14 January, 2007 | 9 Comments

Seems at least a few of you miss the feisty, political Anglofille. I guess I should do more political posts because I do miss this kind of writing. I’ve had several e-mails (but only a few comments – why don’t you all just comment!) about my previous post and I have expanded on it here. This has been an extremely disturbing subject to read and write about.

Regarding the infanticide I wrote about, there is no way to know how widespread it is at this point in time. There are no official reports from the Chinese government and since they have a vested interest in suppressing any such evidence, researchers have a very difficult time quantifying it. There are no hard statistics because there is no evidence (birth certificates, etc.) that a female child who is later killed ever existed. And prosecutions seem to be rare. Gendercide Watch estimates that there are hundreds of thousands of infanticides in the world annually, with the world’s two most populous nations (China and India) accounting for most of those. Perhaps in a country with a billion or more people, an academic researcher or Chinese government official might be able to quantify this number as “low.”

The World Health Organization is one of the few international organizations that publishes research on infanticide in China and other Asian countries. I was shocked to read the following excerpt from this article:

Female infanticide is commonly practised in parts of Asia. A recent survey cited in Desjarlais et al (1995) indicated that over 50% of women in their sample in China had killed a baby daughter. Women are often forced to carry out infanticide through family pressure and desperate living circumstances and are often left with feelings of remorse and guilt.

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13 January, 2007 | 7 Comments

I’ve wanted to write about this story but until today I have not been able to give any sort of syntax to the rage I feel. I’ll give it a try…

A recent Chinese government report detailing the huge imbalance between the number of males and females in China is too sickening and tragic for me to even wrap my mind around. And unbelievably, the problem has gotten worse since 2000. There are now on average 118 newborn baby boys for every 100 girls; in rural provinces it’s as high as 130 boys for every 100 girls. By 2020, there will be 30 million more men of marriageable age than women.

While every major news organization in the US and Britain has reported on the Chinese government report that contains this horrific information, the focus of the news coverage – not surprisingly – has been on how this lack of women will inconvenience men. This is what has made this ongoing problem newsworthy all of a sudden. This has been what’s prompted the government to take action. Thirty million men will not be able to find wives, the news reports gasp, causing widespread social instability. The rulers of the Communist Party are panicked, fearing what this will do to their grip on power. You see, until something affects men, it’s not really a problem.

Many of the news headlines state there’s a “wife shortage” (again, this is looking at the story from the male viewpoint) and behold this subhead from ABC News, which is characteristic of the way much of the media is handling this story: “By 2020, There Will Be 30 Million More Men Than Women — Making It Hard for a Guy to Find a Bride.”

Making it hard for a guy to find a bride? WHAT THE FUCK? How about this headline instead, ABC News:

“World’s Most Populous Nation Exterminates a Sizable Portion of Its Female Population: Catastrophe to Follow.”

How do people lose sight of the real issue here so easily? The real issue is not that 30 million men will not be able to find brides. The real goddamned issue is that there are 30 million women missing. And where the hell are they? [The missing female population is roughly equal to the population of Canada.]

According to the news reports, which just sort of gloss over this pesky aspect of the story, the gender imbalance is being attributed to sex-selective abortions. While this probably accounts for the fact that there has been an increase in the gender imbalance in recent years, it ignores China’s long and well-documented history of female infanticide wherein millions of female children have been murdered by their parents. Millions of female children had the very life strangled or smothered or squeezed or kicked or beaten right out of them simply because they weren’t born with a penis. Their very femaleness was their only crime, deemed so abhorrent that their lives were ended because of it. This happened on a widespread basis across the country and it continues to this day, despite the more clinical spin the officials and the media want to put on it.

But according to ABC News and their ignorant counterparts, what really matters is that a guy can’t find a bride.

Perhaps it’s just me, but this gender-based form of genocide — femicide? — is one of the greatest atrocities in human history. And soon the Chinese will suffer the consequences of their actions. Why don’t the media grapple with this instead of running flippant headlines that make light of a grotesque tragedy the likes of which the world has probably never seen?

See, I told you I was filled with rage. Deep cleansing breath…

As a woman, what haunts me is the thought that millions and millions of women have actively participated in killing their own daughters or have aborted a fetus because it is female – and by extension, contributed to the obliteration of their own gender. I do not mean to imply that a man’s role in this is any less devastating. Obviously not. My point is that the level of self-hatred evident in the actions of a woman who would participate in this makes an unimaginable act even more unimaginable. It speaks to the horror of what many of these women’s daily lives must be like. Clearly, in the world many of these women inhabit, to be female is to be disposable. What must it be like to live with the knowledge that you are worth nothing? That you are rubbish? [And can literally be thrown out with the rubbish?] I wonder if many of these women feel that to end the life of a female child or to prevent one from ever being born is an act of mercy?

Tags: china, infanticide, gender imbalance

11 January, 2007 | 7 Comments

I had a sandwich with peanut butter, honey and slices of banana. Bliss.

My French friends, croissants, brioche and coq au vin are all fine and dandy, but America has mighty fine cuisine too. Le Cordon Bleu, take note.

To be fair in my reporting, I think many Americans reading this have never eaten such a sandwich and cringe at the thought. I think this particular delicacy is Southern in origin. I’m not a Southerner, but I was raised by one. This particular sandwich tastes even better grilled. Sadly, my frying pan is in storage at the nightclub singer’s place.

Now, if the French could just reduce the outrageous price of peanut butter, that’d be great. I mean, it’s just crushed peanuts and oil. It’s not some exotic delicacy. Get real. Today I saw snails in the frozen food section of Monoprix! And they were much cheaper than peanut butter. That’s f’ed up.

10 January, 2007 | 2 Comments

Just a quick note to say that I do not yet have internet service in my new flat. So if you’ve written to me and it appears as if I’ve dropped off the face of the earth, you know why. Life without easy access to the internet is extremely difficult, you know? I never realized how much I rely on it for virtually everything. Without internet, one ceases to be a fully functioning member of the human race. My friends are sending encouraging notes, as if I have a terminal illness. It’ll be okay, they write. Don’t worry, you’ll have the internet soon, they tell me. Where the hell are you?, they demand. I need you! I miss you! Wah!

I’m still kicking, but I think I might be slowly losing the will to live…

10 January, 2007 | Comments

I haven’t had a chance to write about my trip to Italy since I’ve been back in Paris and I’d like to do so here and there over the next few weeks. I’ve come to the realization that it will take me a month or more to go through all the photos I took, but perhaps this long-term project will keep the January doldrums at bay and help me relive my trip. I’m going to start with Venice and work my way back to Rome.

What stands out the most from my two days in Venice is the cold and fog. While Florence and Rome were tolerably chilly, Venice was freezing. It was that kind of bone-chilling cold that causes you to lose all feeling in your extremities rather quickly. I met many people who were woefully underdressed because they never suspected it would be so cold in Italy. Too bad for them.

And then of course there was the fog. On my first day, Venice was fogged in to such an extent that many of the vaporetti (water buses) weren’t running. Here’s a shot of the famous view looking out from St. Mark’s Square. As you can see, the lagoon and the other islands were completely swallowed up by the fog:

The next day, the fog had lessened considerably:

I had never expected to see a foggy Venice. I’d never even seen pictures of it fogged in or imagined it that way at all, so it was completely unexpected and strange. I met a few professional photographers from Brazil (hello if you’re reading this!) and they weren’t too pleased with the weather. I can understand that. The first thing you notice about Venice is how colorful it is – the buildings are painted bright pink and yellow and red; the water is a lovely shade of green. The fog and lack of sunshine sapped the islands of their rich color. But I wouldn’t trade my experience of Venice. It was wonderfully enchanting in the fog:

It was also a treat to see Christmas lights everywhere:

Walking around at night, I’d sometimes see a Christmas tree glowing in the window of a decaying yet elegant building. A lovely sight.

While in Venice, I did not go to one museum. After traipsing through Rome and Florence, I was museumed out. I skipped the Peggy Guggenheim Collection and the Accademia and the Doge’s Palace. Isn’t that awful? I did visit St. Mark’s Basilica and it’s very startling to see in person:

It doesn’t look like a Christian church at all, but rather something from the Islamic world, a reflection of Venice’s ties to the East.

I skipped the tourist attractions because I just wanted to walk around and see Venice itself, which wasn’t easy given the intense cold. But visiting churches and stopping for tea breaks frequently made it almost tolerable. To me, nothing in any museum could compare to the city itself and that’s what I wanted to experience. From Rick Steves: “[Venice] sits on pilings…millions of tree trunks driven deep into clay. About 25 miles of canals drain the city, dumping like streams into this Grand Canal. It’s a car-free maze of 100 islands — laced together by 400 bridges and a vast web of alleys and canalside walkways.”

Venice is such a wonderfully odd place, so steeped in history and myth and art and literature. It seems to exist just for tourists nowadays, which is probably for the best because it remains a preserved relic, like a living, breathing museum.

Since there are no motor vehicles of any kind allowed on the islands, everyone gets around by boat. There are police boats:

Water taxis:

I saw ambulance boats and even the UPS delivery boat.

Though I visited in the off-season, Venice was packed. The vaporetti were standing-room only and the main paths from the train station to the Rialto Bridge and St. Mark’s Square were filled with bumper-to-bumper foot traffic. However, off the tourist beat, it was deserted:

I read in my guidebook that most tourists in Venice are like sheep and won’t wander off the beaten path. That was certainly true in my experience. And the backstreets of Venice offer hidden delights, like the chance to meet real Venetians and see their laundry drying:

When wandering around, you have no choice but to wander. Maps are basically useless. Venice doesn’t feature traditional streets (how they deliver the mail is beyond me). It’s hilarious to see tourists with maps trying to figure out where they are, on the verge of becoming hysterical. It’s not really possible to get lost in any serious way, however, because you’re on a rather small island. You end up going in circles most of the time and eventually you spot a landmark you recognize. That’s the fun, just getting “lost” (but not really).

In the more touristy areas, it was fun to window shop. There are elaborate masks for sale all over the place:

It’s tempting to buy one, but then you stop and try to think what you’d do with it once you get home. And there is glass for sale everywhere, like these glass flowers and beads:

And lots of tempting culinary delights:

[I have a whole posting on food coming up!]

I crashed at the Hotel Belle Epoque, one of the nicest budget hotels I’ve ever stayed in. I was actually quite shocked at how nice it was, given the price. The view above my bed:

The front desk staff isn’t the friendliest, but then you don’t need to spend much time conversing with them. The hotel offered a free breakfast that included hard-boiled eggs! Yay! [The only protein available in other hotels was yogurt and slices of ham and cheese, all off-limits to yours truly.] The hotel is just a few doors down from the train station, which perhaps isn’t as picturesque as other areas of town (though perfectly fine), but if you’re arriving late or departing early, it’s very convenient. And the train station offers a staffed luggage storage area where I left my laptop with no problems. [When I went to pick up my baggage, I witnessed a near-brawl between a customer and one of the baggage handlers. Oh how I wished I could have understood what they were screaming about! And the hand gestures were flying too, but I didn’t understand those either.]

In my next post I will write about my favorite place in Venice. Until then, here’s a photo of a balloon animal sculpture I spotted while riding down the Grand Canal:

8 January, 2007 | 5 Comments

I promise I’ll post photos of my new apartment once I have everything set up – it’s a bit of a mess right now. (Those of you who know me are probably rolling your eyes because you know it’ll stay a mess.) I am now living on the top floor of a grand bourgeois Haussmann-era building, in what used to be the servants’ quarters. My apartment is a former “chambre de bonne” – a maid’s room. Actually, my place is two maids’ rooms that have been combined into one bigger (yet still very small) apartment. These places are quite sought after in Paris and unlike many chambre de bonne, mine has its own toilette as well as a little kitchen.

Here are two views from my window:

Soon I will make a video of what it looks like on my floor at the very top of this building – the halls are very dark and narrow, a marked difference from the bright airiness of the rest of the building. I find all of this to be very romantic and the ideal place for a writer. And of course I can’t help wondering about the people who lived in these rooms during the 19th century and what their lives were like (probably not pleasant). The family who owns my apartment lives just two floors below and they are very helpful and have gone out of their way to help me and make me feel at home.

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6 January, 2007 | 6 Comments

5 January, 2007 | 14 Comments

…or…

The Third Time’s the Charm

I found out at 11:00 p.m. on Sunday – New Year’s Eve – that I was being evicted from my apartment after only living there for one day. The guy who owns the apartment, the fashion model, henceforth referred to as Model Boy, left a long rambling message on my mobile phone, suggesting that I go move into a “cheap” hotel.

Happy 2007!

And then on the 2nd, I had to officially “check out” of my former apartment, the one owned by the great-great-granddaughter of Dr. Jekyll. She showed up with an independent member of the judiciary (or some such) and she informed me they were going over “every inch” of the apartment. To make a long story short, the judicial guy completed his inspection of every spoon, every towel and every crevice and declared, “C’est parfait!” [“It’s perfect!”] Everything was there in perfect condition, the apartment was spotless. It was a beautiful moment. I wanted to turn to my landlady and say the French equivalent of “Suck on it,” but my vocabulary isn’t that good.

I should point out that for every evil person I’ve had to deal with this week, I’ve encountered even more people who are decent, kind and thoughtful. And not only that, but the comments you’ve left on my blog and the e-mails I have received and the offers of help have meant so much to me. Thank you. Very sincerely, thank you.

The kindness of so many people prevented me from sinking into “I hate the world” mode. Case in point: Model Boy’s best friend, a nightclub singer my age, was to be my contact in Paris while he was working in New York. After this whole arrangement to sublet the apartment blew up, she vociferously came to my defense. She and her boyfriend have had numerous heated exchanges with Model Boy regarding his treatment of me. They are both appalled that he would conduct himself this way. To help me out, this woman arranged for me to leave many of my belongings – boxes of books, extra luggage, a chair – in the storage room of her apartment building. There was no point moving it into the sublet. [And I can leave my extra stuff there for as long as I want!] Such space in any apartment building is at a premium, yet she arranged this for me, doing something most people wouldn’t even do for a friend. I’m astounded by her kindness. [So is Model Boy. He accused her of taking my side and wondered if we were having a “relationship.” Yes, that’s his mentality.] This woman has taken me out for tea, given me hugs, offered to let me sleep on her sofa. [And she confided in me that after my confrontation with Model Boy on New Year’s Day, during which I told him off in delicious fashion, he came back to her place and cried for two hours. Bwahahahaha! He whined, “She was so rude to me! She said I’m a horrible person!” Boo hoo hoo I want my maman!] This woman has done so much for me and she doesn’t even know me, not really. As a result of all this, I have a lot of karmic debts to repay.

So after all this drama and upheaval, I still needed to find a place to call home. I wasn’t afraid that I would literally become homeless – and that’s not something to even joke about. But I was afraid. I didn’t know what would happen. I knew I could crash with people I know here if needed [although most of them barely have enough room for themselves], or I could find temporary accommodation, but I wanted my own home. I wanted a place to call mine, a fixed address. The thought of being a complete vagabond for weeks on end was not something I thought I could handle after what I’ve been through over the past few months. I could have done it, but it wouldn’t have been easy. And I feared that if I did find something, it would be a dump and that I’d have French mice for roommates.

Despite this anxiety – or perhaps because of it – I wasn’t making much of an effort to find a new place. I was in denial about my situation, I think. I spent a lot of time sitting on the sofa, staring into space. I looked on Craigslist mostly, because I wanted to rent from someone who spoke English and liked Americans (and anyone advertising on Craigslist probably fits this description). I did look on some French websites, but the few people I called sounded irritated when I asked them to repeat things or speak more slowly. So I lost my confidence.

And then on Wednesday an ad appeared on Craigslist that looked good – studio apartment, nice neighborhood, great price. And it had an actual phone number, not just an e-mail address, so I called. And I spoke to a very nice guy who said I could come over and look at the apartment if I wanted to. I learned my apartment-seeking skills in New York, where finding an apartment is a blood sport. And I knew from all the apartment-looking I did in the Apple that you gotta get there first. So I hopped right over, fell in love with the apartment and that was it. Within an hour, I had a new home. (Things can often be done very informally in this city. In New York I would have needed references, a credit check…an application.) I moved in the next day, dragging my tattered and worn suitcases behind me. And they had a pot of fresh flowers waiting for me in the apartment. How sweet!

I really love this apartment. I’m not settling for it because I’m desperate, not at all. It suits me in so many ways. I can stay here until I return to London (Model Boy’s place was only until April). And I have a legal contract this time. I feel in my gut that this is where I should be, that this is supposed to be my Paris apartment, that I finally landed in the right place. I could be wrong, but this is what my instincts tell me. I have no idea how I got so lucky as to find a nice apartment within mere days. A lot of luck, I guess, and good wishes from so many people. And this apartment is so much nicer than the sublet I got kicked out of. And its 40€ less a month to boot. When I last saw Model Boy, I wanted to give him a big hug for being such a grand prick. Because his jerkiness ended up benefiting me in the long run, there’s no doubt.

I’ll write more about the apartment and my new neighborhood in my next post. But I’m not finished telling you about this crazy week yet, no. It ended with a bang. This morning I had to be examined by a government doctor as the last step in the process to get my permanent carte de séjour (residence permit). There were mobs of [irritated] people there going through the same process. I had to be weighed and measured and have my eyes checked. A giant needle was jabbed into my middle finger and drops of blood were literally squeezed out so they could check my blood sugar. I had to have a chest x-ray, which involved walking around topless in front of a roomful of technicians. I’ve heard that you can’t be shy at a French doctor and now I know that’s true. After all these tests, I went into the doctor’s office and sat at a chair next to her desk. She demanded that I take my shirt off! So I sat there in a bra talking with her. It was very strange, bordering on humiliating. [I remember last winter in London, I had a nasty chest cold and went to the doctor. He examined me without making me take anything off – not even my coat!] And for the pleasure of this whole process, I got to pay 55€. But at the end, I got a certificate stating that I meet the health and sanitary requirements for living in France. Whew. So I get my permanent carte, but not too “permanent” – it expires in March, at which time I’ll have to apply again.

Sigh.

You know, I thought living in New York was tough. Frank Sinatra sang about New York, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” I used to believe that was true, but then I moved to Paris.

1 January, 2007 | 17 Comments

I really hate Paris right now.

You won’t be hearing from me for a few days. I moved into a new apartment on Saturday and now I have to find a new place and move again. That’s a record even for me. This is soooo not how I wanted to start the New Year. I’m thisclose to buying a Eurostar ticket to London and getting the hell out of here. Perhaps I should just take a hint — I’m not wanted here in Paris. I wonder if there are apartment owners in this city who do not engage in: screaming, tantrums, threats, crying in my presence, acting hysterical and most of all, behaving in a dishonest fashion. I’m sure there are such apartment owners in Paris. I hope I meet one.

So what happened is that the moron I sublet the apartment from returned to the US for his modeling work, but upon his arrival at the airport in Dallas he was interrogated by custom’s officials for ten hours, put in jail for two days and deported. He claims this is because he overstayed his visa last time. I find it hard to believe that such draconian measures would be taken for this kind of offense, but who knows. I have a feeling there’s more to the story. I found out about this from the guy’s friend when I returned from Italy (the apartment owner was still in jail at this point). I knew this was going to be a bad situation and that it wasn’t going to end well, but I had to move because I gave up my other place. And now that the owner is back in Paris, he’s practically homeless and needs his apartment back within the next few days, despite the fact that we agreed I could live there until the end of April. Apparently, this doesn’t matter to him. Tonight we met face to face (in the lobby — I refused to let him into the apartment. He said, “Don’t be afraid of me, I’m not going to beat you up and throw you out.” Gee, thanks.) I told him he was not a man of his word. He said this made him feel bad. Good! I have spent too much time talking to this guy while he cries (literally) about his life. What about my life? I have nowhere to live now. Soon I’ll be homeless.

And you know, it’s a bit scary being in a foreign country, not speaking the language very well and feeling afraid that you may end up thrown out into the street on a moment’s notice. I’ve never felt so vulnerable. And we’re still on break from school, so friends aren’t back in the city yet, making me feel even more alone. One friend might be back in town tonight and if so, I can stay with her. Fingers crossed.

My greatest hope for the New Year was to get off the roller coaster ride of drama and emotion that I’ve been on. Guess I’ll have to keep waiting for that to happen. So as you can see, I can’t focus on blogging right now. I’ll write once I’ve found a new “home.” Until then…

1 January, 2007 | 3 Comments

I would wish for world peace, but that would simply be a wish that none of us can make come true. So I wish for inner peace instead, for me and for all of you.

Cheers.