Another fun example of French red tape…

The first day that I went to the Arsenal I filled out three order slips for three plays I wanted to see. They all had the same call number, but with numbers in parentheses at the end: GD-1002 (1), GD-1002 (3), and whatever. So I fill out the forms and punch them in the little machine that stamps the date and time on them (“composter,” just like you have to do with your train ticket), and the guy brings me the books and says, “You know you don’t have to fill out three forms when the numbers are like that. It means they’re in the same volume.” And I was like, “Oh, I thought it might mean that, but I wasn’t sure. Thanks. Next time I won’t fill out three forms.”

Two days later I go in and I want something that’s part of the Reserve collection, which requires an additional purple form that gets folded around your order slips. So I fill out the form and ask for RES 8-BL-3550 (1-5), and I figure that will be fine. A different librarian comes up, and is really annoyed with me: “You can’t do that. You have to fill out an individual form for each item you want.” Me: “But I think they are in the same volume.” Angry librarian: “There is no way to know that until I go and check. You need to fill out four more order slips.” Me: “OK, no problem.” So I grab four more order slips and fill them out. And I fully know that he’s going to come back with one volume and I was right and he was wrong, which ultimately doesn’t matter because in France the bureaucrat is always right, especially if it means that you have to fill out more paperwork that seems unnecessary and/or illogical.

But what actually happens is that the FIRST librarian brings me my one volume (a fascinating collection of dirty plays and poems mixed with philosophical letters by Voltaire and speeches made by Freemasons). And he says, “You know, you don’t have to fill out five forms when the call numbers have numbers in parentheses at the end. You can tell they’re in the same volume.” Oh, those wacky librarians.

In other news, I went to see a ridiculous François Truffaut film called La Peau douce (“Soft Skin,” 1964) at the Cinémathèque this weekend. It is the story of a famous intellectual who meets a flight attendant and begins a passionate affair with her on a lecture trip to Lisbon. And then he totally just keeps having an affair with her, and brings her to the country with him. He really sucks at covering up his affair, so his wife is all suspicious. The ending is just glorious. Katie and I found the entire movie absolutely hilarious, but no one else in the theatre seemed to agree.