May and June have been busy with visitors here in Paris. Business colleagues as well as my daughter and her friends have stayed with us and I have enjoyed the company. I love to entertain, but our recent visitors weren’t necessarily here to see me.
A few weeks back, my friend, GDAY co-member and fellow mom, sent me a Facebook message asking if she could pop over to Paris during a 2 week mission to London...Bien sur!
After coordinating schedules and travel arrangements, Ardie was on her way. We met up with her at the airport and like any good girl friend, she told me I looked great and noticed that I’ve lost about 20 lbs since leaving the States. And instead of the cheeky kissing, one cheek and then the other, I got a hug...an honest to goodness Groton-Dunstable black bear hug! Plus...she brought me maple syrup. Yum.
We hopped onto the RER and talked mom talk for nearly 45 minute...its a good thing my husband has a crackberry addiction as he had nothing nor the desire to contribute to our conversation.
After checking in with her chums back in London and chatting over foie gras du canard avec canard fume and Cremant du Loire Sparkling Rose’, we dined on my creation of veal smothered in a wine and onion reduction, roasted carrots and potatoes and enjoyed a really good red wine. Next, we headed off into the dusk to enjoy a cool evening stroll. We walked through the Latin Quarter, over to Notre Dame, down onto the Quai and through the back streets of Paris. We admired the architecture in the twilight and we continued to talk about the really important things; graduations, teenaged growing pains, hearth and home.
We continued our promenade late into the cool-ish evening, touring our “neighborhood” around the Pantheon, Sorbonne and Luxembourg. We talked of other sights worth seeing, but Ardie continued to say, “I’m not here to see Paris. I am here to see you.” Insert Smiley Face here!
Returning back to the flat, we settled in for more discussion about our kids and then after and hour or so, we turned in. Morning plan was to get up, take Reilly for a walk and hit the Café Luxembourg for le petit dejeuner. Despite our best intentions of an early rising, we all slept in. It was great...no disaster...no disappointment that we didn’t make use of every available moment to SEE something...it was just fine to BE with someone special.
We dressed and strolled up the street to the gardens, window shopping along the way. We strolled among the Saturday morning crowds; tourists, dog walkers and kids playing soccer, pretending to be their World Cup heroes. We admired the statues and beautiful beds of flowers...things I had been looking at for months looked fresh again as I shared them with my friend.
Ardie often found time to ask me how I was and how this aspect of life or that in Paris was affecting me...I appreciated the chance to say out loud to someone who has known me for a few years now how I was feeling and I never needed to qualify my words...she gets it.
After our morning in the garden, we went to the café. We explained the various preparations of coffee and ordered café crème...my family and I ordered the petit dejeuner Français and Ardie ordered just coffee. I ordered a croissant for her...we had a full afternoon of walking and souvenir shopping planned and if Napoleon taught us anything, it is an army marches on a full stomach! Besides, how can you come to Paris and NOT have a croissant for breakfast. She was pretty happy despite the carbs.
We headed back to the apartment for a bit so Ardie could finish up a few details on a presentation and this gave us a chance to regroup and plan out our afternoon sight-seeing routes. We decided to head over to the Louvre and Tulleries and then stroll down Rue de Rivoli. We passed the sidewalk vendors with their stalls filled with trinkets, posters, and books. There were artists, cranking out watercolor paintings of the local sights. And there were the tourists. I decided then and there we were not tourists...we are resident travelers, indoctrinating a fellow traveler. Ardie truly enjoyed looking at the structure of Paris...noting the passage of time on the buildings and artifices. She was struck by the enormity of the Musee de Louvre and took time to have me read any and all signs/placards/inscriptions, enlightening us to some great fact.
We took a turn through the Tulleries, the sculpted gardens across from the Louvre. I explained what Tullerie-toe is...the beige dust coating on one’s shoes from the sandy pathways created by years of people walking on and crushing pebbles and shells. We walked down to Place de la Concorde and then over to the head of Rue de Rivoli. We peeked into designer shops, elegant hotels and restaurants. We gawked at the kitschy gee-gaws in the souvenirs shops. After a time, we popped into a sidewalk café for a mid-afternoon snack...Quiche Lorraine for Ardie and me, a ham and cheese crepe with a side of frites for Emily and Bill. We watched some World Cup on the big screen TV...a unique phenomenon during Coupe de Mondial...all the cafes have mounted a TV on some wall or propped them up on tables so patrons/fans can keep tabs of their favorite teams...makes Super Bowl Sunday seem so small!
After lunch, we found some sweatshirts for her kids and headed back to the flat to rest and freshen up for the piece de resistance of our day...dinner at Le Timbre...our favorite restaurant in Paris.
We dressed for dinner and headed out the door. Arm in arm, Ardie and I talked about home and what I missed. But most of all we just enjoyed walking through the gardens and looking at this amazing oasis in the center of Paris. It started to rain just as we turned the corner toward the restaurant...thus saving Ardie’s pretty silk blouse from spotting. We entered the humble little store front that houses one of the best culinary experiences of my lifetime.
Le Timbre is a diamond in the rough. Chef Chris Wright does amazing things with quality ingredients...in my estimation, his success lies in the fact that her respects the ingredients...the duck tastes like duck should. What he does with les pruneaux is almost too good to be true. This charming little spot seats 24 people at each of the evening’s two seatings...reservations are a must. We settled into to our places, elbow to elbow with fellow diners...but one doesn’t feel cramped, just comfortably intimate with strangers brought together but the common desire to enjoy creative and delicious cuisine.
We started our dinner with some champagne and toasted our good fortune to be visiting with our dear friend. We perused the daily menu as written on the chalkboard...brought to us and the folks next to us...by our very cute (said affectionately) and hard working waitress. She and Chef Chris are solely responsible for the food service from soup to nuts! We chatted a little with the folks next to us about wine selection and amongst ourselves about the French culinary delights. I ordered a 2007 Crozes Hermitage, a lovely, well balanced red that made each of our selections sing. Entrees included such delectable choices as my terrine du maison...an upscale meatloaf with a confit of onions, Ardie’s white asparagus with a sublime butter sauce and I forget what Bill got! Emily had an extraordinary terrine of pork, prunes, bread and apples prepared with a wine reduction...oh, the prunes!
For the “plats” we stuck with the duck...Bill and I had perfectly cooked duck breast and Ardie and Emily enjoyed the duck confit...extraordinary...there was plenty of yummy noises and eye-rolling over the choice fare.
Dessert was included in the fixed price menu and I had the evening’s winner...prunes steeped in a white wine reduction spiced with star anise and cinnamon stick...so simple but so sumptuous...quite sensual actually...the texture and taste brought a tear (or two) to my eye. It was great. And it was equally great to see a fellow foodie I care about enjoy this outstanding meal. She complimented the chef who came out to the tables to say thanks to the patrons. The walk home was leisurely and we basked in the afterglow of great food, wine and company. Twilight...at 10:40pm!!
Sunday morning/Father’s day came quickly and we noshed on local patisseries with our morning coffee. We had a few hours before Ardie had to head to CDG for the return flight to London. We hopped on the #69 bus and headed over to the Eiffel Tower...snapped some photos and finished our whirlwind morning in the Latin Quarter in search of an elusive size 58 driving cap for Ardie’s husband...but we prevailed.
With minutes to spare, we rounded up Ardie’s things and took her down to the RER station that would bring her to the airport...she graciously let us off the hook for the 45 minute train ride each way to and from CDG...but it wasn’t the ride or time involved...it was the saying good-bye. I knew if I got on that train and took her to the airport, I would cry. But racing down to the B line, just as the next train arrived gave us just enough time to smile, say good bye and bear hug one last time; and then she was on board with the warning signal blaring and the train pulling away...it was kinda like ripping a band-aid off...it hurt for a minute but was over....quick...until the blog anyway...smiles and tears as I recount a wonderful visit...and my excellent adventure too.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
We got Trouble my friends in the City by the River
Trouble, starts with “T” and that rhymes with “P” and that stands for ....well, pee.
The warm weather has arrived in glorious fashion in Paris. With the warm weather come the happy groups of tourists snapping photos of the churches and monuments. The locals who pack picnic bags filled with bread and wine and cheese perch on the granite berms, steps and benches along the quai, drinking in the view along with their wine ...quite the picture, oui? Well, turn around and there along the stone wall along the Quai Montebello one sees another summer phenomenon, the other “side” of the picture...rather you smell it first...pee. In all my days, I have never been so accosted by Peeing Toms...and as the day warms, the offense grows... human urine reeks. This appears to be a uniquely male aberration and violation of social code. I am not saying that women have never peed in public, but it is a highly unlikely occurrence...modesty, practicality, and the good sense to find a toilet drive women to behave.
This “oh, la wee, I gotta pee” assault began about a month ago. My youngest daughter Emily and her friend Olivia arrived from Boston in mid-May. To help them tackle jet lag, we thought a nice morning stroll over to Notre Dame and the quai along the Seine might be beneficial...and it started out that way. As we passed the lovely little garden next to the rue Galande, we saw a bum...or more precisely a bum’s bum poking our way as the person in question “watered” the roses through the wrought iron fence. I no longer stop and smell flowers in public gardens...ew. Not five feet down the sidewalk, we saw something rustling a huge shrub in same said garden...think Donna Reed in It’s A Wonderful Life...oh, that it were...but no, another homeless guy with a need to irrigate sprinkled away...and the combination BO and PO was gross.
Bill and I hurried the girls along, hoping that being bleary-eyed, they might have missed that little episode and we crossed over to the quai. Down the massive granite steps, the sun warming us and the summer breeze brushing loose hairs across our faces, we pointed out the sights and spoke of the history of the storied, lively Latin Quarter. We passed a couple of houseboats and floating restaurants. As we approached one of the 30 (or so) bridges spanning the Seine, there in the shadows loomed an ominous sight...facing the wall. Yup...Peeing Tom. We hustled on by...what else were we to do, watch? As we exited the arch of the bridge, we walked into a wall of stink...Urinetown!! To our right was an enclosure for the riverboat restaurants’ dumpsters...but the smell was not of garbage; it was gut wrenching, stinging, stinky, urine. Apparently we had walked by the surrogate public toilet for the late night party crowd that descends upon the Seine around 11pm when the weather entices. This was the first time though that we had encountered such a stench. Normally, we would walk Reilly along the quai in the mid to late afternoon...well after the Sanitation crews had power washed the walls and walks. As we continued our march along the river, we saw the Green Clean Team (as I call them cuz they wear Kelly green jumpers topped with lime green crossing guard vests) blasting the stench and debris from the previous night’s partiers and denizens of the riverside, through openings in the river wall...and into the murky, churning waters below.
I had had enough and we were about to be super-soaked by the green guys, so I suggested we head up to street level and find a café. Caffeine and a pastry might give the girls the pick-me-up they needed. Rather than head back toward Notre Dame and the growing crowds of tourists, we headed down the smaller rues and alleys in the neighborhood. It is fun exploring these passages, finding secret gardens, quaint shops and interesting architectural details. Along the rue des Bernadins, we passed one of Paris’ SDF (sans domicile fixe) sitting in a lovely, little ivy-covered alcove, on a white marble bench and in a personally provided puddle. I just shivered at the recollection. I know the girls missed the details of that episode as they were dodging a huge pile of dog crap on the sidewalk...ah little blessings.
I can say with certainty and chagrin that since that day, I have been exposed to the exposed at least once daily. Every night the girls wanted to head over to the Latin Quarter for crepes and we usually have success with Reilly’s own “bathroom needs” down by the river. We bring a plastic bag for poop and we cover her pee spots with sand. But with exceptional weather, the nighttime crowds on the Seine were large, loud and drinking heavily. One night it got so ridiculous, as we waited for the dog to do her business, watching and counting the men lined up along a wall that was a part of the stone stairs going up to street level...hundreds of people passing above and below and there they were all lined up, sprinkling and tinkling like no one could see. At one point, there were seven guys peeing in the somewhat dark...street lights and sunset at 10pm cast them in a weird light...I think the human pong turned Reilly off the quai...she won’t do her business down there anymore.
From the little boy urged by his mom to pee on the statue of Charlemagne to the not so little boy with his extra large can of 1664 beer in tow, peeing on the shuttered door of my formerly favorite cheese shop, this past Monday night, it is obvious to me that either Paris or I have a problem. My suggestion to the pee-pertrators is take a hint from the Green Clean Team’s solution...pee directly in the river. It will save them some extra work, spare your shoes from splashing, save my nose and delicate constitution and heck, give the tourists on the Bateau-bus something else to post on YouTube.
If the Paris police ticketed everyone who pees in public (which is against the law here), I think they could solve the economic crisis in the Eurozone! And it could certainly help the public image of Paris...the first thing a friend said to me when I told him I was moving to Paris was...oh, Paris is a dirty place...it stinks. And ask any Parisian what Paris is like in the summer and to a word they all say, it stinks. Well, stop using this grand old city as your public toilet! Gee Whiz.
The warm weather has arrived in glorious fashion in Paris. With the warm weather come the happy groups of tourists snapping photos of the churches and monuments. The locals who pack picnic bags filled with bread and wine and cheese perch on the granite berms, steps and benches along the quai, drinking in the view along with their wine ...quite the picture, oui? Well, turn around and there along the stone wall along the Quai Montebello one sees another summer phenomenon, the other “side” of the picture...rather you smell it first...pee. In all my days, I have never been so accosted by Peeing Toms...and as the day warms, the offense grows... human urine reeks. This appears to be a uniquely male aberration and violation of social code. I am not saying that women have never peed in public, but it is a highly unlikely occurrence...modesty, practicality, and the good sense to find a toilet drive women to behave.
This “oh, la wee, I gotta pee” assault began about a month ago. My youngest daughter Emily and her friend Olivia arrived from Boston in mid-May. To help them tackle jet lag, we thought a nice morning stroll over to Notre Dame and the quai along the Seine might be beneficial...and it started out that way. As we passed the lovely little garden next to the rue Galande, we saw a bum...or more precisely a bum’s bum poking our way as the person in question “watered” the roses through the wrought iron fence. I no longer stop and smell flowers in public gardens...ew. Not five feet down the sidewalk, we saw something rustling a huge shrub in same said garden...think Donna Reed in It’s A Wonderful Life...oh, that it were...but no, another homeless guy with a need to irrigate sprinkled away...and the combination BO and PO was gross.
Bill and I hurried the girls along, hoping that being bleary-eyed, they might have missed that little episode and we crossed over to the quai. Down the massive granite steps, the sun warming us and the summer breeze brushing loose hairs across our faces, we pointed out the sights and spoke of the history of the storied, lively Latin Quarter. We passed a couple of houseboats and floating restaurants. As we approached one of the 30 (or so) bridges spanning the Seine, there in the shadows loomed an ominous sight...facing the wall. Yup...Peeing Tom. We hustled on by...what else were we to do, watch? As we exited the arch of the bridge, we walked into a wall of stink...Urinetown!! To our right was an enclosure for the riverboat restaurants’ dumpsters...but the smell was not of garbage; it was gut wrenching, stinging, stinky, urine. Apparently we had walked by the surrogate public toilet for the late night party crowd that descends upon the Seine around 11pm when the weather entices. This was the first time though that we had encountered such a stench. Normally, we would walk Reilly along the quai in the mid to late afternoon...well after the Sanitation crews had power washed the walls and walks. As we continued our march along the river, we saw the Green Clean Team (as I call them cuz they wear Kelly green jumpers topped with lime green crossing guard vests) blasting the stench and debris from the previous night’s partiers and denizens of the riverside, through openings in the river wall...and into the murky, churning waters below.
I had had enough and we were about to be super-soaked by the green guys, so I suggested we head up to street level and find a café. Caffeine and a pastry might give the girls the pick-me-up they needed. Rather than head back toward Notre Dame and the growing crowds of tourists, we headed down the smaller rues and alleys in the neighborhood. It is fun exploring these passages, finding secret gardens, quaint shops and interesting architectural details. Along the rue des Bernadins, we passed one of Paris’ SDF (sans domicile fixe) sitting in a lovely, little ivy-covered alcove, on a white marble bench and in a personally provided puddle. I just shivered at the recollection. I know the girls missed the details of that episode as they were dodging a huge pile of dog crap on the sidewalk...ah little blessings.
I can say with certainty and chagrin that since that day, I have been exposed to the exposed at least once daily. Every night the girls wanted to head over to the Latin Quarter for crepes and we usually have success with Reilly’s own “bathroom needs” down by the river. We bring a plastic bag for poop and we cover her pee spots with sand. But with exceptional weather, the nighttime crowds on the Seine were large, loud and drinking heavily. One night it got so ridiculous, as we waited for the dog to do her business, watching and counting the men lined up along a wall that was a part of the stone stairs going up to street level...hundreds of people passing above and below and there they were all lined up, sprinkling and tinkling like no one could see. At one point, there were seven guys peeing in the somewhat dark...street lights and sunset at 10pm cast them in a weird light...I think the human pong turned Reilly off the quai...she won’t do her business down there anymore.
From the little boy urged by his mom to pee on the statue of Charlemagne to the not so little boy with his extra large can of 1664 beer in tow, peeing on the shuttered door of my formerly favorite cheese shop, this past Monday night, it is obvious to me that either Paris or I have a problem. My suggestion to the pee-pertrators is take a hint from the Green Clean Team’s solution...pee directly in the river. It will save them some extra work, spare your shoes from splashing, save my nose and delicate constitution and heck, give the tourists on the Bateau-bus something else to post on YouTube.
If the Paris police ticketed everyone who pees in public (which is against the law here), I think they could solve the economic crisis in the Eurozone! And it could certainly help the public image of Paris...the first thing a friend said to me when I told him I was moving to Paris was...oh, Paris is a dirty place...it stinks. And ask any Parisian what Paris is like in the summer and to a word they all say, it stinks. Well, stop using this grand old city as your public toilet! Gee Whiz.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
It IS a small world after all
Recently, Reilly and I were walking back from the Jardin du Luxembourg as is our routine when Bill travels. But, we deviated from our routine just slightly and I decided to window shop at the little parasol boutique on Blvd St. Michel. As I admired all the frills and flourishes that adorn Parisian parapluies, Reilly was being her cute self...so much so that a lovely couple stopped to gush over her. They asked en Francais if they could pet the dog and I replied en Francais, bien sur/of course. Reilly very excitedly started to prance and paw so I encouraged her en Anglais, to be gentle and not to jump. Lo and behold, her admirers spoke English...and not just English...American.
Quickly and cordially, we switched to our native language and the puppy gushing and small talk ensued!! I learned that Roger and Christine lived in the building that housed the cute little umbrella shop. We talked about how cute the Rei-ster is and that she really is quite an effective ambassador for the USA. Roger is from DC and my eldest daughter now lives and works in DC (Please start humming Disney's Its a Small World After All). Christine is Swiss and works for the Swiss Embassy...and she is delightful, pretty, kind and loves to read! More about Roger later as our world gets smaller..,ooh... foreshadowing!
Roger and Christine have returned to Paris after several soujourns about the world including but not limited to Switzerland, the Ivory Coast...and they find themselves 12 years and ten months later living in an apartment directly across the boulevard from their first Paris apartment! Hmm...it's a small world.
Roger is quite amiable and gregarious. As we ended our howdy-do outside the little shop, he offered me his card and e-mail...and their kind friendship, which I took, quite readily. We talked about their work, my newness to Paris, this blog and a few other niceties. Those of you who've known me for a long time and know me well know must realize that this quite outside my norm. I am a very cautious person....friendly yes, but I am not a huge risk taker. Taking that card, exchanging names and handshakes was oddly empowering and a wee bit nerve wracking all at the same time!
When Reilly and I got home, I wrote a self-serving blog entry and waited an appropriate amount of time before I sent off a quick message to our new acquaintances and smiled, proudly at myself for being so courageous.
Before long a very cordial reply was recieved and Bill and I were invited to Roger and Christine's apartment the following Monday for a housewarming/birthday party for Roger. All this in just a matter of hours and Bill was out of the country...I was on my game!
When Bill came home on Saturday, I shared with him my adventure and the news of an invitation. Surprisingly, he was up for it and we sent our rsvp in the affirmative. Please dear reader, I cannot stress enough how big this is in the scheme of our Parisian things...for me this was a major breakthrough.
Monday, 18:30, arrived and we set on up the boulevard St. Michel and to our first non-work/Bill's connection related soiree. We were there because I opened up. I took a risk. I got really lucky to find such kind and gracious people during a really stressful period (see blog about my pity party). With a fine bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers in tow, we entered a new place and phase in Paris...new friends. We stayed for a couple of hours, talking with people from Paris, Switzerland and Germany...aside from Roger, we were the only Americans there...and with the exception of Roger and Christine's Parisian neighbor...everyone spoke English among their other languages. Americans are spoiled and we really should make greater efforts to teach our students a second and third language...to the point of conversational comfort at least. All in all it was a lovely time.
As the month progressed, Emily and her friend arrived for a visit and we were off on a whirlwind of sightseeing and stuff. I realized that I had not properly thanked our hosts for a grand time and I dashed off an e-mail with thanks and a request that we get together soon to continue getting to know each other better...and no this is not stalker-ish...just polite.
After an few e-mail exchanges and setting Olivia back on her way to the US, we agreed to have lunch and catch up. Christine would not be able to join us, but Roger was available and we had lunch yesterday. Roger brought a yummy dessert and I practiced my vegetarian cooking...with success; so much so that I now have a new entry in my on-going oeuvre of recipes for my cookbook.
So over tartines, salad and a lovely Rose, we talked about living in Paris and work and changes. Roger is starting up a new art consulting business and I have made some inquiries for him among my artist friends in Groton. We talked about agendas and social networking. We talked about using Facebook for business and I related that my brother-in-law, a chef in Newport News has a fb page for his restaurant. Come to find out, Roger grew up in the Port Warwick neighborhood of Newport News and he is quite familiar with Hilton Village, Chad and Karen's stomping ground...it's a small, small world. Roger was a military brat like me...and like me spent part of our respective childhoods in the Tidewater area at various miltiary bases. I mentioned the Sand Pool (you should be hearing a crescendo of the Small World chorus now!) at Fort Eustis in Newport News and don't you know, we were both sunbathing on its sandy shores in the 1970's! Heck, it is entirely possible that we stood in line next to each other waiting to go up the ladder for the high dive! I mean really...35 years and roughly 3000 miles later, we were sharing lunch and memories.
Lunch went by far too quickly, but the good news is they live right up the street. Small world huh?
Quickly and cordially, we switched to our native language and the puppy gushing and small talk ensued!! I learned that Roger and Christine lived in the building that housed the cute little umbrella shop. We talked about how cute the Rei-ster is and that she really is quite an effective ambassador for the USA. Roger is from DC and my eldest daughter now lives and works in DC (Please start humming Disney's Its a Small World After All). Christine is Swiss and works for the Swiss Embassy...and she is delightful, pretty, kind and loves to read! More about Roger later as our world gets smaller..,ooh... foreshadowing!
Roger and Christine have returned to Paris after several soujourns about the world including but not limited to Switzerland, the Ivory Coast...and they find themselves 12 years and ten months later living in an apartment directly across the boulevard from their first Paris apartment! Hmm...it's a small world.
Roger is quite amiable and gregarious. As we ended our howdy-do outside the little shop, he offered me his card and e-mail...and their kind friendship, which I took, quite readily. We talked about their work, my newness to Paris, this blog and a few other niceties. Those of you who've known me for a long time and know me well know must realize that this quite outside my norm. I am a very cautious person....friendly yes, but I am not a huge risk taker. Taking that card, exchanging names and handshakes was oddly empowering and a wee bit nerve wracking all at the same time!
When Reilly and I got home, I wrote a self-serving blog entry and waited an appropriate amount of time before I sent off a quick message to our new acquaintances and smiled, proudly at myself for being so courageous.
Before long a very cordial reply was recieved and Bill and I were invited to Roger and Christine's apartment the following Monday for a housewarming/birthday party for Roger. All this in just a matter of hours and Bill was out of the country...I was on my game!
When Bill came home on Saturday, I shared with him my adventure and the news of an invitation. Surprisingly, he was up for it and we sent our rsvp in the affirmative. Please dear reader, I cannot stress enough how big this is in the scheme of our Parisian things...for me this was a major breakthrough.
Monday, 18:30, arrived and we set on up the boulevard St. Michel and to our first non-work/Bill's connection related soiree. We were there because I opened up. I took a risk. I got really lucky to find such kind and gracious people during a really stressful period (see blog about my pity party). With a fine bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers in tow, we entered a new place and phase in Paris...new friends. We stayed for a couple of hours, talking with people from Paris, Switzerland and Germany...aside from Roger, we were the only Americans there...and with the exception of Roger and Christine's Parisian neighbor...everyone spoke English among their other languages. Americans are spoiled and we really should make greater efforts to teach our students a second and third language...to the point of conversational comfort at least. All in all it was a lovely time.
As the month progressed, Emily and her friend arrived for a visit and we were off on a whirlwind of sightseeing and stuff. I realized that I had not properly thanked our hosts for a grand time and I dashed off an e-mail with thanks and a request that we get together soon to continue getting to know each other better...and no this is not stalker-ish...just polite.
After an few e-mail exchanges and setting Olivia back on her way to the US, we agreed to have lunch and catch up. Christine would not be able to join us, but Roger was available and we had lunch yesterday. Roger brought a yummy dessert and I practiced my vegetarian cooking...with success; so much so that I now have a new entry in my on-going oeuvre of recipes for my cookbook.
So over tartines, salad and a lovely Rose, we talked about living in Paris and work and changes. Roger is starting up a new art consulting business and I have made some inquiries for him among my artist friends in Groton. We talked about agendas and social networking. We talked about using Facebook for business and I related that my brother-in-law, a chef in Newport News has a fb page for his restaurant. Come to find out, Roger grew up in the Port Warwick neighborhood of Newport News and he is quite familiar with Hilton Village, Chad and Karen's stomping ground...it's a small, small world. Roger was a military brat like me...and like me spent part of our respective childhoods in the Tidewater area at various miltiary bases. I mentioned the Sand Pool (you should be hearing a crescendo of the Small World chorus now!) at Fort Eustis in Newport News and don't you know, we were both sunbathing on its sandy shores in the 1970's! Heck, it is entirely possible that we stood in line next to each other waiting to go up the ladder for the high dive! I mean really...35 years and roughly 3000 miles later, we were sharing lunch and memories.
Lunch went by far too quickly, but the good news is they live right up the street. Small world huh?
Friday, May 28, 2010
Four Seasons of Fashion
Four Seasons of Fashion
I have been in Paris for 5 months now and let us not forget the exploratory stint back in October and November 2009...and I have noticed a few things about the Center of the Fashion world. It is important to note, Parisian runways are light years away from Paris walkways...what graces the pages of Elle, Vogue and L’Officiel does not often make the local scene.
Colors! Oh the colors of fashion in Paris. Let’s see...in Fall one finds shades of grey and layer upon layer of camisoles, “pulls” and scarves. Winter brings black into partner with grey and leather or suede boots of every shape, length and heel height adorn feet as fashion statements...not a smidge of practicality to be found.
You know Spring has sprung when brown supplants grey to soften the black. Boots, scarves and jackets seem to be season-less...it could be 28 degrees Celsius (to find Fahrenheit, multiply 28 x 9, divide by 5 and add 32) and you’ll see scores of women and men trudging down the Champs Elysees draped in a jacket, swathed in a scarf and clogging along in clodhoppers all for fashion’s sake!
Before coming to Paris, I bought what I thought was a chic trench coat in a lemony-buttery shade of yellow...great for April and May showers...nay. nay...yikes! Too much color! And the only trench coats I’ve seen are on older folks in business attire. So much for Samantha Brown’s trendy Passport to Europe fashion tip...but, I like my raincoat so when showers fall, I put it on, adorn it with a cute little slip of silk about my neck and pop up my Pylone white umbrella. At least the taxi drivers can’t claim they didn’t see me as we play chicken in the crosswalk.
Then comes summer; with its riotous explosion of colors and fluttery fabrics...and black, grey or brown hosiery. It is odd at least to my American sensibilities that by pairing anything with dark hose, it becomes fashionable and acceptable while promenading the pavement. For example, denim cut-offs and Daisy Dukes are everywhere...and on people of all ages, genders and sizes! Rest assured dear reader, my Daisy Duke days died in 1979! But in Paris, slap on a pair of black tights and the short shorts are stylin’. I have noticed that footwear paired with said combo is relative to the age of the fashion assassin...Converse All Stars for the under 18 set; footless tights and ballet flats for the 20 and 30 “somethings” and high heels for some women who just don’t get it...you may be as young as you feel, but there are some things that 40, 50 and 60 year olds should NEVER wear!
My husband is pleased to note that sundresses have hit the scene. Spaghetti straps, strapless, tube topped, halters...all attempt to modestly contain what many women are assertively attempting to display...oh the seduction of the décolletage. French attitudes about lingerie are very different than conservative US notions. Underwear is optional here and when it is worn, it is as small as possible, while as much as possible exposed and wherein polite society can tolerate it without a vice charge being levied.
It appears that a corollary to my philosophy of wine...drink what you like and like what you drink...applies to Paris fashion...wear what you like and like what you wear...it can be the only possible explanation for some of the get-ups we’ve seen.
Sunday was a gorgeous summer-like day, clear blue skies... and hot with a soft summer breeze making the temperature tolerable. There was also a visual cacophony of color, fabrics, accessories and attitudes. After marching down the Champs Elysees with about a million visitors to the Fete du Nature exhibit, Bill and I pulled up a couple of chairs outside the Indiana Café on St. Germaine and quaffed some cool beverages...we also did some ogling of the first signs and trends of summer...said sundresses, et cetera. I noticed that this year, sundresses are very long...reminiscent of the maxi dresses of the late ‘70’s. The fabrics are very retro too.
The most fashionable and stunning outfit I saw was a lovely white handkerchief skirt, paired with a white ribbed tank top, over which was draped the softest mint green shrug. The woman’s espadrilles were white eyelet with the same color green ribbons. Her blond hair was loosely tied back in a ponytail and she wore large white rimmed sunglasses...très, très, chic...the air of that soft summer breeze blew us away as she walked by...and then I saw the embarrassingly predominate brown stain of something she must have sat in somewhere along the way haunting her lower left “cheek”...quel dommage.
Another fashion highlight from our “runway” seats came in the form of a teenaged girl...decked out in a purple marabou (feathered) skirt, topped by a white capped sleeved tee shirt, adorned with sparkly baubles and gee-gaws. She sported black ankle boots and black lace tights. And, she was wearing a headband that propped two very pink fuzzy kitty ears slightly askew atop her pretty little head. What a sight!
In the category of “My Eyes! My Eyes!” is the entry of “Spanx should not be a visible fashion accoutrement”. On Monday, Bill and I went exploring around the 1st arrondissement. There one finds a blend of trendy, touristy rues and alleys. As we headed down the Rue de Louvre, a young couple pushing a baby carriage emerged from a store front. Dad was pushing baby and dear, short, squat, post-pregnancy Mom was walking and pulling on her Spanx...she was wearing an overly tight red and gold Egyptian themed t-shirt and a very red, very clingy Lycra skirt/short thing...(it reminded me of the little bike shorts with attached skirt that Carrie wore when she was three years old)... under which were her “thigh length” Spanx...(Spanx are the 10th wonder of the world...it is a stretchy undergarment that gently molds those little lumps and bumps that sometimes curse us after childbirth or too much pasta...into a smooth and shapely form that makes us feel better about ourselves). With a great heave, she pulled the Spanx hem of one leg and then the other out from under the stretchy, red, skort and positioned that portion about two inches below the hem of her “outerwear”, creating a beige elastic band effect on her mid-thighs. In the struggle, she failed to noticed that as she pulled her Spanx down, down too came said skort...exposing inches of post -baby belly between her waist band and the hem of her overly tight top. She looked like a badly stuffed sausage. But, with hands smoothing her skirt over her hips, she strut her stuff after Dad and the cause of the fashion faux pas! But she had attitude...wear what you like and like what you wear.
I think I need some wine.
I have been in Paris for 5 months now and let us not forget the exploratory stint back in October and November 2009...and I have noticed a few things about the Center of the Fashion world. It is important to note, Parisian runways are light years away from Paris walkways...what graces the pages of Elle, Vogue and L’Officiel does not often make the local scene.
Colors! Oh the colors of fashion in Paris. Let’s see...in Fall one finds shades of grey and layer upon layer of camisoles, “pulls” and scarves. Winter brings black into partner with grey and leather or suede boots of every shape, length and heel height adorn feet as fashion statements...not a smidge of practicality to be found.
You know Spring has sprung when brown supplants grey to soften the black. Boots, scarves and jackets seem to be season-less...it could be 28 degrees Celsius (to find Fahrenheit, multiply 28 x 9, divide by 5 and add 32) and you’ll see scores of women and men trudging down the Champs Elysees draped in a jacket, swathed in a scarf and clogging along in clodhoppers all for fashion’s sake!
Before coming to Paris, I bought what I thought was a chic trench coat in a lemony-buttery shade of yellow...great for April and May showers...nay. nay...yikes! Too much color! And the only trench coats I’ve seen are on older folks in business attire. So much for Samantha Brown’s trendy Passport to Europe fashion tip...but, I like my raincoat so when showers fall, I put it on, adorn it with a cute little slip of silk about my neck and pop up my Pylone white umbrella. At least the taxi drivers can’t claim they didn’t see me as we play chicken in the crosswalk.
Then comes summer; with its riotous explosion of colors and fluttery fabrics...and black, grey or brown hosiery. It is odd at least to my American sensibilities that by pairing anything with dark hose, it becomes fashionable and acceptable while promenading the pavement. For example, denim cut-offs and Daisy Dukes are everywhere...and on people of all ages, genders and sizes! Rest assured dear reader, my Daisy Duke days died in 1979! But in Paris, slap on a pair of black tights and the short shorts are stylin’. I have noticed that footwear paired with said combo is relative to the age of the fashion assassin...Converse All Stars for the under 18 set; footless tights and ballet flats for the 20 and 30 “somethings” and high heels for some women who just don’t get it...you may be as young as you feel, but there are some things that 40, 50 and 60 year olds should NEVER wear!
My husband is pleased to note that sundresses have hit the scene. Spaghetti straps, strapless, tube topped, halters...all attempt to modestly contain what many women are assertively attempting to display...oh the seduction of the décolletage. French attitudes about lingerie are very different than conservative US notions. Underwear is optional here and when it is worn, it is as small as possible, while as much as possible exposed and wherein polite society can tolerate it without a vice charge being levied.
It appears that a corollary to my philosophy of wine...drink what you like and like what you drink...applies to Paris fashion...wear what you like and like what you wear...it can be the only possible explanation for some of the get-ups we’ve seen.
Sunday was a gorgeous summer-like day, clear blue skies... and hot with a soft summer breeze making the temperature tolerable. There was also a visual cacophony of color, fabrics, accessories and attitudes. After marching down the Champs Elysees with about a million visitors to the Fete du Nature exhibit, Bill and I pulled up a couple of chairs outside the Indiana Café on St. Germaine and quaffed some cool beverages...we also did some ogling of the first signs and trends of summer...said sundresses, et cetera. I noticed that this year, sundresses are very long...reminiscent of the maxi dresses of the late ‘70’s. The fabrics are very retro too.
The most fashionable and stunning outfit I saw was a lovely white handkerchief skirt, paired with a white ribbed tank top, over which was draped the softest mint green shrug. The woman’s espadrilles were white eyelet with the same color green ribbons. Her blond hair was loosely tied back in a ponytail and she wore large white rimmed sunglasses...très, très, chic...the air of that soft summer breeze blew us away as she walked by...and then I saw the embarrassingly predominate brown stain of something she must have sat in somewhere along the way haunting her lower left “cheek”...quel dommage.
Another fashion highlight from our “runway” seats came in the form of a teenaged girl...decked out in a purple marabou (feathered) skirt, topped by a white capped sleeved tee shirt, adorned with sparkly baubles and gee-gaws. She sported black ankle boots and black lace tights. And, she was wearing a headband that propped two very pink fuzzy kitty ears slightly askew atop her pretty little head. What a sight!
In the category of “My Eyes! My Eyes!” is the entry of “Spanx should not be a visible fashion accoutrement”. On Monday, Bill and I went exploring around the 1st arrondissement. There one finds a blend of trendy, touristy rues and alleys. As we headed down the Rue de Louvre, a young couple pushing a baby carriage emerged from a store front. Dad was pushing baby and dear, short, squat, post-pregnancy Mom was walking and pulling on her Spanx...she was wearing an overly tight red and gold Egyptian themed t-shirt and a very red, very clingy Lycra skirt/short thing...(it reminded me of the little bike shorts with attached skirt that Carrie wore when she was three years old)... under which were her “thigh length” Spanx...(Spanx are the 10th wonder of the world...it is a stretchy undergarment that gently molds those little lumps and bumps that sometimes curse us after childbirth or too much pasta...into a smooth and shapely form that makes us feel better about ourselves). With a great heave, she pulled the Spanx hem of one leg and then the other out from under the stretchy, red, skort and positioned that portion about two inches below the hem of her “outerwear”, creating a beige elastic band effect on her mid-thighs. In the struggle, she failed to noticed that as she pulled her Spanx down, down too came said skort...exposing inches of post -baby belly between her waist band and the hem of her overly tight top. She looked like a badly stuffed sausage. But, with hands smoothing her skirt over her hips, she strut her stuff after Dad and the cause of the fashion faux pas! But she had attitude...wear what you like and like what you wear.
I think I need some wine.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Culture Shock
Dedicated to Roger and Christine...two very kind and nice people who wanted to meet a little dog and in turn shed some light for her owner.
So far my observations about Paris have been less than genial. I guess it is my nature if not human nature to note and hopefully address that which makes us uncomfortable or afraid.
Last fall, I commented in an e-mail to my friend and confidante Alice that I am feeling quite the stranger in a strange land. Having to face Paris on my own while Bill works has really pushed me way outside my comfort zone.
I know the city by her history and landmarks; the fairy tales and images from books and film. I have memories from our previous visits to Paris... but here I am stepping from the brink, over the edge, connecting my safe, soft perceptions to my new reality. It is time to conquer uncertainty, overcome fear and live.
I am somewhat the perfectionist (okay, I heard that collective sarcastic "NO?!" all the way over the Atlantic, people). The perfectionist...entering a new culture, developing new habits, adopting a new language or creating some sort of fusion speak, which I like to call Franglais...all the changes make this perfectionist feel like a blind person walking into a mine field. I am so afraid to make mistakes, to offend, or to appear to be less than who I am. Silly and paranoid perhaps, but this is where I am in my education de Paris.
The last time I went to the Musee d'Orsay, I reveled in the beaux arts of Cezanne, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and Rodin. As I stood and studied the paintings of Renoir, Monet and Lautrec, I realized I was looking at MY Paris...the Paris I understood from my classes back at Stoneham High School; the Paris I learned about through my World and Art History classes at UMass Lowell, and of course from all the films, Lili, Gigi, An American in Paris. Here fulminating in the paintings was
The City of Lights
The City of Music
The City of Joie de Vivre
My city of je ne sais crois!
In these works of art, I found the love, the open outward love that Parisians had for the city and each other. Yes, the people in the paintings are in love with Paris and each other. They celebrated her history, her unique culture...so much admired by the world lo those many decades ago. The paintings inspired song in one's heart, and a longing to live that life. The paintings even exposed a darker side of Paris...but without seeing the dark, how can you savor the light?
So for the time, I will peck away at the darkness and find the light of Paris. I will also do some remodeling of that pesky perfectionist...My Paris is out there, I know it. Perhaps I will help my neighbors find it too.
So far my observations about Paris have been less than genial. I guess it is my nature if not human nature to note and hopefully address that which makes us uncomfortable or afraid.
Last fall, I commented in an e-mail to my friend and confidante Alice that I am feeling quite the stranger in a strange land. Having to face Paris on my own while Bill works has really pushed me way outside my comfort zone.
I know the city by her history and landmarks; the fairy tales and images from books and film. I have memories from our previous visits to Paris... but here I am stepping from the brink, over the edge, connecting my safe, soft perceptions to my new reality. It is time to conquer uncertainty, overcome fear and live.
I am somewhat the perfectionist (okay, I heard that collective sarcastic "NO?!" all the way over the Atlantic, people). The perfectionist...entering a new culture, developing new habits, adopting a new language or creating some sort of fusion speak, which I like to call Franglais...all the changes make this perfectionist feel like a blind person walking into a mine field. I am so afraid to make mistakes, to offend, or to appear to be less than who I am. Silly and paranoid perhaps, but this is where I am in my education de Paris.
The last time I went to the Musee d'Orsay, I reveled in the beaux arts of Cezanne, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and Rodin. As I stood and studied the paintings of Renoir, Monet and Lautrec, I realized I was looking at MY Paris...the Paris I understood from my classes back at Stoneham High School; the Paris I learned about through my World and Art History classes at UMass Lowell, and of course from all the films, Lili, Gigi, An American in Paris. Here fulminating in the paintings was
The City of Lights
The City of Music
The City of Joie de Vivre
My city of je ne sais crois!
In these works of art, I found the love, the open outward love that Parisians had for the city and each other. Yes, the people in the paintings are in love with Paris and each other. They celebrated her history, her unique culture...so much admired by the world lo those many decades ago. The paintings inspired song in one's heart, and a longing to live that life. The paintings even exposed a darker side of Paris...but without seeing the dark, how can you savor the light?
So for the time, I will peck away at the darkness and find the light of Paris. I will also do some remodeling of that pesky perfectionist...My Paris is out there, I know it. Perhaps I will help my neighbors find it too.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
You are cordially invited to My Pity Party
So I have been in Paris for just over 19 weeks now. The weather is better and we see more sunny days than rainy days...for now.
Once again, I am alone in Paris...well, Reilly is here with me. Bill is home helping Emily move out of her dorm after a great year in Baltimore. They met up with Carrie in DC and celebrated her birthday and toured the DC monuments...before the ROAD TRIP home.
Today they are home in Massachusetts and will be visiting with family and friends. Bill is spending the day on the golf course...celebrating his 50th birthday with Steve, Brian and Charlie. Tonight they all meet up for a huge family birthday she-bang...his 50th, a niece's 30th...a couple of 21sts and a few other, not quite so milestone birthdays too.
Tomorrow is Mother's Day in the US and I am in Paris with the dog. Bill will be at the Red Sox game and my girls will be sleeping in...in their own beds, later catching up on the activity of the past few weeks and heading to Johnson's for ice cream.
I have laundry...
So for the past 19+ weeks I have tried to find my Paris stride. I have met some very nice people. I have explored the main streets and back roads of Paris and I keep trying to find the fit...to live so that those who are jealous/envious/happy for me at home won't be disappointed. But I just can't find my groove, my mojo, my je ne sais quoi.
Bill is gone a lot of the time...and when he is gone, it is for what seem like long stretches to me...eating dinner alone for the fourth, fifth...ninth night in a row sucks.
These past four months have not been without speed bumps...for want of a better illusion. Initially, there was the general angst and nervousness of moving to a new country and all the accompanying issues of ex-patriation. Next came the flu sans doctor...5 days of agony and disgusting bodily functions for me...followed by round 2 for Bill , after which he immediately boarded a plane for Boston for 10 days.
February brought a surprise in that the two courtyards in our apartment building needed immediate repairs due to water damage of the stuccoed surface. On February 10th the scaffolding went up in front of our building...blocking the view from Bill's office where it remains still...and the accompanying echafaudage was assembled in the enclosed courtyards...thus effectively blocking all natural light to 1/3 of the flat. We have 3 windows that open into the courtyard...and these windows are also a main source of ventilation for the kitchen and bathroom...we don't have a fan that helps remove steam and moisture in the bathroom...no, you open this window out into the courtyard and voila...fog free mirrors. Imagine my surprise when I opened the window, just a crack, hopped into the shower and when I was done, towel securely wrapped about me...hearing someone wish me a bonjour from the inner scaffold! I slammed the window shut...and learned to either take my shower before 7:30 am or in the evening before bed!! By the way...the work is scheduled to continue until JULY.
On February 15th, the month of jack hammering and banging began. Every day, Monday through Friday, 8:30 to 4:45pm, the workers operated jack hammers, sledge hammers, brooms and shovels to scoop up the decimated stucco and omnipresent dust...I pray there is no asbestos in this stuff...it is everywhere. On February 25th, the first of the twice monthly building council tours began. Representatives of the apartment building/homeowners association...that is, just about one person from each of the 20 flats...except our landlord...enter each flat and inspect the work from any available window...tracking in dirt and dust from the other apartments and hallways. In this my first meeting,with the council, Bill was traveling (surprise!) and fortunately one of the representatives spoke English and was able to translate the very heated discussion ensuing in the middle of my rented flat. The arguement had nothing to do with anything with regard to this apartment...but rather a continued brouhaha between the council president and the foreman of the project. 25 minutes later, the bloviating moved from my flat to the hallway and upstairs to the next apartment. I summarize the events of the meeting and send a report off to our landlord's daughter/our interlocutor in absentia and proceeded to mop the floor for the second time that day.
March brought another renovating surprise and yet another council meeting in our apartment. On March 4th, we were informed via a letter written in French posted on a bulletin board next to the elevator that there are very old lead pipes in the building and they will have to be replaced. (I took a picture of the letter, copied the text into Bablefish as well as sent the photo to our interlocuter, Gabrielle) On Friday, the plumber joined the council on a tour of each apartment and described in detail all the work which must be done to remedy the situation. Enter the council...dusty feet and all apologies for the footprints... The plumber wants to run a copper pipe along the ceiling and down one wall into the powder room...disconnect the old pipes, leaving them in the walls...and put new pipes on the wall next to the necessary...and then break through the wall into the kitchen and add new pipes, leaving the old in the walls...to the water main and water heater. So, the newly renovated apartment we moved into on January 4th...and the renovation was beautiful...with exception of the radiator glitch (more on that to follow) will have this shiny new copper piping right there for God and company to see...and by the way...the plumbers won't paint the pipes...you must hire painters to do this or live with the raw pipes. I sent Gabrielle another report about the situation and told her about our concerns (as seen through American eyes that have spent the last 10 years renovating our home in MA). She immediately called me and thanked me for my thorough report...and told me she will make a separate appointment with le plombier to go over the plan...I would not authorize the plan with him and the council...we just rent the place! Wednesday the 10th brought Gabrielle and the plumber to the Bill-less flat...yup away on business to the US. She and the plumber discussed the plan...I add my 2 cents worth asking if the pipes can get run in the walls...oh the look I got...you mean break the walls and put pipes in there and then repair and resurface the walls...oh, la, la...no...let's run the copper pipe along the ceiling, down this wall, poke a hole....and so on. The plumbers will arrive at 7:30 am on Monday, d'accord? D'accord. I have to give the two young men who did the plumbing work credit, they were efficient, as quiet as one could be when drilling holes and redirecting pipes...and they stayed until the job was done, including sweeping and "washing" the floor...they finished around 7:30pm...really unheard of in France. I think the fact we are Americans led to the decision to make this a one day project. The advantage/disadvantage of not being fluent is not getting the gist of quick conversations and head nods between the French speaking parties...but I must admit, I understand a bit more than they think I do...although I still cannot converse in anything more than short, rudimentary sentences.
That work done and phase 2 of the stucco work begins as April roars in with a tempest! More banging. Slopping and slapping of slurry...and sludge sluicing through the seams of the windows...I exited my kitchen with a load of laundry and slipped on a puddle of ooze that had come in through the space in the jamb where the two door-style windows meet in the hall...and all the windows to the courtyard have been splashed with this new coating...obliterating the chance for any potential light that may come in once the offending scaffolding is removed! I am expected to clean that crud from the windows...once the work is done in July!!
Easter...and it quiet descended on the flat! For the last month (April 6-May 9)...no work...the stucco needs to dry. Bill and I celebrate our first major holiday in Paris in quiet...ah...and of course Mass at Notre Dame with 2000 of our neighbors and curious tourists.
Monday came and Bill headed to the UK for a week of meetings. Alone again...or so I thought. Remember when I said there was work going on in BOTH courtyards of the apartment building. Well the work in the other courtyard...on the opposite side of the building was not going as smoothly as the work on our side. After yet another building council meeting on April 6th, it became apparent that there was far more damage to the wood and other support materials in the walls...not just stucco damage. And guess what...the damp would encourage champignon growth...that's the fancy French way of saying mushrooms...which is a nice way of saying wood fungus. And according to the council this fungus also attracts...bugs! Punky wood loving, people biting bugs! We were informed of this fact on April 12th! But, I am jumping the timeline and the shark here...
Bill left for the UK on Monday 4/5...and I developed what I thought was a rash Monday night. I didn't say anything to Bill until Wednesday...I was really blue and lonely and itchy. In the meantime, Gabrielle had just left with her project manager...they guy who did the initial renovation to the flat, to discuss the painting of the pipes and repairs to the radiators which were not properly re-installed after the work was done almost a year ago. It was decided that Monsieur Contractor will return in May after the bank holidays and taking a day or two fix, touch up and repair. They will call when he finds time in his calendar.
Finally calling me after a day of meeitngs on Wednesday the 7th, Bill thought I had lost my mind...really. He thought my homesickness and sadness about being alone here was causing me to psychosomatically break out in a rash...he thought I was nuts...not in a good way. I thought that there was something else afoot...but I couldn't find any evidence of mites, fleas, mosquitos...nadda...So I applied hydrocortisone and vacuumed the dickens out of my 16th century parquet flooring. Bill came home on Friday and we went out to a charming restaurant for dinner and we had a disturbing discussion...about my mental fitness and emotional stability...could I be so unhappy that I was allergic to Paris? He was unhappy because I was unhappy...and manifesting it in such an odd way. Well we polished off the wine and walked home...watched an episode of 24 (season 2 on DVD) and hit the hay. I woke up around 4am, in need of a Benadryl when I saw it...some sort of bug on my blanket! Honest to goodness, I yelled at Bill and said, "It is not in my head it is on the bed!" He lept out of the bed from a sound sleep and we searched the bedding finding the little sucker. We spent the rest of the pre-dawn hours asleep on the couches in the living room.
Saturday had us attacking the bedroom...stripping the beds and taking them apart...we found 2 more bugs in the parquet floors...not on the bed. I washed and dried the bedding, blankets and pillows in hot water and dried at 70* celcius...nothing was going to live through that.
That Saturday night, we were invited to the home of Gabrielle for dinner, and her dad, our landlord was the guest of honor. So do we call Gabrielle and tell her about the bugs hours before her big dinner party, or do we wait?...we compromise...we sent an e-mail and asked that she get back to us on Sunday or Monday. She called Monday morning...thinking our e-mail was a thank you note for a delightful dinner and finding a plea to help us figure out about the newest thorn in our sides.
Gabrielle called a couple of the other building representatives and discussed the situation...they knew about the bugs since late FEBRUARY (with 5 building council tours through my flat in the interim), but didn't think they would affect the people on the other side of the building. When I say other side of the building, I mean, walk out the door and step six steps across the hall and knock on your voisins door...there were four apartments affected...but no notice until the Americans "complained". Well, that brings me back to today. Bill in the US, me in a hotel across the street from the apartment for 24 hours because the apartment was sprayed with what we hope is the second and last treatment for "les punaises". Since the first treatment, we have only found a few dead bugs...and no more bites.
So friends and readers let me recap the past 19 weeks and ask you a few questions:
* Moving at lightspeed to a new job, new home in a foreign country
* I realize I am not as young as you and I may think...I am set in my ways and I am a home-body!
* The flu...in all its nastiness
* Famous blog meltdown
* More travel than expected for business (almost 50% of his time has been spent away from Paris and me)
* Unexpected and unannounced (at most, no more than a day or two's notice) renovations and repairs in an apartment we just rented
* Crappy, unexpectedly cold, wet and windy winter
* A terrible cold and cough...and no cough medicine
* Bugs
* Sad, disconcerting news from here and home...oil spill, floods, Time Square bombing attempt, volcanic ash, economic collapse...
* Mother's Day alone while the rest of my family is together in Groton
So...am I being too sensitive when I ask myself and you through this blog... What the hell am I doing here? Should I change my name to Job? Is this more than a reasonable person should expect when making a major life change like we have? Am I entitled to a freak-out, breakdown, hissy-fit and pity party?
Today, in order to get through this day, I am telling myself...you just have to make it through to next Thanksgiving...we have family and friends coming to visit this summer...tickets have already been purchased...I promise no bugs...but if I can make it to November, I can go home...I want to go home.
Whaddya think?
Once again, I am alone in Paris...well, Reilly is here with me. Bill is home helping Emily move out of her dorm after a great year in Baltimore. They met up with Carrie in DC and celebrated her birthday and toured the DC monuments...before the ROAD TRIP home.
Today they are home in Massachusetts and will be visiting with family and friends. Bill is spending the day on the golf course...celebrating his 50th birthday with Steve, Brian and Charlie. Tonight they all meet up for a huge family birthday she-bang...his 50th, a niece's 30th...a couple of 21sts and a few other, not quite so milestone birthdays too.
Tomorrow is Mother's Day in the US and I am in Paris with the dog. Bill will be at the Red Sox game and my girls will be sleeping in...in their own beds, later catching up on the activity of the past few weeks and heading to Johnson's for ice cream.
I have laundry...
So for the past 19+ weeks I have tried to find my Paris stride. I have met some very nice people. I have explored the main streets and back roads of Paris and I keep trying to find the fit...to live so that those who are jealous/envious/happy for me at home won't be disappointed. But I just can't find my groove, my mojo, my je ne sais quoi.
Bill is gone a lot of the time...and when he is gone, it is for what seem like long stretches to me...eating dinner alone for the fourth, fifth...ninth night in a row sucks.
These past four months have not been without speed bumps...for want of a better illusion. Initially, there was the general angst and nervousness of moving to a new country and all the accompanying issues of ex-patriation. Next came the flu sans doctor...5 days of agony and disgusting bodily functions for me...followed by round 2 for Bill , after which he immediately boarded a plane for Boston for 10 days.
February brought a surprise in that the two courtyards in our apartment building needed immediate repairs due to water damage of the stuccoed surface. On February 10th the scaffolding went up in front of our building...blocking the view from Bill's office where it remains still...and the accompanying echafaudage was assembled in the enclosed courtyards...thus effectively blocking all natural light to 1/3 of the flat. We have 3 windows that open into the courtyard...and these windows are also a main source of ventilation for the kitchen and bathroom...we don't have a fan that helps remove steam and moisture in the bathroom...no, you open this window out into the courtyard and voila...fog free mirrors. Imagine my surprise when I opened the window, just a crack, hopped into the shower and when I was done, towel securely wrapped about me...hearing someone wish me a bonjour from the inner scaffold! I slammed the window shut...and learned to either take my shower before 7:30 am or in the evening before bed!! By the way...the work is scheduled to continue until JULY.
On February 15th, the month of jack hammering and banging began. Every day, Monday through Friday, 8:30 to 4:45pm, the workers operated jack hammers, sledge hammers, brooms and shovels to scoop up the decimated stucco and omnipresent dust...I pray there is no asbestos in this stuff...it is everywhere. On February 25th, the first of the twice monthly building council tours began. Representatives of the apartment building/homeowners association...that is, just about one person from each of the 20 flats...except our landlord...enter each flat and inspect the work from any available window...tracking in dirt and dust from the other apartments and hallways. In this my first meeting,with the council, Bill was traveling (surprise!) and fortunately one of the representatives spoke English and was able to translate the very heated discussion ensuing in the middle of my rented flat. The arguement had nothing to do with anything with regard to this apartment...but rather a continued brouhaha between the council president and the foreman of the project. 25 minutes later, the bloviating moved from my flat to the hallway and upstairs to the next apartment. I summarize the events of the meeting and send a report off to our landlord's daughter/our interlocutor in absentia and proceeded to mop the floor for the second time that day.
March brought another renovating surprise and yet another council meeting in our apartment. On March 4th, we were informed via a letter written in French posted on a bulletin board next to the elevator that there are very old lead pipes in the building and they will have to be replaced. (I took a picture of the letter, copied the text into Bablefish as well as sent the photo to our interlocuter, Gabrielle) On Friday, the plumber joined the council on a tour of each apartment and described in detail all the work which must be done to remedy the situation. Enter the council...dusty feet and all apologies for the footprints... The plumber wants to run a copper pipe along the ceiling and down one wall into the powder room...disconnect the old pipes, leaving them in the walls...and put new pipes on the wall next to the necessary...and then break through the wall into the kitchen and add new pipes, leaving the old in the walls...to the water main and water heater. So, the newly renovated apartment we moved into on January 4th...and the renovation was beautiful...with exception of the radiator glitch (more on that to follow) will have this shiny new copper piping right there for God and company to see...and by the way...the plumbers won't paint the pipes...you must hire painters to do this or live with the raw pipes. I sent Gabrielle another report about the situation and told her about our concerns (as seen through American eyes that have spent the last 10 years renovating our home in MA). She immediately called me and thanked me for my thorough report...and told me she will make a separate appointment with le plombier to go over the plan...I would not authorize the plan with him and the council...we just rent the place! Wednesday the 10th brought Gabrielle and the plumber to the Bill-less flat...yup away on business to the US. She and the plumber discussed the plan...I add my 2 cents worth asking if the pipes can get run in the walls...oh the look I got...you mean break the walls and put pipes in there and then repair and resurface the walls...oh, la, la...no...let's run the copper pipe along the ceiling, down this wall, poke a hole....and so on. The plumbers will arrive at 7:30 am on Monday, d'accord? D'accord. I have to give the two young men who did the plumbing work credit, they were efficient, as quiet as one could be when drilling holes and redirecting pipes...and they stayed until the job was done, including sweeping and "washing" the floor...they finished around 7:30pm...really unheard of in France. I think the fact we are Americans led to the decision to make this a one day project. The advantage/disadvantage of not being fluent is not getting the gist of quick conversations and head nods between the French speaking parties...but I must admit, I understand a bit more than they think I do...although I still cannot converse in anything more than short, rudimentary sentences.
That work done and phase 2 of the stucco work begins as April roars in with a tempest! More banging. Slopping and slapping of slurry...and sludge sluicing through the seams of the windows...I exited my kitchen with a load of laundry and slipped on a puddle of ooze that had come in through the space in the jamb where the two door-style windows meet in the hall...and all the windows to the courtyard have been splashed with this new coating...obliterating the chance for any potential light that may come in once the offending scaffolding is removed! I am expected to clean that crud from the windows...once the work is done in July!!
Easter...and it quiet descended on the flat! For the last month (April 6-May 9)...no work...the stucco needs to dry. Bill and I celebrate our first major holiday in Paris in quiet...ah...and of course Mass at Notre Dame with 2000 of our neighbors and curious tourists.
Monday came and Bill headed to the UK for a week of meetings. Alone again...or so I thought. Remember when I said there was work going on in BOTH courtyards of the apartment building. Well the work in the other courtyard...on the opposite side of the building was not going as smoothly as the work on our side. After yet another building council meeting on April 6th, it became apparent that there was far more damage to the wood and other support materials in the walls...not just stucco damage. And guess what...the damp would encourage champignon growth...that's the fancy French way of saying mushrooms...which is a nice way of saying wood fungus. And according to the council this fungus also attracts...bugs! Punky wood loving, people biting bugs! We were informed of this fact on April 12th! But, I am jumping the timeline and the shark here...
Bill left for the UK on Monday 4/5...and I developed what I thought was a rash Monday night. I didn't say anything to Bill until Wednesday...I was really blue and lonely and itchy. In the meantime, Gabrielle had just left with her project manager...they guy who did the initial renovation to the flat, to discuss the painting of the pipes and repairs to the radiators which were not properly re-installed after the work was done almost a year ago. It was decided that Monsieur Contractor will return in May after the bank holidays and taking a day or two fix, touch up and repair. They will call when he finds time in his calendar.
Finally calling me after a day of meeitngs on Wednesday the 7th, Bill thought I had lost my mind...really. He thought my homesickness and sadness about being alone here was causing me to psychosomatically break out in a rash...he thought I was nuts...not in a good way. I thought that there was something else afoot...but I couldn't find any evidence of mites, fleas, mosquitos...nadda...So I applied hydrocortisone and vacuumed the dickens out of my 16th century parquet flooring. Bill came home on Friday and we went out to a charming restaurant for dinner and we had a disturbing discussion...about my mental fitness and emotional stability...could I be so unhappy that I was allergic to Paris? He was unhappy because I was unhappy...and manifesting it in such an odd way. Well we polished off the wine and walked home...watched an episode of 24 (season 2 on DVD) and hit the hay. I woke up around 4am, in need of a Benadryl when I saw it...some sort of bug on my blanket! Honest to goodness, I yelled at Bill and said, "It is not in my head it is on the bed!" He lept out of the bed from a sound sleep and we searched the bedding finding the little sucker. We spent the rest of the pre-dawn hours asleep on the couches in the living room.
Saturday had us attacking the bedroom...stripping the beds and taking them apart...we found 2 more bugs in the parquet floors...not on the bed. I washed and dried the bedding, blankets and pillows in hot water and dried at 70* celcius...nothing was going to live through that.
That Saturday night, we were invited to the home of Gabrielle for dinner, and her dad, our landlord was the guest of honor. So do we call Gabrielle and tell her about the bugs hours before her big dinner party, or do we wait?...we compromise...we sent an e-mail and asked that she get back to us on Sunday or Monday. She called Monday morning...thinking our e-mail was a thank you note for a delightful dinner and finding a plea to help us figure out about the newest thorn in our sides.
Gabrielle called a couple of the other building representatives and discussed the situation...they knew about the bugs since late FEBRUARY (with 5 building council tours through my flat in the interim), but didn't think they would affect the people on the other side of the building. When I say other side of the building, I mean, walk out the door and step six steps across the hall and knock on your voisins door...there were four apartments affected...but no notice until the Americans "complained". Well, that brings me back to today. Bill in the US, me in a hotel across the street from the apartment for 24 hours because the apartment was sprayed with what we hope is the second and last treatment for "les punaises". Since the first treatment, we have only found a few dead bugs...and no more bites.
So friends and readers let me recap the past 19 weeks and ask you a few questions:
* Moving at lightspeed to a new job, new home in a foreign country
* I realize I am not as young as you and I may think...I am set in my ways and I am a home-body!
* The flu...in all its nastiness
* Famous blog meltdown
* More travel than expected for business (almost 50% of his time has been spent away from Paris and me)
* Unexpected and unannounced (at most, no more than a day or two's notice) renovations and repairs in an apartment we just rented
* Crappy, unexpectedly cold, wet and windy winter
* A terrible cold and cough...and no cough medicine
* Bugs
* Sad, disconcerting news from here and home...oil spill, floods, Time Square bombing attempt, volcanic ash, economic collapse...
* Mother's Day alone while the rest of my family is together in Groton
So...am I being too sensitive when I ask myself and you through this blog... What the hell am I doing here? Should I change my name to Job? Is this more than a reasonable person should expect when making a major life change like we have? Am I entitled to a freak-out, breakdown, hissy-fit and pity party?
Today, in order to get through this day, I am telling myself...you just have to make it through to next Thanksgiving...we have family and friends coming to visit this summer...tickets have already been purchased...I promise no bugs...but if I can make it to November, I can go home...I want to go home.
Whaddya think?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sans Domicile Fixe 2: Paris-ites
So this may be the most politically incorrect thing I have ever written, but it is what I see and often feel.
Paris is infested. The weakened economy in Europe, the warm weather and tourist season has brought out a scourge. Paris' infestation has caused her to become infected as well...she feels the pain of the poor, the angst of the homeless and the anger of the gypsies.
One cannot walk down any boulevard without stepping over or around the vagabonds...and one quickly becomes adept at the diversionary sidestep...I hate to admit it, but when I see the crosshairs of a target being leveled at me, I choose to have a coughing fit, and bring tissue to my nose, blowing profusely...no one, even the gypsies wants a cold.
I have noticed that there are varying categories of street people:
When I first took notice if this blight, it was a very cold evening in Lyon. A heavy mist and biting wind whipped down the rues and boulevards. Seated next to an ATM was a young man, of the "Goth" persuasion; spiked hair, black stained lips, black nail polish and a dark, moth eaten sweater. On his lap, wrapped in a black pleather jacket were two puppies, nestled together, sleeping, providing warmth to the boy and each other, fighting as a family against the cruel elements.
But the cruelty of the moment came not from the weather, but from the tears in the boy's eyes. He was trying to sell the puppies...he could not feed them or himself. An older man, who looked rather down on his luck as well, bent down to pet the puppies. The two exchanged hushed words and an offer was made. I think the older man offered 5 Euros for the smaller of the two pups. Handing over the puppy on a makeshift leash, the boy accepted the deal. The other puppy began whimpering and tears the size of marbles rolled down the ashen cheeks of the youngster's face. The dichotomy of punk and pitiable was stark and heartbreaking. At least one was homeless no more.
Those who choose to live without walls...you can identify them by their backpacks and respect for there surroundings. They live and move about the city, free from convention and free to experience Paris in a unique way. This group of people are often treated fairly and with a level of dignity not afforded the other groups. I guess it is because their situation is one of choice not circumstance. Perhaps many of these folks are on a Kerouac-ian journey...romantic, authentic and that touches the hearts of the French. These wanderers utilize the system...France provides public toilets, public bath houses and plenty of soup kitchens for people down on their luck or in transition. This group of people rarely beg...at least in my experience.
The Gypsies are a scourge. This term is applied loosely to those immigrants from Eastern Europe/Northern Africa who travel around the continent and often beg, scam or sometime sell trinkets, flowers, birdseed usually illegaly. The Gypsies that plague Paris are not the romantic tambourine banging, dancing wanderers of ancient Indian ancestry or as portrayed in the movie Chocolat, no...these are bands of families displaced by war, bigotry and custom that prey upon tourists. The worse the economy, the more aggressive the predation.
I was on my way to the Musee d'Orsay...proud of myself for venturing out while Bill was traveling on business. As I turned left from the Rue du Bac onto the Quai Voltaire, I noticed a middle aged woman, nicely dressed reach down to the ground as if she found something. But being ever observant, I noticed the gold thing in her handkerchief, long before she pretended to pick it up. She stopped me...blocking my way as I dodged left and right. She was "concerned" that someone had lost an 18 carat gold wedding band. In my broken French, I suggested she turn it into the police. She made a show of trying the ring on and then offered to sell it to me. I said non merci; au revoir and scoot past her before I found myself in real trouble. For once grateful that my conversational French was lacking, I ignored the rapid rapport of what could only be nasty. I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was not being followed and wished the woman a bon journee. Just a few meters down the block was a museum security guard, chuckling at the scene. I gave him my best mommy eyebrow as I proceded to the Musee..."Shame on you!" was the intended message. Ah just a few more yards and I would be in a sanctuary of beauty and creativity...and the first sign I see in 4 languages..."Beware of Pick Pockets!" Honte!
I am sorry to say that this "lost and found ring" scenario has played itself out several times near major tourist sites. I have learned that you just have to ignore the situation...a very unnatural act for me. But I am learning. The other ploy is for groups of two or three young women who walk up to you and ask if you speak English...apparently, North Americans are a soft touch and often give in to the beggars, or worse find themsleves distracted by one or two of the girls while a third picks your pocket or purse. Again, the preferred response is no response and keep moving...especially if they toss bird seed on you. The pigeons descend and they claim you owe them one or two Euro for the seed...don't stop.
The most brazen encounter I have had was just a couple of weeks ago. Bill was traveling so Reilly and I were on our own. It was time for the dog's mid-afternoon walk so we headed over to the Quai Montebello, near Notre Dame. We walked down by the river and Reilly attended to her duties. It was such a lovely day we decided to walk up around the statues outside the Cathedral. We were in no hurry and I was enjoying the crowds of kids on school trips. All of a sudden, something felt wrong. Reilly's leash was slack. I looked down and turning quickly saw no dog by my feet...rather there she was in the arms of a young Gypsy woman who was trying to take her off her leash! I grabbed the dog and in my loudest Bostonian accent exclaimed..."What are you? Wicked stupid or somethin'?! Policier!!" I then said something I would not want my children to hear and which was VERY inappropriate for outside a church...and the girl ran off to join a couple of others, laughing...and I could not find a police officer even though the station is one block from the church. For the life of me, I don't know what she intended to do or how extreme my response would have been if she had taken Rei!!
I have talked with some of our new friends about the Paris-ites. Everyone has a story and a lesson learned. What surprises us though is the government's lack of response. As the economy worsens, the illicit activity rises and with the exception of police rousting illegal vendors around the Eiffel Tower, the police ignore the problem...it is too costly to arrest them all and there are too many with whom to deal. It is easier to take a police report on a theft and let the insurance companies deal with it rather than address this dirty little problem.
The hardest part of all is accepting this unacceptable human condition. To have to ignore people...to not see them...to walk away...this is just not who I was brought up to be, but to respond is to put yourself in danger. Kindness is very often not appreciated and those institutions designed to address this are either overwhelmed or themselves now indifferent. I pray a lot for these people and that God grant me the wisdom to make an appropriate difference.
Paris is infested. The weakened economy in Europe, the warm weather and tourist season has brought out a scourge. Paris' infestation has caused her to become infected as well...she feels the pain of the poor, the angst of the homeless and the anger of the gypsies.
One cannot walk down any boulevard without stepping over or around the vagabonds...and one quickly becomes adept at the diversionary sidestep...I hate to admit it, but when I see the crosshairs of a target being leveled at me, I choose to have a coughing fit, and bring tissue to my nose, blowing profusely...no one, even the gypsies wants a cold.
I have noticed that there are varying categories of street people:
- the obviously mentally ill
- the unemployed reduced to begging
- professional beggars
- those who chose to live without walls
- and the Gypsies...I fear them.
When I first took notice if this blight, it was a very cold evening in Lyon. A heavy mist and biting wind whipped down the rues and boulevards. Seated next to an ATM was a young man, of the "Goth" persuasion; spiked hair, black stained lips, black nail polish and a dark, moth eaten sweater. On his lap, wrapped in a black pleather jacket were two puppies, nestled together, sleeping, providing warmth to the boy and each other, fighting as a family against the cruel elements.
But the cruelty of the moment came not from the weather, but from the tears in the boy's eyes. He was trying to sell the puppies...he could not feed them or himself. An older man, who looked rather down on his luck as well, bent down to pet the puppies. The two exchanged hushed words and an offer was made. I think the older man offered 5 Euros for the smaller of the two pups. Handing over the puppy on a makeshift leash, the boy accepted the deal. The other puppy began whimpering and tears the size of marbles rolled down the ashen cheeks of the youngster's face. The dichotomy of punk and pitiable was stark and heartbreaking. At least one was homeless no more.
Those who choose to live without walls...you can identify them by their backpacks and respect for there surroundings. They live and move about the city, free from convention and free to experience Paris in a unique way. This group of people are often treated fairly and with a level of dignity not afforded the other groups. I guess it is because their situation is one of choice not circumstance. Perhaps many of these folks are on a Kerouac-ian journey...romantic, authentic and that touches the hearts of the French. These wanderers utilize the system...France provides public toilets, public bath houses and plenty of soup kitchens for people down on their luck or in transition. This group of people rarely beg...at least in my experience.
The Gypsies are a scourge. This term is applied loosely to those immigrants from Eastern Europe/Northern Africa who travel around the continent and often beg, scam or sometime sell trinkets, flowers, birdseed usually illegaly. The Gypsies that plague Paris are not the romantic tambourine banging, dancing wanderers of ancient Indian ancestry or as portrayed in the movie Chocolat, no...these are bands of families displaced by war, bigotry and custom that prey upon tourists. The worse the economy, the more aggressive the predation.
I was on my way to the Musee d'Orsay...proud of myself for venturing out while Bill was traveling on business. As I turned left from the Rue du Bac onto the Quai Voltaire, I noticed a middle aged woman, nicely dressed reach down to the ground as if she found something. But being ever observant, I noticed the gold thing in her handkerchief, long before she pretended to pick it up. She stopped me...blocking my way as I dodged left and right. She was "concerned" that someone had lost an 18 carat gold wedding band. In my broken French, I suggested she turn it into the police. She made a show of trying the ring on and then offered to sell it to me. I said non merci; au revoir and scoot past her before I found myself in real trouble. For once grateful that my conversational French was lacking, I ignored the rapid rapport of what could only be nasty. I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was not being followed and wished the woman a bon journee. Just a few meters down the block was a museum security guard, chuckling at the scene. I gave him my best mommy eyebrow as I proceded to the Musee..."Shame on you!" was the intended message. Ah just a few more yards and I would be in a sanctuary of beauty and creativity...and the first sign I see in 4 languages..."Beware of Pick Pockets!" Honte!
I am sorry to say that this "lost and found ring" scenario has played itself out several times near major tourist sites. I have learned that you just have to ignore the situation...a very unnatural act for me. But I am learning. The other ploy is for groups of two or three young women who walk up to you and ask if you speak English...apparently, North Americans are a soft touch and often give in to the beggars, or worse find themsleves distracted by one or two of the girls while a third picks your pocket or purse. Again, the preferred response is no response and keep moving...especially if they toss bird seed on you. The pigeons descend and they claim you owe them one or two Euro for the seed...don't stop.
The most brazen encounter I have had was just a couple of weeks ago. Bill was traveling so Reilly and I were on our own. It was time for the dog's mid-afternoon walk so we headed over to the Quai Montebello, near Notre Dame. We walked down by the river and Reilly attended to her duties. It was such a lovely day we decided to walk up around the statues outside the Cathedral. We were in no hurry and I was enjoying the crowds of kids on school trips. All of a sudden, something felt wrong. Reilly's leash was slack. I looked down and turning quickly saw no dog by my feet...rather there she was in the arms of a young Gypsy woman who was trying to take her off her leash! I grabbed the dog and in my loudest Bostonian accent exclaimed..."What are you? Wicked stupid or somethin'?! Policier!!" I then said something I would not want my children to hear and which was VERY inappropriate for outside a church...and the girl ran off to join a couple of others, laughing...and I could not find a police officer even though the station is one block from the church. For the life of me, I don't know what she intended to do or how extreme my response would have been if she had taken Rei!!
I have talked with some of our new friends about the Paris-ites. Everyone has a story and a lesson learned. What surprises us though is the government's lack of response. As the economy worsens, the illicit activity rises and with the exception of police rousting illegal vendors around the Eiffel Tower, the police ignore the problem...it is too costly to arrest them all and there are too many with whom to deal. It is easier to take a police report on a theft and let the insurance companies deal with it rather than address this dirty little problem.
The hardest part of all is accepting this unacceptable human condition. To have to ignore people...to not see them...to walk away...this is just not who I was brought up to be, but to respond is to put yourself in danger. Kindness is very often not appreciated and those institutions designed to address this are either overwhelmed or themselves now indifferent. I pray a lot for these people and that God grant me the wisdom to make an appropriate difference.
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