An American in Paris, Part 1

For a long time, American expats in Europe maintained a running joke that the way to get around without too much trouble was to “just say you're Canadian.” Our friendly Northern neighbors, it seems, would even be excused for not speaking a word of French (or German, Spanish, Czech, what have you) for their innocuous foreign policy and international image.

I have always felt some moral opposition to this tactic, for if all well-behaved Americans are thought to actually be Canadians, we do nothing to deconstruct the stereotype of the ubiquitously loud, obnoxious, poorly dressed and egotistical American tourist. And certainly, there exist a fair number of persons who do fit this description, and the unfortunate side effect is that the less vocal percentage by definition blends into the background. So I have learned to admit as unabashedly as possible that I do, indeed, come from the States, but more and more I understand the impulse to simplify matters and lie about my patrimony. Sitting on the Eurostar to London, however, an English woman gave me an earful about the general filthiness of Americans' values and behavior. “If that's how they're going to act abroad, it's no wonder that they were attacked by terrorists on September 11,” she concluded, parenthetically adding, “and I don't want to upset you, because I don't mean you. You're not like that.” Well, yes, actually, I am upset. I am upset that certain Americans cannot behave themselves abroad, and I am upset at the insistence of certain Europeans that they understand the nature and nuances of American culture well enough to stereotype and generalize about a population as diverse as all of Europe.

But, in fact, the situation is not hopeless. Recently, an American friend who speaks very little French walked into a supermarket wearing an Obama button. The cashier's eyes lit up, and she asked my friend excitedly if he had another one to give to her. It appears that wearing an Obama button is at least an equivalent if not more effective substitute for plastering maple leafs all over our handbags and jackets. Obama posters hang on French billboards, although no one is quite sure of what product they actually advertise. If I let it slip that I'm from the States, everyone wants to know who I think will win the election.

I suppose that in my current environment, living among Europeans and American students who all had at least some reason to leave the States, it's difficult for me to remember that the middle-America, populist Republican spirit that dominated the Texas political scene still exists. In my surroundings, it's “painfully obvious” that no one in their right mind would vote for the McCain-Palin ticket. But many Europeans, it seems, believe that Americans are simply not in their right minds. More than one French delivery man or sales person has told me that Obama has no chance, for Americans are just too stupid to choose the more reasonable candidate.

A month away from election day, we can only speculate about the true nature (and intellect) of Americans. In November, however, I can say unequivocally that Obama's election would be a huge step in improving the image of the United States abroad. For Europeans, Barack Obama represents a hope that the US may become again a force with whom they can collaborate to achieve a common international goal. On the flip side, John McCain's election would simply prove what Europeans think they already know: that the United States is a cesspit of warped ethics and political misguidance. Although this negative impression may be an oversimplification of Republican philosophy, I hope for my own sake as an American in Paris that we will elect the candidate who will help to change our reputation as well as our policies.

Season finale: two hour special

A close friend of mine suggested that the last few days in any place should be treated like a season finale. It is the time for nostalgia and for paying respects to memories and hardships; there should be reflection and conclusion. Unlike the ending of a film, however, in which philosophical questions may be left open but the plot more or less ties itself up, a television series finishes in the spring with a suspenseful twist that will leave the audience waiting with bated breath for the next year's opening episode.

Leaving aside any discussions of how postmodern reality has become a reflection of television's virtual existence, this idea was intriguing as I had found myself in a particularly sentimental mood before I left Houston. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” the novel of my undergraduate experience would begin. But after a certain number of years of residency, it is infrequently so simple as to say “good riddance.” Houston is no one's enchanted island, but I nonetheless managed to carve out a niche in the lonely, sprawling city. I had my favorite restaurants and coffee bars, favorite days to go to the library (Sundays, when the parking is free downtown), and I'd found all of the quietest places. The one comfort that a season finale promises, however, is that the end is not the end. There will be more.

As my prime-time segment appeared to be coming to a close, I was listening to Bowling for Soup incessantly, driving my minivan out to Fort Bend to teach my middle school students their last lessons, stopping by Fiesta one more time to grab some ripe avocados to whip up a final batch of Tex-Mex guacamole for all of the familiar faces that were going to show up for goodbyes that evening. But we hear a gasp, cursing, blood gushing mixed with green avocado pulp! Great mother of God, the protagonist must be rushed to the emergency room to stitch up her partially severed finger!

After the commercial break (we can eliminate the boring bits because it's TV), we return to the emergency room. She has a splint on her arm; the doctor is informing her that she must see a hand surgeon to ensure that she has not damaged a tendon. Questions flood the minds of the audience members: how will she finish packing? How will she fly out the next day if she needs to see a surgeon? For how long will she be forced to keep her flute in its case?

I had been reluctant to leave Houston, and a very unfortunate accident had forced me to stay. The irony did not escape me. It is evidently never too late for a surprise plot twist. The second hour of the two-hour special season finale included a nerve repair surgery and assurances that I would, in fact, be able to play again, and soon. I am proud to say that I'm typing with all ten of my fingers.

The episode ended when the plane from Houston to Portland finally took off, marking the end of my term as a Rice student and a Houstonite. I do not know if I'll still remember my way around when I go back to visit. Chances are that it will feel less and less like home as the city changes without me. But this is not Casablanca; there is no Viktor Laszlo to whisk me away to Czecheslovakia for an unknown fate. Rather, it is more like Samantha Jones barbequeing with transvestites, or Doctor Cameron's resignation after House fires Doctor Chase. What will happen after a summer of reruns?

The New York Times is sold out in Charleston!

Downtown Charleston is overrun with tourists. Since the opening night of the festival, Friday, the traffic has become unbearably slow, sidewalks are packed, and even on weeknights the clubs have a line out the door.

The question: where do all of these people come from?

Charleston is historic: relics from the seventeenth century, ghost stories, European-style architecture. It is filled with color, culture and history. A few days ago, one had to wonder, however, how such a beautiful city had managed to become infested with overzealously coiffed frat boys and scantily clad women in their twenties. The weather might be the excuse, but it's certainly not the reason. For some reason they feel inclined to sport bathing suits under their clothes even though the beach is at least a twenty minute drive away.

But in the space of twenty-four hours, the college students melted into a crowd of more elderly, stone-faced, drawl-less visitors with varying degrees of stylishness. Khaki shorts and "Life is Good" t-shirts run just as popular as Lilly Pulitzer and Manolo Blahniks. Enter Sarah-Jessica Parker.

This morning, sitting with my 85-cent 8 oz. iced tea (the only thing on the menu I could procure for the dollar I found serendipitously lost in my purse), a customer walked in and asked for the New York Times. "Usually we have it," replied the barista, "but this morning we're all out."

"Can you suggest somehwere where I might find one?"
"Maybe try Walden Books on the corner?"
"They're out, too."
"Well, maybe Starbucks then."

Poor tourists, forced to Starbucks from the independent coffee shop just to get a copy of the New York Times!

Coming from the Northeast, Charleston must seem like a summer haven, cosmopolitan yet provincial, fashionable yet quaint, manicured yet friendly. Northerners can get a taste of old world tranquility, feel a little removed from the hustle of the city, while maintaining the privileges of old money and urban life. Maybe the cute little accents make it seem even a bit rural.

The west coast, where I grew up, and the third coast, where I've lived, are funky, progressive, low-brow. Whether it's kicker dancing or surfing, at least everybody's invited and no one really cares what you wear. For all of the hype about Southern hospitality, the east coast still maintains the glory of the upturned nose.

Granted, I wouldn't be able to tell you if it's the locals or the tourists, or maybe both. Perhaps this is a summertime persona; for three weeks Charleston puts on a mask of high fashion and culture, and the rest of the year it could be any other college town.

I am surprised, however, that there was never a Sex and the City episode where Carrie travels to Charleston, meets a chivalrous and handsome South Carolina boy, contemplated staying forever (she can even find her favorite shoes on King Street!) but then ultimately discovers that even soul food cannot decode the massive paradox of urban Southern life. It's fascinating to be a Great Gatsby for a couple of weeks, but we'll all go back home before we take his hapless fate.

Professionalism

There is something about the stimulus of financial compensation that cannot be reproduced in an educational environment.

As a recent graduate of Rice University's Shepherd School of Music, I can appreciate the quality of training that I received; and certainly, the orchestral curriculum is designed to simulate a "professional" orchestra as closely as possible while still maintaining the pedagogical goals of the institution. For example, a student can walk in ten minutes late to music history class and escape relatively unscathed; it just isn't worth the professor's time to chastise the tardy collegiate. If the same student arrives ten minutes late to orchestra rehearsal, on the other hand, as I explained once to my French department advisors: "C'est la guillotine!"

Nonetheless, the purpose of a student orchestra is to learn as much as possible and hopefully sound good in the process. The purpose of a professional orchestra, on the other hand, is simply to sound good. As I am quickly learning during my first employment in an orchestra at the Spoleto Festival USA (complete with a complimentary W2 form and tax withholding), it is understood that the musicians admitted through the audition process will be able to perform at the minimum standard of the group; in fact, the level of auditioning musicians determines the minimum standard of the group. No one cares about inconsequential facts such where you went to school, who your teacher was, how you sounded on your senior recital or five years ago, which auditions you've taken or how old you are. The only thing that matters: can you play the music to which you've been assigned?

There are several positive benefits to this system: less competitive bullshit. Musicians are not generally known for being the most amiable towards each other, but once you start giving everyone money we're a lot more friendly. No one needs to prove anything because we all go home with a paycheck.

On the other hand, it's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that playing the notes is good enough. As students, we have a sense that we are all finding our own voices, and even if we view those voices as being in competition with each other we still feel a drive to express something. As professionals, I think that there is a fear that financial compensation subordinates us to the employer himself. We no longer represent just ourselves but the Spoleto Festival USA. There is a beauty in orchestral playing of submitting oneself to the group, of feeling one's own heartbeat with the collective. But in this environment when the product is paramount, it is too easy to abandon the heartbeat altogether, to leave rehearsal saying, "well, at least I did what I was paid to do."

The greatest artists are always students. Yes, as a nice benefit I will earn my tuition for next year, pay the rent, make ends meet. But any of us accomplish this by working at REI or wrapping burritos for ten hours a day. Instead, we chose to spend years training to play our instruments, and I think the difficulty is to remember that it will always be our goal to learn as much as possible and hopefully sound good in the process.

To tip or not to tip?

This appeared in the Wall Street Journal. My comments to follow. :o)

The Point of Tipping
By ERIC FELTEN
February 29, 2008; Page W11

Starbucks' chairman and CEO, Howard Schultz, has embarked on an aggressive campaign to restore the company's luster after various missteps, such as selling glorified Egg McMuffins (bad) and hawking CDs by Kenny G (worse). Stores nationwide were shut down for a few hours Tuesday so that baristas could be retrained to work the espresso machines correctly. But if Mr. Schultz is eager to improve the Starbucks experience, there's a simple place he could start: Lose the tip jars.

During the second half of the 20th century, the practice of tipping largely retreated from American life. The earliest of tipped workers -- railroad porters -- gave way to flight attendants (the first of whom were registered nurses, whose station was deemed above gratuities). Gone are telegrams, the receipt of which required a tip. Men stopped getting shaved at barbershops -- where one stiffed the barber at one's peril. In June 1903, an unlucky New York streetcar conductor named John Shanno failed to tip his barber, Joseph Ferlanto. "I'll teach you not to forget to tip," Ferlanto screamed, and went all Sweeney Todd on him.

But after decades in which tipping was reserved almost exclusively for waiters, waitresses, hairdressers, cabdrivers and bellhops, the practice has begun to expand again. Typical is a sandwich shop in my neighborhood: Pay with a credit card and the signature slip urges the addition of a gratuity, all for a sack handed over a counter. This new expansion of everyday tipping has been driven by the near-ubiquitous tip jar, a phenomenon for which Starbucks bears no little responsibility, having brought the practice to every corner of the country.

For Starbucks' CEO, getting and giving tips are matters of significant self-regard. In his memoir, "Pour Your Heart Into It," Mr. Schultz recalls the degradations of his youthful days waiting tables in the Catskills. "I remember how terribly rude some of the guests were to me," Mr. Schultz writes. "They would be brusque and demanding, and I'd run around and do my best to please them, and when they departed, they would leave only a meager tip." Mr. Schultz promised himself, were he to get rich: "I'm always going to be a big tipper."

One of Henry James's favorite ways to illustrate the naïveté and social insecurity of newly rich Americans in Europe was to show them lavishing excessive tips on everyone in sight. But such extravagance can also be a sign of an unpleasantly aristocratic impulse. The grand tip reached its modern zenith in Frank Sinatra, whose entourage had pockets full of neatly folded 50s and hundreds. At a signal from the Chairman, his hangers-on would "duke" -- Sinatra's lordly slang for his largess -- the lucky waiters, hat-check girls, doormen and anyone else nearby.

When tipping first caught on in the U.S., late in the 19th century, it was the old-world, aristocratic overtones of the practice that drew the most ire. An 1897 editorial in the New York Times declared tipping to be the "vilest of imported vices." The paper lamented not only that "we have men among us servile enough to accept their earnings in this form" but that others were willing "to reward the servility." Joining the chorus against "flunkyism," the Washington Post denounced tipping as "one of the most insidious and one of the most malignant evils" of modern life. Tipping was seen to foster a lord-and-vassal relationship that the prouder professions resisted. Well into the 1910s many bartenders refused gratuities as an insult to their status.

Opposed to vassalage and servility (except to the state, that is), communists have often targeted tipping. When George Orwell arrived in Barcelona in 1936 to fight in Spain's civil war, "almost my first experience was receiving a lecture from an hotel manager for trying to tip a lift-boy." In fact, one of the best arguments to be found in favor of tipping is that Fidel Castro tried to eradicate it in Cuba.

In America, receiving tips long ago lost any stigma; indeed, the "partners" at Starbucks regard their gratuities as an acknowledgment that they are more worthy than their counterparts at McDonalds. But making one's employees dependent on the kindness of strangers is not without cost. Jim Romenesko, known for his media Web site, also runs the popular Starbucksgossip.com, where baristas and customers post comments and questions about the chain. As Mr. Romenesko has noted, the most heated, vitriolic discussions are those on tipping. Most of the postings are by levelheaded employees who make it clear that they deliver good service tips or no. But there is no shortage of workers angry at the "cheap bastards" who risk getting secretly "decaffed" if they don't tip. One barista reminds customers: "I control your daily dose of crack!"

If the tip jar encourages staff animosity, it also makes many customers uncomfortable. On the Starbucksgossip site, plenty of coffee-drinkers echo Mark Twain's complaint about tipping: "We pay that tax knowing it to be unjust and an extortion; yet we go away with a pain at the heart if we think we have been stingy with the poor fellows."

We Americans see ourselves as generous -- we each want to tip a bit more than the average guy. Thus the actual average creeps ever higher. Not long ago, an 18% restaurant tip was a tad better than the 15% that was expected. Now I don't know anyone who tips less than 20%. Soon we'll feel the need to show our generosity by leaving 25% of the tab.

To resist the custom is to be radically antisocial, like "Mr. Pink," the crook played by Steve Buscemi in "Reservoir Dogs." He doesn't tip "because society says I gotta tip." When a fellow hoodlum avers that waitresses are underpaid, Mr. Pink answers: "She don't make enough money, she can quit."

Generous? No. But economically sound. It's not that we tip waiters because they are paid so little; they are paid so little because they can expect to make up the difference in tips. Starbucks is known for paying relatively well and providing respectable benefits. Yet, without the tip-jar take, the company would have to raise its wages commensurately to maintain the same caliber of employees. Perhaps prices would rise too, but I suspect many would be happy to have the full, unambiguous cost of the transaction up on the board. As things stand, the tip jar subsidizes the company's payroll costs. So when you toss a dollar into the cup, you're really making a donation to Starbucks -- and I can think of needier beneficiaries.

To Mr. Felten, I reply:
Imagine your surprise when, after working your first few months at Starbucks, you receive your W2 form from your illustrious employer stating that your yearly earnings are not merely the number of hours your worked times your hourly wage, but includes an additional percentage of your wage calculated as what you "should have earned" in tips. Did anyone keep track of the errant dollar bills that made it into your jar?

From experience, the answer is no. At my illustrious place of employment (which is NOT Starbucks) we lack the capability to process tips on credit cards. It's cash only, and we split them between the two employees at the end of the shift. But contrary to my initial belief, tips are not "free money." I get taxed on them, even if curmudgeons like Felten fail to pay me. In addition, the state of Texas allows my hourly wage to dip below the minimum because I should be earning tips. Is it any wonder that workers at counter-order food service establishments push for your spare change?

However, I couldn't agree more that the practice of tipping is generally ridiculous. In a controlled experiment, it was discovered that the only reliable way to increase tips is to add "phantom dollars" to the tip jar from one's own pocket, sending a subconscious message to customers that "everybody's doing it." It doesn't matter how tasty your latte is, how bright your smile is, or how much bosom you're willing to expose. Disappointing, considering that tipping is supposed to promote and reward quality service and product, especially at un-Starbucks-like coffee bars with manual espresso machines, where the skill of the barista determines the outcome of the product from start to finish.

In conclusion:
Refuse to tip me if I am rude.
Refuse to tip me if I make your drink poorly.
If everything's to your satisfaction, please tip, because Uncle Sam will take the value of your spare change from me even if you fail to plunk it in the jar.

Various MAW events

As you might expect, there's a Saks Fifth Avenue in downtown Santa Barbara. Sometimes, they like to have music. They hired my wind quintet, a hundred bucks apiece, to play for THIRTY MINUTES on the bottom floor of their store. Pretty swank, huh?

Maybe I'll just take one of these purses instead of the check.




Concerto night!!!!! We were all so happy that Gwen (Rice bassoonist, just won a position with the Louisiana Philharmonic) was representing the woodwinds. What a fabulous and unusual concert...a bassoon concerto, a bass concerto, a tuba concerto, a clarinet concerto, and of course the requisite piano concerto.


Flutes with Tim Day at concerto concert.


And the celebratory cake:


Sadly, Tim Day's six weeks with us are over. But not without the requisite outing to the Summerland Saloon (I actually don't remember the real name of the restaurant, but it might as well have been that).


Last flute class with Tim. Sad face :o( for all of us.

But I told him that he hasn't seen the end of me. :o)

One day in San Fran

Here's the story:
Back when I thought I was going to be in Berkeley this summer, I promised a very close friend that I would play her brother's wedding with her in San Francisco. But, when I found out I would be in Santa Barbara, I didn't want to back out, and it turned out that there was nothing much going on at MAW the day of the wedding. So I flew up to San Francisco for one day. Of course, the flight was delayed, and some panic ensued as we tried to figure out if I would get there in time for the weedding. I did, in fact, arrive, although it was FREEZING cold in San Francisco ("the coldest winter I ever spent was the summer in San Francisco"), and I even got to go out with Emwee for a bit!

Warming up for the wedding in Golden Gate Park. This is my good friend Sarah.


Pre-wedding music:


Pretty bridesmaid dresses, I think.


You can't tell, but this is the Golden Gate Bridge:


We wandered and ended up finding the Ritz Carleton:

Union Square loves Mother Earth:


Chinatown :o)

"They call it 'The City,' not San Fran...noooo...what's the other one, Frisco? They don't like that one either."

Not pictures...

But a few updates anyway!

We are all bemoaning the fact that it's week four, which means we're almost halfway done. None of us are looking forward to leaving and going back to school/work/teaching/taking auditions. Can I stay by the beach forever?

That said, I'm probably not spending as much time at the beach as you might expect (or as I might wish). I sat there for 15 minutes yesterday, and that's better than average. Despite the fact that we didn't have orchestra last week, there are many, many things to work on. I'm in two chamber music groups, a woodwind quintet and a piano, violin and flute trio that I was assigned to do. As the flutist, I'm usually expected to take the initiative to organize rehearsals, etc and sort of be the group secretary, which is an added level or responsibility.

In addition, I have a masterclass, a private lesson, and a studio class on orchestral excerpts every week, not to mention orchestra rehearsals and chamber music concerts and faculty concerts to attend. The good news about these faculty concerts is that there's a reception after each one that includes fudge and cheese. But the upshot is, there is always something for which to practice, or something to go see. Wash, rinse, repeat, fall over from exhaustion.

The fourth of July was rather pleasant, however; although it was a weekday I went with the double bass section and a few other guests to the beach in Carpinteria (closer than downtown) to watch fireworks. Although the closest show was rather pathetic and some other idiots were setting off sparklers and illegal fireworks really close to us, we could see the different shows all up and down the beach, which was lovely.

Another update will follow shortly, with pictures from Emily's visit here and my trip to San Francisco last weekend.