Although based on actual events and perceptions, I have opted to write this entry in the form of a short story...thanks for indulging my curiosity and literary experiment.
Alone in the resort lounge, we were seated by the fire on this cold, gray afternoon. I had a glass of champagne and he a beer. We talked of our plans for a quiet weekend away from Paris; what would we do after his work was completed on Friday?
As we talked, more people filtered into the lounge, greeting each other, excited to be attending the Mercedes Benz exhibit at the resort. They came in pairs, small groups or alone. Some were dressed for the occasion and others looked as if they had just come from a day of yard work~odd really.
Then through the crowd, this woman appeared. I snuffled a snort and kicked him, pointing with my head in her direction. She was blonde...straight from the bleach bottle blonde and her roots danced like defiant shadows, somber and stubborn under the wild mane of chemically treated hair. She tossed her head and played with the mess. I guess she thought the maneuver was coy and and attractive. To me, through my champagne lens, she loooked the definition of the dumb blonde. Tripping over the threshhold of the lounge didn't help. Her thuggish, leather jacketed companion took no noitice of her stumble and she laughed softly at no on in particular, trying to regain her footing and composure.
She wore a white, nylon trench coat, that bubbled at the hem. It was loosely belted at the hips, revealing a very skimpy, black sweater dress. I suggested to him that she had better not sneeze or the other people in the room might get to know her better than they wished. She seemed comfortable and ill-at-ease, all at the same time. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties, hoping to look as if she was in her twenties. If she was in her twenties, those must have been hard years.
Left alone to her own devices, her companion talking cars with other guests, she swayed and teetered about the room, looking at the eclectic mix of pop art and fine sculpture adorning the room. Teetering and twisting like a drunken flamingo...she was wearing the most incredible, silver cowboy boots; tin-foil shiny, embossed paisley patterns and the most outrageous stilletto heels. She was a podiatrist's nightmare and the proverbial accident waiting to happen.
From out of the lobby strode a silver-haired Christopher Plummer type. Older, handsome and genial, he spied his friend...the blonde's companion...and with a jovial strut joined his friend by the bar. He kissed his friend as the French do, first one cheek and then the other. Sensing her presence was required, Silver Boots tiptoed across the carpet toward the men, her backside swaying like a pack mule navigating the paths of the Grand Canyon. Her coat slipped from one shoulder, revealing that her dress was sleeveless. As she came into view, the older man gasped when he caught sight of the spectacle. He kissed her on her cheeks, once, twice, three times, squeezing the bared flesh of her upper arm, as her companion made the introductions.
Trophy or pro?...the question popped into my mind, shocking me ...a most unexpected thought but not really surprising after it had time to sink in.
The older man took her arm and she, with a major head toss, was led by the men through the door to the exhibition hall.
There was something about those outrageous silver boots that perfectly suited the situation. The garishness, the absurdity, the faux glamour and all the while this woman teetering on the brink the details screamed that this is her life; this is normal.
I sighed and looked into the fire.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood
I must and hate to admit that my recollection of French history is a bit rusty. As a History and Political Science major in college and a High School History/Poli Sci /World Cultures teacher for a good long while, I studied or taught mostly American history and our connections to world history through American lenses. So coming to Paris is fueling a renewed interest in France before WWII!
All around the city is the French motto, Liberte', Egalite', Fraternite'! Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. These words, adopted or instituted in 1848 saw a long birthing process and evolution before being emblazoned on France's flags and facades. It is interesting to read these words and interpret them first with an American understanding and then to see how they play out in French modern life and in her history.
Liberty...how very American this concept seems. The right to live as most people believe as God intended and in cooperation with our fellow citizens to seek a life, free to be you and me...thank you Marlo Thomas for that lesson from my childhood. I think that liberty in the American sense is a foundational thread , a golden thread in the fabric of our country as it strenghtens our government and the common good. Liberty is freedom, but freedom with design and purpose.
In my renewed study of Liberte', the French concept, I am discovering a more fluid, conceptual reality of liberty. I think I will have to find some writings by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Alexis de Tocqueville, and Pierre Leroux to fully understand the French requirement of this fluidity as a function of history and the adaptation of meaning to the times and circumstances of the people. At its core, this liberty is the exercise of natural rights to do what men and women freely choose, without harming others and without impeding the rights and choices of fellow citizens. Liberty in France is true freedom although maybe a bit risky on its own.
Equality...another foundational premise for our United States of America. A concept that was nobly conceived but often sacrificed to further other American ideals. American equality took a beating up through the 1960's and some believe still gets a good lashing by those who choose ignorance rather than acceptance. But as a noble concept, America's Equality is pure and it is woven inextricably in the fabric of our nation... to paraphrase...all men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights... among these life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
According to France's The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, published in 1789, equality is applied by law and , "The law must be the same for all, whether it protects or punishes. All citizens, being equal in its eyes, shall be equally eligible to all high offices, public positions and employments, according to their ability, and without other distinction than that of their virtues and talents." The twist in my American understanding of this premise is how throughout time, France has identified her citizens. From a monarchy to republics, from nationalism to socialism back to nationalism, France has maintained an internal struggle with the idea of citizen. Perhaps this is why I have found some of the people I have encountered to be patronizing and smarting of isolationism. I guess this is where Fraternite as a concept is supposed to offer balance.
Brotherhood/fraternity moves the French from codes and codicils to the realm of morality, spirituality and community. Like the American struggles with our concept of equality throughout our history (slavery, suffrage, equal rights and equal protections), the French continue to struggle to find balance, with brotherhood often being the weight sending the scales of justice teetering...a delicate balance of idealism and human rights....balancing the needs of the individual and the requirements of community. Brotherhood was intended to represent a third leg of a triad, melding France into an assembly...a national assembly...I guess it is their way of saying, we, the people.
From watching televised debates during this current regional election, reading the novel The Elegance of the Hedgehog, reading French and International journals and in having discussions with new and old acquaintances here in Paris, my American eyes see France really struggling with a renewed nationalistic movement...a new definition of brotherhood. From tougher immigration laws, laws that limit personal expression to pushing people to "fit" a notion of culture and identity that is wholly French and a growing prejudice toward second and third generation "French" from the immigrant population, Old World France is butting headlong and painfully into Modern France...a France that many hope to reverse. And France, among others is starting to push back on the idea of the European Union...growing pains perhaps, but a struggle among all the very different families trying to live in the same tree...but no grafting of branches if you please.
Rather than identifying brotherhood as one of the threads of our colloquial fabric, the USA embraced E Pluribus Unum as a motto...Out of Many, One, and it became a swath of the fabric of our lives. It first reflected that from thirteen colonies, a new nation was born, but throughout our history, it has come to mean from many countries comes one people...Americans...the land of the free and the home of the brave. We embrace the tired, poor, wretched refuse and welcome them to dig deep into their own rich traditions, challenge them to courageously enter this amazing land and weave their thread, add their mark...their blood, sweat and tears, into the fabric of our nation.
Ben Franklin once alluded that from English roots, sprung a new nation, a new people, rougher and more crude, but possessing the promise of greatness because of our ideals of liberty, equality and that because of the differences in the sum of our parts, the whole, the nation was much greater than any previous government and people...and that because of this diversity, America's strength was exponentially compounded for and by generations to come. We are a warty bunch...and our national fabric has tears and the stains of tears, but it is strong.
I hope that as I become more accustomed to life in France and I study her history, my appreciation for her journey will grow. I have a sense that the more I learn about France and Europe, the keener my sense of America.will be. In my own flawed American way, I wish that in France and Europe, there is an "aha" moment...that E Pluribus Unum becomes a world motto and mantra...American idealism I guess, but it works pretty well for us and I think could really strengthen a new world fabric...perhaps a patchwork quilt of sorts, but together each unique piece bound together, by common threads...with liberty, justice, equality, brotherhood...for all.
If I knew how to add music to my blog, I would insert Ray Charles' America the Beautiful here. And I should probably go read the words to The Marseillaise...for further insight and appreciation!
All around the city is the French motto, Liberte', Egalite', Fraternite'! Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. These words, adopted or instituted in 1848 saw a long birthing process and evolution before being emblazoned on France's flags and facades. It is interesting to read these words and interpret them first with an American understanding and then to see how they play out in French modern life and in her history.
Liberty...how very American this concept seems. The right to live as most people believe as God intended and in cooperation with our fellow citizens to seek a life, free to be you and me...thank you Marlo Thomas for that lesson from my childhood. I think that liberty in the American sense is a foundational thread , a golden thread in the fabric of our country as it strenghtens our government and the common good. Liberty is freedom, but freedom with design and purpose.
In my renewed study of Liberte', the French concept, I am discovering a more fluid, conceptual reality of liberty. I think I will have to find some writings by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Alexis de Tocqueville, and Pierre Leroux to fully understand the French requirement of this fluidity as a function of history and the adaptation of meaning to the times and circumstances of the people. At its core, this liberty is the exercise of natural rights to do what men and women freely choose, without harming others and without impeding the rights and choices of fellow citizens. Liberty in France is true freedom although maybe a bit risky on its own.
Equality...another foundational premise for our United States of America. A concept that was nobly conceived but often sacrificed to further other American ideals. American equality took a beating up through the 1960's and some believe still gets a good lashing by those who choose ignorance rather than acceptance. But as a noble concept, America's Equality is pure and it is woven inextricably in the fabric of our nation... to paraphrase...all men are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights... among these life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
According to France's The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, published in 1789, equality is applied by law and , "The law must be the same for all, whether it protects or punishes. All citizens, being equal in its eyes, shall be equally eligible to all high offices, public positions and employments, according to their ability, and without other distinction than that of their virtues and talents." The twist in my American understanding of this premise is how throughout time, France has identified her citizens. From a monarchy to republics, from nationalism to socialism back to nationalism, France has maintained an internal struggle with the idea of citizen. Perhaps this is why I have found some of the people I have encountered to be patronizing and smarting of isolationism. I guess this is where Fraternite as a concept is supposed to offer balance.
Brotherhood/fraternity moves the French from codes and codicils to the realm of morality, spirituality and community. Like the American struggles with our concept of equality throughout our history (slavery, suffrage, equal rights and equal protections), the French continue to struggle to find balance, with brotherhood often being the weight sending the scales of justice teetering...a delicate balance of idealism and human rights....balancing the needs of the individual and the requirements of community. Brotherhood was intended to represent a third leg of a triad, melding France into an assembly...a national assembly...I guess it is their way of saying, we, the people.
From watching televised debates during this current regional election, reading the novel The Elegance of the Hedgehog, reading French and International journals and in having discussions with new and old acquaintances here in Paris, my American eyes see France really struggling with a renewed nationalistic movement...a new definition of brotherhood. From tougher immigration laws, laws that limit personal expression to pushing people to "fit" a notion of culture and identity that is wholly French and a growing prejudice toward second and third generation "French" from the immigrant population, Old World France is butting headlong and painfully into Modern France...a France that many hope to reverse. And France, among others is starting to push back on the idea of the European Union...growing pains perhaps, but a struggle among all the very different families trying to live in the same tree...but no grafting of branches if you please.
Rather than identifying brotherhood as one of the threads of our colloquial fabric, the USA embraced E Pluribus Unum as a motto...Out of Many, One, and it became a swath of the fabric of our lives. It first reflected that from thirteen colonies, a new nation was born, but throughout our history, it has come to mean from many countries comes one people...Americans...the land of the free and the home of the brave. We embrace the tired, poor, wretched refuse and welcome them to dig deep into their own rich traditions, challenge them to courageously enter this amazing land and weave their thread, add their mark...their blood, sweat and tears, into the fabric of our nation.
Ben Franklin once alluded that from English roots, sprung a new nation, a new people, rougher and more crude, but possessing the promise of greatness because of our ideals of liberty, equality and that because of the differences in the sum of our parts, the whole, the nation was much greater than any previous government and people...and that because of this diversity, America's strength was exponentially compounded for and by generations to come. We are a warty bunch...and our national fabric has tears and the stains of tears, but it is strong.
I hope that as I become more accustomed to life in France and I study her history, my appreciation for her journey will grow. I have a sense that the more I learn about France and Europe, the keener my sense of America.will be. In my own flawed American way, I wish that in France and Europe, there is an "aha" moment...that E Pluribus Unum becomes a world motto and mantra...American idealism I guess, but it works pretty well for us and I think could really strengthen a new world fabric...perhaps a patchwork quilt of sorts, but together each unique piece bound together, by common threads...with liberty, justice, equality, brotherhood...for all.
If I knew how to add music to my blog, I would insert Ray Charles' America the Beautiful here. And I should probably go read the words to The Marseillaise...for further insight and appreciation!
Reilly: Tres Mignon
For weeks, our intrepid little adventurer has strolled along the streets of Paris, sat quietly in many a cafe and has learned the doorways of all her favorite boulangeries. She is our little ambassador and ice-breaker. People have yet to refuse us a seat in a restaurant or on a bus when we have her with us. Waitstaff LOVE her and spoil her. Our friends in the cafe next door always wave a little more vigorously (and you must live in Paris to appreciate the distinction) when we walk by with her. And the most remarkable thing happens on the sidewalks; Parisians who would rather charge into little old ladies or biker leather wearing punks than alter their trajectory on a crowded sidewalk, YIELD to our little girl. They actually move aside and if she has really impressed, smile at her! Incroyable!
She never fails to get a reaction from people. Ooh, le petit chien! Tres Mignon! Children are drawn to her and want to pet her, play with her and on a couple of occasions take her home. We are asked if the kids and as often, adults can pet with her. She happily complies. The most frequently asked question is how old is she. Reilly is almost 5 years old and most folks are surprised by this, having thought she is a playful puppy...cinq mois, oui?...non, cinq ans! Next, we impress with her repertoire of tricks and behaviors. I have trained her to sit, stay, lie down, and sit pretty using hand signals...this gets big reactions...oohs and aahs, like we are magicians. People also ask what kind of dog is she. West Highland Terrier/Poodle mix is the answer and we would get funny looks and nods of heads. This didn't really register as odd as both Bill and I assumed something was lost in translation or people hadn't previously thought of this breeding combination.
We learned that the head tilts and retreats from our encounters had a greater reason than the Parisians are tired of the Americans and their cute dog. Parisians are dog snobs. It didn't hit us until we took Reilly to a highly recommended local dog groomer. Reilly has hair not fur and needs regular grooming to manage for health and beauty's sake. When we entered Au Paradis Canin and asked for a rendez-vous for her, the owner and lead groomer, who speaks English as well as I speak French, inquired about Rei's pedigree. I told her she was a Westie/Poodle mix and looking at the other dogs in the shop and the reaction from the groomers, this was apparently a small problem. This salon only caters to purebreds. On the grooming tables were a Westie, a Yorkie and a Silky Terrier and on the floor a Bedlington Terrier and a Shetland Collie...no mutts. "Is this a problem?" I asked. After the briefest, most pregnant pause on record, Caroline, up for a challange (and perhaps pitying these poor misguided Americans), assured us she would make Reilly look like a proper terrier, perhaps more like a Schnauzer than a Westie...maybe like a Scottie. She would see as she groomed Reilly, what her true 'self' would be! Whew! We made the appointment and in a bit of a daze, we walked out wondering exactly what we were getting Reilly into.
In a city of nearly 300,000 dogs (figure according to another blogger), this salon de toilettage is renowned for their championship styling teams for show dogs and pure breeds. Caroline has won awards for her work and she only grooms the dog using scissors! No razors...impressive and it takes at least 3 hours to do the job. So on the fateful day, we took our little trooper who really was miserable from overly long hair over to Paradis and quickly departed, leaving her in the creative hands of the maitresse du salon.
Just as a side note, having learned about the French proclivity for pure blood, yesterday Bill and I studied the dogs we encountered at Paris' Bois du Bologne, a large forest with lakes, walking trails and oodles of entertainment for families. It is also one of the few areas where letting your dog off leash is okay and relatively safe. Like in the States, many people here think their kids and dogs are perfect and don't see a their dog charging our dog, who is on her leash as their problem...yup it is our problem...but back to our observations. In the course of the afternoon we saw several Parson Jack Russel Terriers, West Highland Terriers, Beagles, English Foxhounds, German Shepherds, Cocker Spaniels, a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, a Belgian Malinois...a gazillion retrievers, Labs and Goldens, long haired dachshunds, wired haired dachshunds, a Hooch dog, French Bull terriers and many more...all appearing to be pure bred dogs...only one mutt among the bunch...Reilly-roo! But I swear to you, more people pointed her out and we heard, tres gentil, mignon, awww...la petite!...I guess it is like seeing the Mona Lisa and then seeing the reproduction t-shirts, posters, post cards...the impact is dulled...but Reilly is a true original...she carries herself like a little princess, but give her a couple of tennis balls to chase and her rough and tumble side shines through!
Back to our dog's tail./tale..after a worried afternoon, although we did indulge by having lunch at BIA (Breakfast In America), a real American diner down the street from the salon...we returned to retrieve our baby. We walked into the salon and each of the groomers, with Caroline, leading the way, smiled at us with canary eating grins. "Are you ready to see your beautiful little doggie? Are you ready for the miracle?". Uh...yes?
Ta dah!
Caroline felt that from this mound of hair, a Schnauzer-ish terrier should emerge. We were so surprised we forgot to pick up her harness, hooking her leash to her collar... a very big no, no in my book. Bill paid the bill. Her coif cost almost as much as my cut and color! We made another apppointment for 6 weeks later and in a bit of a stupor, wondering if we really had the right dog, walked home. We had to go back the next day to get her harness!
Along the way, Reilly strutted her stuff. She was clean, coiffed and perfumed. The grime that regular weekly bathings could not remove had been stripped from her and she was really, really, clean. People walking along the sidewalks noticed her instantly and murmured little comments and compliments. At the boulangerie, where we stopped to get some bread...more so in order for Bill to give her a treat than our need for a loaf...everyone pointed and politely laughed at le petit chien...tres mignon (very cute). And in her rock star style, Reilly sat patiently waiting for her bread...but once in Bill's hand, did her little dance for the crouton (the end of the baguette). Ooh, la, la...laughter and smiles from her adoring public!
Finally, we settled in at home, Reilly nestled on my lap, wiped out from her day of beauty. Bill and I looked at her, looked at each other and laughed...who is this dog!? She looked cute, but just didn't look like Reilly. A week has gone by and we are used to her appearance now and her personality is shining through, reassuring us that, indeed we have the right dog. But next time, I think I will insist that Caroline find Reilly's inner Westie instead.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
La Parking Place
We do not own a car, well except for the SUV back in the States. Here in Paris, we opted not to have les voitures. Why? Do you remember the old Bill Cosby routine, "There's a Nut in Every Car."? He was referring to folks on the subways in NYC, but the premise holds true here...Parisians are NUTS and dangerous when behind the wheel.
Our first indication that life without a car in Paris would be wise, if not longer, was when our friendly but somewhat hyper transition assistant drove us around the city last October. Once behind the wheel of her minivan, she became Camille the Conquerer. She used a whole list of words not usually uttered by mothers...she "horned her beep" (translation: honked her horn) and I swear she grew another arm used exclusively for waving furiously at other drivers. French drivers have this annoying habit of multi-tasking when driving in the city. Camille would often lean over to the back seat to fetch her purse...while driving...take out her phone, dial and talk...while driving...find a pen and paper to take notes while on the phone...and driving and point out the sights of Paris to us...who were praying while she was driving!
When it was time for us to stop and visit a an apartment, she would dump us off on the sidewalk and disappear for long periods of time, looking for an open parking spot or a garage. Every once in a while, she would snag an open spot while we were in the car with her and it was then we had our second indication why owning a car in Paris is a bad idea. Camille would apologize upfront before parking like a Parisian. Parallel parking is the only way one can park in Paris. The little tiny spaces running up one side of the road could only be accessed by an experienced parallel parker. The spaces are designed for small European cars...Renault, Citroen, smaller Mercedes Benz and the ever practical and more popular Smart Car! Smart Cars like the one pictured above can be parked parallel or perpendicular to the curb! That is so cool. Minivans were not on the minds of the city planners when they designed the city's parking spaces...and there is no such thing as a parking lot in Paris...the occasional and expensive underground parking garages are about here and there, but depending on the mood and perspective of the attendants, the garage may or may not be full, even when spaces are empty.
Back to our excellent adventure in car parking... Camille would sidle up to the car next to the desired spot and she would back in to the space and crunch, crunch, crunch, gently nudge...nah, she'd not so gently smash the bumper of the car behind her. Then she would pull forward and smack the bumper of the car in front of us. I shudder just to remember it. But Camille was not doing anything out of the ordinary...this is the way to park in Paris.
Another reason for us not to have a car was the added expense...at least 200 Euros per month for a space in a parking garage, which for us is about 3 Metro stops away! There is paid parking on the street but it is first come first served and it doesn't matter if you are a resident of a particular block...no reserved spaces for on street parking. The parking is so tight in the city that even the Brasserie across the street has valet parking. It costs 8 Euros for the valet to park the car and another fee for the space itself...about 2 Euro per hour.
Another reason for us to not own/drive/occupy a car in Paris is the local attitude on laws, rules and regulations. Posted signs stating NO Parking, DO NOT ENTER, even the lines of the crosswalks are mere suggestions to Paris drivers...it seems as long as you are seated in your car with the engine running, you can park illegally for a chat, un cafe' or to run into a hotel for a map...but make sure you have a person acting as lookout so when the police come, you can high tail it back into traffic. French cars have directionals but use of them is out of fashion...I guess...only the busses use their, as we say in New England, blinkas!
Finally, the best and most logical reason not have a car in Paris is, it is a terrific walking city. And, if you get tired, you can hop on a bus or the metro. Both systems are really easy and efficient. We are lucky to live by a bus stop that is serviced by three lines, the metro station is less than 200 yards away and over on St. Michel, we can get on the RER trains that will take us to the main train stations, airport or points beyond the city.
When you come to Paris, bring a couple pairs of comfy, yet stylish walking shoes...not sneakers...those are for running or going to the gym...and we'll promenade! Always look left...just like in the movie Elf...the yellow ones (or red, green, white, silver taxis) don't stop.
Our first indication that life without a car in Paris would be wise, if not longer, was when our friendly but somewhat hyper transition assistant drove us around the city last October. Once behind the wheel of her minivan, she became Camille the Conquerer. She used a whole list of words not usually uttered by mothers...she "horned her beep" (translation: honked her horn) and I swear she grew another arm used exclusively for waving furiously at other drivers. French drivers have this annoying habit of multi-tasking when driving in the city. Camille would often lean over to the back seat to fetch her purse...while driving...take out her phone, dial and talk...while driving...find a pen and paper to take notes while on the phone...and driving and point out the sights of Paris to us...who were praying while she was driving!
Honestly...you cannot slip a piece of paper between these cars!
Back to our excellent adventure in car parking... Camille would sidle up to the car next to the desired spot and she would back in to the space and crunch, crunch, crunch, gently nudge...nah, she'd not so gently smash the bumper of the car behind her. Then she would pull forward and smack the bumper of the car in front of us. I shudder just to remember it. But Camille was not doing anything out of the ordinary...this is the way to park in Paris.
Another reason for us not to have a car was the added expense...at least 200 Euros per month for a space in a parking garage, which for us is about 3 Metro stops away! There is paid parking on the street but it is first come first served and it doesn't matter if you are a resident of a particular block...no reserved spaces for on street parking. The parking is so tight in the city that even the Brasserie across the street has valet parking. It costs 8 Euros for the valet to park the car and another fee for the space itself...about 2 Euro per hour.
Another reason for us to not own/drive/occupy a car in Paris is the local attitude on laws, rules and regulations. Posted signs stating NO Parking, DO NOT ENTER, even the lines of the crosswalks are mere suggestions to Paris drivers...it seems as long as you are seated in your car with the engine running, you can park illegally for a chat, un cafe' or to run into a hotel for a map...but make sure you have a person acting as lookout so when the police come, you can high tail it back into traffic. French cars have directionals but use of them is out of fashion...I guess...only the busses use their, as we say in New England, blinkas!
Finally, the best and most logical reason not have a car in Paris is, it is a terrific walking city. And, if you get tired, you can hop on a bus or the metro. Both systems are really easy and efficient. We are lucky to live by a bus stop that is serviced by three lines, the metro station is less than 200 yards away and over on St. Michel, we can get on the RER trains that will take us to the main train stations, airport or points beyond the city.
When you come to Paris, bring a couple pairs of comfy, yet stylish walking shoes...not sneakers...those are for running or going to the gym...and we'll promenade! Always look left...just like in the movie Elf...the yellow ones (or red, green, white, silver taxis) don't stop.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Good News and Bad News
So the good news is, we are getting brand new copper plumbing in our 16th century apartment; the bad news it is replacing really old lead pipes.
The good news is I was smart enough to buy a Brita filter water pitcher the first week we moved into the flat; the bad news is that the filters only last 28 days and cost 25 Euros (about $35US) for two.
The good news is we found a great dog groomer just down the street from us for Reilly; the bad news is her hair cut will cost much more than mine!
The good news is the spring flowers are blooming and the grass is greening up for Spring; the bad news is you cannot walk, sit or even stare too long on/at said flora before someone comes along and questions your motives!
The good news is we found a some really awesome grocery stores that carry "American" food; the bad news American food equals Dr. Pepper, Pop Tarts, Jiffy Pop popcorn and Bisquick.
The good news is we met representatives from the building association last week as they toured all the apartments, inspecting the work being done by the aforementioned plumbers and masons repairing the courtyard walls; the bad news is they told the workers that we, the Americans, are the ones complaining about the noise, dirt and overly long time projections for the work schedule....and this is SOO not true!
The good news is I have discovered the TV show, The Big Bang Theory, on Orange Series on Demand; the bad news is they only have 8 episodes from Season 1 available for viewing .
The good news is that there are 3 Starbucks coffee shops within a short walk from the flat; the bad news is that with the current exchange rate, it costs about $7 for a Venti Mocha!
The good news is we are making new friends....and that is good news indeed.
The good news is I was smart enough to buy a Brita filter water pitcher the first week we moved into the flat; the bad news is that the filters only last 28 days and cost 25 Euros (about $35US) for two.
The good news is we found a great dog groomer just down the street from us for Reilly; the bad news is her hair cut will cost much more than mine!
The good news is the spring flowers are blooming and the grass is greening up for Spring; the bad news is you cannot walk, sit or even stare too long on/at said flora before someone comes along and questions your motives!
The good news is we found a some really awesome grocery stores that carry "American" food; the bad news American food equals Dr. Pepper, Pop Tarts, Jiffy Pop popcorn and Bisquick.
The good news is we met representatives from the building association last week as they toured all the apartments, inspecting the work being done by the aforementioned plumbers and masons repairing the courtyard walls; the bad news is they told the workers that we, the Americans, are the ones complaining about the noise, dirt and overly long time projections for the work schedule....and this is SOO not true!
The good news is I have discovered the TV show, The Big Bang Theory, on Orange Series on Demand; the bad news is they only have 8 episodes from Season 1 available for viewing .
The good news is that there are 3 Starbucks coffee shops within a short walk from the flat; the bad news is that with the current exchange rate, it costs about $7 for a Venti Mocha!
The good news is we are making new friends....and that is good news indeed.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Brain Cramp and Heart Hiccup
Wow. I am sorry folks. Yesterday was just one of those perfect emotional storm kind of days. My brain cramped and my heart hiccupped and I spewed a few weeks worth of stress onto virtual paper. I am sorry if I worried you. I just needed to release some emotional pressure...kind of like when a toddler throws a temper tantrum before having a breakthrough like walking by herself for the first time! Let's hope I am on the verge of something good!
So what say we play a game and lighten things up:)
As a part of my foreign language training, I watch TV. You would be surprised at the number of American TV shows on French TV. Soap Operas, Classic Nick at Night material and some pretty current series, albeit about two to four seasons behind our schedule back home. I usually watch the shows in French with French subtitles on...and since many of the shows are repeats for me, I already have the backstory, and can focus on the language. It is funny...some things just don't translate.
I am going to give you a list of American TV shows by their French titles and you see how many you can figure out...btw, I have NOT watched all of these, I have just seen them listed on the program guide!!
The first one is a gimmee:
Dr. House
Le prix juste
Mon Oncle Charlie
Papa Schultz
Les Experts
New York District: Manhattan
Urgences
I'll post the answers to these later. Feel free to post your responses at the end of the blog or on face book!
My favorite French TV show is Un Diner Presque Parfait. Loosely translated this means a near perfect dinner...I don't know if there is a colloquialism that better explains it, but you get the gist.
The premise of this "game" show is five regular folks from a selected town, city or region compete against each other to create the perfect dinner party. Each contestant is featured one night during the week, so each "episode" takes five nights to conclude. Contestants vary in age, gender, economic status, etc but they all love food and entertaining! Each contestant must develop a menu, a party theme or ambiance, and decorate to enhance the experience. The other contestants then come to the host's home and "party". Each of the guests then judge the host on the three areas (food, ambiance, decor) using a scale of 0-10!
I have seen a pattern emerge and I liken the five contestants to characters from Gilligan's Island. There always seems to be a goof like Gilligan, a know it all/Professor-type, a combo of the Howells, a nurturing type like Marianne and of course the chic Ginger, skinny, pretty and dressed to the nines...and surprisingly often one of the better cooks...I guess it is the attention to detail. Sorry, little buddy, no Skipper, usually.
Another plot twist added is the fact that the contestants do not know who is hosting the event until they arrive by chauffeured car to the home. Earlier in the day a menu card is delivered to each guest and the host gives clues to that night's dinner and the guests try to figure out the meal, theme and host's identity...tres drole!
Each contestant has one day to shop, prepare the meal, decorate and generally pull it all together before the guests arrive at 7pm. For the most part, unless the meal is really dreadful, the Monday host usually gets good marks because they have the least amount of "head" time to prep and the guests, not having anything to compare the meal to, tend to be kind and supportive...but watch out, by Wednesday, the gloves are off and things get dicey! It is funny, but the nuturing Marianne/mommy type, who usually gets the early start in the week tends to be the harshest with criticism by mid-week! And the Friday host tends to get pretty picky early on.
So as the program goes and I guess this is somewhat reflective of entertaining at home in France, the menu starts with an aperitif...usually a beverage and some sort of amuse bouche that wakes up your appetite. Depending on the host, next could come the entree (first course) or the party/ambience piece! I have seen adults paint birdhouses, sing karioke, fish for ping pong balls from a baby pool, as well as fake sword fights, go cart races and last night, a course in avalanche rescue...all as the entertainment for the parties! After the "fun" the meal continues with the entree in a formal dining setting.
The decor is a huge critical piece. As many a chef will tell you, you first eat with your eyes...metaphorically speaking...and the table setting can make or break the mood. If the decor is too simple you are doomed to a low score...over the top may get a good score, or back down to the bottom if it is seen as gauche or gawdy! Scores on decor can be impacted by factors like, someone hates the color, or heaven forbid, spots on the glasses...flowers and bougies (candles) are a must. I have seen people decorate with children's toys, colored glass beads, a model sail boat and sports equiptment Flags are big too...whatever the host thinks best represents their theme!
The repast continues with the plat or main meal, and concludes with dessert. Dessert had better be something special because in addition to being the last part of the evening's competition, the French don't mess around with their sweets. No store bought desserts; a platter of cookies, heaven forbid...dessert should be a gastronmic feat or off with your head. Throughout the meal, comments and critique are offered, mostly with backhanded compliments! Rarely, but it has happened, I have seen people spit out the food...oh, la, la (not a good thing).
Throughout the party, guests can go off to another room to offer private comments on their experiences thus far. What makes me laugh EVERY time is that 99% of the time, the camera for this little triste is set up in the host's bathroom and the guest is sitting on the toilet (not using it!!!!) offering the "real poop" on their experience. Oh the French... such a subtle people.
As the night draws to a close, around 11:30 pm or so, sometimes the host tries to butter up the guests with a parting gift or a prize if there was a competition as the entertainment and the guests head off to their separate rides. In the cars, the guests select "le note", or a numbered card to grade each of the three aspects of the meal and offer the reasons for the grades. Then the grades are averaged and posted for us lucky viewers so we can keep score throughout the week. The process is repeated over the next four nights and then after the last party, the scores which have not been shared with the each other, are revealed and the winner gets one thousand euros and usually four new friends.
As far as teaching me about culture and the language, the show, with its real life conversation, interesting topics and quirkiness is presque parfait pour moi!.
So what say we play a game and lighten things up:)
As a part of my foreign language training, I watch TV. You would be surprised at the number of American TV shows on French TV. Soap Operas, Classic Nick at Night material and some pretty current series, albeit about two to four seasons behind our schedule back home. I usually watch the shows in French with French subtitles on...and since many of the shows are repeats for me, I already have the backstory, and can focus on the language. It is funny...some things just don't translate.
I am going to give you a list of American TV shows by their French titles and you see how many you can figure out...btw, I have NOT watched all of these, I have just seen them listed on the program guide!!
The first one is a gimmee:
Dr. House
Le prix juste
Mon Oncle Charlie
Papa Schultz
Les Experts
New York District: Manhattan
Urgences
I'll post the answers to these later. Feel free to post your responses at the end of the blog or on face book!
My favorite French TV show is Un Diner Presque Parfait. Loosely translated this means a near perfect dinner...I don't know if there is a colloquialism that better explains it, but you get the gist.
The premise of this "game" show is five regular folks from a selected town, city or region compete against each other to create the perfect dinner party. Each contestant is featured one night during the week, so each "episode" takes five nights to conclude. Contestants vary in age, gender, economic status, etc but they all love food and entertaining! Each contestant must develop a menu, a party theme or ambiance, and decorate to enhance the experience. The other contestants then come to the host's home and "party". Each of the guests then judge the host on the three areas (food, ambiance, decor) using a scale of 0-10!
I have seen a pattern emerge and I liken the five contestants to characters from Gilligan's Island. There always seems to be a goof like Gilligan, a know it all/Professor-type, a combo of the Howells, a nurturing type like Marianne and of course the chic Ginger, skinny, pretty and dressed to the nines...and surprisingly often one of the better cooks...I guess it is the attention to detail. Sorry, little buddy, no Skipper, usually.
Another plot twist added is the fact that the contestants do not know who is hosting the event until they arrive by chauffeured car to the home. Earlier in the day a menu card is delivered to each guest and the host gives clues to that night's dinner and the guests try to figure out the meal, theme and host's identity...tres drole!
Each contestant has one day to shop, prepare the meal, decorate and generally pull it all together before the guests arrive at 7pm. For the most part, unless the meal is really dreadful, the Monday host usually gets good marks because they have the least amount of "head" time to prep and the guests, not having anything to compare the meal to, tend to be kind and supportive...but watch out, by Wednesday, the gloves are off and things get dicey! It is funny, but the nuturing Marianne/mommy type, who usually gets the early start in the week tends to be the harshest with criticism by mid-week! And the Friday host tends to get pretty picky early on.
So as the program goes and I guess this is somewhat reflective of entertaining at home in France, the menu starts with an aperitif...usually a beverage and some sort of amuse bouche that wakes up your appetite. Depending on the host, next could come the entree (first course) or the party/ambience piece! I have seen adults paint birdhouses, sing karioke, fish for ping pong balls from a baby pool, as well as fake sword fights, go cart races and last night, a course in avalanche rescue...all as the entertainment for the parties! After the "fun" the meal continues with the entree in a formal dining setting.
The decor is a huge critical piece. As many a chef will tell you, you first eat with your eyes...metaphorically speaking...and the table setting can make or break the mood. If the decor is too simple you are doomed to a low score...over the top may get a good score, or back down to the bottom if it is seen as gauche or gawdy! Scores on decor can be impacted by factors like, someone hates the color, or heaven forbid, spots on the glasses...flowers and bougies (candles) are a must. I have seen people decorate with children's toys, colored glass beads, a model sail boat and sports equiptment Flags are big too...whatever the host thinks best represents their theme!
The repast continues with the plat or main meal, and concludes with dessert. Dessert had better be something special because in addition to being the last part of the evening's competition, the French don't mess around with their sweets. No store bought desserts; a platter of cookies, heaven forbid...dessert should be a gastronmic feat or off with your head. Throughout the meal, comments and critique are offered, mostly with backhanded compliments! Rarely, but it has happened, I have seen people spit out the food...oh, la, la (not a good thing).
Throughout the party, guests can go off to another room to offer private comments on their experiences thus far. What makes me laugh EVERY time is that 99% of the time, the camera for this little triste is set up in the host's bathroom and the guest is sitting on the toilet (not using it!!!!) offering the "real poop" on their experience. Oh the French... such a subtle people.
As the night draws to a close, around 11:30 pm or so, sometimes the host tries to butter up the guests with a parting gift or a prize if there was a competition as the entertainment and the guests head off to their separate rides. In the cars, the guests select "le note", or a numbered card to grade each of the three aspects of the meal and offer the reasons for the grades. Then the grades are averaged and posted for us lucky viewers so we can keep score throughout the week. The process is repeated over the next four nights and then after the last party, the scores which have not been shared with the each other, are revealed and the winner gets one thousand euros and usually four new friends.
As far as teaching me about culture and the language, the show, with its real life conversation, interesting topics and quirkiness is presque parfait pour moi!.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
You asked for it...homesickness!
Warning: Whining ahead...if you are having a good day...do not read any further...this blog may kill joy!
So, two months down and about 34 to go in my sojourn in the City of Lights. I am not sure I can make it that long though. The luster is wearing off a bit and we have definitely moved from tourists to city dwellers...we are NOT Parisians. And, herein lies the rub. I am a proud, flag waving patriot. For most of my forty-eight years, I have pledged allegiance to my flag and said amen at the end every time. I am an American in Paris and for some reason, everyone expects me to be French. And all due respect to our hosts, but I don't want to be French. Let me be the kind, friendly, helpful American I am proud to be. Stop forcing me to be something I am not and realistically what you insist I can never be. To be French, you must be able to trace your lineage back before the 15th century...anyone else is a pretender...and this is the source of much political agitation in the capitol city these days...but I digress from whining.
I am happy to learn about your culture and try new things, but I love my country. I love my culture and I am proud of the USA, the good, the bad and the ugly. It is my country and I am tired (so soon) of hearing about what a terrible place the US is. I am tired of hearing that we throw old people into the trash to die. I am tired of hearing that going to an emergency room in the US is tantamount to a death sentence I am tired that my neighbors and colleagues feel the US is responsible for all the ills of the world. The only reason the French like Obama is because he is not Bush, and frankly, the European Union sees our president as a pushover. Hillary is so inconsequential that she doesn't even get a mention when she is here in Europe at a summit or something...unless someone feels like having a protest then you can see her hanging in effigy.
I am tired of hearing that I should be fluent by now. I'd love to be, but whenever I start speaking, one of two things happen...people who know English immediately start speaking it to me even though I try to continue in French OR, I get the "you are so pathetic" eye roll and usually the French give up on me...except those folks in the service industry; they seem to appreciate the effort. I am tired of being afraid when I am approached by someone with a clipboard and a cross to bear, that, as some nearby placard tells me, was placed there by the USA. I am tired of being surrounded by people who love American fashion, movies, music and even fast food but hate America. They love Starbucks and hate that they love Starbucks!
Cut me and I bleed stars and stripes. I am tired of apologizing. I am tired of everyone insisting I act like the French while at the same time being reminded I will never be French. I am really, really tired of people treating me like I am stupid. But most of all I am afraid of being forgotten.
I am the wife of an ex-pat. I cannot work, unless the job cannot be filled by a French citizen first. I have no network of my own. I don't have the traditional means to connect to other people...my kids are grown, my volunteer work doesn't have an extension here and my interim status prevents me from some other possibilities. I had all that back home and I am not thrilled that I have to start from scratch to find and make my place...I am more than cooking and wine...more than books and museums...but there seems to be an expectation that this is of what and where I am to be fulfilled.
Our situation is not typical of most ex-pats. Bill's job brings him to Paris because Paris is centrally located to his clients and transportation. There is no "site", plant, office or business address. He works from home or travels all over the EU and back to the States. Because of the time differences, he is "at work" in Europe by 9 am but still at work in the US until 9, 10 or 11pm Paris time! He has been away from Paris about 50% of the time we have been here, so when he gets back, he is catching up on the work he missed while out of his office.
This has been hard on us. I realize that he and we are still adjusting...I mean, he is pretty much creating this job from nothing, except a newly conceived business model...but it is new territory. It may sound shallow, selfish and unappreciated, but this has not been easy. Without exception, everything that we have had to do to get to where we are has had some sort of problem. For the most part from our world view, it is because this has not been done this way before...creating something from nothing. Also, though, the layer upon layer of red tape, barriers and mediocrity have left us try, try, trying again to accomplish that which needs to be done.
I was promised a new life, one that would make putting my other "new" life as empty nester and woman of a certain age who was free to become the center of her universe again, easy to set aside. My husband and I would travel Europe, visit all the great cultural sites, host friends, family and colleagues in a city that can entice. Instead, I find myself walking my dog and wondering where the hell my universe went, never mind finding me at its center. I didn't come to Paris to experience it alone. I never dreamed that this would be my life.
The build up and expectations that this move presented were pretty much pushed on me. If a year ago you asked me if I would want to be in Paris, alone and writing a blog on March 3, 2010, I would have said huh, me? No, thank you. But here I am.
I feel bad when people send me messages about how lucky I am to be able to go to the market or a museum in Paris and I think, how lucky people are to go to the Gibbet Hill Grill and smile at folks you know across the restaurant. I miss chatting with Raul at Donelan's. I miss the nice folks who do my dry cleaning. I miss my friends and my life. When I was at home in Groton and Bill traveled, I was often alone, but I had things to do, I had purpose in getting up each day and I had people whom I could call, visit. I'd grab a cup of coffee at Main Street Cafe and eventually see someone I know. Here not only am I alone, I am lonely. I am crying right now too...maybe the eye rollers are right, I am a bit pathetic. For sure, I am a homebody. I am a worry wart. I am a control freak. I am a perfectionist. I am not an ex-pat. This experience is not conducive to said character traits/flaws. I am not brave. I am not spontaneous. I am not sure what I am doing.
It has been 63 days. Things, people, stuff still seem so temporary. Connections are yet to be made, routines established. We do get a nod or a wave from the waiters in the Cafe right next door...that's something. I apologize to all of you who are so happy for us. When I feel this way, I feel like I am letting you down.
Tomorrow is another day...64 to be exact. Reilly and I plan on heading over to the book store to find The Elegance of the Hedgehog. A book about contemplating suicide, hmm...maybe I should pick up a copy of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame, instead.
So, two months down and about 34 to go in my sojourn in the City of Lights. I am not sure I can make it that long though. The luster is wearing off a bit and we have definitely moved from tourists to city dwellers...we are NOT Parisians. And, herein lies the rub. I am a proud, flag waving patriot. For most of my forty-eight years, I have pledged allegiance to my flag and said amen at the end every time. I am an American in Paris and for some reason, everyone expects me to be French. And all due respect to our hosts, but I don't want to be French. Let me be the kind, friendly, helpful American I am proud to be. Stop forcing me to be something I am not and realistically what you insist I can never be. To be French, you must be able to trace your lineage back before the 15th century...anyone else is a pretender...and this is the source of much political agitation in the capitol city these days...but I digress from whining.
I am happy to learn about your culture and try new things, but I love my country. I love my culture and I am proud of the USA, the good, the bad and the ugly. It is my country and I am tired (so soon) of hearing about what a terrible place the US is. I am tired of hearing that we throw old people into the trash to die. I am tired of hearing that going to an emergency room in the US is tantamount to a death sentence I am tired that my neighbors and colleagues feel the US is responsible for all the ills of the world. The only reason the French like Obama is because he is not Bush, and frankly, the European Union sees our president as a pushover. Hillary is so inconsequential that she doesn't even get a mention when she is here in Europe at a summit or something...unless someone feels like having a protest then you can see her hanging in effigy.
I am tired of hearing that I should be fluent by now. I'd love to be, but whenever I start speaking, one of two things happen...people who know English immediately start speaking it to me even though I try to continue in French OR, I get the "you are so pathetic" eye roll and usually the French give up on me...except those folks in the service industry; they seem to appreciate the effort. I am tired of being afraid when I am approached by someone with a clipboard and a cross to bear, that, as some nearby placard tells me, was placed there by the USA. I am tired of being surrounded by people who love American fashion, movies, music and even fast food but hate America. They love Starbucks and hate that they love Starbucks!
Cut me and I bleed stars and stripes. I am tired of apologizing. I am tired of everyone insisting I act like the French while at the same time being reminded I will never be French. I am really, really tired of people treating me like I am stupid. But most of all I am afraid of being forgotten.
I am the wife of an ex-pat. I cannot work, unless the job cannot be filled by a French citizen first. I have no network of my own. I don't have the traditional means to connect to other people...my kids are grown, my volunteer work doesn't have an extension here and my interim status prevents me from some other possibilities. I had all that back home and I am not thrilled that I have to start from scratch to find and make my place...I am more than cooking and wine...more than books and museums...but there seems to be an expectation that this is of what and where I am to be fulfilled.
Our situation is not typical of most ex-pats. Bill's job brings him to Paris because Paris is centrally located to his clients and transportation. There is no "site", plant, office or business address. He works from home or travels all over the EU and back to the States. Because of the time differences, he is "at work" in Europe by 9 am but still at work in the US until 9, 10 or 11pm Paris time! He has been away from Paris about 50% of the time we have been here, so when he gets back, he is catching up on the work he missed while out of his office.
This has been hard on us. I realize that he and we are still adjusting...I mean, he is pretty much creating this job from nothing, except a newly conceived business model...but it is new territory. It may sound shallow, selfish and unappreciated, but this has not been easy. Without exception, everything that we have had to do to get to where we are has had some sort of problem. For the most part from our world view, it is because this has not been done this way before...creating something from nothing. Also, though, the layer upon layer of red tape, barriers and mediocrity have left us try, try, trying again to accomplish that which needs to be done.
I was promised a new life, one that would make putting my other "new" life as empty nester and woman of a certain age who was free to become the center of her universe again, easy to set aside. My husband and I would travel Europe, visit all the great cultural sites, host friends, family and colleagues in a city that can entice. Instead, I find myself walking my dog and wondering where the hell my universe went, never mind finding me at its center. I didn't come to Paris to experience it alone. I never dreamed that this would be my life.
The build up and expectations that this move presented were pretty much pushed on me. If a year ago you asked me if I would want to be in Paris, alone and writing a blog on March 3, 2010, I would have said huh, me? No, thank you. But here I am.
I feel bad when people send me messages about how lucky I am to be able to go to the market or a museum in Paris and I think, how lucky people are to go to the Gibbet Hill Grill and smile at folks you know across the restaurant. I miss chatting with Raul at Donelan's. I miss the nice folks who do my dry cleaning. I miss my friends and my life. When I was at home in Groton and Bill traveled, I was often alone, but I had things to do, I had purpose in getting up each day and I had people whom I could call, visit. I'd grab a cup of coffee at Main Street Cafe and eventually see someone I know. Here not only am I alone, I am lonely. I am crying right now too...maybe the eye rollers are right, I am a bit pathetic. For sure, I am a homebody. I am a worry wart. I am a control freak. I am a perfectionist. I am not an ex-pat. This experience is not conducive to said character traits/flaws. I am not brave. I am not spontaneous. I am not sure what I am doing.
It has been 63 days. Things, people, stuff still seem so temporary. Connections are yet to be made, routines established. We do get a nod or a wave from the waiters in the Cafe right next door...that's something. I apologize to all of you who are so happy for us. When I feel this way, I feel like I am letting you down.
Tomorrow is another day...64 to be exact. Reilly and I plan on heading over to the book store to find The Elegance of the Hedgehog. A book about contemplating suicide, hmm...maybe I should pick up a copy of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame, instead.
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