Really? Couldn’t the people express their rage on Wednesday, when Sasha doesn’t have school?

Ah, but then parents wouldn’t have to also stay home from, thus participating in the strike whether they wanted to or not. Clever. Not that anyone really minds a strike. Our school very charmingly explained that because of the difficulty in getting to work, it was possible that some teachers might not make it in—and that, you see, would endanger our children! So, you see, they’re protecting our children by taking the day off.

And why are the people enraged? They don’t really know, but some of the reasons I’ve seen for this general strike is: a decline in the quality of life; the possibility that people will lose their jobs in the economic crisis; salaries might go down. Americans might find the idea of striking to protest malaise, or the possibility of a future bad thing, a little absurd, but this is definitely part of life in Europe. I hesitate to even mention this now that my French-hating brother is reading this site, but I have to. In a story that is 1/3 ridiculous, 1/3 tragic, and 1/3 Kafkaesque, the former President, François Mitterand, was attacked last week. By his poodle. Who was depressed. Yes, the poodle, not the president. Yes, depressed. Taking anti-depressants. This is a country where the president gets attacked by a depressed, medicated poodle.

I don’t care—I’ve lived in Italy, so I’ve seen way more ridiculous strikes than the French can muster. Also, I don’t care because Monday I’ll be starting classes at the Alliance Française. Ah, structure in my life! I had to take a test, and I was actually nervous—I’ve never taken a real French class in my life, and only began speaking it about a month and a half ago. The test was great, insofar as it helped me understand how much French I have no active command of whatsoever. I’m happily reading Balzac’s La Cousine Bette, no problem, but if you actually ask me to sit down and conjugate an irregular verb in the past subjunctive, that’s a lot trickier. When I was doing the last page of the test, I was reading passages full of conjunctions that I know from Italian require various subjunctives and conditionals—I just don’t know what they are. I also had a conversation in which I excellently faked understanding. My interlocutor was pregnant, and I had the interview well in hand when I explained that I could only sign up for two week. “C’est mon fils,” I sighed. “Les vacances scolaires arrivent.” (It’s because of my son—school vacations are coming up). She had forgotten: “Ah, oui!” Then she sighed, too. In France, children are only to be presented as a source of discomfort and difficulty. A hindrance (don’t worry—the parents love them just the same, but this is the preferred rhetorical stance).  She asked me if I knew where “err sank” (R5) was, and I gave my best, world-weary “ouai.” She congratulated me on my “très bon niveau,” and sent me on my way. They “very good level” was the mysterious “B1.”

After some research, this would appear to be the first half of intermediate French for foreigners. As expected, the French have an elaborate system for testing foreigners and their command of the language. It goes by the ridiculous series of names: DILF, DELF and DALF. First, you get the DILF (Diplôme initial de langue française) or levels A1-A2, then you get the DELF (Diplôme d’études en langue française) or levels B1-B2, then you get the DALF (Diplôme approfondi de langue française) or levels C1-C2, and then they deny you a job. At least that’s how I imagine it goes. But if you can pass the DALF test, it also exempts you from having to prove your competence in French if you go to the University here. Not that I need to go to the university anytime soon. But I do need to be able to answer the phone when UPS France calls about a missed delivery attempt and not accidentally send the package back to the States. That didn’t happen, but the only reason it didn’t happen is that halfway through the conversation I realized that just murmuring “d’accord” every so often was not going to cut it the time. I then said something like “Pardon. Madame. Je parles le français. Ne pas bien.” Or something equally ungrammatical, and then we switched into English. So far, that point was my Francophone nadir of the trip, and hopefully will remain so.

I also picked up a new suit, back from having all the alterations done, and got a bunch of cheap stuff at the Monoprix. I’d wear the suit tomorrow, but I think I’m taking Sasha and Léo to a park while the mothers get a haircut. What’s in it for me, you ask? I’m thinking: nothing. La rage du papa! C’est la heure de la grève paternelle!