America the Beautiful.

We are now back in our California bubble.  I had two more posts in process that I didn’t get a chance to upload before we departed.  So, I’ll finish out my Paris blog with this post, and then a final little ditty about all of our restaurant experiences (yes, I kept a record of each one).    After that, I have some ideas for another blog and I hope you’ll give it a read now and then.   So, please stay tuned.

July 2016

I vacillate over which scary news item du jour should be freaking me out the most.  Usually, it is the seemingly endless antics of those wild and crazy terrorists.   Just when I’m getting myself worked into a frenzy, another gun violence headline will dominate the US news, and I’m reminded of how tenuous things are back home.    It’s hard to know when it’s safe to feel happy.   Probably never.  In the meantime, we still have Europe for a little while longer.   We plan to enjoy the ride to the very end, even with all the background noise.   So, Greece.

Back in 1982, a movie called “Summer Lovers” was playing in the theaters.   It was about a couple of college students spending a summer in Santorini, Greece.   They eventually meet a beautiful French girl, and all kinds of sexual shenanigans transpire.  It featured a young Daryl Hannah in one of the lead roles, and was lambasted by movie critics.   It was not a cinematic masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination.  However, I’m not ashamed to admit that I loved it.   I was 19 years old, living in New Jersey, waiting for my life to start, and this movie represented a whole sunlit world to be explored.
 

White washed, blue domed houses tucked into picturesque villages, magical caldera views, sandy beaches along the azure Aegean sea, donkeys wandering on cobblestone alleyways.   Just imagine the emoticons, had that existed in 1982.   Anyway, this silly movie elevated Greece to a spot on my foreign travel to do list.    It did not disappoint.  

We started in Athens with the requisite Acropolis visit and also a food tour.  Our guide was a woman named Despina who took us to the “real Athens”, and had a habit of randomly stuffing exotic culinary delights into our unsuspecting mouths.  Spanakopita and souvlaki, baked feta with honey and sesame seeds, greek yogurt with fresh cherries, syrupy loukoumades.  What else needs to be said?

Dinner at Strofi.

View from the Acropolis.

The meat and fish market - not a favorite place for the vegetarian.

Next, we spent a few days in Santorini.  I’m not an accomplished enough wordsmith to accurately describe just how spectacular this place is, so I’ll just show the pictures. 

After Santorini, we took the ferry to Naxos and spent several days soaking up the sun.  The beaches are clothing optional.   I’m all about respecting local traditions, so I was ready to bare all (at a safe distance from embarrassing my daughters, naturally).  However, our friendly hotel bartender, Costas, informed us that the Greeks don’t do this so much.  The nude people you see, he says, are foreigners.   Gosh, I hate looking like a tourist, so I kept my bikini on.  It was trippy though, strolling the beach with the girls, casually passing nude people of all shapes, sizes, and genders.   “It would be fine if they at least had good bodies”, astutely observes one daughter.

Scenes from Naxos . . .

 In our desire to make their final week in France somewhat productive, we convinced the girls to do an immersion program.  They each spent a week living with a French family, in the little town of Gap, about 500 miles from Paris.   The families had kids their ages, but no English was spoken.  Early reports from the front lines were mixed.  “I am so that weird exchange student right now.  We’re all just sitting here and no one is saying anything”, read one text.   Another says, “I can’t remember my grammar, so I’m just spitting out random French words.”   The final verdict on the experience?  I can’t speak for them, but lets just say it’s yet another page for their life story. 

Allie and her host.

I’d like to return the favor and host our own foreign students at some point.   We certainly meet lots of people wanting to visit the United States.   The security guard at our local market perked up when he learned we’re American.  He really wants to visit.  I tell him he should.  He says, “you need to invite me.”   We go back and forth in this vein for a bit.   It finally occurred to me that whatever identification he has, it is not the same as my slick little blue US passport, that allows me smooth entry into so many places.   I may not even fully comprehend how lucky I am to have this. 

La Fête Nationale (Bastille Day) celebration . . .

Advantages of nationality aside, America’s virtues are distinctive and I’ve come to appreciate them more then I ever did.   Our music?  It is absolutely everywhere!   It’s so preferred here in France, that there is a law mandating that at least 40 percent of the songs played on the radio must be in French.   Our popular culture?  Fuhgettaboutit!  What I used to characterize as cheap and cheesy, I now find unique and quirky.   It’s so comforting when you can find common ground with someone over the phrase “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”   So, we may not have centuries of history on every street corner, but we do have The Brady Bunch.   

And finally, at the risk of embarrassing myself, there is Starbucks.   Dismiss this if you will, call me a shameless consumer, fine.  But let me tell you, when you’re in a foreign land and feeling out of sorts, that familiar Starbucks logo is a fucking beacon of hope.   Obviously, there is much more depth to America than bad 70s sitcoms and chain stores.  My point is, being grounded in the culture of your country, no matter how trite it may seem to others, is such a wonderful feeling.   

As for France, we did our best to respect this beautiful country's culture this past year.  We really did.  We developed a love of their wines and, for me in particular, a genuine appreciation for their art of dining.  No four hour lunch was EVER wasted on me.  Huge gratitude to those waiters who ceremoniously avoided giving us l'addition in a timely fashion.

We tried to learn French from the always patient, forever kind, Isabelle.  At the end, she became more friend then teacher.  There will always be a place in our home for her should she ever visit us.

A good-bye lunch with the lovely Isabelle.

We squeezed in a few more must-do-before-we-leave-France activities as well.   Jim conquered the haphazard Parisian traffic circles - even driving around the Arc de Triomphe a few times.  This is the only place in Paris where if there's an accident, the insurance companies consider all drivers at fault, no matter the circumstances.   It's that chaotic.

Approaching the circle . . .

We actually purchased something at the well renowned flea market, Les Puces de Saint-Quen.   A little bit of French history in the form of an old carnival poster.  There is a spot on our living room wall that will do it proud, and will be a daily reminder of our time in Paris.

Just before we left,  we got in a visit to the iconic Ritz Paris - the lavishly beautiful hotel where Coco Chanel lived for 34 years.  It had been closed for a 4-year, $200 million renovation, and re-opened just before we left.  We had obscenely expensive cocktails at the famed Hemingway Bar (they frown upon photos, sorry, we had to).   This particular bar is also known for having one of the most expensive cocktails in the world: the Sidecar, priced at a smooth $1500 (we didn't order that).  Apparently, it is made with champagne Cognaq that was bottled in the 1800s, and saved by German soldiers during the occupation.  So, there's that little tidbit.

Tina and I at The Hemingway Bar.  Tina is the originator of the "WTF" phrase used in a prior post.

Our adventure is coming to a close.  I managed to pack up our belongings and send them on their way with minimal bureaucratic difficulty this time.   As I write this, the dog has also just been whisked away.  She will arrive on our home turf before us, with her own slick blue puppy passport.   We're not certain she even realizes she's been gone, but we know how lucky we all are to be able to go home to the United States.

 à bientôt!

Bring in the Clowns.

No, I don't have a reason for this picture.  I just like it.  A few doors on our street.

Last week, Jim met a woman in the park, while walking our dog.   Her name was Elizabeth and she told him that she was recently divorced. “A big divorce, in all of the newspapers,” she said.  He expressed sympathy, to which she replied:  “oh, everyone eventually gets divorced, you will too!”   He neglected to get her last name though, so I can’t Google her divorce story.  She did give him her phone number though (which he promptly discarded, of course). 

A day in Champagne.

Notwithstanding the inevitable divorce, people still seem to enjoy getting married.   And furthermore, a plethora of them travel here for their wedding photos.   This is just a small sampling of what we see on a daily basis.  

All the world loves a bride?

I know that some people think this is cheesy, but I like it.    If for no other reason, then it means that people are still traveling.   More importantly, amid all the terrorism, mass shootings, and rampant political insanity, people continue to live their lives.   Like this . . .  

Dad and daughter: the daily baguette purchase.

and this . . .

2016 Euro Cup.  The tower is lit up each night with the recent winning team's colors.

and THIS . . .

Prom!

Prom with photo bomb of  Euro Cup fans.

The French consider it bad form to ask someone what he or she does for a living.  Truthfully, I was quite happy to hear this.   Back when I was fully utilizing my college degree, I loved getting this question at parties.  I could blather on endlessly about my “very important” job.  It’s been several years since I’ve been gainfully employed, and I’ve come to dread the inevitable, “ . . .  and, what do you do?”   In France, I still get a variation of this question:  “tell me REALLY, why did you decide to move here?”   As we’ve said, the short answer is a flippant “why not.”   For me however, the real answer goes back a bit further.

A visit from the beautiful Burns cousins.

At my first job after graduating from college, I found that most of my fellow new hires were a bit younger than me.  They had experienced a more orthodox undergraduate life.   Frat parties and sorority formals, rush week, the fervent devotion to their school’s sports teams, the roommate who became their best friend or worst nightmare.  On and on they would wax poetic about their university experiences, lamenting that those carefree days were over.   But, the main thing that always stuck with me, gave me serious FOMO, was when they would talk about their travel.  Semesters abroad in Madrid, internships in London, summer escapades through Europe with the bestie roommate, service trips to various South American locales, saving humanity in myriad Asian countries.  Oh, the times they had!  

A food tour in the 11th Arrondissement:  black bread, meat candy, a weird doll shop, and the famous black cat cafe.

A gathering at the Trocadero to honor the Orlando victims.

 I did not have a conventional route to higher education, and thus, didn’t believe at the time that my own story was that interesting – certainly not to these folks.   Sitting in that NYC conference room of long ago, listening to those people ramble on, it became important to me that my future offspring have their own great stories.   And for me, this all came down to the ability to travel.   With hindsight and age, I now know that my own story was fine in its own right (hairdresser becomes  community college student becomes Rutgers graduate is a decent story).  Frankly, the only thing remotely interesting about the above mentioned colleagues were their travel stories.   The yarns about their college antics honestly became a little tedious after awhile.   But the travel!  That was something for me to strive for. 

Beautiful mother of above cousins, the other Susan Burns, at Le Scossa.

Aside from the “why” question, we are also given lots of feedback about our decision to return home after just one year.  Most of it is constructive, from people who’ve done this, and are trying to gently prepare us.   Some of it is less helpful.

 “No one will want to listen to your stories.”  This particularly amuses me.  As if I’ll be subjecting my friends to constant home movies, but French style.  Picture this, if you will:  naturally, I’m in black Chanel, well groomed & well behaved golden-doodle by my side, my red lips are pursed, my cheekbones chizzled, my gaze disdainful.   I regale you with a Parisian tale every time I see you, or remind you of your inferiority to me, because as you know, I’ve lived abroad.   All while smoking my Gauloises.   I won’t be doing this.  I don’t smoke and my dog is not well behaved. 

Saintly, patient husband.  Yeah, I already posted it on Facebook.   It's a good picture!

“No one will care what you have to say.”  This comment can be attributed to a woman we recently met.  An accomplished author, who was very cordial, but I found to be a little smug.  Because I am somewhat slow-witted, I couldn’t think of an immediately clever response to this comment.  So, I just dumbly agreed with her.  What I wish I’d said was:  “Is that true, does really no one care what you have to say, when you go home?   Perhaps it's because your snide comments can make people feel bad?”  It’s fun to pretend I have the cojones to actually say this to someone.  I don’t.

I suspect she meant well, in her own way.   Still, it makes me appreciate my friends.  The ones I'm lucky enough to go home to, and the lovelies I've met here.   Friends who might be thinking, “no one will care what you have to say”, but are kind enough to actually say, “it will all be okay.”  Really, sometimes that’s all a person needs to hear.

Friends who say "it will all be okay."  Thank you.

"Why are you going back?!"  The people that ask this are of two types.   There are those that really dislike from where they moved.  The majority seems to be from Houston – I’ve not been, so I can’t comment, but I’m sure it’s lovely there.   The other type are those that have moved around so much, it may be difficult for them to imagine having a community they’d want to return to.   Clearly, these people have never had their house tp’d (by a devoted, albeit intoxicated, group of friends).   Nothing says community like waking up to damp toilet paper lovingly weaved through the lattice work of your fence.   I love my friends.

However, the comment that stings the most is this one: “You’re only staying for one year? Really?  It might be hard for your kids to adjust back.”   What I’d like to say to these people, with all due respect, is:  I’ve considered this already, so unless you have something helpful to say, please just stop.  In the great flowchart of life, our options were to not do this at all, or just for a year, and we choose the latter.    

The kids are alright.

Yes, it might be challenging for them when they return.  I’ve agonized over it, lost sleep over it, belabored the topic endlessly with my patient friends, alluded to it in this blog, and driven my husband crazy with my insane angst.    They also might be just fine, and will hopefully reflect back on this disruption in their lives as worthwhile.   Either way, it’s their reality and they are very capable of handling it.   In any event, they’ll have a story.    Just like this guy probably does.  I wonder where his parents forced him to move for just a year?

À bientôt

Dragonfly

It is possible to visit Paris for a long weekend, coming from San Francisco.  You just have to be able to tolerate an 11-hour United Airlines flight, endure a 9-hour time loss, and maintain an optimum balance of wine and caffeine consumption throughout the weekend.   Our friends, Lisa and Jane, are just these sort of exceptional people.  We were lucky enough to have them with us for a weekend in April.   

People I love.

We began our holiday of debauchery with a day in Burgundy.   Jane works in the wine industry.   She has a colleague here, who invited us all to be her guests for a day of wine tasting.   Months earlier, “Dragonfly” (not her real name), had happily offered to take us to her favorite wineries.  We would meet the winemakers, see the vineyards, do lots of tasting, and have a fabulous lunch.   Her emails were positively gushing with enthusiasm and kindness.  Gosh, I thought, Dragonfly is so awesome!

The week before they arrive, Jane emails Dragonfly to confirm our plans.  Dragonfly’s response was somewhat terse.   The train station we would be departing from later that evening (the one she told us to use), would not work for her and we needed to change that.   Not a problem.  Also, Dragonfly explains that normally she would charge her clients 350 euros for this type of day, so we should expect to at least pay for her gas and lunch.  Of course, not a problem!  Gosh, I think now, I don’t care for Dragonfly’s tone.  She sounds a little salty (my daughter has been using this word of late, I think it’s a nice alternative to “bitchy”).   

The big day arrives, and Dragonfly meets us at the station.  She is very gracious, cheek kisses all around.  We pile in to her car and listen as she engages Jane in a work discussion.   It appears that Dragonfly is hoping to do some business today.   This is completely understandable, of course, though catches us off guard.  Jane brought a lot of great clothes with her to Paris, and a smashing red lipstick.  However, she neglected to bring the work notebook she would normally use in this situation.  “Pas de problème!” says Dragonfly, “we will stop and you can buy one!”  So, we do. 

The day is really lovely though.  We taste some amazing wines.  We meet a sweet young family, whose winery goes back several generations.   We spend time with a really interesting, salt of the earth type winemaker, named “Sadie”.  We barrel taste some extraordinary stuff deep in her wine cellar.  If you’ve ever been to Napa or Sonoma, there are quite a few newer wineries that are very hip and pretty.  Some of them try to replicate that look of an ancient winery, with fake black mold on the walls.   I think they are all based on Sadie’s place.   At each stop, Dragonfly is truly masterful at explaining the wines.   In describing Sadie’s wines, she says, “they’re masculine, like Sadie”.   We knew what she meant, but for Sadie’s sake, I hope this particular praise got lost in translation.

Dragonfly takes us to an amazing place for lunch, which we would never have found on our own.   A quintessential stone farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.  A robust French woman has owned the place forever and seems to do everything.  Her malodorous, somewhat inebriated beau, meanders around greeting everyone.   The food is simple and classic, and the wine is divine.    At the conclusion of the day, Dragonfly delivers us to the train station and bids us a quick adieu.  We thank her profusely for the wonderful day, and provide a generous gratuity.   She needs to make a hasty retreat, as she is late for a date with a new man.  I hope he brings money for gas and food. 

A Latin Quartier stroll and Burgundy scenes.

That would be real mold on those walls.

Before our adventures with Jane and Lisa, Jim and I spent a weekend in Avignon.  We did a wine tour with an entertaining gentleman named Etienne.   Etienne has developed a system to help us neophytes decipher French wine.  He’s trying to convince the French government to incorporate his system on the labels of wine bottles.  

Etienne's wine "system" and his very stylish shoes.

Etienne also expressed his frustration about some of his past Chinese guests, who allegedly enjoy mixing coca-cola with their red wine.   He was so disgusted by this practice, that he is now hesitant to accept tour requests from those of the Chinese persuasion.   My intensive research (Google) informs me that there is now less of a penchant by the Chinese for this coke and red wine travesty.   It also seems that they have actually become increasingly proficient in the wine business.   Maybe Etienne should try selling his system to them.

Scenes from Avignon.

We attended a dinner party recently and learned a couple things.  First, when an elevator sign says “limit 3 persons”, you should not assume that piling five people in is a good idea.   Because the elevator could just stop in between floors, which is exactly what happened.   I immediately saw the upside potential though, and thought I’d get to meet some firefighters.   No one wanted to call them however, despite my vigorous pleas.

Instead, a quick assessment determined I had the smallest hands of the group.   I was tasked with squeezing my delicate hands into a dark little space with various wires hanging about, to try and reach the emergency release.   Obviously, it all went fine, as I’m writing this post with the aforementioned delicate hands.  I’m still disappointed no one else wanted to summon the fire department though.

The other thing I learned is:  don’t tell your French dinner party host how much you love the movie “Midnight in Paris”.  The French people don’t really like this movie, so this admission makes you look kind of shallow.  They think it’s a sanitized, glamorized, hackneyed, Hollywood version of the city.   I guess they’re right, but I still love it (I’m probably a little shallow).  Don’t tell them your favorite is “Amelie” either.  It’s just too obvious a choice.  Instead, per our French host, they really like the movie, Ratatouille.   The charming, animated flick about the rat, who wants to be a chef.   Okay.

Elevator snafu and a little dinner party.

I finally tried steak tartare, and it’s surprisingly delicious.  It tastes like Sushi.   I’ve nothing else to say on this topic.  I just felt the need to document this bucket list item.  Here’s a picture.

April and May were heavy travel months.   I accompanied Katie on some college visits, spending a few days in New York.   Allie did her Bucharest trip, and we all went to Venice and Rome.  Jim had to fly back to California, at the behest of the DMV to renew his license in person.  Now we’re back, and in the home stretch of our adventure.  

A selfie at the Colosseum in Rome.

Cichetti and wine tour in Venice.

We decided it was time to officially begin our good-bye soirees.  So, we had a little cocktail party last weekend, which fortuitously coincided with the visit of another extraordinary friend, Jan, and her cool mom Barbara.  Jan and her husband are well-known in our circle of friends for their partying prowess.   Jan arrived at our party after 15 hours of flying time, minimal sleep, and with two friends in tow (who just happened to be in Paris, naturally).    After many fun days of eating and drinking, we had a final dinner at our place.  Jan and her mom had a 7AM flight the following morning.   Mere mortals would have frowned upon our opening of another bottle of red at around 10pm, but not Jan.  I think she left around 1am.  I don’t think she had packed yet.

Jan and her friend Derek.  Bottle #1.

A little party scene - and a nice perspective on our apartment.

A food tour in Montmartre.

Below is an amusing map of Paris that was recently on Facebook.  Our neighborhood is on the far west side, at the junction of “Mort” and “Poussette-Land”.  This roughly translates to death and strollers.  We’re not exactly living on the edge here.   Still, we’ve turned a corner in our little world, and are feeling sort of dug in.  Our French is still abysmal, but we are getting fewer quizzical looks when we use it.   Honestly though, I think the fact that we can see “home” on the horizon is making our time left here feel more comfortable.  It’s just like we’re real expats, though I’ve been discouraged from using that term to describe us. 
 

It’s back in the fall, and I’m sitting at an outdoor café with three new friends, enjoying my new clichéd life (different from my old clichéd life).   Myself and another woman are here for the “why not” reason, and the other two are trailing spouses (a term used a lot here, to describe those who “trail” along for their spouse’s job).   At one point, the other “why not” woman casually differentiates us from the trailing spouses, implying that we’re not really expats.  Wait.  What?!  I pretend I agree with her, but secretly I’m a little embarrassed.   It’s such a cool word, and I’ve been using it whenever I would refer to our year here.  “Our year of being expats!”  A phrase I’d repeated ad nauseam.   What’s an expat anyway?  Someone residing in a country other than that of their citizenship.

But, I get it.  It’s a term most typically used in the context of professionals being sent abroad by their employers.   If I had to go through the grit and grind of relocating my family every few years to a foreign country, I’d be a little annoyed at someone like me, using this coveted label so casually.    So, I stopped.  However, we’ve recently purchased our tickets to return home, and it’s causing me to reflect back on the effort it took to get us here.    And now, I’m thinking that calling us expats is not completely inappropriate.

The mountains of paperwork for our visa applications, the opening of French bank accounts and signing of French leases.   The massive spreadsheet I created that would have done any type-A personality proud.   Including everything from the obvious (find an apartment) to the mundane (what if we get called for jury duty?).    Making sure I did just enough to airlift us temporarily out of our lives – but not too much - because we’re coming back, and the school district is awfully precise about those residency documents.   The cars, the dog, phone plans, our health insurance, changing schools, the guinea pig, filing taxes, leaving friends - and my hair colorist, oh my!  A year ago at this time, I was losing sleep contemplating all the various “what if” scenarios and how to plan for them.

Yeah, I know, this was all voluntary.  I’m not complaining, just explaining.   Besides, I have a better reason for justifying my expat label.    Below is a picture of my French residency permit.   We were required to get one of these when we were issued our visas.  In order to obtain this, I had to stand topless in front of a French bureaucrat for a chest x-ray.   So, if I want to call myself an expat, I’m damn well going to.   For eight more weeks.

À bientôt!