Italian Cafe

Down the street from Starbucks, Munich

Douglas and I met up in Munich at the end of his week in Stuttgart for work. It was much colder than in Grenoble and I hadn't packed appropriate clothes. We ducked into this cafe to keep warm and out of the rain. I ordered a caffe lungo and Douglas had a caffee latte. We shared a piece of Apfel Kuchen, before sprinting to H&M to buy a sweatshirt.

Bar le Globe

Rue Victor Hugo - Valence

After spending a night in Lyon, Douglas met me in Valence for an afternoon to explore this city about an hour from Grenoble. Leena and Nisha were also visiting Valence that day and the four of us had lunch and coffee together.

Nisha stimulated the conversation by posing that age old dilemma: What is the plural of encyclopedia?

She drank an ice tea, Leena a noisette, Douglas a grand cafe creme, and me a grand cafe.

La Samovar

Place Championet

Spent an hour at this organic tea house with Toni, Eve, Leena, and Nisha. We sat outside, in direct sunlight, as was the goal. It took several attempts to find this cafe with outdoor tables and unobstructed sunlight. The process, involving the opinions of four women, reminded me why I'm gay.

Leena and Nisha shared a pot of the tisane digestif; Toni, Eve, and I each had a diablo grenadine (sweet seltzer with pomegranite syrup).

The Light at the End of the Tunnel is an Oncoming Cement Truck

When I got to Lycee Vaucanson this morning I was met by the familiar sight of a large group of students mingling outside. The front gates were blocked, again, by dumpsters. I greeted a few of my students and then, as the pattern's become, walked down to the teacher's parking lot entrance.

Today was a little different though. Normally, a staff member stands inside the gate of the parking lot opening the door for students and staff. Today there was a second group of students and more dumpsters blocking this gate. 'Hmm,' I thought.

I watched a teacher drive up in her car. She inched in, honked a little, waved a lot. A student went to her passenger side window and they spoke for a bit. She parked the car halfway in the street, emerged, and walked up to the gate with her magnetic swipe card. The gates didn't open. She got back in the car and drove away.

Then another teacher walked up and we spoke for a bit. I can't remember what she said. My mind was running through 'How do I say in French 'Should we climb the fence?' followed by tyring not to imagine her doing it in her 6 months pregnant condition. Then she told me we could try the service entrance on the other side of campus. So, we walked around the block and were met by a staff member at this third entrance. He let us in. There were no students or garbage blocking the way.

The teacher I work with at 8am was already in the classroom. Alone. I asked her how she got in. "I'm a wreckless driver," she joked. (She arrived at 7:30, before the students) Four students showed up for class, all of them boarders who were blocked in just as I had been blocked out. I wondered if they knew about the service entrance.

Everyone I spoke to was surprised that the strikes continued. After Tuesday's large national protest the major unions called on the government to withdraw the CPE before April 17. Everyone thought that the strikes would be on hold until then. I guess the students thought otherwise.

They keep getting bigger

Today I skipped school - and by skipped I mean I called ahead and asked if any students showed up instead of walking to campus and sitting with the teachers comparing notes on how few students showed up - today I skipped school and watched the demonstrations in Grenoble. It's was close to 70 degrees today with clear skies. This, coupled with the national anger at President Chirac's speech last Friday, made for a large turnout.

I left the house at 10am to meet some French friends and other language assistants at a cafe near the start of the protest march route. Eve brought croissants which we ate with our coffee while waiting for everyone else to show up. Around 10:30 we set off with the crowd, feeling slightly awkward by our non-French status.

Buses and trams were halted for the day. The demonstrators had full access to the streets. Observing police in riot gear stayed on the sidewalks and traffic cops redirected traffic.

Like most protests, there was an energetic feeling. Several people had drums and banners and loudspeakers playing music. It wasn't a large stretch to make jokes comparing it to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. (What corporation would sponsor a labor march? Certainly not Wal-mart.)

Later in the day, after eating lunch (picking a restaurant was like herding cats) we stopped to watch a crowd of more angry, confrontational demonstrators taunt and antagonize several dozen riot police in the center of town. We lingered for a while to see what would happen. Would there be broken bottles hurled at the cops? Tear gas? Would the McDonald's be looted? Not taking the bait, the bored cops held their composure and the protestors put on more sunscreen.

We went for coffee.

It's now 9pm and I can hear occasional chanting and sirens continuing through the open kitchen window. I'm in for the night, not tempted to see what happens next.

Is it a revolution? Not really. Is it a sideshow? Not at all. It's another example of the conflict growing within France. It's French democracy. It's a visually stunning display of controlled anger by a highly literate, informed, and educated population.

We'll see if any of them show up for school tomorrow.

Le Touring Hotel

Avenue Alsace-Lorraine

Lionel and Vincent and their friends Jean, Jean-Luc, and Laurianne were joining the national strike against the CPE. Eve and I met up at this cafe to cheer them. We had some very proletarian croissants with our cafes (grand for me, petit for Eve).

Leena, Nisha, and Toni showed up later and we spent the day doing an anthropologic study of French democracy - pictures available upon request.

I love my pharmaciste

She made me love her. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to.

I wanted to walk into the supermarket and pick up some aspirin with the eggs, frozen pizza, and corn flakes on my shopping list. But I couldn't. They don't sell aspirin in the supermarket. Or in the chain of German toiletries around the corner. Over the counter drugs in France are strictly held behind the counter.

Rolling my eyes at the notion that I need to get someone's permission to treat a headache, I walked into one of the pandemic pharmacies in town, its tell-tale green fluorescent cross flashing above the door.

"Bon jour," she said, smiling. I'm still caught off guard by the initial friendliness in every store and restaurant. But I kept my attitude. I explained that I wanted some aspirin, inside my head cursing the Orwellian situation. 'Who's business is it that I drank cheap wine last night?'

And then she got me. Continuing with her smile and soothing voice she asked if I wanted a synthetic or liquid or disolveable. I didn't realize aspirin came in so many varieties. "Just a tablet," I explained. She was chic in her cotton knit sweater buttoned at the shoulder and draping across her chest like a cape, forgoing the white lab coat popular with her comrades.

She left the counter and opened a drawer on the wall of drawers behind her. Then she pulled out a box and set it in front of me. I opened it and looked at the tray of pills inside, each larger than a nickel. My eyes opened wide. My mouth followed suit. My head throbbed. How did she expect me to swallow these? "They're chewable," she said.

I felt three. Three and well cared for.

I paid, popped a pill in my mouth, and walked home.