Ministry of Ridiculous Affairs

My taxi driver, marinating in sweat, visibly exhausted from moving with a speed of a handicapped snail, honking at everyone and everything stationary, and even cursing in his nasal Arabic, put on the handbreak and closed his eyes. Technically he didn't even close his eyes, they just closed, as if he had allergic reaction to everything surrounding him. I understood virtually nothing from what he has been mumbling since this painful journey started, but feel reassured by a running counter - a phenomenon much more rare in this country than donkeys jumping in front of taxis on the highway, as I discovered a day earlier.

The odours of local taxis - let's just call them uninviting - despite the air conditioner blasting something that smells like molded carpet, I would rather this trip end. But no such thing. The driver insistently repeats Mubarak and if I didn't know the name I would think he is talking about his wife who he just surprised with his neighbour in bed. The tenderness is just not there. And then, as all the men in the cars surrounding us had an opportunity to examine me from every angle, we slowly creep up past the Shoura council or the equivalent of the Parliament in Egypt.

In the Middle East, parliamentary bodies if they can be so considered, always bear interesting names. I found the Shoura council already more dignified than the Diwans found in the Gulf countries, which literally translates into "sofa" for the sofa on which the Ministers (tribal chiefs) debate their future of their oil fiefdoms. Parliaments aside, I finally put the Mubarak and the Shoura council together and a little light bulb goes off in my head: all roads were closed because Mubarak is travelling to the Parliament meeting. I have to admit I did not see him in person from my behind the trucks, donkeys and military cars, and yet I have a sentiment that I almost have since his smiling photo in rather stylish black shades is plastered everywhere. Like Madonna's videos from fifteen years ago, the only way you could ever know his photo is as ancient as the pyramids is that the sunglasses are slightly out of style by now.

Suddenly, my driver opens his eyes and the car makes a little leap forward - the physical effect seems as abrupt as if we were on a donkey. I have to admit that this I am imaging, since riding donkeys is not exactly the prevalent means of transport in Paris. And as the car finally moves towards my hotel, I wake up as well and start peering out of my window - this is my revenge to all locals tacking x-ray looks at me when we were stuck in traffic. At least we are even at the end. The ironic thing is that in the bizarre and incredible history of this city, it is difficult for the eye to know where to stop: is it on the bread salesman yelling something, on the mosque towering with its imposing minarets, on the man smoking shisha, on the homeless cat or on the equally homeless kid maneuvering through the traffic to sell water bottles?

My eye stopped on a building, once probably white, now brown with dust, whose title proudly said something along the lines of Women and Family Affairs. Perhaps that translates more elegantly in Arabic, but it got me thinking about the ridiculousness of this title. Imagine an institution called the Ministry of Men and Sexual Affairs? Or better even, the Ministry of Male Activities and Unemployment? At least the latter would more correctly correspond to the local realities. And for those who think that government bodies focusing on "woman issues" are not a waste likely to accuse me of cynicism right about now, I think officially this Ministry no longer exists, the local authorities probably just forgot to adjust the name tag. In any case, if you ask me, a good part of " woman affairs" in Egypt could be aptly addressed by the Ministry of Education, seeing as 60% of woman are still illiterate.

To be fair, it is not only Egypt or other Middle Eastern countries that have Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs. Upon my return from Cairo, I did some googling and it turns out this is worth a good comedy piece. The list is long, so I will refrain from providing any colourful commentary. Saudi Arabia has a Ministry of Pilgrimage (but no Ministry of Woman Affairs - at least the priorities are clear). On the other hand, both Chile and New Zealand turn out to have a Minister of Woman Affairs. In the case of the latter, the site of the Ministry notes that it is the smallest government Ministry in the country, employing only 40 staff. Conclusion: either they have no "woman issues" in New Zealand or these people must be terribly efficient.

Another country with a newly established Ministry dedicated to women - how thoughtful!- is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Its website features photos that no words can describe so I suggest you see for yourself. Working against the Taliban is not one of its stated objectives, I guess the Ministry of Defence is working on that already. Last but not least, last year Venezuela's Chavez announced that he is going to establish a woman's affairs ministry and - get this - give it a budget. I've never heard of budgetless ministries, but then I guess I've never been to Venezuela.

And the list of Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs does not stop at women. Liechtenstein has a Minister of Foreign, Affairs, Culture and Justice. If I didn't know better, I would imagine Liechtenstein was particularly touched by the financial crisis and decided to amalgamate all its ministeries into a Superpower Ministry. It is more understandable in the case of Greece which has the posts of the Prime Minister and Minister of Foreign Affairs are combined. Slovenia has a state secretary for Education and Sport as if the two had anything in common. It's almost as if the message is that if one has no education, well, then there are always sports. I don't think this equation would work in reverse direction. India has a number of Ministries with less than predictable names such as Ministry of Fertilisers.

The interesting fact - and a rather unpredictable one - is that India with all its complexity, cast, linguistic and otherwise of its over one billion strong population has a less cumbersome government structure than France with just 60 million. France beats India outright with 7 more Ministries for a fraction of its population. If I didn't know any better, I would think that the Indian civil service is remarkably efficient or that France is that much difficult to govern! Surprising at it may be, here in France, we have over 40 Ministers, Cabinet and otherwise.

To give him credit, Sarkozy has recently announced that in an effort to trim its fat government, French Cabinet Ministers will be limited to 20 councilors each and not one more. It goes without saying that Sarkozy himself will not be making any staff cuts at the Elysee. The message is clear: Elysee does not need to be trimmed. It seems that it has not occurred to our dear President to examine the long list of French Ministries and instead of sacking the councilors, to actually merge the Ministries! One idea, which appears rather evident, would be to merge the Ministry of Health and Sport and Ministry of Youth and Sport.

Others, at least judging by their titles, are so irrelevant that if the no longer existed, I doubt that even my neighbours dog would notice. Several examples jump to mind here: Ministry of War Veterans (how many of them are still alive?), Ministry of Equal Opportunities (that's just an oxymoron in this country), Ministry of Parliament Relations (clearly a uniquely French invention), and last but not least Ministry of Economic Stimulus (seems like the Ministry of Economy and Finance would be entirely apt to providing economic stimulus where needed).

"Princes, brokers, and bureaucrats" a book recently published by a friend on the political economy of Saudi Arabia argues that some Ministries were set up just to address rivalries between princes and to make sure that everyone had a little fiefdom to preside over. I cannot help but wonder how France might be different. Whether in developing or developed countries, the Ministries of Ridiculous Affairs are flourishing. At least in Saudi Arabia where there are no income taxes, I guess no one can complain about waste of public finances. In France, where the results of the work of Ministry of Equal Opportunities cannot be found even under a microscope and where the big plans of the Ministry of Economic Stimulus still leave the average salary at a pathetic 1200 euros, I can - for once - understand my grumpy compatriots.

Full disclosure

Accounting regulators are buzzing around with new rules about book vs market financial accounting for banks, but for those of you who are not accountants, and who are already getting bored reading this, I have good news for you: this post is not going to be about anything to to with accounting. It is going to be a sort of a personal disclosure statement , accumulated after being tested in different geographical, cultural, and political circumstances.

This is more of a five year, rather than annual report. Management discussion of key findings and forecast for the years to come follows. Note that these are no in particular order, so if your last year's gift for my birthday does not appear first, don't go into cardiac arrest. In any case, unless you are in Paris, I will likely not be able to do much for you in this case.

I guess I'll start with all the little... let's call them Parisian paradoxes. The woman in front of my window who takes a shower in the fountain located midway from my window and a restaurant, who screams on the people on the terrace of the restaurant to stop staring at her. The neighbour, happily deaf in her ripe post retirement age who listens to great jazz at one in the morning and complains the next day if she hears as much as sneeze in the afternoon. And of course, the entire population replacement which happens in August as every Parisien or Parisienne flees Paris at the same time as tourists from every corner of the world congregate here for the ultimate tourist congress.

Other things that I heart for in Paris, again in no particular order.

Driving on the Quay - or better even, being driven on the Quay de la Seine. After almost five years in Paris, I still love to abstract from the frustrated bikers, drivers and the like and watch the buildings go by: diverse, perched on top of the other, surviving all the remodelling the city has endured and adapted to over the years. They are like old neighbours who know each other well enough not to bother with banalities but giddy with all the glamour of their new liposuction.

readings at Village Voice bookshop - a little explanation: the Village Voice bookshop is a petite bijoux hidden in the narrow streets of Marché Saint Germain which is owned by a fiery French woman more passionate about English literature that any professor of literature. On the minusculous chairs hosed up on second floor of her tiny bookshop she hosts readings which gather a crowd as colourful as the authors she invites (Daniel Mendehlson, Michal Chabon, etc.)

anything between boulevard Saint Germain and la Seine - I don't care about the now centuries old rivalry between Cafe Flore and Cafe Les Deux Magots. Getting lost in the galleries and the brasseries of Saint Germain des Pres is a dream. The ideal living location is the hotel particuliere on rue Bonaparte in front of the Ladurée. I have to admit I find it entirely unfair that some editing house has the privilege of squatting in my perfect home. Editing house beware I am coming to get you!

my balcony - or, more precisely, installing myself in the little black chair that measures exactly the width of my balcony and putting a glass of white wine on the little table which fits to the millimeter in the restricted area in front of the little black chair. Who ever said paradise has to be the size of a hippodrome? My paradise measures exactly the size of my behind, between the rail of the balcony and the door.

stumbling onto expos - walking into an unknown expo, unplanned, unprepared, with no preconceptions of what you'll see is, more than the greatest Charlie Chaplin movie, being transported in time and space. The Bettina Rheims exposition at the Biblioteque Richelieu was just one such little, unexpected and inspiring miracle.

speaking English outside - and pretending no can understand me. Of course, my putting up a wall between me and everyone else in English is a total illusion. But, after all, aren't illusions what makes us go on? In my illusionary world, I am having a totally private conversation in a totally public space.

court yards - Parisian courtyards, in all their diversity have so much character that they simply evade description. They are a place of gossip, of undried laundry of pots of disarranged flowers on random balconies, or crooked doors which have seen more than they are willing to let on. Parisians don't like courtyards because there is no view, but in a way there are more view than people care to notice or admit.

reading and writing in cafes - first, I have to disspel the myth, unfounded as they usually are, of Parisians sipping wine at lunch on a daily basis, installed comfortably in their neighbourhood cafe. The reality is that there are two types of cafes in Paris, those whose rotating front door welcomes new visitors every day and those whose used but faithful chairs welcome "les gens du cartier" with the warmth of their own apartment. Whichever it might be, observing in cafes has got to be one of my favourite things to do. After all, in a different era, Hemingway, who lived just around the corner from me, did the same.

And here, I am afraid, comes the unpleasant part of the management discussion. But then, things have to be true to their form. First comes...drum roll please...rather predictably, the customer service. I still haven't frankly figured out what the translation for this bizarre concept might be in French. "Service clientele" seems somehow wrong, and in any case, it is so illusory, it might as well be a fiction of my imagination.

Customer service - or really, the lack of it. Customer service, where are you? the answer is: checked out permanently. This, as I realised, is not just some sort of a forgetful or unintentional omission in France. Its entirely voluntary and requires a strategic response from the client. Some fellow expatriates have suggested playing a victim which apparently incites the person on the other side of the counter or phone to feel pity and therefore "soften up". My advice is to marry a French lawyer or have someone of that profession available.

Air conditioning - or lack of it. It seems to me that I am blessed with a particular talent to go places where the airconditioning, on that particular day, has gone out of order. The other day, a pal at the entrance of what I heard was a chic gym proudly told me that of course (god forbid!) they do not have air conditioning. Why would they have such a terrible thing that leads to such grave respiratory illnesses or the like? Riiiight.

The taxi deficit - semi-permanent and especially accentuated on Friday and Saturday nights, i.e. go get them when you most need them! Walking in the middle of the winter from the Louvre all the way to my flat in the sixth at four in the morning, despite all my futile attempts at charming every cabbie going by, I realised that a driver is not a luxury, but a necessity in Paris.

Real estate agents - an especially despicable category of humans, who deviate slightly from the general homo sapiens model with an extra bullshit chromosome. Beware particular characteristics include: publishing especially attractive ads for apartments which would not qualify for a walk in closet. And I am not talking about Carry Bradshaw's walking closet.

Romantic walks on Pont des Arts - more specifically, this applies when I am wearing my favourite Gaspard Yurenkevich shoes. Sorry, I am not the type of gal who will wip off her shoes and walk barefooted or better even shove them in some oversize bag overflowing with makeup. And the terrifying image of being stuck between two planks of wood, immobile in disgrace, is just too unsexy to contemplate seriously.

Restaurant chefs - particularly those who refuse to understand that salads are on the menu for those either trying to loose weight or vegetarians. In any case, ham is not the essential ingredient, really. Not to mention that there are these funny people calls muslims and jews that don't eat it.

Being mistaken for a tourist - my ultimate favourite is when people ask me when I am leaving. Hmm...leaving where? Well, back home, of course - they reply increasingly hesitantly to me. Well, right after I am done here, I live around the corner. Blank look.

lines - in airports, shops, post offices, grocery stores, brunch places. Being put on some sort of a list does not usually help calm my anxiety at the sight of frustrated people waiting for something they should normally be getting without wasting their time. But the French have a particular affinity with lines and love to discuss the order of everyone in line and complain how long it takes. Well, my advice is, next time they guy at the front of the line tells you it's been two hours he's waiting, turn your heels around and click "buy" on this new great thing called the Internet.

Well, dear friends (and others), as you can see, I wrote this as a kind of stram of concsiousness. However, as I was about to publish this post, it occurred to me that except for driving on the Quay to the office, all the other little insignificant things that I love to do in this city have taken a back seat to all the other routine things that need to get done in a sort of a check-list tradition. Line ups take away from my reading time, dealing with customer service chops into my cafe pauses. So I guess with that my 30 year resolution, if there is such a thing, is to shrink my check list and enlarge my reading list.