Random Street Molestations, Touristy Stuff, and Illegal Aliens.

My first run along the Seine.

Sometimes you just need to go back to your roots.  So this week,  we did a couple of  embarrassingly comfortable American things:  went to a Starbucks and saw a bad American movie (Jurassic World).   Worse, the whole time I was wearing my yoga attire (quel horreur!).   A few months ago, while having drinks with some friends back in Marin (while also wearing my yoga attire), I said to them: “I want you guys to know, that I KNOW, I can’t dress like this in Paris.”   I still believe that, but I think the month of August shouldn’t count.

My beautiful friend Jane visited Paris for the first time during the month of August several years ago.   Her memories of this trip were less then positive.   Mainly, she was dismayed at how few Parisians are actually in Paris during August:  they are all taking advantage of their government guaranteed five-week vacations (those French are smart).    Alot of the restaurants shut down – our neighborhood is littered with signs on doors (most hand-written), basically saying, “see you in September”.   So, you are left with a hot, very expensive city, teeming with tourists.

I know, another one.  My run was very inspiring.

Still, I find it alluring and very charming.  You have to be on alert for the really interesting stuff.  Like, what we saw today.   A couple of weeks ago, Jim and I got off the metro a stop too soon, and stumbled upon a really great English language bookstore.    It is across from the Tuileries, and also close to a very touristy tea room (Angelina), purported to have the most amazing hot chocolate.

With the excuse of fulfilling their summer reading requirements, the girls and I go to the bookstore and decide to sample the chocolate afterwards.   We are walking down rue Rivoli and we see ahead of us a woman about my age looking up while taking a picture of something.  I only noticed her because she was wearing a Little Black Dress very similar to one I own – and she had a really cute figure (I notice these things).    As she is focusing intently on taking the picture, an older woman, carrying a lot of bags, walks up right next to her, and very aggressively grabs her ass and gives it a healthy squeeze. 

Now, I’ve been known to surprise certain good friends in this fashion.  So, my first thought was that these were two French gal pals.  Surely, the old woman would turn around and the cute LBD girl would scream happily at being groped by her good friend.    That didn’t happen.   Bag lady didn’t miss a beat, kept right on walking.  LBD girl had a look of equal parts horror and “what the fuck just happened”?  I said to my girls, “that really just happened, right?”   The hot chocolate was actually amazing. 

I discussed this today with Samara.  Samara is our Personal Concierge.  I feel obnoxious even using that term because it sounds like someone who drives me around in a limo all day doing my errands.   Samara is actually about 24, and drives a Vespa with a pink sparkly helmet.  For a small monthly fee, she answers all of our dumb questions and communicates in French for me when I need help.   Also, she is very cute.  I figured if ass grabbing among women was a normal occurrence here, surely she would know.   It is not, as far as she knows, but she enjoyed my story. 

 “I don’t mean to scare you, but they lost my paperwork the first time.”  Samara tells me this after escorting me on a field trip to the post office.  I had to mail our applications to become legal residents in France.   We have perfectly valid Visas – issued by the French Consulate in San Francisco.  However, because we will be here for more than three months, we have to go through a whole separate process to stay here legally.    

I don’t know what one has to do, as a foreigner, to stay for an extended period of time in the US.  But, in France, they make you work for it.    We each have to get a medical exam, take a few hours of French history classes, and pay another thousand or so euros in fees to the French government.   This is all to obtain a little stamp on each of our Visas.   We have three months to obtain this little stamp.  If we don’t have it, and we leave France after three months to visit certain countries, they might not let us back in (unless we stop in the US first).  

Anyway, Samara warned me that because of the August vacations, I shouldn’t expect any action on our applications until mid September.   So, I was pleasantly surprised, when just a day after mailing our forms to the OFII (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration),  I receive an email summoning Jim and myself for our appointments.    There is no mention of our daughters.  We tell Samara that this seems strange and illogical.   Surely, it would make sense for our whole family to have an appointment together?  No, she says, not really.   I suspect, as she did with Le Medecin Agency, Samara will be calling the OFII for me soon.  It would suck for the girls to be illegal aliens.  Though, this could be just the ticket for their future college essays.

We didn’t do a great job this week of finding unique attractions (aside from the ass grabbing incident).    So, I don't have alot of snazzy photos.   However, we did scout out a few reasonably priced boutique hotels for our (hopefully) future visitors, in the event our guest room won’t suffice.   Just across the street from us is The Peninsula Paris.  However, given the constant presence of serious luxury cars parked in front (this morning a metallic blue Bentley and what appears to be an actual gold Range Rover, both with Arabic license plates), I suspect this will not make it into our “reasonably priced boutique hotel” recommendations.  

If money is truly no object, you should stay at the St. James Paris.  The bathrooms are rumored to be spectacular . . .

or at The Peninsula Paris.  If its good enough for these guys, its good enough for our friends.

We did finally made it over to the Bois de Boulogne.   This is a very large forest-like park on the Western side of the city.   It is twice the size of New York’s Central Park, and one of the few parks in Paris that allows dogs off leash.   However, we like to take Charlie to a smaller park nearer to our apartment.  Technically, dogs aren’t allowed, but we noticed that some locals and their pups tend to convene there when the sun goes down, so we’ve started joining in.    

Jim in the Bois de Boulogne.

Charlie making new French friends.

The good food continues.   Our local Marché is open two days a week, so on those days we buy our dinner there.   This week is was Paella and an awesome Spanish wine recommended by our new friend Melanie at our local wine shop.   

Another day, we accidentally found L’Arbre à Cannelle (the cinnamon tree).    Exactly what you would imagine a small neighborhood cafe in Paris to be like.   Its in the Quartier Latin, near the Jardin des Plantes, good for walking around after the goat cheese crumble and the Raspberry/Rhubarb tart.   

Jardin des Plantes.

 Last night, we visited another tourist spot that a local had actually recommended to us last year:  le Relais de l’Entrecôte.    Steak Frites, served with their sauce secrète (which obviously translates to “secret sauce”, but sounds so much better in French).   That’s your only choice and it works.   Even our resident steak aficionado (Jim) was happy.    The servers are very nice and clearly proud of the place.   They even accommodated vegetarian Allie with a beautiful cheese plate.  For me, I would have been happy with the bread, the sauce (the French and their sauces!), and the delicious Bordeaux we had.  

I will admit there are times in these early days when I question our decision to do this.   I worry about all the terrible things that could happen.   Is this really a good thing for our kids, or are we just rationalizing a choice we made for them?   Then I’ll find myself walking on a random street, and casually look up, and spot the Eiffel Tower.   I realize it’s an overexposed tourist attraction to most people, but it is magnificent.    Or, we’ll be walking our dog while a tour bus goes by and people are snapping pictures.  Not that they’re actually taking a picture of us, but its fun pretending to be a local in this beautiful, historic city.   

But, what really works, when I find myself getting too wrapped up in my silly anxieties, is I try and imagine what my friend Kristin, back home in Mill Valley, would say to me (with an eye roll): “Just stop.  Are you kidding me?  Don’t even start.  Go eat a fucking croissant and get over yourself.”   I have very good friends.  I hope they visit and stay at The Peninsula Paris so I can see what the rooms look like.

à bientôt