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?
