Oof. So today I took my Art History midterm. I had to nurse my hand for about 15 minutes afterward. Maybe I'm out of practice. I recall writing way more for the AP English exams and those didn't kill my hand.
OH. So yesterday, St. Patrick's Day, is kind of not a thing here. Easter (or Pâques, as they would say here) definitely reigns supreme, though I guess that makes sense in a 99% Catholic nation. I didn't even think that's much of an over-exaggeration: someone commented to me that it was so weird all the religious conflicts we have in the United States. I asked how they could possibly avoid it here in France, and he said, "Easy. Everyone is Catholic." But concerning St. Patrick's Day, people here just aren't interested in drinking green beer or finding four-leaf clovers.
However, I did have my Ulysses & British Modernism class on St. Patrick's Day. My professor happens to be Irish (apparently his accent is impossible to discern if English is not your first language), and he was giving us background on all the Irish stuff in Ulysses. Given that America is not interested in teaching its schoolchildren anything other than history that is American-related, I know absolutely nothing about Irish nationalism apart from the fact that being Irish is emphasized by not being British.
He was telling us about how in certain towns, they cannot paint their fences green without incurring the wrath of the townspeople. And they can't use green pool tables. I wonder if they dye their grass as well?
One night, he was at a bar in a new town, and the bartender eyed him.
"Are you a good ole Proddy?" the bartender asked. "Proddy," I suppose, is short for "Protestant," which I suppose can be a bit of a stuffy term in a bar.
"I'm an atheist," my professor had responded.
The bartender stared him down. "Well, are you a Protestant atheist or a Catholic atheist?" was his following question.
Oh, Irish nationalism.
Unsurprisingly, my professor went for Option 1 so he could leave with all his teeth still in tact.
So that restaurant called "Ulysse" on Rue Cler? Well, that was a Greek restaurant. Which was a nice surprise. I was like, "Why isn't this Irish?" Then it hit me: the Odyssey was in no way an Irish novel. So Greek food and Greek epic poems for the win. This did mean, however, that I have not had my Irish Coffee or my Irish Car Bomb or green beer or whatever other drinks you can think of. :(
This is Joyce's disapproving look at my stupidity.
At one point on Tuesday, I was reading Ulysses at Shakespeare & Co., whose owner at the time, Sylvia Beech, helped Joyce publish it, given that it was so weird no one wanted to do it. So cool!
I want to discuss French people. Well, Parisians. Now, the stereotype is that they're not friendly. You know, they're not jumping up and down to see and interact with strangers, but then again, neither are we people from New England. And forget about the British holding a door open for you! Actually, if you don't say "bonjour" to your neighbor or fellow laundromat user, that's incredibly rude. (You can hit your head on the dryer door and not receive anything but a casual "are you okay?" from the girl next to you. But she will cheerfully say goodbye to you when she leaves.) And we just don't do that in certain parts of America. Small towns and the South are notable exceptions, but in DC, you might as well grow an extra head.
I think we get what we expect when it comes to other people's manners. I'm just saying... Parisians on a whole have been nice to me. Once again, rude Americans are in abundance. Let's just face the fact that every culture and country will have its rude and polite citizens.
Well, it's time to clean out my desk. Crap has been accumulating--and not like the actual crap out on the street courtesy of the cute dogs walking by. Plus I need tea to concentrate!
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