that wasn’t that hard – world’s best customer service, for the win. Plus, it being Japan, there was no need to think twice about carrying around large amounts of cash in my wallet.

The second time around (third time, yes, but second uni) was more complicated – I took a lot of pounds with me and deposited them in an account once I’d made one – which wasn’t overly difficult and everything was set up and running, including my debit card, that same day – and that was that until it ran out. There were a few days of panic, but then my parents and I discovered that it was super easy to do a bank transfer from Japan to a Lloyds TSB account in the UK, and I was set for the next year and a half.

This time, the third uni, I’m close to pulling my hair out, in a quiet, internal sort of way. Maybe it’s just that I’m in the middle of it. I thought I’d be receiving my ERASMUS grant almost immediately after arriving. How naive of me – I now know not to expect anything to happen immediately in France [this is the outburst I asked you to take with a grain of salt in yesterday’s post]. As of now I have forty pounds in my UK account. I have plenty of money in my US account, but it doesn’t have a chip so I don’t think I can use it in ATMs! I just need to find something that works and stick with that – or borrow money from friends till the grant comes through.

I can’t help but feel that I am living in an interim period. The globalisation of banking is still playing catch-up to the globalisation of travel. Or maybe I’m just stupid and don’t know where to look. I hear Citibank is good. They call themselves the world’s first global bank. I’m not really in a position to switch everything over to them at the moment, however.

I admit it, I’m stressed out. It’s not consuming me, but sometimes it feels like it could if I let it. It’s not like there are concrete things that are seriously bad, I’m just out of my comfort zone. And this summer I got used to being sat firmly on the couch in the centre of my comfort zone. This is good for me. This is good for me, I keep telling myself. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to scream sometimes. Why am I doing this again? Is there something at the end of the tunnel that makes this worth it? French mastery? What use will the language be if I hate the people and policies by the end of it?

Hah, I won’t hate them. I might just need a long break from them.

[Okay, now that the minor breakdown with brief philosophical interlude to reflect on globalisation is done with, let’s carry on with the account of the day’s events.]

That evening, our group (myself and the two I came from Bradford with, the three Americans, and the other two English girls we met) went out for dinner. We walked through the area called Saint-Pierre, where a lot of bars and some clubs and hordes and hordes of students are; carried on along the river, where we saw even more students doing something – either a freshers initiation or some sort of protest – and found a nice quiet place a bit farther along. As we were all trying to save money, I wouldn’t call it the height of the French dining experience – hopefully that is yet to come – but it was good food, and a good time.

It’s going to be a good year – I’m going to enjoy it. Perhaps I didn’t spend enough time during the summer anticipating this year, as I did before I came to England. It’s important for me to make up my mind that I’m going to love a place, because if I get caught off-guard (as I have, somewhat) it’s easy to descend into bitterness, but I don’t want to live like that. I will enjoy my wine and my cheese, everyone that I meet, and every bumbling mistake and crucified pronunciation on the path to fluency.

Oh, and I should mention – seeing as it’s probably the true cause of my improved mood – that I was able to use my US credit card to withdraw euros from an ATM on our way to the restaurant. That was such a relief. Didn’t need a chip after all, the dreadfully outdated swipe bar sufficed. Thank goodness I changed the PIN when I was able to something I can remember so we don’t have a repeat performance of Turkey! They’ll probably whack me with a massive overseas charge, and since I don’t yet have internet I haven’t seen yet what that charge is, but at least I won’t be out on the street starving. That is unless they cut off my access because it’s coming from a new overseas location. But this should get my by until the ERASMUS funds come in, which will hopefully be by the end of this week.

So today turned out to be another productive day, though no student card. I at least have a full set of bedding, which is probably the most key to my current physical and emotional well-being. That and money. Does that say something about me I don’t want to be said?

Writer Movies

I just finished watching a writer movie, and was compelled to make a list of all the good writer films I’ve watched, so that you, dear fellow writer, may be inspired when you’re stuck and too lazy to read a book. Here are the ones I know of, in order of my knowing them:

1. Finding Forrester
2. Freedom Writers
3. Dead Poets Society
4. The Ghost Writer
5. Capote – though I haven’t watched it all the way through yet. The book was excellent – and I hope that when I say this you wonder why I said it, because you know that this is a given. If you don’t know this and are inclined to watch movies to not have to read books, well, I think you’d be better off elsewhere.

Those were the titles I could come up with, but not being satisfied with that paltry list, I went searching the troves of the internet. And of course I found stacks and stacks. But I also found something I was not expecting – a somewhat kindred spirit. As I hope you are. And this is what he said (my thoughts italicised):

“I first came to Los Angeles many years ago with the hopes of doing a lot of writing (always the hope, always the hope), but instead I did a lot of walking (sounds like my first time in London). Given the profoundly accustomed car culture (blech) of the landscape, I was an anomaly (don’t I know it – scenes of me biking along the freeway perilously close to the rushing traffic on the outskirts of Philadelphia come to mind) as I walked everywhere and glimpsed at apartments (no ‘at’ there, mate) I would never live in (is this a common writers’ pastime?), restaurants I wanted to eat at but never got around to, and bars where I wanted to drink at with friends I didn’t have yet (nice – that’s the spirit). Los Angeles was my compromise (hmm?), one of many in a lifetime (the truth hurts).  Los Angeles is the city where people who are too afraid to go to New York end up, in the same way that Chicago is the city where people who are too afraid to go to Los Angeles end up (he had me with this line – there’s a quote for sure). But in my heart, New York was supposed to be mine (wait – I thought it was supposed to be mine).  I had always wanted to be a writer living in the Big Apple (are you channeling me? Am I channeling you? Am I not alone in my dreams after all? I kid you not, I see this in my head all the time) – it was a desire straight out of a Woody Allen movie (will have to check out Woody Allen then).   The mosaic colors and mental acoustics were so vivid with this dream that it painted me as occupying a nice apartment in upper Manhattan (yep) with my junior editor at VOGUE Euro-Asian girlfriend who had enough style to make up for my lack thereof (this is reaching a self-fulfilling prophecy level of ridiculousness; the parallels, I mean), while I labored away at my great American novel (mm, guess it’s not a complete match), at my desk under my framed Velvet Underground poster, in the evenings after a full day’s work on the staff of THE NEW YORKER magazine.  Well, ahem (ahem, indeed).  In the cosmic battle of dream versus reality, reality won (I intend to win my cosmic battle, that’s why I’m wasting so much time right now not writing), and instead, I ended up in Hollywood (tough break, lad), suffering writer’s block on an untitled science fiction screenplay I couldn’t for the life of me figure out the ending (were you channeling Chuck Lorre as I channel you now?). So instead of hunkering down to finish my script I walked everyday to my local video store and rented movies about other people writing (such an alluring rut suddenly so deep when one wishes to climb out – immersing oneself in other lives when one’s own fails to provide, usually thanks to oneself). Something about watching movies about writers inspired me (and yet the inspiration is so short-lived; by the time the film finishes all I want to do is watch another).  I remember a former creative writing professor once told our class that when you sit down to write you should surround yourself with books (books, that’s the key) by your favorite authors.  It’s akin to the philosophy that being around smart and creative people will only challenge you to elevate your own game. “Hang out with your heroes,” the professor would trumpet (which leads me back to the ever-hanging question: why am I still not studying writing?). And hang with my heroes I did – some of them characters from these movies, some of them filmmakers of these movies.  Not only did movies about writers put the fire to my ass but it also kick-started a prodigious creative period that led to my first writing assignment at a studio (that could be the problem – TV being inspired by TV. The blind leading the blind, except in this case it’s those who can do nothing but watch leading the same. But I don’t mean to sound so harsh, man).  Oh Hollywood, compromise and all, I’ve finally arrived (I just prefer to hang on to my New York for now, thanks).

The art-critic Robert Hughes once wrote, “There is no tyranny like the tyranny of the unseen masterpiece.” (Oh the beauty of true words) For us writers, that is what inspires us to put pen to pad at our desks at home, in our cubicles at work in between spreadsheets, and in our beds before surrendering to slumber (These days I wish it would go more on the night-time offensive, not these mid-day ambushes). When our muse heads for the door (Oh Calliope, where art thou, and why hast thou forsaken me), we follow her outside to park benches, to cafes and restaurants, or as Chuck Palahniuk once did, wrote the pages to his novel Fight Club underneath the cars he was fixing or as Michael Martin who wrote the pages to his script Brooklyn’s Finest while working the New York subway system (is it really thought that Americans don’t get irony?). David Mamet deplores writers who write in public.  “When did writing become a performance art?”  He bitingly asked in one of his essays. As per usual, Mamet is right.  Writing is not a performance art.  Insular and singular in its act of cerebral stewing, writing lacks the dynamism of dance or the force of slam poetry (I find myself not much into slam poetry; it’s like the pop of music – obvious, beating, and usually shallow. But it has its place, and at least poetry continues to morph). The act of writing is dull to everyone but the writer (word).  Sometimes it’s even dull to the writer (double word).  Nothing is more boring than filming someone writing.  But yet there have been many great films about writers and about what inspires them and what tortures them. Here is my list of the 20 Greatest Movies About Writers.”

And you can check out this list if you’re still interested. I found that by this point I cared very little about what I’d originally come to the page in search of – that want was lost in the excitement of once again finding someone whose thoughts had at least once traveled along paths so similar to the ones mine traverse all the time.

I was inspired, not so much by the writer movie I’d just watched, though it did do a bit for me, but more by a post listing good writer movies. Ha. What are the odds. Oh, inspired enough to revisit my neglected blog page.

And here you are.

I am still writing up my December blog, by the way, slowly and not always surely, but it will get done. And I am still, though undeserving, being graced with various events taking place in rapid succession, connected in my mind to string me along to all sorts of cognitive destinations.

(I seldom end these on a note related to the bulk of the post, do I? Always promising more, never delivering. Always plagued by a guilty conscience for not.)