The supreme law of the land & My (il)legal adventures

08.28.07

The supreme law of the land.

Prologue:

The first week of class (Aug. 20-24), we had a wonderful professor of French History, he taught the French Revolution until the end of the 3^rd Republic, i.e. WWI. His name, coincidentally, was Pascale Cauchy. You couldn’t find one better for me—2 mathematicians in 1 guy…we all know Pascal’s Triangle and the Cauchy-Schwartz Inequality.

He was overall a truly engaging and amazing professor, and we’re going to Fontainebleau, a chateau about 40mi. from Paris, this Sunday, with him. He also sported a double collar, all 4 days of class, which for a middle-aged guy I thought was a bit blasé, but in France…

End of Prologue.

…this week we have Nicolas Picarnat, who is not as good a professor, in my humble opinion, and the subject he’s teaching, the French Constitution, is nowhere near as interesting as The Terror or the 2 Napoleons. The French Constitution has a lot of articles, and though they’re short, it doesn’t compare with the relative terseness and clarity of our beloved US document.

I’ll cut to the chase…

On Monday (08.27.08), during my 1.5 hour lunch break, I was sitting in the bathroom outside of the classroom, and thinking to myself, “Damn, I wish we were still learning history,…I could wipe my ass with that constitution….”

Low and behold, as I reach down for the (obviously one-ply) toilet paper, I see that it is curiously white and blue, and has cartoons and words all over it. Low and behold, I realize, holy shit, the constitution is printed on the sheets of the toilet paper!!!

I thought at first, bizarre—wouldn’t that be desecrating the so-called ‘sanctity’ or dignité of the document? Then I realized, the French government, (or l’État as it is affectionately dubbed), was just trying to educate the electorate, using innovative methods.

Very good idea, Mr. Xavier Darcos (Minister of Education); civics class 3 times a day!

My (il)legal adventures.

(This vignette should directly precede the entry about food establishments closed on Sunday).

Sunday. 2pm. I finally amble out of my foyer (code for dorm with personal bathroom) after a late night Saturday. I decided that after a week of hanging out with other Americans in my program and general fun, I was going to spend Sunday alone walking around, living life, and eventually going to the library to do some research.

A nice and sunny day, I get into the subway, ready, awake…Ride 2 stations to Montparnasse, where I was planning to get off and go to a Paris city museum (gratuit by the way—free) about a sculptor similar to Rodin.

It’s a fairly sizable subway station, so I wander a bit finding the correct exit. Almost nearing it, I see a line of clean and nice looking ladies and gentlemen checking, what I had assumed were IDs.

Yes. This was the national police. No. They did not want my passport (read: unlike Russia); they wanted my train ticket. Fine, I showed them my pretty orange card case and ticket…and SLAP! €25 s’il vous plait (please).

What? How? Did I manage to be hustled out of my money by the police twice in one year? Yes.

Apparently, it was illegal for me to have been carrying the subway-card case I was carrying without affixing my photo and signing my name. As usual, I could do nothing but sign my name and fork over the money.

At least this time they didn’t get me just because I was an American—they got me because I was a stupid American. I hate giving bribes.

PS. I do have to add that French police were ostensibly nicer than those Russian thugs from Moscow, they even said Merci after I paid them, and gave me a receipt, so that if I were stopped again, I wouldn’t have to play double jeopardy, how nice.