Pictorial representation of a French professor's heart
Parisians start their days so early. The bakers are up to prepare the morning's batch of bread, the sanitation crew sweeps the streets long before commuters are out... and men start prowling before they're even out the door. Like it wasn't bad enough when we're trying to go out at night. On my morning walk to orientation, a gentleman only just descending his steps greeted me with a cheerful but solemn, "Vous êtes magnifique, mademoiselle." What do you say to that? Certainly not, "Fuck you." I'm not yet sure what the etiquette is for formal flirting. Do you have to use "vous" pre-coffee? This appears to be yet another skill I must acquire.
I sense that I will be grateful for this unsolicited friendliness from random strangers next week when I begin classes at French universities. According to the program advisors, French professors are not at all like chez nous at Columbia. Orientation was in French, but if you will allow me to translate and briefly sum up what was said on the subject: "The professors you will have are civil servants and do not care about you at all. You are nothing to them. Nothing. Do not talk to them. Do not make spelling mistakes, because it will be an insult and they will refuse to read your papers and then burn them unceremoniously. We know you are all incapable of meeting these expectations and are inferior in every way, so we will make the F's you will surely receive B's on your official transcript. Pitiful creatures."
Then they hugged us and gave us hot chocolate.
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