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.

Missing Home: Rockford, Illinois, USA

So, as our official move date becomes closer and closer, I have been asked more frequently, “What will you miss about home?”   I have been giving this some real thought and tried to come up with a list of things that I will really, truly miss about Rockford, Illinois.  SPOLER ALERT: THIS LIST WILL LIKELY CONTAIN NOTHING ABOUT GARDENS, SPORTS TEAMS, WATER PARKS, SOCK MONKEYS, GOLF COURSES OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT ROCKFORD IS “KNOWN” FOR HAVING (AND WILL LIKELY CONTAIN A DISPROPORTIONATELY LARGE NUMBER OF FOOD ITEMS).

And just for fun I am putting them in countdown order.  Who can resist a good countdown?

10. Beef-A-Roo
I have a very close friend (who shall remain nameless so as not to be ‘outed’ on my blog), who has never actually been to Beef-A-Roo.  Granted she is a transplant, and for the casual outsider, perhaps the name Beef-A-Roo isn’t all that enthralling.  Once when in Salt Lake City I discovered a chain of restaurants called Chuck-A-Rama – I suspect Beef-A-Roo has a similar lack of appeal to outsiders.  (But, really? Chuck-A-Rama…like Up-Chuck-A-Rama? And it is a buffet – and I think Sunday was “Chinese night.” Very authentic, I hear.)
Back to Beef-A-Roo – the Summer Berry Salad is beyond compare and SJ can’t pass a Beef-A-Roo without requesting a banana shake (they have way too many flavors to choose from – I find raspberry delightful and root beer disturbing).  It is the only fast food I eat because it is fresh and delicious.  I hear the cheese fries are yum-o.  I, myself, do not do cheese. Unfortunate that I am moving to the land of fromage, I know.  And “friend who shall not be named” will be going to B-A-R in the next 30 days.  Yes, I will miss this place.

9. Rockford Symphony Orchestra
Before you say, ‘classical music puts me to sleep,’ please take in an RSO concert.  I first attended an RSO concert waaaay back in the day when they performed at the Midway Theater where you entered from the front; couldn’t actually move anywhere at intermission since it was oh-so-cramped; and shuffled out the side doors when it was done.  All while ensconced in the classic scent combination of mildew, asbestos, and Emeraude.  But even back in the old days, Maestro Steven Larsen and the RSO never failed to deliver an amazing performance.  Now the seats are cushier, the guest performers stellar, and the theater itself is self-contained entertainment, but the RSO continues to deliver.  Now we take SJ to the shows and he listens and watches intently – and mimics as he practices his trumpet at home. Inspirational and, frankly, a huge bargain. Check it out.

 8.  sugarjones
Well, the obsession with sugarjones has been short and sweet since they have only been open a few months, but these cupcakes bring a joy comparable to nothing else.  They convert non-cake lovers. You must try them.

7. Kishwaukee River
Okay, this one is SJ’s.  I am not outdoorsy at all (does walking the dogs through the neighborhood count?), but my son is outdoorsy and he love, love, loves to go fishing and hiking. He and his dad spend many a Sunday afternoon catching fish at the Kish.  I am grateful for the many places here in Rockford that we can explore nature.  And for our city and park district founders to have the foresight to preserve our beautiful river frontage for public space.

6. Symbol
Love it or hate it – it is big, orange and OURS! And I love it. I remember the long saga of Symbol…its dedication on the downtown mall where it looked remarkably small and not quite so glorious, to its planting in Sinnissipi Park.

As a mom, I have always looked at Symbol as an opportunity to educate SJ about art.  When he was only three we drove by it every day (still do) and he could tell you that the sculptor was Alexander Liberman, that his work is made from steel pipes and welded together; that it is monochromatic.  We walk by it and talk about scale and dimensions.  I am a firm believer that art is important for children – it stimulates perception, it teaches kids to think openly, it allows children to be questioners and not responders. And art is valuable just by itself.

5. Target
Lame.  I know.  But, really, nothing like Target exists in Paris and where else can I buy a cute sweater, MarioKart for Wii, Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips, toilet paper, a hula hoop, and tooth whitener all in one place?

4. Rock Valley College
Okay, okay, I know I work there --  but the place is amazing.  Do you want to get an excellent education from talented faculty at an extremely affordable rate?  You can do that at RVC.  Do you want to take in an amazing theater performance?  You can do that at RVC.  Do you want to learn computer skills/yoga/calligraphy/history/woodworking/basketweaving(really!)/citizenship/GED/ESL???? You can do that at RVC.  Pretty much anything you can possibly dream of doing is available on the beautiful campus on Mulford Road.

But what will I really miss?  My cozy little space in the Spring Brook House with all of the talented and generous people I have grown to know and love here.  For now, I am busy leaving post it notes strategically hidden with entertaining messages for the next person to take my office (you know who you are!).  I have to keep them entertained, if even from afar.

3. Rockford Academy of Tae Kwon Do
This is where SJ has taken TKD for nearly two years.  Four times a week, an hour each time, we schlep to class where he kicks, punches, sweats, runs, laughs, and learns and I sit and chit-chat with all of the other parents/grandparents (I know it is shocking that I have turned my child’s enrichment classes into a social opportunity for myself since I am usually quiet and reserved).  The Rockford Academy has a family feel to it – welcoming, kind, helpful.  It truly has become a second home for us and I will miss everyone there.  I only hope our new TKD studio in Paris is half as wonderful.  I am guessing with my limited French, I will not likely pick up as many new friends.  And I am hoping we see a few Rockford Academy friends visiting us in Paris.

2. Mary’s Market
I have never been to Panera in Rockford.  When they opened the doors I vowed I would never step foot in one for great fear that it would negatively impact my beloved Mary’s Market.  From when Mary’s first opened on State Street (in the back!) to the many locations now available….the vegetable chili and chocolate chip shortbread cookies have been with me in every stage of life. Annette Benning and I are regulars.  It is the only place I have ever been a ‘regular.’ It is our Cheers. Except I don’t think they know our names.  And sometimes they forget the nuts in the salad.  But it’s all good.  We love you no matter what. 

And what will I miss the most.......

1. Spectrum Progressive School
There is absolutely nothing better in the whole world than your child getting up every morning excited to go to school, and coming home every day saying, ‘That was the best day EVER!’  I cannot even begin to express how amazing the teachers, students, parents, and administrators are at Spectrum Progressive. I am not interested in my child amassing facts to regurgitate on an exam. At Spectrum, they don’t teach for the test. They teach to learn. They teach understanding the concepts behind the facts. At Spectrum, asking, “how did you get the answer” is as important as the answer itself.

And Spectrum allows my child to be the beautiful, energetic, inquisitive spirit that he is and encourages him to question, ponder, and create.  I lament that we will miss an entire school year, but know we will be back to our Spectrum soon.

Unusual Findings

On our house hunting mission we looked at 15 fully-furnished flats....and we saw a LOT of unusual things. I thought I'd share a few pics to make you smile.

The "Combo"
This delightful piece of modern machinery is refered to by all real estate professionals in France as "Le Combo." Looks like a washing machine, eh? But it does so much more...it washes...and then, it dries. Or so they claim. I am not entirely convinced. My hypothesis is that while it may wash and dry, it will likely do neither well.

1980s Shower
So, you live in the 16th District in Paris in a chic, traditional flat. You decide to remodel your bathroom. You decide on this? Really? Despite the fact that the rest of the place was truly idyllic, I couldn't shower here every morning. Deal breaker.

Wine, anyone?
We looked at fully furnished places which were to be fully stocked with dishes, flatware, etc. This place had one pot to boil water, three dinner plates, three salad plates, two bowls, two water glasses, and this.....

Grandma's Room
Yes, apparently adults slept here.  The bedding is some sort of Noah's Ark meets The Jungle Book. Tres chic. And I think the bed size is toddler bed x2.

Another "Combo"
I really don't understand how this one is even possible, but apparently it is - a microwave oven and a regular oven. All in one. Seems redundant, doesn't it?

Dorothy Simon Elementary School Drinking Fountain
Or world's tiniest bathroom sink. You decide.

Toilette
So, none of the bathrooms in the homes actually have toilets in them....the toilets are in a room all by themselves. And so well ventilated....

Je ne comprends pas.

Concerns

Ahh, yes, I will miss my friends, family, work peeps, house, pets, Kitchen Aid Mixer, gingerbread lattes, etc., etc., but what am I really the MOST worried about, you ask?  Is it acclimating to a new culture where I don’t speak the language?  No.  Navigating my way around the largest city in Europe?  No.  Being alone in a huge city with no safety net?  No.

Well, what could possibly be keeping me up at night?  Here goes.

My Eyebrows
I spent a significant portion of my youth with the ever-popular Brooke Shields eyebrow look (no judgment – it was the 70s) which, while enjoyable at the time, in retrospect was likely not the best look for me.  After that I went on the brow-roller coaster of overly-plucked, to overly-arched, to overly-Joan Crawford….and back again.  Finally, after years of trial and error I have achieved the perfect arch.  Lovely.  How?, you ask.  The fine art of threading.  What is threading?  Threading is an ancient art of hair removal which originated in India and, you guessed it, involves pulling the hair out with a thread.  Painful?  You betcha.  Worth every second?  Absolutely.

So, shortly after finding an appropriate school for my son SJ (age 9), I began googling “eyebrow threading in Paris.”  The next logical thing to locate, right?  Apparently, there is an Indian hair salon in the 5^th District that does threading for only 5 euros – bargain!  The Paris Dad did not find this to be an appropriate use of time during our house hunting visit.  Apparently opening an international bank account takes precedence over eyebrow threading.

For the record, The Paris Dad has never seen the Brooke Shields look.  I am guessing he would shift priorities if he had.  Now I need to figure out how to say, “I don’t want Pamela Anderson’s eyebrows” in French.

Netflix
I have been known, from time to time, to watch movies and television shows on Netflix.  I ditched the high cable bill years ago and have since become addicted to watching copious amounts of The Tudors, Mad Men, Animal Hoarders (you know you love seeing the woman with 96 cats, don’t lie), Everest, and practically every wonderfully trashy television show ever made –although I draw the line at The Real Housewives of ANYWHERE.  I come from a long line of insomniacs, so watching bad television is really a genetic predisposition.  It comes with the territory.

So, as I was Netflix-less last week in Paris, I decided to explore my television options.  (Aside: Netflix does not stream in Europe.  I tried.  Desperately.  No Hulu either.  Apparently there is something called a Slingbox that may work.  It sounds too much like a Billy Bob Thornton movie for me to investigate in my fragile state.)

Option One: French Television.
Well, you all know I can order off a menu seamlessly, but watching a television show proved to be a bit difficult (read: migraine inducing).  However, I found one of those painfully boring nature shows that I would never, ever watch in English without making crude jokes – you know the ones where everything is whispered veeeerrrrrryyy sllllooooowwwwlllly.  Well, turns out this is a great asset when you are learning a new language!  I was able to pick out words: wild dog – grass – horse – rain!  Well, that kept me entertained for about 6 minutes.  This isn’t bad and actually about 5 minutes and 45 seconds longer than I would have watched the English version.

Option Two: BBC News.
99 days until the Olympics. 2012 Summer Olympics. Frontrunners in the Olympics. Food available at the Olympics. How the Olympics affects Hackney. Debt caused by the Olympics. Crowds because of the Olympics. Tourism revenue associated with the Olympics. Medal projections for the Olympics. 98 days until the Olympics. Beverages to be sold at the Olympics. Olympic stadium construction. Athlete arrival at the Olympics. Was too much spent on the Olympics? 97 days until the Olympics.

Uh, no.

Option Three: Cartoon Network.
Yes, the same Cartoon Network with the same delightful shows that American parents have come to love (Johnny Test, Ben 10, Chowder, Clone Wars (gag), Pokemon, Tom and Jerry)!  I can watch this, right?  I see these shows all the time at home, and am actually somewhat fond of Chowder.  Hooray!  But, wait.  It is all dubbed in French.  Dang.  Although watching General Grievous speak French is totally worth the price of admission.

Guess I’d better download another book on the Nook.

Mexican Food
Europe has not yet learned or discovered the joys of Mexican food.  Now I know I will be in Paris and surrounded by all sorts of delightful and delicious cuisine from all over Europe.  But sometimes I just gotta have some guacamole.  Now my homemade guacamole is pretty good, but it is never served with fresh, crispy tortilla chips fresh out of the deep fryer and a margarita the size of my head.  And this does not exist in France. Prior to departure, I did eat a rather obscene amount of guacamole at Rick Bayless' Frontera Express at O'Hare Airport (all comments regarding my profound disappointment of Rick opening a fast food joint at an airport will be reserved for a later date) and The Paris Dad almost lost a finger when he tried to hone in on my chips.

So, as you go out in the US and enjoy your Mexican food….think of me and have another margarita in my honor. And another basket of chips. With guac.

Gracias.


And for you Rick Bayless fans, my BFF (who, for the purposes of maintaining anonymity in this blog since soon the whole world will be following, will be refered to as Annette Benning -- as in American President Annette Benning) and I came shoulder to shoulder close with Rick Bayless once as I was getting cash out of an ATM. Annette just kept whispering, "It's him, it's him." And we giggled like schoolgirls. Yeah, that day rocked. 　

　

　

First Impressions

Parisians Are Actually Nice
Having heard time and again the horror stories of rude Parisians, I went into this with rather low expectations. I didn’t want to appear the insensitive, non-French speaking American that I am, so I prioritized my French studies and was fairly confident that I could:

1.       Order off a menu.

2.       Ask for directions to the “salle de bains” (bathroom).

3.       Navigate my way around on the Metro and get a taxi.

Food. Bathroom. Transportation. I was set, right? All went swimmingly until we traipsed upon a lovely corner bistro for lunch. Adorable outside café seating; French music in the background; the obligatory dog laying inside…; geraniums o-plenty; it was perfect. We went in, asked for a table for ‘duex’, and were immediately welcomed. Our server appeared and was ready to take our order. We asked for menus, but this bistro did not have menus – just chalkboards outside with the specials! Recognizing that we were fairly clueless, she quickly went outside, grabbed the chalkboard and brought it in for us. She pointed to each item and we could pretty much figure out what it was (FYI – for future Parisian travelers, steer clear of the ‘viande de cheval’). She was lovely and gracious, as were all Parisians we encountered. And the lunch rocked as well.

 The French Paradox or “Eat as much bread as you want, people here don’t get fat”
Our real estate agent (we will call her K) met us our first day at our hotel. K is quite possibly the nicest person I have ever met, over six feet tall, blond, slim and the epitome of chic-Parisian. I immediately felt troll-like. After viewing what seemed like a million flats in the morning we went for a fabulous lunch. Yes, the undercurrent here will always be food. Anyway, I had a delicious mushroom salad and K kept pushing the bread (which is ubiquitous in France) and frites (which are addictive). She said, “eat as much bread and frites as you want, people here don’t’ get fat.” Really? This cannot be true.

After my weeklong observation (a carefully conducted study one might say…or not), I noticed one thing. I did not see ONE French person that was even remotely overweight. At all. Anyone we saw that was overweight was clearly not French (as evidenced by a. being overweight; b. donning a North Face jacket; and c. speaking English). So how is this possible for the cuisine that is heavily laden with cream, butter, and accompanied by wine? I hope to answer that one day. My initial theory after one week (again, a carefully conducted study) is that in one week I did not eat one shred of processed food. Everything is freshly prepared. More to come on French Paradox.  Oh, and no one exercises. At all.

Black
For those of you who have known me for many years, know that while bits of color do occasionally punctuate my wardrobe, my basics have always been, and will always be black. Well, let’s just say this will do well in Paris. Parisians wear black. And lots of it. Women are pretty much head to toe dressed in black. Black shoes, black tights, black pants, black skirts, black jackets, black sweaters, black gloves, black hats. With the muted color scarf. The scarf is the accessory to every outfit. I did see one woman in charcoal grey. Clearly that was a bold move. So, I am guessing the sorbet colored Capri pants I want from J Crew will not blend well here. . .

Au revior for now….