B-I-N-G-O! Part I

I have worn black every day for a week
Not yet, but I am sure it is coming.

I bought Le Monde even though I can't really read it
I am a complete newbie in French. I had Spanish all through high school and college, but never spoke a word of French. Interestingly, reading French has come rather easily. I have studied and practiced (intensive French lessons start in a couple of weeks) and can pretty much read my way through a magazine or Pariscope. But, alas, when someone starts speaking to me I generally have no idea what they are saying....

I drove the car!
I am not afraid of driving in Paris. I am afraid of parking in my garage. The garage here is subterranian....down a loooong ramp, around a winding corner, down the end to my parking space which is teeeeeey, tiny. So, I picked the car I wanted (Nissan Qashquai) but had to explain to the car salesman that I wasn't sure if it would fit in the garage. Would he mind driving it over to our flat to see if it would fit? Yes, you will? Fabulous. Would I like to drive it in the garage myself? No, thank you. I will ride along. It fit!
I have since been told by FF (French Friend) that it is not customary for car salesmen to make housecalls. Apparently they make exceptions for American women.

I told someeone where I live and they gave me that "Aren't you fancy" look
If you Google '16th arrondissment Paris' you will get a sense of where I live. Salma Hayek's kid goes to my kid's school. I saw Carla Bruni on the street today. I was a little sad that Nicholas Sarkozy was not with her because I find him to be delightful (again, French hair!). This conversation I had with the neighbor gentleman sums up the 'hood:

Neighbor: How do you like the 16th?

Me: Well, they say it is the best neighborhood in Paris and we agree!

Neighbor (scoffs - people scoff a lot here. I like it.): It is NOT the best neighborhood in Paris.

Me (apologetically): Oh, no?

Neighbor: It is the best neighborhood in the world.

Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten. And, yes, I am the American lady with the J Crew/Banana Republic wardrobe who looks totally out of place.

I heard someone use the word Sympa....
I have NOT heard someone use the word sympa, but likely because I hang out with moms. And the grocery store delivery boy. (Just seeing if you were paying attention - tee hee).

B-I-N-G-O! Part B

Well, I know you are all jealous because I have the coolest bestie in the world -- Annette Benning. Prior to departure she made me a fun 'I Moved to Paris' Bingo game--really, she is that creative. Here is the card and status of each from the "B" Column. Additional columns to follow each day this week....

I said 'oui' and had no idea what I agreed to  
Actually, this happens pretty much daily. I got my supersaver grocery discount card this way. I also had to pay 20 cents for a plastic bag this way. I think it is all part of the learning process. A major language moment was when the grocery clerk asked if I wanted my groceries home delivered, I actually understood the question, and I answered with appropriate 'non'!
Since then I have learned that the grocery delivery is done by young, well-dressed men with the perfect hair that only French men (and Patrick Dempsy) possess. I believe they also provide special services (hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, nudge) on request. 

I've had baguette at every meal today  
You already know the answer to this one.

I crossed the street in the middle today  
As I am trying to model good behavior for SJ, I have not yet done this. The Paris Dad is back in the US leaving me and SJ here alone. I do go into regular 'what-will-SJ-do-if-I-get-hit-by-a-bus-in-a-foreign-country' panic attacks. While I am competent and independent, living alone in a foreign country requires an entirely different set of contingency plans. We have done a lot of 'what-to-do-if' drills. And I am masterful with notecards. Robert Pattinson look-alike doctor did give me his home and cell numbers in case I need anything at all since 'poor madame' is living in Paris alone. I wonder what constitutes "anything at all."

I met the lady with the dog from upstairs
Sadly, there is no lady with a dog upstairs. The lady upstairs is a stunning, chic French woman that has about six shopping bags permanently affixed to her arms. I am fairly confident she shops all day, every day. She also has her groceries delivered.

I have, however, met and become attached to many interesting neighborhood pups....the teeny dachsund; the intense shiba inu; the dachsund/schanuzer mix which makes an odd looking dog; and the multitude of maltese.

I had a classically French dessert in a French restaurant in France  
This restaurant is supposed to have one of the best mousse au chocolat in Paris. I agree. It rocked. I already have a reservation for Annette Benning and I to go back when she arrives in October!

 

 



The Movies

I have long been a huge fan of going to the movies. The last movie I saw in the US was Madagascar 3 with a good friend and the kiddies. Obviously, not a cinema classic, but I adore the entire experience....the hit-you-in-the-face scent of popcorn when you walk in the door; the slightly sticky floor; Junior Mints....ahhh. I think that at this particular movie (which is all of 80 minutes in lengh) 'good friend' and I finished off two tubs of popcorn.

After a couple of months here in Paris I really needed a movie. This requires significantly more research than in the States, because we need to look for movies that are labeled "VO" (version originale - meaning they are in English). I was forwarned that the only people who attend VO movies are expats (yeah!) and snooty French people who insist on seeing the VO even if their English is not stellar. Okay, I can handle that.

So, SJ and I agree on The Amazing Spiderman (for those of you who know me, you know I was not all jazzied up about another Spiderman so soon, but was quickly taken by Andrew Garfield, not so much with Emma Stone) and set off for the theater on Champs de Elysee. Upon arriving at the theater you are greeted  by an electronic ticket purchasing machine which I navigated pretty quickly despite my limited French. Then you enter and are ushered to a bit of a holding room to wait for your movie to start. Now I am begining to get concerned. I do NOT smell popcorn. About five minutes prior to the start of the film, an usher-type person comes to the holding cell, uh - room, and announces the number for your theater. Everyone bolts to the theater. There are no snacks. There is no popcorn. And the word of the day is....crestfallen.

The theater was pristine and immensely comfy --- I could have fallen asleep in the overstuffed chairs. But, again, no snacks. At all.

 So, I brought the matter up with my new French Friend (FF) and the conversation went a bit like this:

Me: The movie theater experience is quite different here than in the US.

FF: How so?

Me: Well, there are no snacks. No popcorn.

FF: But aren't you there to see the movie? Does everyone eat in the US?

Me: Actually, I go for the whole experience...there is nothing better than the smell of movie theater popcorn! Not everyone eats, but I guess most people do.

FF: So they just sit and eat? Like farm animals?

Me: Uh, yeah.....like farm animals.

FF: Maybe that is why Americans are so stout.

Me: Stout?

FF: Fat seems rude.

(As an aside, FF was not trying to be rude....I have found that the French are very direct. I kind of enjoy this, and they truely mean no offense. Cultural difference.)

Perhaps, FF was accurate....but popcorn would be delightful about now.

Things I Don’t (HEART) About Paris

What’s not to love about Paris? Really, I do love it here. It is funny because I regularly have this conversation with locals.

Parisian: How do you like living in Paris?

Me: We love it!

Parisian (scoffs): Doesn’t everyone?

Okay, yeah, why did you ask….any-who, on to the things I don’t <HEART> about Paris.

Being the Fattest Person Everywhere

On day three SJ looked at me and quietly whispered, “Mom, no one here is fat.” Uh, no. Not at all. In fact, they are all uber-skinny. And eat. A lot. Of bread. I am waiting for the French Paradox to kick in and drop these extra 10 lbs. gracefully, but while I am waiting, I am the fattest person everywhere. For reals.

Okay, this is my stealth photo of SJ at the phone store with an average sized French woman in the background. Yes, you can count all of their ribs (from the front!) and see all of the bones in their forearms. Good times, good times. 

 

The Light

Not the whole ‘City of Lights’ thing, but the actual sunlight. It is light out here until 10:45 p.m. every single night. This combined with insomnia and a penchant for rosé is a bad combination.

Dinner Hour

I have always been an old person. I did (briefly) go through the obligatory period in youth where I stayed out too late, but really, my preference is to be at home in yoga pants on the couch watching Netflix by 9 p.m. at the latest.  Restaurants don’t even open for dinner here until 8 p.m. and, remember, dinner takes about three hours which puts us at about 11 p.m.  And dining at 8 p.m. in Paris is the equivalent of eating at the Stockholm Inn at 4 p.m. in Rockford.

I Can’t Order Food from My Mom

Once, SJ was making a list of his favorite foods (he is my kid, after all), and the number one thing on the list was “Mimi’s Cinnamon Rolls.” He looked at me apologetically and said, “Your food is good mom, but Mimi’s cinnamon rolls . . .” Yeah, yeah, kid, I know.

My mom is an amazing baker. She can make beautiful coffee cakes, rolls, breads, etc. All things that require time, patience, and yeast. Things I have never been able to master. And, luckily for us…all it takes is the mere mention of something and, voila!, it appears.

Me:  Gosh, you haven’t made that heart-shaped almond coffee cake in a while.

6-hours later: Doorbell rings. Coffee cake delivered.

As SJ would say, “Mimi is the bomb.”

(Aside: when I come back in August I totally expect stuffed artichokes)

People Asking Me for Directions

I have mixed feelings about this one actually. First, it implies that I actually look like I know where I am going and, second, that I don’t look like a tourist. In Paris, blending in is not a bad thing.

However, I do have a difficult time giving directions in my hometown. I depend a lot on visual cues and locations that no longer exist (Oh, it is by where Logli’s on State Street used to be; Remember where Top Hat was? Turn there.; It used to be Lasers.). I am paralyzed when I must give directions to my non-native friends. Uh, don’t you have GPS on your iPhone?

So, yesterday some nice woman asked me where to find ‘il poste’ (post office). There is literally one every three blocks and even I could find one so I assumed she must be desperate. Could I explain how to get there (droit, gauche??)? No.

Did Sam and I walk here there? Yes. 

Buying Produce at the Grocery

For all of you planning to pack it up and become an expat, here is a tip that might save you some time and embarrassment. When you go to the grocery produce department, grab your clear bags and stuff your endive, radishes and turnips in them, don’t just put them in the cart. This would be an egregious error.

First, you must bring them to the nice person (not really) sitting in the produce department next to the scale to weigh them all and price them for you prior to going to the check out line. Yes, this is someone’s job. They do not weigh them up front. The Paris Dad thinks this is highly inefficient. I think it is nice that someone has a job. He has spent too much time in corporate America.

On the flip side, the produce is fresh and amazing, and you always know what it costs before you check out!

Pigeons

I once lived in London. In London there are rather large signs hanging about that state:  “Do not feed the pigeons. They are a health hazard as well as a nuisance.”  Indeed, health hazard and a nuisance.  This has been ingrained in me for quite some time now.

This is Pete the Pigeon. Pete lives in our courtyard. Pete lands on SJ’s bedroom balcony all the time. Bread regularly goes missing here. Pete is freakin’ bigger than any poulet I can buy at the Monoprix. I am not accusing my son of anything, but, we don’t have screens here and I really don’t want this in my house.

Although I am not fundamentally opposed to eating squab.

The Bounce

Yes, I know all of my male friends will disagree here, but hear me out.

For a city that has a lingere store about every 65 feet, it doesn't appear that anyone is shopping at them. I get the whole 'bras-are-optional-here' thing, but it seems a bit extreme. For young people this can be cute and alluring. However, once you have had several kids, it is time to make a stop at the lingere store. Or at least give up the white t-shirts. And if you are pregnant...? Really?

Things I (heart) about Paris

Greetings from the 16th Arrondissment! We have officially been here one month and are LOVING it thus far (completely recognize we are still in the honeymoon stage!).  I feel like the month has given me some perspective and I wanted to share some of the things I <heart> about Paris. Of course, the next entry will be about the things I do not <heart> about Paris.

Here is a list of the obvious things to love about Paris that I will not be covering in this entry: pastries, outdoor markets, architecture, museums, cobblestone streets, baguettes, espresso, cafes-o-plenty.

Now, on to my list. 

Lunch

I freaking love lunch. Really, I am a huge fan of all meals, but lunch here is profoundly different. The pace here is generally slower (painfully slow at first), but I have acclimated to the rhythm and am starting to enjoy a little more pleasure, and a lot less rushing about.

The workday here begins sometime between 9:30 – 10 a.m.  When I was working at home, I regularly was in the office before 7:30 a.m.  Insane.  Here, you spend time with your family. Enjoy an espresso on the way to the office. Don’t rush. Breathe. This was very hard for me to do.

12:30 rolls around and what do you do? You go out for a really long, decadent, enjoyable lunch. With wine. It is expected that you leave the office for lunch. Pretty much required. So, off you go to a local bistro and enjoy time with your friends. You don’t rush. You have more than 30 minutes. It is a beautiful thing.

And this is my new favorite lunch. Salad chevre chaud. Happy.

  Pets are People too

Pets are allowed everywhere here. This little pupster was curled up at a neighborhood bistro on the booth. Just relaxing.

Pups are allowed on the metro, on the bus, in restaurants, in bakeries, in cafes, in stores. Except the grocery where there are regularly three or four dogs tied up outside. Again, just relaxing.

And since pets are people too, they clearly need pharmaceuticals. And if your pet needs a prescription here, you must get it filled at the pharmacy.

 Skinny, Well-Dressed Men Sleeping

It is no secret that I have a thing for skinny, well-dressed men. My ideal man is somewhere between Dr. House and Roger Sterling. The Paris Dad is aging nicely into this role, so we are all set.

At any rate, since things move slower here, if you find yourself tired mid-day, it is acceptable to just lay down somewhere and nap. And then some insane American woman will take your picture.

 (I did send this one <above> to Annette Benning immediately after taking it and described him as quite possibly the perfect man. Don’t you agree?)

 Sundays

Most of you reading this blog are old enough to remember (although perhaps not admit) that everything used to be completely closed on Sunday.
Well, that is still the case here. Sundays are delightful. Outdoor markets, church, and time in the park. The parks are crazy crowded with families picnicking and relaxing.

 Unless you are out of milk. Then it kind of sucks.

 Velib

What is Velib? Velib is the mother of all bicycle sharing systems. There are over 18,000 bikes spread across 12,000 stations throughout the city. Literally, there is one every few blocks.

For €1.70 you can rent the bike for the ENTIRE day! Or anything under 30 minutes is free. So if you want to bike to another area, just grab one and go. And you can return it to any other Velib station. It rocks.

 My Induction Stove

Okay, this is not Paris specific, but our flat has an induction stove. I can boil water in 90 seconds. It is quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me. Sad, I know. Sometimes I boil water just because I can.
All of my crazy cooking friends will totally get this.

Cheap Wine

And it is good wine. Cheap. Need I say more? And Parisians love their rose...

 Au revoir for now! I am sure the things I don’t <heart> will be slightly more entertaining. LOL

The Crazy Dog Lady

Sometimes I picture myself old.  Of course, in my vision I look exactly the same as I do now since I stopped aging about 11 years ago. I envision myself living in a side-by-side condo next to Annette Benning. I will be wearing something bright and floral. I will have a fenced in yard. And I will have a LOT of dogs. The kids on the street will refer to me as The Crazy Dog Lady. I sometimes watch Animal Hoarders and think, "That doesn't look too bad...".  When we move I will miss my dogs deeply. When we leave in a couple of weeks we will be leaving behind two family members. The quarantine period to France is three months and that doesn't seem fair to the pupsters.

I have always loved dogs. I come from a long line of non-dog people. Non-pet people, actually. Whenever a holiday or birthday rolled around and my parents asked, "What would you like for your birthday?", my standard answer was, "A dog."  I even owned a button that read: "Dear Santa, If You Bring Me a Dog for Christmas, I Will Give You a Puppy When We Have Them."  Apparently, this had no effect on my parents, who instead, showered me with Barbie dolls and books. Which was really the next best thing. I even got Italian Barbie one year which was a total score. And, yes, her ta-tas were bigger than regular Barbie.

So, upon graduating from college and getting my first apartment, my roommate (Hi D!) and I went out and purchased patio furniture and a chihuahua (with the stipulation that when we parted ways, the patio furniture was hers, the dog was mine). Enter Precious.

Precious (aka Chi Chi)

Yes, I named her Precious. She was a 3 pound Chihuahua, what was I supposed to name her?  She was my first dog love. She would get super excited going through the drive though at the bank because she thought it was Beef-A-Roo (yet another reason to LOVE Beef-A-Roo -- pets love their roast beef). After four amazing years, I came home from work one day and she could barely walk across the room. Rushed her to Animal Medical Clinic (I love these vets -- they are the best) and she was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder. For the next two weeks she had transfusions and chemo. She slept in the oxygen tent at the vet. I cajoled her with fresh roast beef, but it had no effect. Two weeks laster she passed away.

For anyone who has lost a pet, coming home to empty dog dishes and an empty house is horrible. I cried and sobbed and ate (eating, of course, being the Italian way to cope with pretty much any emotion). Enter Bella.

Bella (Miss Boo)

Bella was quite possibly the most lethargic dog to have ever lived. Even as a puppy, she really just liked to lay on the couch -- near you, but not touching you. Because Bella was perpetually hot. She is panting in this picture and pretty much every picture we have of her. Even if it was 10 degrees outside, she was hot. My parents regularly fed her popsicles when she visited. She got lots of love and spent most of her time laying in her 'spot' in the family room. One morning last summer when she was 14, she fell asleep in her 'spot' and left us forever. Our little angel.

Prior to her passing we did become a two dog family. Enter Milo.

Milo (Mr. Mi, Bo Bo Fat)

Milo is a shelter dog. Shelter dogs are damaged, despite what the ASPCA commercial with the tear-jerker Sarah Mclachlan music says. The Paris Dad wanted another dog so we searched shelters for dogs that could coexist with our lethargic Pomerainian. The Paris Dad located Milo and visited, fell in love, and insisted that SJ and I go visit as well. The family made the trek to the shelter where they put us in the tiny room with the small black 'bad-Gremlin-like' dog. He snarled, growled, snapped, and shook. And peed.

Two college girls thought it would be a great idea to get a puppy and keep him in their dorm room. For a year. Without ever leaving the room. I looked at that shaking, growling, snapping boy with the big brown eyes and realized that no one else would ever take him. He had been in the shelter for 8 months already.

So, lots of training and socializing and training and socializing later, we have a sweet, sweet boy. Not perfect, mind you, but sweet. Shelter dogs require time, patience, and love. But they give you their hearts. Milo will be spending time with Paris Dad's mom and dad...where he will eat bacon regularly. I will miss him dearly.

Teddy Bear (Mr. T, T)

Teddy and SJ are best buds. Teddy has been with us for about a year now. He lives up to his name -- he is cute, cuddly, sweet, playful. A kids dream, really. Although finding a place for him to stay in our absence was challenging. I went into full-blown 'what-are-we-going-to-do-with-Teddy' panic mode when we were house hunting in Paris. I frantically began texting Annette Benning while eating a baguette (coping mechanism).  To say that Annette Benning doesn't like animals is a vast understatement (she doesn't even stress about poinsettias sitting out at holiday time. Hmmmm). She doesn't drink coffee either - sometimes I wonder how we can be friends. Anyway, Annette sent me a text. It read: "Don't worry. If you can't find anyone, I will take him. I will even be nice to him."  Did I mention that Annette Benning is the best friend ever?
But, thankfully, Paris Dad's sister is going to be taking Teddy for us....where he will be carried around in a giant Coach bag and float in the pool.

I will miss my pet family, but have strategies in place to befriend dog-owners in Paris. We will be heading out in a few weeks now! Just waiting for our visas.......

On Packing

There are not many things I hate.  Okay, I take that back, who am I kidding?  There are a lot of things I hate.  Yes, I know, ‘hate’ is a strong word, but I really do hate these things.

-         Folding fitted sheets (BTW – can anyone under the age of 50 actually perform this feat with any level of precision?  My theory is that we have evolved and lost this ability.)  I try my best but they always look a mess.  Sorry, mom.  I really do try.

-          Frying bacon.  Worth every minute of careful cooking and laborious clean up, though.  

-        Talking on the phone.  My job is relationship driven.  I spent a LOT of time on the phone at work which I do with a smile on my face and a song in my voice (co-workers may roll eyes now).  However, I do have a Pavlovian cringe-type response every time the phone rings.  Personally, if I ever spend any time at all on the phone with you, it means I really, really love you.  Because I really, really hate talking on the phone.  I can, however, talk for hours nonstop in person.

-          Being wrong.  But it happens so infrequently that it is hardly worth a mention.

-         Costumes.  I am a firm believer that adults should not wear costumes of any kind.  If you are a woman over the age of 25 and have dressed as Whore Nurse, Whore Gretel, Whore Teacher, Whore Dorothy, Whore Witch, Whore Raggedy Ann, Whore Cleopatra, Whore Schoolgirl, or any of the other variety of Whore costumes, please stop.  You are too old.  The wicked irony of this is that I had to wear a costume (not from the Whore line) for a work event.  It was quite possibly the longest, most miserable night of my life (albeit a successful event!).  Annette Benning did show up to help me through the night (not in costume, I will note).  I thought about hacking into our office computer system and destroying all photos so there was no remaining evidence, however, it didn’t seem worth the risk.  I don’t really have that kind of skill either.

-          Mustard.

And I thought, packing.  But I think I may be wrong (infrequent as it may be).

When we went on our house hunting trip a couple of weeks ago, the week prior my mom (Hi Mom!) called me every night and asked, “Have you started packing for your trip yet?”

“Uh, no.”

My mom is the most amazing uber-organized person in the entire world. She can make order from chaos in twenty minutes flat. She can also fold fitted sheets. Unfortunately, I did not inherit this quality.

My idea of packing for an upcoming adventure usually involves dragging the appropriate suitcase out of the closet (we have a lot of suitcases, none of which are the ‘right’ size) the night before embarking.   I generally throw in some clothes; daily change of unders; some concealer and lip gloss; and more often than not, my toothbrush.

But I always thought it was the actual act of packing that I didn’t like.  The putting-things-in-the-suitcase stuff.  But it isn’t.  How do I know this?  Well, because I am in the fortunate position to not really have to pack.  I just have to move things I want to bring to Paris to a central location (like my dining room) and at a specified date (like Friday) the magic movers will come, pack it and ship it off to Paris. Voila!  I have virtually nothing to do and I am still miserable about the entire situation.

This is my dining room right now. Nightmarish, eh?

And, yes, that game of Trivial Pursuit is for you, Annette Benning.

So, since I don’t have to pack and I am still hating this, it must be something else.  I have decided that I don’t really enjoy transitions.

I don’t like to go out.  I just like to be out.

I don’t like to travel.  I just like to be somewhere else.

I don’t like to move.  I just want to live somewhere new.

Perhaps this is why I enjoyed Star Trek so much as a child (confession: and adult).  I like the concept of ‘beaming up.’  I just want to be magically tele-transported elsewhere.  With all of my stuff.

So, I guess I need to learn to say “Beam me up, Scotty” in French.