[Reid Hall correspondent Greg Keilin looks at France's love-hate relationship with its oldest minority]

Passover began Saturday night and I was fortunate enough to have my visiting parents to celebrate with. We joined the Seder of some Israeli friends of theirs who are here visiting their daughter and her husband.

We had a wonderful time together. Our observance of the service was not strict (goyim made up 25% of the assembled company) but the songs and prayers were sincerely joyful as befit the occasion. We sat together late into the night, enjoying each other’s company and conversation.

I was particularly pleased to meet another Jew living in Paris because I do not know many. The community here is mostly confined to two small neighborhoods, and its members tend to be a bit too traditional for my taste. They usually keep more or less to themselves, partly because they have little need or desire to mix with outsiders and partly due to the discouragement that results from a subtle, but nonetheless powerful, French anti-Semitism.

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[Romantics beware: if you're looking for a Parisian hotspot to take a man/woman, the three-hour line at the base of the Eiffel Tower sure ain't it. Reid Hall denizen Greg Keilin takes a break from studying philosophy to look for some of Paris's low-profile romantic charms]. 

Spring sprang on us here Friday.  After a seemingly endless string of rainy days in the high 30’s, the sun came out and the temperature was above 60 degrees (yesterday and today, of course, it was drizzling and 40, but never mind).

People left their coats at home in favor of lighter, brighter warm-weather wear.  The streets were crowded with Parisians enjoying the changing season, and the banks of the Seine were lined with couples canoodling in the shade of newly leafy trees.  Paris in the spring: romantic, huh? Well, perhaps not so much as it seems.
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[After two months in the City of Lights, our Reid Hall correspondent is still feeling a little left out. Greg Keilin explains:]

Recently, my girlfriend Kate and I have been bombarded by guests. First, a friend of Kate’s from high school brought some college friends of hers to visit us. Half way through their stay, a friend of mine from Columbia arrived. When she left, we had three days off before Kate’s aunt and uncle came to town; they were here for a week.

And March was only half over. After a day and a half to ourselves, we headed off to London to pay a visit of our own. The day we got back, my aunt and thirteen-year-old cousin landed in Paris. When they left, another friend of ours took their place.

After her departure tomorrow, we will have five whole days of freedom before we host two more friends of Kate’s friends. They go and, a week later, my parents roll into town for a two-week vacation. When, on May 7, we bid adieu to a pair of Kate’s aunts (whose stay overlaps with that of my mom and dad), the two-month marathon will be over.

Now I don’t want to give the wrong impression: I love entertaining guests and I have been (or will be) very glad to see everyone who has (or will) come to visit. I offer this litany of lodgers not to exorcise my annoyance but to prove a point that may seem obvious: Paris attracts tourists.

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[Everybody knows that French culture is vastly superior to our own. Reid Hall correspondant Greg Keilin takes a gander as to why].

I had a class canceled this past Thursday, so I used my unexpected afternoon off to visit the Musée d’Orsay.  I had been there once before, about three and a half years ago, but I did not remember it well, so I approached this trip as a novice.

When I arrived, I was struck immediately by the grandeur of the museum building itself.  A former train-station constructed in the last years of the 19th century, its immense limestone façade elegantly integrates classical motifs with more modern themes.  The main hall arches to over a hundred feet high and is lit by enormous skylights.  The architecture instills in the visitor a peculiar sense of class and luxury.

The works of the permanent collection–the “greatest hits” of the Impressionist period–are equally sumptuous and refined.  The galleries are filled with paintings and pastels by the likes of Manet, Monet, Degas, Cézanne, and Renoir (often mounted in ornate gilt frames and always generously spaced from one another), as well as sculptures by Rodin and Camille Claudel.  The style typical of these artists and the manner in which their works are displayed promote a relaxing sort of appreciation–one’s absorption of the pieces’ historical significance is almost effortless, which leaves more time and mental space for pure aesthetic enjoyment.

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[Yeah, you wish you were in Paris right now. But should you be wishing you were going to college there? Reid Hall correspondent Greg Keilin takes a look.] 

My first class in a French school was an L1 (first-year) philosophy class at the Sorbonne. When the professor arrived, ten minutes late in typical Parisian fashion, he began a lecture not on Aristotelian ethics, the subject of the course, but instead on why his students should drop philosophy.

Each year, he told us, about six hundred Sorbonne students take the L1 philosophy curriculum; about four hundred are allowed to advance to L2; two hundred move on to L3 (the final year of undergraduate study, in the French system). Though most of that group does graduate, he said, only half receive positions in Masters programs. Roughly fifty percent of Masters graduates are rejected for doctoral candidacy, and only a handful of new PhDs are offered jobs. In short, the odds are that only one out of sixty students in that class will wind up a professor.

As this story demonstrates, the mission of French universities is to separate the wheat from the chaff. Their job is to winnow down the list of potential butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers until only the best and the brightest remain.

The advantage of this approach is that anyone can attend, and cheaply. Public universities are open to every student with a Baccalauréat (high school diploma). Full annual tuition is about 400€ ($607.48, according to this website. -ed.), and scholarships and stipends are available to low-income individuals. As far as equality of opportunity goes, French schools get high marks.

But the selection strategy they employ does have negative side effects. Despite many pedagogues’ assertions that a broad general education and a self-determined curriculum have intrinsic educational benefits, the threshing process in France begins early: students have a concentration in secondary school, which limits their college choices and their major options. Interdisciplinary studies are virtually non-existent, and courses in one subject can rarely be applied to a degree in another.

This super-specialization throughout the process leaves some students out in the cold.  Though humanities students at least have limited leeway (political science undergrads sometimes go to business school), the system’s flexibility only goes so far–for instance, literature majors can’t be pre-med. As a result, post-graduation career changes are almost impossible, and those who don’t make the cut after one or two years of school often find themselves back where they started, with no degree and useless coursework.

So, do the costs of college, French-style, outweigh the benefits? In my view, the mission of an academic institution should be to serve its students, not the state. The chances afforded by universal admissions is illusory—the door it opens often leads nowhere—and my peers here would derive greater benefit from a system that helps them succeed than from a lecture on why they will fail. Education reform is badly needed in France, and I hope President Sarkozy, who has made it a priority, will take things in the right direction.

-GREG KEILIN

[The Commentariat's Reid Hall correspondent examines the love life of Nicholas Sarkozy, who could be one of the world's most physically attractive heads of state. Granted, he's no Vladimir Putin...]

When Nicolas Sarkozy was elected president of France in May of last year, he had been married once, divorced, and remarried. His second marriage was on the rocks (he and his wife had both had very public affairs) and it seemed unlikely that the couple would be able to patch things up.

Despite his marital difficulties, Sarko (as both supporters and opponents call him) was consistently seen as the frontrunner in the 2007 campaign and eventually won the presidency with relative ease. The French people found his proposals on the economy, immigration, and national security far more compelling than his personal problems.

In the eight months since he took office, however, things have changed. His second divorce was finalized in October, sparking a tabloid media frenzy. Speculation on potential new presidential partners ran rampant until, in December, Sarkozy was photographed at EuroDisney with singer/model Carla Bruni. The pair was seen again, later that month, vacationing together in Egypt; things looked to be getting serious, although Ms. Bruni’s avowed opposition to monogamy still seemed to pose a problem. And two weeks ago, without warning, the couple had married.

Sarkozy’s approval ratings fell steadily over the course of this whirlwind romance, reaching a new low of 39% the week following his wedding. Surprisingly, given the public’s past indifference to his private affairs, poll respondents have overwhelmingly indicated that the state of President’s love life is the primary reason for his decline in popularity. Have popular priorities here really changed so drastically in such a short time?

No, as a matter of fact. In the past, Sarkozy’s domestic existence had been quietly turbulent. Though the divorce of a prominent politician is sure to be mentioned somewhere, the first time around he made sure coverage was kept to a minimum. Recently, however, he has behaved more like a Hollywood starlet than a politician, seeming to invite excessive media scrutiny of his amorous adventures.

It is this exhibitionism to which the French object. Government officials here are supposed to be statesmen, not celebrities; they should make news with policy, not personality. As long as Sarkozy’s business remained his business, it was irrelevant, but as soon as it became our business, it was shameful.

Given social tendencies in France, such an attitude is not surprising. People here are very private, much more so than in the United States. They do not share much, and they expect others not to pry. Even among friends, personal problems are rarely discussed; you are supposed to solve them on your own.

Sarkozy grew up in that culture, and his career has been a model of self-sufficiency. But his home life, at least recently, has not. Now he is paying the price. Sarko should have known better.

-GREG KEILIN

[More from Greg Keilin, who has been at Columbia's Parisian outpost this summer. Read this till the end, and join the discussion. And if you're still interested (and even if you're not) see this movie.] I signed up for a course this semester on the Algerian War, a subject that is all but absent from American textbooks. Though I was sure my French classmates would be familiar with the topic, it turned out their ignorance mirrored my own, so we have spent the first few classes establishing some broad historical background.

France invaded Algeria in 1830 and, following a bloody military campaign, established absolute rule over its territory, eventually integrating it completely into the national administrative system. Despite the mutual advantages of this arrangement, decolonization elsewhere encouraged a growing nationalist movement until, by the 1950s, many Algerian politicians had become convinced of the need for autonomy or sovereignty.

The War of Independence began on November 1, 1954 with a series of terrorist attacks by the National Liberation Front (FLN). The French government’s brutal response included abductions and assassinations, torture, forced tribal relocation, and scorched-earth warfare, as well as conventional tactics. These policies eventually alienated the local population to such an extent that, despite overwhelming military superiority, France was forced to recognize an independent Algeria.

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[College junior Greg Keilin offers us another report from Paris. And the place just sounds better and better...] 

This week marked my first interaction with the French medical system.  When I arrived in the fall, one of the universities at which I am studying had taken the somewhat unusual step of forcing me to buy French health insurance (reimbursed by Columbia), but I had hoped I would never have to use it.  Now, in need of a doctor, I was glad to have it, but nervous at the prospect of navigating an unfamiliar system in a foreign language. 

My advisor at Reid Hall reassured me, promising any help I might need, and referred me to a nearby medical practice.  They gave me an appointment that afternoon. 

The waiting room was empty when I arrived and the doctor appeared almost instantaneously.  She questioned and examined me, prescribed a blood test (to be performed elsewhere) and some medicine, and sat me down to explain the insurance process.  Despite the language barrier, I soon discovered that using Sécurité Sociale is practically painless. 

The next morning, I appeared unannounced to have my blood drawn.  I was the lab’s only patient and the doctor called me in immediately (notice a pattern?).  The sample was taken quickly and painlessly, and I walked out fifteen minutes after walking in. 

At the drug store, I met a very friendly young pharmacist.  He filled my prescription as I stood there (not “After 3 p.m. next Wednesday.”) and recommended some over-the-counter remedies for potential side effects.  Another miraculously pleasant experience. 

The refund requests, which took me five minutes to fill out, have been mailed and should be processed within a week.  All in all, my treatment cost me €84.50 or $125.49 (of which 75% will be paid back) and about an hour of my time.  In New York, with good insurance, I could easily spend thrice that. 

It continues to baffle me that the merits of the French system are so often ignored in the United States.  The economy here is weak and the bureaucracies are notoriously inefficient, but everyone is guaranteed cheap and easy access to medical help.  In our country, famed for its organization and for its wealth, even middle-class citizens are often denied the most basic care. 

The dysfunctional HMO structure has troubled American politicians at least since the “Hillarycare” debacle of the early 90’s.  Their search for a solution has continued off and on, producing few proposals and no compromise.  No one wants to repeat Mrs. Clinton’s mistake and introduce something less than ideal, so the most egregious of old problems are left unsolved for fear of causing new ones. 

When I told my doctor here how pleased I was with my experience, she was surprised.  She said the French complain constantly about their healthcare.  As the old saying goes, “If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk,” but France has not let the perfect be the enemy of the good.  Neither should we.

-GREG KEILIN

[or, how much do you wish you were in fucking Paris right now? Commentariat foreign correspondent and philosophy major Greg Keilin, C '09, doesn't have to wish. But who knows--get those imaginations working, and reading him every weekend could be just like being there. Only cheaper!]

Had brunch this morning at one of my favorite restaurants here, Coffee Parisien. It is a mini-chain (there are three branches) that tries to bring the USA to Paris, but I love eating there because of how badly they do it. Though the menu does have milkshakes and bagels, it also has steak tartare. The place is always crammed with couples and young families, their kids better dressed than I will ever be, and there is an espresso machine behind the oak wood bar.

Even more amusingly, the few American touches that are effectively incorporated (Kennedy photos, concert posters, and pop art on the walls) only reinforce the perception of French disdain for the current state of our country. People here still love JFK, Andy Warhol, and Woodstock, but they hate George Bush and McDonalds.

Why do they feel this way? The France of today, I believe, identifies with the United State of the sixties. Its people sense that they are, as we were, at an historical crossroads. Europe is unifying, challenging their strong national identity; the global economy is evolving, straining their traditional socialist values; immigration is increasing, reviving dormant racial tension.

They also feel, as we did, that these difficulties must be engaged head-on. There has been constant dialogue in the press and in public; there have been numerous strikes and protests; and people have voted. In both rounds of the French presidential elections last year, voter turnout exceeded 80%. Though the United States has never reached that level, the 63% participation in 1960 was higher than in any subsequent year.

This last fact is one of the reasons for the recent decline in French respect for American culture. The French see in us now a failure to live up to the promise of the social and political movements they admire. They feel we are apathetic in the face of new challenges. Much more than any particular policy or practice, they resent our self-satisfied detachment from our own affairs and from those of the rest of the world.

Whether or not these accusations are true, they reveal a French self-confidence that borders on arrogance. They despise the United States for having failed where they believe they will succeed, and their high hopes for us only made our crime worse. Of course, it remains to be seen what the future will hold. If history repeats itself, the people of France may want to eat their words in fifty years; perhaps, sooner than that: their new President, after all, is considered “American.” In any case, only time will tell.

-GREG KEILIN