Today is laundry day. ALL DAY. In Paris, living space is at a premium and economy of space is a necessity of life in an apartment. I have learned to adjust to my washer/dryer and now am honing my skills. My washer/dryer is one machine. It is in my kitchen. I can wash up to 5kg of clothes, towels, and sheets. That's roughly 12 lbs. It takes on average one and a half hours to wash a load of clothes...there is an eco-setting for 2.5 kg of clothes that takes 45 minutes. The reason for the extended time is all loads of laundry start with cold water (30*C) so any stains don't set. Then over the course of the wash cycle, the water is heated to 40, 50 or 60 degrees celsius, as per one's selection. If you need to dry your clothes in the dryer, first you must take all the clothes out, shake them and put them back in, not compacting them. This usually means something has to get hung to dry. It takes at least 2 hours to dry things in the dryer. I have opted to buy a drying rack (brought one over from the US too). I place the racks near my working radiators and voila, my clothes are dry in a few hours. But man, do I miss my high efficiency washer back home...I could and have washed 10 pairs of jeans in that sucker. Please remember that I am the mother of two daughters...hence the multiple pairs of jeans! I could wash all my bedding and have the beds re-made in less than half a day! I had two ginormous wooden drying racks back home...I dried everything on those, and on sunny days...out they would go onto the deck and mmmm, sunshiny fresh!
Here, I have to iron bedsheets....something I never did back home. Not my favorite chore! I did bring some 500 count sheets from home so, they are a bit easier to iron. The lovely ones provided by the landlord are a cotton-linen blend and wrinkle if you look at them funny. I understand with more frequent use and laundering, they will soften but need ironing just the same. And how the beds are made here is different too...at least how the hotels and the landlord does them. Most beds I have slept in, in France and come to think of it in Europe have a fitted bottom sheet and then just a duvet covered comforter of some sort of variety...ours are very nice down comforters...not too heavy, but my goodness are they warm! The first week we were here, it was great to snuggle under the covers, but then in about 20 minutes, whoosh, off it flew because it was just too hot! I brought my own blankets and sheet sets, so, my bed has a top sheet, light cotton blanket and hospital corners. I saw that there is a Face Book group about having to have something covering you no matter how hot it is...I may have to become a fan.
The pillows are European pillows...big squares...more like floor pillows if you ask me. The first few weeks with those puppies in the bed were so awkward, it was funny. They take up a ton of room and unless you sleep on your back, you feel like your neck is at a right angle to the bed! Happily, our good ole American pillows arrived, and we each have one for our heads and one to squish or prop against our back or knees or whatever and ah...sleep. I put shams on the Euros and use them for decoration!
Bathing in Europe is different too. We have two baths in our flat. The one off the master has a sink, a shower that is about 2.5ft by 3ft, a separate tub and the toilet in the same room. This is what our landlord calls an American-style bathroom. The other bathroom has a tub, with a handheld shower spray and the sink. If you need the toilet, it is across the hall...and it is just the toilet. Once finished there you must travel what we call the hall of germs back to the other room to wash your hands. I keep sanitzing wipes in the Loo so visitors can open the door without getting too skeeved out!
And dear future guests, yes you will have to have your shower sitting down! The reasons, as explained to me by our kind, patient, hyper transistion assitant are 1) taking a bath is a luxury everyone should enjoy, 2)indoor plumbing in buildings that are in many cases older than 200 years was challenging to install so you make do with space as it is. Only so many pipes can fit into so many places. 3) water is a very precious commodity, even in the 21st century. Taking a bath or using the handheld shower in the tub uses 30% less water than taking a regular shower...that little tidbit I actually got off the back of my shampoo bottle.
I thought we had hard water back at home in the country. Paris has really hard water...if it were any harder, it would be rock. I have to buy special detergents, soaps, anti-calc (calcium) salt, sprays and liquids to fight the daily battle against calcium, lime, and other minerals in the water. Having a Brita filter is not an option because of health reasons. I have to include special additives to my dishwasher, washing machine, and iron to keep ahead of the hard water build up. And there is no such thing as rinsing a glass and letting it air dry. Spots!! I have to hit my coffee maker and electric hot water kettle...which I adore by the way...with vinegar every week otherwise, the build-up stops them from working.
My hair and skin are changing from the water. I am making an appointment with a hair salon for next week and hopefully, they can help me manage my hair. It has gone kinda Bozo on me...not the color, just the way it prefers to sit on my head. We go through lotion like nobody's business, but I understand that come the hot humid summer, my personal care regimen will change again!
Well...I could write a book on this stuff, but instead, will save some of the other adjustments we are making for another blog. Later y'all.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Butts and Dots
As a dog owner and novice city dweller, it has become incumbent upon me to be more vigilant about where Reilly and I tread. Not only must we pay attention to the droppings of four-footers, but we must also attend to the leavings of the two-footers who should know better.
Reilly is petite and low to the ground. Her nickmane is Hoover because she is constantly snuffling along the ground ready to suck up any prizes that may be found. In a city of ten million people, there is plenty to be found and not much is to be prized!
Today as we made our way to the public garden, we had to dodge so many lit cigarettes and smouldering butts, that I was sure ma petite choux was going to get burned. It really is shocking to me that the City of Lights is also the City of Those who Light Up!
Ah, Paris the City of Lights...it is also the City of Butts and Dots. When one looks around in Paris, you see unique architecture, statues, colors, posters and more. When one looks down, you see butts and dots. Cigarette butts litter the sidewalks, gutters and the base of every poor tree in the city. I swear if the Department of Health took ground water and soil samples they would find them poisoned with tar, lead and nicotine!
And speaking of poison, do the citizens of Paris who praise beauty, create every conceivable lotion and potion to ensure smooth, young skin realize they are poisoning themselves, inside and out?
Smoking is surely the affliction and addiction of the young. It is the thing to do when you have nothing to do-- Nothing to do in Paris-- Really? But the young people find it tres chic to stand in doorways and along the gutters, draped in their scarves, puff, puff, puffing their youth away. And when they are done rather than walk five feet up or down the street to the nearest trash container...they drop their butts right where they stand. Honteux.
Now Dots! Another scourge upon the sidewalks of Paris. As I was walking back from Starbucks (more on that in another post) along the Blvd St. Germaine, I was struck by the plethora of dots on the sidewalk~and then it hit me, literally...a wad of gum flying out of the mouth of a housepainter! Fortunately for me it bounced off my coat and onto the sidewalk, right next to a...you guessed it...cigarette butt.
The French are adept at dodging all the detritus on the walkways, thus the gum dots are on the walks and not the shoes. It is quite a feat and a very unique sight to see the fast paced Parisians bob and weave and occasionally hop, skip or jump over the potential shoe spoiler.
I am not quite as adept yet, although I try to keep a wary eye. Bill is an utter failure...largely due to his crackberry addiction, he rarely watches where he is going and we have had to scrape some pretty disgusting stuff from his shoes. My eye has wandered to the architecture or to a store front window and once, ssslipppp...I stepped on a piece of apple tossed on the walk. At least it wasn't dog crap!
It is ironic that this situation exists. Paris has a Santitation Department par excellence! There are trash containers every 10 to 50 feet depending on the street, park or place. And, there are crews of men in green jumpers who ride around in trucks all day, emptying the trash containers and putting fresh liners in quite regularly. Street sweepers are out in force all day. The sidewalks and gutters get washed down regularly by sanitation trucks and store owners. Yet, the people chew and spit and smoke and flick and dogs poop and pee and their owners just hustle on by. Incroyable!
As Reilly and I left the public garden today, I saw one of these guardians of the city, in his green jumpsuit and I smiled and said, "Merci." He looked at me in a puzzled way, smiled the smallest, sheepish smile I have ever seen and proceeded to spear a wrapper from a Big Mac before it blew off into a flower bed.
I left the garden with my head held high, until I stopped short because Reilly became a 100 pound anchor when she found a piece of bread, which I promptly wrestled from her mouth...one, two, six, ten...all fingers intact! C'est la vie!
Reilly is petite and low to the ground. Her nickmane is Hoover because she is constantly snuffling along the ground ready to suck up any prizes that may be found. In a city of ten million people, there is plenty to be found and not much is to be prized!
Today as we made our way to the public garden, we had to dodge so many lit cigarettes and smouldering butts, that I was sure ma petite choux was going to get burned. It really is shocking to me that the City of Lights is also the City of Those who Light Up!
Ah, Paris the City of Lights...it is also the City of Butts and Dots. When one looks around in Paris, you see unique architecture, statues, colors, posters and more. When one looks down, you see butts and dots. Cigarette butts litter the sidewalks, gutters and the base of every poor tree in the city. I swear if the Department of Health took ground water and soil samples they would find them poisoned with tar, lead and nicotine!
And speaking of poison, do the citizens of Paris who praise beauty, create every conceivable lotion and potion to ensure smooth, young skin realize they are poisoning themselves, inside and out?
Smoking is surely the affliction and addiction of the young. It is the thing to do when you have nothing to do-- Nothing to do in Paris-- Really? But the young people find it tres chic to stand in doorways and along the gutters, draped in their scarves, puff, puff, puffing their youth away. And when they are done rather than walk five feet up or down the street to the nearest trash container...they drop their butts right where they stand. Honteux.
Now Dots! Another scourge upon the sidewalks of Paris. As I was walking back from Starbucks (more on that in another post) along the Blvd St. Germaine, I was struck by the plethora of dots on the sidewalk~and then it hit me, literally...a wad of gum flying out of the mouth of a housepainter! Fortunately for me it bounced off my coat and onto the sidewalk, right next to a...you guessed it...cigarette butt.
The French are adept at dodging all the detritus on the walkways, thus the gum dots are on the walks and not the shoes. It is quite a feat and a very unique sight to see the fast paced Parisians bob and weave and occasionally hop, skip or jump over the potential shoe spoiler.
I am not quite as adept yet, although I try to keep a wary eye. Bill is an utter failure...largely due to his crackberry addiction, he rarely watches where he is going and we have had to scrape some pretty disgusting stuff from his shoes. My eye has wandered to the architecture or to a store front window and once, ssslipppp...I stepped on a piece of apple tossed on the walk. At least it wasn't dog crap!
It is ironic that this situation exists. Paris has a Santitation Department par excellence! There are trash containers every 10 to 50 feet depending on the street, park or place. And, there are crews of men in green jumpers who ride around in trucks all day, emptying the trash containers and putting fresh liners in quite regularly. Street sweepers are out in force all day. The sidewalks and gutters get washed down regularly by sanitation trucks and store owners. Yet, the people chew and spit and smoke and flick and dogs poop and pee and their owners just hustle on by. Incroyable!
As Reilly and I left the public garden today, I saw one of these guardians of the city, in his green jumpsuit and I smiled and said, "Merci." He looked at me in a puzzled way, smiled the smallest, sheepish smile I have ever seen and proceeded to spear a wrapper from a Big Mac before it blew off into a flower bed.
I left the garden with my head held high, until I stopped short because Reilly became a 100 pound anchor when she found a piece of bread, which I promptly wrestled from her mouth...one, two, six, ten...all fingers intact! C'est la vie!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thank the Good Lord for Canada Dry Ginger Ale!
I learned a new term in French last Wednesday...La Grippe. I got the flu! In this entry, I will spare you the details, and it may be needless to say, but the view of the bottom of the bucket is the same in France as it is in the States.
I am grateful for Canada Dry Ginger Ale (if they are a public company, I will buy their stock) and saltines!
Both Bill and I are feeling better.
That's all I have to say on that.
I am grateful for Canada Dry Ginger Ale (if they are a public company, I will buy their stock) and saltines!
Both Bill and I are feeling better.
That's all I have to say on that.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Reilly: Part One
Reilly. She is my four year old West Highland Terrier-Poodle mix kindred spirit. Next to my husband, she is my dearest companion...just ask my kids! My coming to Paris was 100% contingent upon being able to get her over here, safely and comfortably. I mean, after all, I accepted responsibility for this little life and have nutured that life. I couldn't just walk away from her. Believe you me, I had plenty of people who volunteered to take her for me. I was grateful for their kindness, but as much as Reilly may need me, I need her more.
Back in September, when the job posting was made official, we began jumping over hurdles, through hoops and around obstacles. It took more paperwork and procedures to get her here than it did to get my French Visa. To say that I was sick over it is an understatement. At almost every turn, there was someone saying that even though you did this, that and the other thing, the airport security could turn us away because we have a dog. The pilot or the airline (we flew Luftansa) could just decide, no dogs in the cabin this flight. Customs in Germany or in France could say nope, nuh uh...get back on the plane and go home...that is if the pilot is agreeable. Ugh...sick, sick, sick. I had nightmares about traveling with this precious, adorable, well mannered little trooper.
In September, we bought her an airline approved carrier and started training her to travel in it. I bought Rescue Remedey, an herbal calming aide and we used that on occasion to see what affect it would have on her...more for my nerves than hers. I had to feel as though I was in control of something. We drove to Virginia and Maryland with her in the carrier and she went along pleasantly enough for the ride. We had her microchipped per European Union animal requirements. We actually had her chipped twice because the EU requires a 15 digit chip. Our local veterinarian didn't realize there was a specification, so Reilly got the 10 digit chip and after a random Google search on traveling internationally with pets I discovered the EU specification. Yikes! A trip to a different vet (my vet didn't carry the 15 number chips) and another $60, Reilly was up to code. My local vet now only offers the 15 digit chip, since that is accepted in North America as well as the EU!
In late October, we had to find an apartment in Paris that allowed dogs...somewhat limiting the field which was already limited to a 4 day search period. But, I think we found the right place because of Reilly. We all feel quite at home here.
As moving day drew nearer, so grew my heighten state of panic. I packed as much stuff for the dog as I did for either Bill or myself. There were beds and blankets, toys and towels. I bought a 2 month supply of dog food so I could transistion her over to French dog food. I brought her rain coat, sweaters, 6 months of heartworm and flea/tick medications...There are no ticks in Paris, but there are some literally killer ticks in the south of France. Most domestic pets die within three days of that tick bite! I even packed peanut butter for her; a favorite treat when added to her rubber Kong toy, especially when we have to leave her alone for a little while.
Stuff packed and shipped. All travel arrangements made and fees paid. Letters of introduction written to the Luftansa flight crew. It was time to go. We took Reilly for a really long walk up and down our street. December 30th was a bitterly cold day, but we had to tire her out and of course make sure "business" was completed before the journey to the airport.
She rode on my lap to Logan. It was the longest and shortest trip to the airport in my life. Brian, my neice's husband, drove us in and dropped us at the curb outside Luftansa. Time for Reilly to go into the carrier for check-in. We asked Brian to stay in the area until we cleared security. Reilly gave one little bark as we waited in line to check our bags. I shushed her and she shushed. Thank goodness for Business Class Priority lines...we checked our bags in record time and we went straight to the front of the security line. Once cleared, we called Brian and released him...but he was on call just in case they wouldn't let us board. And for Reilly, this would be the last time she would be free from her carrier for nearly eight hours...the longest stretch ever.
I thought that once we cleared security and were waiting at the gate, I could keep her leashed and on my lap in the gate area...but no. Less than a week before, some idiot set his crotch on fire trying to down a plane in Detroit, so all rules were being strictly enforced. As time for boarding neared, we approached the gate, handed over our letter of introduction for her and I prayed. I prayed the Lord's Prayer, several Hail Marys and asked St. Francis to intercede for us. The attendant at the gate looked at us, looked at the letter and handed it back. She never asked to see the dog, the carrier, the carry-on tote filled with Rescue Remedy laced peanut butter sandwiches...naddah! She did tell us that as Business Class passengers with a dog, we could board first...YES!! On hurdle down and one shark in my stomach eliminated.
Time to board and nary a peep from the Wonder Dog. We got on the plane and approached our seats and down the aisle marches the flight attendant. I feel Jaws take a chomp of my insides...for you see gentle reader, this was only the second time I have ever flown Luftansa. The first time, Frau Brucher (see Young Frankenstein) was our attendant and she was not a happy camper. But, this gentle lady approached and with our letter in hand, we made our formal notification that we were flying with a dog and happily, introductions were made. She stuck her hand in the carrier and Reilly gave her a little lick. Dog kisses...magic! The other passengers around us, most of whom did not speak English were enchanted by my little dog...who still to this point had yet to utter a woof. If I had asked, I bet they would have all agreed that I should let the little dog out of the carrier and we would all take turns letting her snuggle in our laps...*pop*...awake from dream state please!
With Reilly safely stowed under the seat and us about to take off, I gave her a piece of freeze dried chicken...how I got that through security I'll never know...but this gave her something to chew on as we reached altitude. I wasn't sure how her ears would react to the changes in cabin pressure...but God bless her (I know He did cuz I was still praying), she settled in for a nap after her treat.
About 2 1/2 hours into the flight, I was getting antsy about her. Was she too warm, too cold? I could feel her moving about the carrier with my feet. Bill was getting just as anxious and he leaned over to me and told me to pick up the carrier and put it on my lap. If I was stealthy enough, I could slip her out of the carrier and onto my lap under a blanket. As much as I would have adored this, this was NOT going to happen for any one of several reasons: 1) it was against the rules and I almost always follow the rules 2) I still had a few Great Whites, Hammerheads and Tiger sharks eating my insides, 3) if I took her out, she was not going back in willingly and 4) she would be on my lap...so guess who would get kicked out of the country first as a scofflaw...me. Instead, I propped the carrier on the armrest next to the window and opened the front access panel just enough so I could put my arm in the carrier. I offered a spiked peanut butter sandwich as a distraction and she acquiesed nicely. Stretching out in her little den, she plopped her head on my arm and snoozed. After a while, I was able to open the front of the carrier completely and just poking her nose out, she rested against my arm for another hour or so. No sounds, no struggles...no more Great Whites.
After our little cuddle, Bill zipped her up and took her to the lavatory along with a piddle pad to see if she needed any relief. Nothing doing. After a quick drink from the sink, they returned and Reilly went back under the seat where it was a bit cooler than on my lap. There she stayed for the remainder of the flight.
We landed in Germany at 5:30 am, after nearly seven and a half hours on the plane. Next stop, customs. Since we were one of the first flights arriving at the airport for that day and being Priority Class, our luggage was off first and we ran to the Customs Gate. Paperwork at the ready, we approached the agent, handed over our passports and after a few cursory questions and stamp in the book, we moved on...right out into the terminal..no declaration point, no live animal check...just the cold air of Frankfurt and blessed relief for the dog. While I waited for our daughters to clear customs (they traveled coach so it took longer for their bags). Bill took the dog out of her carrier and let her stretch her legs and relieve her bladder. Now, I may have given a bad impression about the Germans with my Frau Brucher reference earlier and they can be a stern people, but they do love dogs. Don't you know that outside the International terminal, down the sidewalk a ways, there is a lovely little area designed for four footed travellers. Aw.
So after a very uneventful train ride from Frankfurt upon which Reilly was able to sit on our laps for the whole two hour trek, we arrived at Gare du Nord in Paris. Again, gathering kith and kin, we got off the train, looked for some sort of customs clearing point, but nothing. Out the door we went to the taxi stand and put Reilly back in the carrier. In my school girl French, I told the driver, "J'ai un chien." He looked at the carrier, looked at me and the last shark in my stomach and nodded a rather nonchalant, affirmative. We climbed in the taxi and headed into the city.
Welcome to Paris Reilly, my vaccinated, microchipped friend.
Back in September, when the job posting was made official, we began jumping over hurdles, through hoops and around obstacles. It took more paperwork and procedures to get her here than it did to get my French Visa. To say that I was sick over it is an understatement. At almost every turn, there was someone saying that even though you did this, that and the other thing, the airport security could turn us away because we have a dog. The pilot or the airline (we flew Luftansa) could just decide, no dogs in the cabin this flight. Customs in Germany or in France could say nope, nuh uh...get back on the plane and go home...that is if the pilot is agreeable. Ugh...sick, sick, sick. I had nightmares about traveling with this precious, adorable, well mannered little trooper.
In September, we bought her an airline approved carrier and started training her to travel in it. I bought Rescue Remedey, an herbal calming aide and we used that on occasion to see what affect it would have on her...more for my nerves than hers. I had to feel as though I was in control of something. We drove to Virginia and Maryland with her in the carrier and she went along pleasantly enough for the ride. We had her microchipped per European Union animal requirements. We actually had her chipped twice because the EU requires a 15 digit chip. Our local veterinarian didn't realize there was a specification, so Reilly got the 10 digit chip and after a random Google search on traveling internationally with pets I discovered the EU specification. Yikes! A trip to a different vet (my vet didn't carry the 15 number chips) and another $60, Reilly was up to code. My local vet now only offers the 15 digit chip, since that is accepted in North America as well as the EU!
In late October, we had to find an apartment in Paris that allowed dogs...somewhat limiting the field which was already limited to a 4 day search period. But, I think we found the right place because of Reilly. We all feel quite at home here.
As moving day drew nearer, so grew my heighten state of panic. I packed as much stuff for the dog as I did for either Bill or myself. There were beds and blankets, toys and towels. I bought a 2 month supply of dog food so I could transistion her over to French dog food. I brought her rain coat, sweaters, 6 months of heartworm and flea/tick medications...There are no ticks in Paris, but there are some literally killer ticks in the south of France. Most domestic pets die within three days of that tick bite! I even packed peanut butter for her; a favorite treat when added to her rubber Kong toy, especially when we have to leave her alone for a little while.
Stuff packed and shipped. All travel arrangements made and fees paid. Letters of introduction written to the Luftansa flight crew. It was time to go. We took Reilly for a really long walk up and down our street. December 30th was a bitterly cold day, but we had to tire her out and of course make sure "business" was completed before the journey to the airport.
She rode on my lap to Logan. It was the longest and shortest trip to the airport in my life. Brian, my neice's husband, drove us in and dropped us at the curb outside Luftansa. Time for Reilly to go into the carrier for check-in. We asked Brian to stay in the area until we cleared security. Reilly gave one little bark as we waited in line to check our bags. I shushed her and she shushed. Thank goodness for Business Class Priority lines...we checked our bags in record time and we went straight to the front of the security line. Once cleared, we called Brian and released him...but he was on call just in case they wouldn't let us board. And for Reilly, this would be the last time she would be free from her carrier for nearly eight hours...the longest stretch ever.
I thought that once we cleared security and were waiting at the gate, I could keep her leashed and on my lap in the gate area...but no. Less than a week before, some idiot set his crotch on fire trying to down a plane in Detroit, so all rules were being strictly enforced. As time for boarding neared, we approached the gate, handed over our letter of introduction for her and I prayed. I prayed the Lord's Prayer, several Hail Marys and asked St. Francis to intercede for us. The attendant at the gate looked at us, looked at the letter and handed it back. She never asked to see the dog, the carrier, the carry-on tote filled with Rescue Remedy laced peanut butter sandwiches...naddah! She did tell us that as Business Class passengers with a dog, we could board first...YES!! On hurdle down and one shark in my stomach eliminated.
Time to board and nary a peep from the Wonder Dog. We got on the plane and approached our seats and down the aisle marches the flight attendant. I feel Jaws take a chomp of my insides...for you see gentle reader, this was only the second time I have ever flown Luftansa. The first time, Frau Brucher (see Young Frankenstein) was our attendant and she was not a happy camper. But, this gentle lady approached and with our letter in hand, we made our formal notification that we were flying with a dog and happily, introductions were made. She stuck her hand in the carrier and Reilly gave her a little lick. Dog kisses...magic! The other passengers around us, most of whom did not speak English were enchanted by my little dog...who still to this point had yet to utter a woof. If I had asked, I bet they would have all agreed that I should let the little dog out of the carrier and we would all take turns letting her snuggle in our laps...*pop*...awake from dream state please!
With Reilly safely stowed under the seat and us about to take off, I gave her a piece of freeze dried chicken...how I got that through security I'll never know...but this gave her something to chew on as we reached altitude. I wasn't sure how her ears would react to the changes in cabin pressure...but God bless her (I know He did cuz I was still praying), she settled in for a nap after her treat.
About 2 1/2 hours into the flight, I was getting antsy about her. Was she too warm, too cold? I could feel her moving about the carrier with my feet. Bill was getting just as anxious and he leaned over to me and told me to pick up the carrier and put it on my lap. If I was stealthy enough, I could slip her out of the carrier and onto my lap under a blanket. As much as I would have adored this, this was NOT going to happen for any one of several reasons: 1) it was against the rules and I almost always follow the rules 2) I still had a few Great Whites, Hammerheads and Tiger sharks eating my insides, 3) if I took her out, she was not going back in willingly and 4) she would be on my lap...so guess who would get kicked out of the country first as a scofflaw...me. Instead, I propped the carrier on the armrest next to the window and opened the front access panel just enough so I could put my arm in the carrier. I offered a spiked peanut butter sandwich as a distraction and she acquiesed nicely. Stretching out in her little den, she plopped her head on my arm and snoozed. After a while, I was able to open the front of the carrier completely and just poking her nose out, she rested against my arm for another hour or so. No sounds, no struggles...no more Great Whites.
After our little cuddle, Bill zipped her up and took her to the lavatory along with a piddle pad to see if she needed any relief. Nothing doing. After a quick drink from the sink, they returned and Reilly went back under the seat where it was a bit cooler than on my lap. There she stayed for the remainder of the flight.
We landed in Germany at 5:30 am, after nearly seven and a half hours on the plane. Next stop, customs. Since we were one of the first flights arriving at the airport for that day and being Priority Class, our luggage was off first and we ran to the Customs Gate. Paperwork at the ready, we approached the agent, handed over our passports and after a few cursory questions and stamp in the book, we moved on...right out into the terminal..no declaration point, no live animal check...just the cold air of Frankfurt and blessed relief for the dog. While I waited for our daughters to clear customs (they traveled coach so it took longer for their bags). Bill took the dog out of her carrier and let her stretch her legs and relieve her bladder. Now, I may have given a bad impression about the Germans with my Frau Brucher reference earlier and they can be a stern people, but they do love dogs. Don't you know that outside the International terminal, down the sidewalk a ways, there is a lovely little area designed for four footed travellers. Aw.
So after a very uneventful train ride from Frankfurt upon which Reilly was able to sit on our laps for the whole two hour trek, we arrived at Gare du Nord in Paris. Again, gathering kith and kin, we got off the train, looked for some sort of customs clearing point, but nothing. Out the door we went to the taxi stand and put Reilly back in the carrier. In my school girl French, I told the driver, "J'ai un chien." He looked at the carrier, looked at me and the last shark in my stomach and nodded a rather nonchalant, affirmative. We climbed in the taxi and headed into the city.
Welcome to Paris Reilly, my vaccinated, microchipped friend.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Changes
I knew that moving to France would be a big adjustment. Obviously there is a new language to experience; political views, the food and new social norms. I didn't think of all the small adjustments though.
I can't tell you how many times Bill and I have asked each other what day it is! We don't get a daily paper (yet). Programming on French TV seems to have no schedule at all...back home if House was on at 8pm, you knew it was Monday! (Sidenote: House is on French TV, earlier seasons of course and is entitled Dr. House. Sadly not in the orignal version (VO) nor with subtitles. Hugh Laurie's House is definitely lost in translation.) We don't have a radio...no Loren and Wally in the morning! Waking up at the crack of dawn everyday doesn't help either...dawn cracks around 8:40 am! So I don't know what day it is and I am late to boot.
Do you realize how much we take for granted in our lives? I didn't until they were gone or replaced by other things. I miss the smell of my laundry detergent! I can't find prepared chicken broth or stock. It is s good thing I had some peanut butter shipped over for Reilly with our belongings. The French think Jif is disgusting! I miss my beautiful birds out by the feeders...here I have pigeons and strangely enough, sea gulls, oddly amusing in their own right. I miss drying clothes on my drying racks and having a deck. I didn't realize until arriving here that I went out onto my deck just about every day. Whether it was to have a cup of tea and watch the birds or just to take a breather, literally, opening the door and taking in a deep breath. Reilly always enjoyed that too.
I have to learn a whole new series of emergency numbers. No 911 here...if you want the police dial 17, the paramedics 15, fire department 18...and who the heck is 16 or why did they choose to skip it?
I miss grass. I miss the countryside. I have always been a suburban or rural route girl. Now, I am no country bumpkin. I have traveled quite a bit and explored many a major metropolis at home and abroad. But there is something different about visiting a city and city living. Your pace changes. Your timing changes. Your 'radar' becomes attuned to new priorities like watching where you step. I have noticed over the past few days that when I take Reilly for her walks, I am moving way faster than before...and I try to slow down. The pace of Paris doesn't always appreciate that adjustment on my part...but tough. I still want to see the city, not get swept up the sea of humanity. And Parisians have a whole different concept of personal space. All space around them is theirs and watch out if you are walking in the opposite direction...they will not veer from their course, no polite "excuse me."..just plow right into you because you entered their space..even if you are just standing there. Pardonnez-moi and je suis desolee (I am sorry) are regular parts of my French lexicon; I say them without hesistation or shame. Mom would be proud.
I miss country noise. Birds chirping, acorns cracking down on the roof and the sound of the wind in the trees. The sound of neighborhood dogs barking...oh believe me dogs bark in Paris, but there is something a bit more urgent in their barks, whereas Penny, my Airedale country neighbor, would howl and yawn a howdy-do, the dogs we've encountered have a harsh yap, kinda like they are saying, "Who are you stranger.?" I guess as we meet more city dogs, I'll learn to understand and appreciate their language too.
I have noticed too that my 'ear' is changing. I am understanding more French conversation. I think some of it is intuition, but I am becoming accustomed to the dialect, cadence and emotion. It is funny...when I am walking about and I hear English being spoken, it sounds foreign for a moment.
City noise...it is not annoying...except for the zingy whine of the ever racing motorobikes...that sound for some reason runs right up my spine to a spot behind my left eye! But city noise is like a new symphony. With each passing day, I hear a new part, supporting the others, creating the whole. Today, it is dark and foggy, so the bass line is predominate. Busses running their routes drone to and from the busstop outside our building. Yesterday it was the sound of sopranos and tenors...children on a field trip lined up outside the musuem, laughing and shouting over each other. And then there are the brasses...the horns of cars and trucks, the whoosh of brakes from busses and trucks. Paris's unfinished symphony. I am sure as the seasons change and my comfort level grows, new harmonies and melodies will emerge.
I suppose in three years, I'll miss city sounds.
I can't tell you how many times Bill and I have asked each other what day it is! We don't get a daily paper (yet). Programming on French TV seems to have no schedule at all...back home if House was on at 8pm, you knew it was Monday! (Sidenote: House is on French TV, earlier seasons of course and is entitled Dr. House. Sadly not in the orignal version (VO) nor with subtitles. Hugh Laurie's House is definitely lost in translation.) We don't have a radio...no Loren and Wally in the morning! Waking up at the crack of dawn everyday doesn't help either...dawn cracks around 8:40 am! So I don't know what day it is and I am late to boot.
Do you realize how much we take for granted in our lives? I didn't until they were gone or replaced by other things. I miss the smell of my laundry detergent! I can't find prepared chicken broth or stock. It is s good thing I had some peanut butter shipped over for Reilly with our belongings. The French think Jif is disgusting! I miss my beautiful birds out by the feeders...here I have pigeons and strangely enough, sea gulls, oddly amusing in their own right. I miss drying clothes on my drying racks and having a deck. I didn't realize until arriving here that I went out onto my deck just about every day. Whether it was to have a cup of tea and watch the birds or just to take a breather, literally, opening the door and taking in a deep breath. Reilly always enjoyed that too.
I have to learn a whole new series of emergency numbers. No 911 here...if you want the police dial 17, the paramedics 15, fire department 18...and who the heck is 16 or why did they choose to skip it?
I miss grass. I miss the countryside. I have always been a suburban or rural route girl. Now, I am no country bumpkin. I have traveled quite a bit and explored many a major metropolis at home and abroad. But there is something different about visiting a city and city living. Your pace changes. Your timing changes. Your 'radar' becomes attuned to new priorities like watching where you step. I have noticed over the past few days that when I take Reilly for her walks, I am moving way faster than before...and I try to slow down. The pace of Paris doesn't always appreciate that adjustment on my part...but tough. I still want to see the city, not get swept up the sea of humanity. And Parisians have a whole different concept of personal space. All space around them is theirs and watch out if you are walking in the opposite direction...they will not veer from their course, no polite "excuse me."..just plow right into you because you entered their space..even if you are just standing there. Pardonnez-moi and je suis desolee (I am sorry) are regular parts of my French lexicon; I say them without hesistation or shame. Mom would be proud.
I miss country noise. Birds chirping, acorns cracking down on the roof and the sound of the wind in the trees. The sound of neighborhood dogs barking...oh believe me dogs bark in Paris, but there is something a bit more urgent in their barks, whereas Penny, my Airedale country neighbor, would howl and yawn a howdy-do, the dogs we've encountered have a harsh yap, kinda like they are saying, "Who are you stranger.?" I guess as we meet more city dogs, I'll learn to understand and appreciate their language too.
I have noticed too that my 'ear' is changing. I am understanding more French conversation. I think some of it is intuition, but I am becoming accustomed to the dialect, cadence and emotion. It is funny...when I am walking about and I hear English being spoken, it sounds foreign for a moment.
City noise...it is not annoying...except for the zingy whine of the ever racing motorobikes...that sound for some reason runs right up my spine to a spot behind my left eye! But city noise is like a new symphony. With each passing day, I hear a new part, supporting the others, creating the whole. Today, it is dark and foggy, so the bass line is predominate. Busses running their routes drone to and from the busstop outside our building. Yesterday it was the sound of sopranos and tenors...children on a field trip lined up outside the musuem, laughing and shouting over each other. And then there are the brasses...the horns of cars and trucks, the whoosh of brakes from busses and trucks. Paris's unfinished symphony. I am sure as the seasons change and my comfort level grows, new harmonies and melodies will emerge.
I suppose in three years, I'll miss city sounds.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Bread is Pain
If there were only one thing I could tell you about France it would be that the French know their bread! There is nothing better than French bread and by gum they know it too. Croissants, boules. batards, baguettes, pain du chocolat, ficelle, sandwich du pays, tartines, and on and on...
Bread is served at every meal. A crusty loaf is cut up and brought to you in a basket. No butter, no oil, no bread plates, just the magic of the bread. Grab a piece, tear off a bite and lay the rest right their on the table. You wipe your plate clean with the bread. You talk with it in your hand, waving it around, because in France, the bread is an extension of you! Bread is like breathing, you just do it. When you finish one basket, and I guarantee you will, just lift it up and give a nod to your server, or say, "Encore, s'il vous plait" and there you are, more bread.
I equated bread to breathing. Well bread is definitely an activity here. You start your day going to the neighborhood boulangerie for your LOAVES of bread for the day, a few croissants for breakfast and perhaps a pain du chocolate for afternoon tea or dessert. If your bread baker is also a pastry chef, then the possibilities are wondrous. In the few weeks we've been here, we have found a favorite boulangerie...I hesistate to divulge the precious information. Perhaps I'll share in the coming weeks or months...right now it is my little secret. But fear not, there are boulangeries and patisseries everywhere in Paris. Every neighborhood has several...but get there early for the bread goes quick!
I find it a bit ironic that the word for bread in French is pain. Giving it some additional thought though, it makes sense; not only in the Latin panis sort of way, but in the agony and ecstasy sort of way. Have you every tried something so good it almost hurt? Or perhaps the guilt from the indulgence twinges your reason (all those carbs!) Bread is life here. You make time for it. You desire it. It frustrates you because you cannot recreate it unless your family has passed down the secret recipe from generation to generation... the agony ...and then their is the smell, the texture, the taste, the moments with friends lingering over the bread basket, savoring some bread and cheese and wine...the ecstasy.
With all this wonderful bread, thank goodness we opted not to have a car in Paris. Bread fuels our day. We walk everywhere, starting with the boulangerie in the morning.
Bread is served at every meal. A crusty loaf is cut up and brought to you in a basket. No butter, no oil, no bread plates, just the magic of the bread. Grab a piece, tear off a bite and lay the rest right their on the table. You wipe your plate clean with the bread. You talk with it in your hand, waving it around, because in France, the bread is an extension of you! Bread is like breathing, you just do it. When you finish one basket, and I guarantee you will, just lift it up and give a nod to your server, or say, "Encore, s'il vous plait" and there you are, more bread.
I have never been one to eat bread and butter. Occasionally, at an Italian restaurant I might indulge in some flavored dipping oil on bread but here, it is just the bread, plain and simple and delicious; just my style. But, bread is my favorite accompaniment for cheese. In a country where the cheese is, in my humble opinion a close second to wine which is a close second to the bread, the bread provides balance and tempers the cheeses. Perhaps I will learn to be more French when eating the cheese course, using a knife and fork and spoon, but with such great bread, I may be a bad student.
I equated bread to breathing. Well bread is definitely an activity here. You start your day going to the neighborhood boulangerie for your LOAVES of bread for the day, a few croissants for breakfast and perhaps a pain du chocolate for afternoon tea or dessert. If your bread baker is also a pastry chef, then the possibilities are wondrous. In the few weeks we've been here, we have found a favorite boulangerie...I hesistate to divulge the precious information. Perhaps I'll share in the coming weeks or months...right now it is my little secret. But fear not, there are boulangeries and patisseries everywhere in Paris. Every neighborhood has several...but get there early for the bread goes quick!
I find it a bit ironic that the word for bread in French is pain. Giving it some additional thought though, it makes sense; not only in the Latin panis sort of way, but in the agony and ecstasy sort of way. Have you every tried something so good it almost hurt? Or perhaps the guilt from the indulgence twinges your reason (all those carbs!) Bread is life here. You make time for it. You desire it. It frustrates you because you cannot recreate it unless your family has passed down the secret recipe from generation to generation... the agony ...and then their is the smell, the texture, the taste, the moments with friends lingering over the bread basket, savoring some bread and cheese and wine...the ecstasy.
With all this wonderful bread, thank goodness we opted not to have a car in Paris. Bread fuels our day. We walk everywhere, starting with the boulangerie in the morning.
Friday, January 8, 2010
You see, it is because it is French.
January 8, 2010
We have been in our lovely little apartment for five days now. 3 bedrooms, two baths with awesome water pressure, a good sized kitchen, dining room and living room...quite comfortable. In France, when you rent a flat, especially one that is furnished, you must complete an inventory on the day you move in. One counts everything and notes its condition...every spoon, every nick on a frame and even the number of books on the shelves. This process took about 3 hours. What we did not note was all the operations manuels for the washer/dryer...one machine two functions...the dishwasher, oven, etc are written in French. So just imagine your English owner's manuels and the difficulty of that techo-speak and add a foreign language to it! Oh yeah and then there is the difference in electrical current, celsius and metric measures and doing laundry becomes a multi-tasking science experiment and translation exercise! Another thing not checked were the light switches and outlets. We have this switch by the front door...DO NOT TOUCH IT!!!...it shuts off the electricty in the entire apartment. Half of the electric outlets are not working so we need to buy multiplugs. Put that on the 'to buy' list.
Back to inventory...our kind and patient yet somewhat hyper transistion assistant furiously turned on the radiators in each room, listening as the water which had been sitting since May gurgled. Periodically, she would run around and touch the radiators to see if they were working. Some yes and some no. On to the inventory notes are made. Having never experienced such a process before, I let the pros do their work. my first lesson learned in Paris, never let the pros just do their work.
So with the inventory complete, we go about cleaning the apartment, which has been empty since May (mostly for painting and a few renovations). But there is dust everywhere. And don't you know it, as we clean we find things that were missed by the professionals; a wine stain on the rug, a curtain rod, not properly secured, as the bump on the top of my heads attests, the useless switches and plugs and of course by now 3 cold radiators. As we clean, and scrub and ponder how to clean a waxed wooden floor without water as per the nice transistion assistant's instructions, the daughter of our landlord calls. She is just lovely! So kind and patient and a little hyper and her English is very, very good. And, lo and behold, she was the former tenant in this flat for 10 years! Bon,bon, bon! Surely she can tell us of all the ins and outs of this lovely little flat. The heater in the bedroom has not worked for 10 years...she never needed it so neither should we. The gas stove, it has a little igniter button for lighting the gas...not working for a longtime, just use a lighter. The front door, it sticks. You must push it hard and listen for the click or you will wake up one night like she did with the door wide open. She will show us when she comes to visit and she will bring the heating guy to look at the other two radiators. Whew!
So we met the daughter of our landlord and she brought wine...really, really good wine. And she brought the heating guy who is trying to learn English so we agree to a language exchange program in the near future; coffee and conversation once this brutally cold spell gripping Paris breaks. He fixes one radiator in the front hall, actually bangs the radiator in the bedroom with a hammer and it clicks on! and looks at the third and declares that when the painters took the radiator off to paint behind it, they did not put it back on correctly. To fix it, he would have to...wait for it...shut the heat off in the ENTIRE building...not just the flat...the whole building to fix it. We agree that he should come back in May. But we'll have coffee together before then.
I don't think I can tell you about the cable...it hurts my head too much.
So here we are, minutes from the Sorbonne, Notre Dame, St. Germaine Du Pres. We've broken bread at the table and had some good cheap wine with our dinner. We are tired but we are home.
We have been in our lovely little apartment for five days now. 3 bedrooms, two baths with awesome water pressure, a good sized kitchen, dining room and living room...quite comfortable. In France, when you rent a flat, especially one that is furnished, you must complete an inventory on the day you move in. One counts everything and notes its condition...every spoon, every nick on a frame and even the number of books on the shelves. This process took about 3 hours. What we did not note was all the operations manuels for the washer/dryer...one machine two functions...the dishwasher, oven, etc are written in French. So just imagine your English owner's manuels and the difficulty of that techo-speak and add a foreign language to it! Oh yeah and then there is the difference in electrical current, celsius and metric measures and doing laundry becomes a multi-tasking science experiment and translation exercise! Another thing not checked were the light switches and outlets. We have this switch by the front door...DO NOT TOUCH IT!!!...it shuts off the electricty in the entire apartment. Half of the electric outlets are not working so we need to buy multiplugs. Put that on the 'to buy' list.
Back to inventory...our kind and patient yet somewhat hyper transistion assistant furiously turned on the radiators in each room, listening as the water which had been sitting since May gurgled. Periodically, she would run around and touch the radiators to see if they were working. Some yes and some no. On to the inventory notes are made. Having never experienced such a process before, I let the pros do their work. my first lesson learned in Paris, never let the pros just do their work.
So with the inventory complete, we go about cleaning the apartment, which has been empty since May (mostly for painting and a few renovations). But there is dust everywhere. And don't you know it, as we clean we find things that were missed by the professionals; a wine stain on the rug, a curtain rod, not properly secured, as the bump on the top of my heads attests, the useless switches and plugs and of course by now 3 cold radiators. As we clean, and scrub and ponder how to clean a waxed wooden floor without water as per the nice transistion assistant's instructions, the daughter of our landlord calls. She is just lovely! So kind and patient and a little hyper and her English is very, very good. And, lo and behold, she was the former tenant in this flat for 10 years! Bon,bon, bon! Surely she can tell us of all the ins and outs of this lovely little flat. The heater in the bedroom has not worked for 10 years...she never needed it so neither should we. The gas stove, it has a little igniter button for lighting the gas...not working for a longtime, just use a lighter. The front door, it sticks. You must push it hard and listen for the click or you will wake up one night like she did with the door wide open. She will show us when she comes to visit and she will bring the heating guy to look at the other two radiators. Whew!
So we met the daughter of our landlord and she brought wine...really, really good wine. And she brought the heating guy who is trying to learn English so we agree to a language exchange program in the near future; coffee and conversation once this brutally cold spell gripping Paris breaks. He fixes one radiator in the front hall, actually bangs the radiator in the bedroom with a hammer and it clicks on! and looks at the third and declares that when the painters took the radiator off to paint behind it, they did not put it back on correctly. To fix it, he would have to...wait for it...shut the heat off in the ENTIRE building...not just the flat...the whole building to fix it. We agree that he should come back in May. But we'll have coffee together before then.
I don't think I can tell you about the cable...it hurts my head too much.
So here we are, minutes from the Sorbonne, Notre Dame, St. Germaine Du Pres. We've broken bread at the table and had some good cheap wine with our dinner. We are tired but we are home.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Bonne Annee 2010
December 31, 2009 to January 7, 2010
After months of preparation and more gorillas in my stomach than I can describe, we find ourselves in Paris...our new home for the next 3 years. I am excited and scared, but mostly still in shock.
I am a red, white and blue American. I love baseball, the 4th of July and growing tomatoes in my backyard. I LOVE the USA! So what the heck am I doing in Paris?
My kids are grown and out of the house. I have just spent the past year of my life getting all kinds of personal ducks in a row; strengthening friendships, preparing to go back to school to finish a Masters in Education, writing a cookbook, stepping up my leadership role in volunteer work. But now, I am in Paris. No friends, no work and I barely speak the language! All my plans *poof*!
My husband has a new, exciting job... a raison d'etre in Paris. For me, it is more like que sera, sera!
I am in Paris. I am here to support and help my husband. I am here with my trusty little dog Reilly (thank God!). I guess I am in Paris to find my courage. Lord, please help me find my courage!
I hope in a few weeks, I will find my inner Mary Richards (a Mary Tyler Moore character to those of you born before 1980!) and soon I will be spinning gleefully on the sidewalk tossing my beret high into the Parisian sky. I think maybe I will try that in the Jardin du Luxembourg where such behavior is tolerated with an "oh she's crazy nod and smirk"...on the sidewalk, I may get knocked over!
I know that when this cold start to winter warms, so will my heart for this amazing city. Oh yeah, and finding that courage will help too. If Ernest Hemingway and Julia Child could do it, why not me?
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