It was Christmas 2004. I was at a typical Hansen Family Christmas Party, and all was going well. I had holed myself up in a corner to play Life with some cousins with a double-rum cup of eggnog. I saw my aunts and uncles hovering, about to come over and ask questions about my future.
I realized that I had to take control of the situation. I stood up on a chair and announced to the world that I was pursuing a Master's degree in fashion merchandising. Once my father awoke from fainting, I whispered to him, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't handle the thought of fielding any more questions about Sciences Po and Paris."
In the two years I spent before arriving here in Paris, most every social occasion was full of torturous conversation. I'd rather have my family think that I'll spend my life managing a Gap than sit through conversations about everyone's opinion about Paris, France, or the French.
Why does no one have a neutral opinion about Paris? Of all the capitals in the world, it seems to be the only one that has registered in every American's mind so strongly, for better or for worse. It evokes such visceral responses -- either eye-gougingly boring conversations about personal experiences or about a half a dozen false prejudices about Parisians and the French.
Before I knew I'd be starting a Master's in Paris, everything was smooth at these awkward cocktail parties. I had perfected the responses that ended small talk.
In high school I learned to say that I wanted to "go to state." While at Hopkins, I learned to just say that, yes, I was going to be a doctor. Going into a B.A./M.A. program that I can barely understand myself, I was worried about giving a deadpan response to boring minds. Luckily, I don't really have to worry about explaining my study, because after all, no one really cares.
It's just that getting past the word "Paris" is impossible. "Oh, Par-is," they say, their eyes lighting up. This is the most common reaction: "the Swooner." Not surprisingly, swooners are mostly women, ranging from girls channeling one of the approximately 10,000 romantic movies set in Paris to a middle aged woman remembering some hot and heavy weekend as a student. Would it be a crime if I didn't fall in love with someone over the next two years? Yes, absolutely. According to the Swooner school, Paris is not for study; Paris is for sex.
The second may be the more honest response. Those who manage not to wet their panties at the word "Paris" ask me where I'll be studying. The title of my school is something like La Fondation Nationale des Etudes Politiques. Not only does this sound pretentious, it makes everyone's eyes glaze over.
The shorter, more commonly used version is "Sciences Po," (See-on-suh Po) which sounds something like the lost Teletubby. After saying I'm studying at a school that sounds like a felt PBS character, my grande ecole just sounds like a good excuse for a visa.
According to popular culture, there is only one school in Paris, and that is the Sorbonne. Sorry, if they haven't made knock off sweatshirts of your school that are sold at tourist shops, it's not legit.
The most refreshing question came from a friend who asked, "Is it one of those master's programs where you basically pay for a diploma?" I gave her a hug when she said that. It was so nice to be asked an honest question, rather than to hear people say, "Oh, Par-is, huh? Glug!" Or, "You're just there to have fun, right?"
Much like sex, people have done more than drink in Paris. Finally, since I've arrived in Paris, I am happy to say that I've come up with the best response of all. When anyone asks what I'm doing in Paris, I simply respond, "I live here."
