…is casser les couilles. A casse-couilles (pronounced “kass-kooy” more or less) is something or someone that/who busts your balls, is a pain in the ass.
The elections are over and I’m taking a break.
Culture: The other day I went to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs with Sophie. The museum has sections on toys, high-design home décor, fashion, and more. We saw an exhibit of Balenciaga couture dresses from the 30s to the present and a special exhibit on advertising photography from Man Ray to the present. We didn’t do the whole museum. I’m not a wicked stepmother! I wouldn’t drag a ten-year-old through rooms full of dishes and chairs. I did make her suffer through the jewelry exhibit (16th century to the present), and the best of that was the Art Nouveau stuff. Luscious. I’ll go back when I’m alone or with a friend who would enjoy savoring salt cellars with me…
L’Organisation: Big Bird taught us Merkins how things go together. Bicycle, train, broom, car: one of these things just doesn’t belong here! Thanks to Big Bird, we know we can find things that go together in their own row, their own section, and sometimes their own store in the US. Clearly the French did not have the benefit of the Grand Oiseau’s instruction.
Shortly after moving here, I asked Vincent where I could get a whisk. He suggested I try what appeared to be a little hardware store: nails, hinges, wood. Unfinished pine furniture (you are now leaving the hardware realm…). Baskets (nowhere near hardware…). I can see baskets and furniture, but not nails. I can see furniture and nails. Furniture could be considered the missing link between nails and baskets but that doesn’t mean they all go together in a Big Bird kind of way. As it turns out, there were actually whisks there too. Whisks and baskets, I get. Could baskets be the missing link between whisks and furniture? What do whisks have to do with nails? Nada. Except that they’re metal. Big Bird would have a meltdown in Paris. What we have here is the six degrees of separation school of organization.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Treasure hunting in thrift stores is one of my favorite pastimes, so I’m always pleasantly surprised and entertained in these little shops. Especially given the paucity of thrift stores here. But seriously, Toto, we’re not in Target anymore. I went to my “hardware” store the other day hoping to find a rolling pin so I could make a pie for Thanksgiving. It’s one of those things you use maybe once a year but, since you can’t find frozen pie crusts here (yes, I admit I’m usually too lazy to make a pie crust), I thought I might actually need it more often than that. Story short, they had ‘em… Now I need to figure out where to get a mop.
Now, granted, they do have specialty stores (shoes, clothing, jewelry, books, toys) like anybody else. Their papétries (stationery and paper goods stores) are delectable, although my inner Big Bird would like to see practical stuff like office supples along with the charming, yet essentially useless diaries and fountain pens… Their food shops are more specialized than ours (they have separate shops for fish, cheese, butchers, etc.). Although I have seen the poultry guy selling rabbit and I’ve seen it in butcher shops. I can’t get a Big Bird grasp on that logic (Is rabbit with chicken because it’s small? Is it with beef because it’s red meat? Why isn’t it with pork in the charcuterie? It might be actually. I just haven’t been to any charcuteries…). Maybe there’s just not enough of a market for rabbit-only butchers…
Here is the Place Maubert, at the end of my street (like 50 yards away). From left to right you have the fish guy (poissonnerie), butcher (boucherie–who also does fowl (volailles), as the sign specifies), pork products guy (charcutierie), cheese guy (fromagerie), wine guy (vins), bakery/pastry shop (boulangerie/pâtisserie), and at the end, a café (café). On the corner next to the fish guy (out of the picture) is the vegetable and fruit guy. Not exactly one-stop shopping, but close. And SO much more charming!
There must be some deep-seated psychological difference between our two cultures that is reflected in the different ways we organize things. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet. Looks like I have some extrapolating to do. I’ll get back to you on that. Maybe.
(I warned you that I’d use this blog for ordinary cerebral seepage.)
A message for (male) tourists from the French (men): “Stay away from our women.” They don’t need to say it, though. Luckily for you, I’m on to them and their cunning tactic for removing male tourists in Paris from the competition. You’re innocently walking along, looking rather simple-minded with your mouth agape, craning your neck left and right 180 degrees as you ogle the breathtaking and exotic beauty of the city and the women, and wham! You’re down. “What the hell is she going on about?” you ask. Listen guys, all I’m saying is, if you’re new to Paris, I strongly advise you to wear a hard cup for the first couple of days till you get used to dodging the casse-couilles:
Note where the bike seat hits:
They don’t call them casse-couilles, by the way. It’s a covert operation, you see.
In America, if there’s a bump in a sidewalk, the city paints it bright red. They attach fluorescent sticky stuff to the edges of stairs (in case you didn’t know you were supposed to step up or down while on a staircase). But, as you can see from the photo, the ballbusters are strategically painted a murky brownish black to assure that they blend in with the street… Your peripheral vision doesn’t catch them. And they’re different heights too. Slight variations. So just because you manage to leapfrog over one at the last instant, don’t be so sure you can do it on the next street over. And they are everywhere, no exaggeration. Don’t even think of suing the city of Paris for your ensuing sterility or pain and suffering; you’d be laughed out of the country. Traveler beware.
But don’t let that keep you from coming here! Read this traveler’s amusing account of how he effortlessly lost 10 pounds in 10 days when he came to Paris.
[...] get-up. Once again, we see evidence of the “six degrees of separation” mentality (see L’Organisation), this time informing the way French women [...]