Sunday, December 13, 2015

In Honor of Grilled Cheese


There are lots of clichés about Paris.   Many are not true, but some are.  Do not call your waiter “garçon”.  This means “boy” in French and it will insult the professional who is waiting on you (fortunately, I knew better then to ever do this).    At the moment, I am doing a very clichéd Parisian thing (or I’m a total poser, depending on your point of view).  I’m sitting in a café, drinking a glass of wine, and writing.   It gets worse.  I have a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast in my bag.  I really do.  I checked it out of the library yesterday.  I actually own a copy, but it got left behind in California during the box saga.   I’d never read it, and figured this was the time.   

I’m at a perfectly lit, little corner table.  It’s early evening in December, so it’s dark out, and the Christmas lights are twinkling outside on the little street.   The brasserie I intended to go to, where I was going to have a salad, was closed.   So, I’ve come here instead, to Le Nemrod.  “Nemrod” translates to “nimrod” in English, which is defined as both an inept person, and a skilled hunter.   So, don’t assume you’re being insulted should you be called this. 

I just ordered a croque-monsieur (though at this place, it is called “croque-poilâne”– it’s to do with the type of bread . . .).   So, here is an absolutely true French cliché, and a bit of personal opinion:  if you go to a French bistro, brasserie, café, etc., and you’re not sure what to order, always go with the croque-monsieur.   Always.   

Last spring, I visited Paris with my mother.   The primary purpose of the visit was for me to find an apartment for my family.   I dragged my mom all over, looking at apartments, while trying to make her first trip abroad memorable.   I was incredibly anxious about my impending adventure, and not sleeping terribly well.  In the mornings, we would rush out of the hotel for a quick coffee, but barely any breakfast.   My mom was a very good sport.

Many of the restaurants in the non-tourist areas of Paris are only open between noon-2pm for lunch, and not again until dinner at 7:30 or so.    Having only been in the tourist areas prior to this visit, I didn’t really know this – or I did, but didn’t believe it.   At around 2pm on our final day of apartment hunting, we wander around trying to find a place to eat a late lunch.   We were hungry.  That kind of hungry where you feel a little dizzy, like you’re on the verge of being ill.   Also, I felt bad that I didn’t make sure my sainted, 80-something-year-old mother was fed.  We find nothing at all open.   Really.   We make our way back to our charming hotel (charming means it is quaint and well priced, but no restaurant).  

Just next door to our hotel, is this little hole in the wall café.  You can tell its been there for decades, run by the same elderly couple the whole time.   Leather booths, tiny bar where the locals drop in for their afternoon verre de vin, before they have to go home to face the wife (really, that’s what the one guy at the bar told me).     We had been having our morning café au lait here every day.  Anyway, we see it’s still open, so with a sigh of relief, we go in.  The proprietor recognizes us, but says that there is no food, only the bar is open.   He is a kind man and only speaks French.  The look of us must have gotten to him because he immediately went back to the kitchen, and I could hear him having a discussion with someone.   He comes out and says something to me in French.  All I understand is “croque-monsieur”, and profusely I say, “oui, oui, merci!”

Ten minutes later, we are served hot tea and two croque-monsieurs.  Now, in my head, this is just a grilled cheese sandwich, with ham.   It’s not.   It was this perfectly prepared, albeit very basic, hot, cheese and bread perfection.  Maybe it was because we were so hungry.  Or, that they were so kind to us.   But, the sight and taste of this almost brought me to tears.   It was exactly the kind of comfort I needed at that moment.  It was perfect.  Since then, I’ve never been disappointed when I order this, no matter where. 

The name of the dish originates from the French verb “croquer”, which means “to bite”, and “monsieur”, which means “mister”.   It started showing up in French cafes in the early 1900s, and first appeared in literature in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.   As it happens, Proust was born in Paris’s 16th arrondissement, the precise neighborhood where we happened to be (and where I now live).    I didn’t know any of these details about the croque-monsieur, at the time.  But now that I do, there is a certain symmetry to us being offered that particular meal, at that time.  To me anyway.  It’s the little things.

I started writing this two weeks ago and then got distracted by real life, but I also finished reading A Moveable Feast.   I have a bit of a book fetish.  I buy a ton of them, and justify it by telling myself I’m supporting a dying breed (book stores).   However, I’ve decided that while I’m living here, I’m only going to read books from the library (no, I don’t have a Kindle, and I don’t want one).    I figure this lends itself (no pun intended), to catching up on all those classics I’ve not read.  I decide maybe I’ll start with Proust.  Why not?  I figure I’ll go back to my little café, with my Marcel Proust.  I’ll order a glass of wine.  And maybe a croque-monsieur.

So, I go to the library with the intention of checking out In Search of Lost Time.  It is seven volumes and 4,215 pages.   That is a tremendous amount of grilled cheese.   And wine.

À bientôt, but first, a few photos . . .

Thanksgiving in London!   We saw a "Pleasure and Pain" shoe exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum, and the musical, Kinky Boots.
Christmas market in Reims.
The opera house, Palais Garnier. 
Studying hard during French class.

A visit from some California cousins and lunch at Vins des Pyrénées (legend has it that Jim Morrison frequented here).
 
A belated Turkey dinner, and our little Charlie Brown Christmas tree.








Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Friday the 13th


A couple of months ago, a friend here was giving me a ride home.   Along the way, she pointed to a terraced apartment above us and said, “a family from our school used to live there, they left right after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, they were too afraid to stay.”   In that moment, I remember thinking two thoughts: “what a shame they decided to bail”, and “I so hope another incident like that doesn’t happen while we’re here.”

We weren’t even in Paris when all the madness occurred.  Katie was returning from a cross country meet in Zurich Friday night, and we were in Strasbourg with Allie. Strasbourg is this Christmas-like village in northern France, near the German border.  Some friends joined us as well.  We did a boat tour, our friends visited a very quirky hospital wine cellar (yes, you read that right), and then we all had dinner at a traditional Alsatian restaurant.    We had plans for some fun stuff the following day.

We’re at the hotel that night when we get a text from Katie telling us she is back in Paris, at the train station, which is somewhat near the 11th arrondissement.   Her and her friend are deciding whether to take the metro or an Uber home.   Then we see the breaking news headlines about shootings in the 10th and 11th.    Katie is unreachable for the next hour or so as the news gets progressively worse.  Explosions, hostages, people killed.   The news says there is a bomb scare at the Chatelet metro station.  If she’s taken the metro, this is where she could change trains.  We’re starting to panic a little.

Finally, she calls us from home.   Her and her friend had opted to take a cab, and then she immediately took the dog out, as we had told her to do.   It’s worth noting that this is the first time we’ve left Katie here solo overnight.   The kid did good.

I like to run among the tourists by the Eiffel Tower on Sunday mornings.   I have my American music in my ears and iconic Parisian scenery in my sights.   I run off all of the nonsense that accumulates in my brain over the week, and breathe in all of the obvious wonderful.  It’s a great way to start a new week.  When I began my run this recent Sunday, my intention was to take a bunch of photos of normal street scenes and post them on Facebook, with a “life goes on” title, or something to that effect. 
And I did.  

Then I read a harrowing account by a 23 year-old woman, who had been at the Bataclan concert Friday night.    There was such a disconnect between what this woman had survived and my silly, trite post, that I was embarrassed.  So, I deleted it.   If I were that girl, and someone said to me, “life goes on”, it would sound so cavalier, so clueless.    Her life will go on, but not in the same way I suspect.

I’ve been awed by all the people that checked up on us.  Facebook posts, messages, phone calls, texts.  From people in our life now, and some I don’t often hear from.    Funnily (to me), the very first person to check in on me was a guy from high school who, to be honest, was kind of a jerk to me back then.  We reconnected at a reunion a few years ago and he’s actually a pretty good guy.    We couldn’t be farther apart politically, but that’s ok, and I was really touched that he reached out.   Vive la difference!

“Come home now!”  This is the panicked message I receive from my friend Debbie.  I know this is because she loves me and is worried.   However, to suggest that we are any safer in the United States is not completely true.  Not anymore.  We’ve only been gone about four months and I think there have been at least as many, if not more, campus shootings in that period of time.  

Still, I’d be lying if I said our kids weren’t a little shaken by this.   Allie, a little more so.   It’s only the first day back at school, and she’s already getting annoyed with people telling her to “live your normal life, don’t let fear win.”  She says to me today, “how can I live my normal life when I’m afraid someone’s going to shoot me?”   Not a question I’ve fielded before from my 14 year-old.  

All I can tell her is I’m sorry this has happened.  That her safety is the most important thing to us, and if we believed we were in real danger, we’d go home.  I also tell her that, yes, there is no doubt that the bubble we live in back home is very safe, but most people have a very different reality.   She’s smart.  She knows all this, but it’s my best answer.   The day after, I hear her humming the “It’s a Wonderful World” song to herself, so maybe she’s not totally jaded.  Yet.     

Just before all of this happened, both girls said that they would consider staying beyond our one year plan, if that were an option.  Katie is still saying this, which I guess is good.  I’m not sure if it’s her chutzpah or denial, or maybe a little of both.    

Sure, we could run.  But that feels so wrong to me.  Disrespectful in a way.  As if we only came here to experience all the good things in France, but we don’t care enough to stick around when times are tough?   We love it here.  We’re finally getting a little more comfortable with the language.  Jim manages to have conversations with the market vendors and they are starting to recognize him.   The girls are hitting their stride in school and seem happy here.   Even Charlie has adjusted!  She struts down the city streets like she owns the place.  No longer growls at other dogs.  Her French poodle ancestors would be so proud.

Ironically, the tragic events have had the opposite effect on me.  They make me want to stay even more and support the French people.   As they have supported us.  Jim was walking the dog yesterday, at a little park we frequent a lot.  For the first time, he happened to notice this plaque.   It reads:

In tribute to victims of the attack of September 11, 2001 and testimony of solidarity with the American people, this tree was planted by Pierre Christian Taittinger and the municipality of the 16th arrondissement.


My poised, ultra polite sister-in-law, whom I've never heard utter a curse word, wrote to me yesterday and signed off with, "fuck the terrorists".  Word.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Shoulda, coulda, woulda . . .


A visit from some of our favorite people, Barcelona, and turning 17 in Paris.  But first, this happened . . .

Last year, I was on an “American living in Paris memoir” reading binge.   Obviously, we’re not the first people to do this, so there are tons of books out there.  However, my favorite was Paris, I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down, by a guy named Rosecrans Baldwin.   

When I read the reviews, the people that disliked it, felt he was a privileged guy complaining about something most people only dream about.   The people that loved the book had generally all spent some time living abroad, navigating real life in a city where you don’t speak the language.  I reference the book here (other then recommending it as a really good read) to acknowledge that I don't have the same challenges Rosecrans Baldwin had.  However,  I do have my moments.  And I might as well write about them.


Giverny.  The pictures say it all I think.
 
For example,  this week I received a letter from a collections agency.   Basically, it said they will use all means legally available to take me down if I don’t pay a 69 euro bill for a service I never received.   

A little background first.   Upon renting our current apartment here, we were going to sign up with a local cable provider.  We ordered the box and set up an appointment for the installation.  But then, our landlords decided to keep the service they already had and just bill us for our usage.  This was exactly what we were doing with our own renters, so it made sense to us.  The lovely Samara (our concierge, mentioned in previous posts), promptly cancelled our cable appointment and returned the box.  Still, a month later I receive a bill from the cable company for 69 euros.   

 
A "selfie" at The Dry Martini Bar, in Barcelona.

I had high hopes that this error would resolve itself, as I'd just had a positive experience with customer service in France.   We had recently picked up a box shipment from the UPS depot, after paying a 128 euros customs fee.  A week later, I received a bill from UPS for 128 euros.   I’d just gotten my new French phone number, so I call their customer service.   I try my best to get a human, but fail.   I’ve not told Jim this, but I made the executive decision to just pay the damn thing and be done with it.  I chalked it up to one of the overall costs of this adventure we’re on.   A mere two days later, UPS sends me back the check with a nice letter saying I’ve paid twice. 

So, I was optimistic that the bill from the cable company might go away on its own.   What I should have learned is just to pay whatever they tell you to, right or wrong, and fix it later.  

Another month goes by and I get a second bill from the cable company.   The little voice in my head says, “just pay it, make it go away”, but I don’t.  Samara calls the cable company to explain the error (because they only speak French).  No worries, they will make the correction, she’s told.   Another month, another invoice, two more calls from Samara.   Each time, the person on the other end of the phone telling her it’s been taken care of.   Then, last week, I get the above mentioned letter from the collection agency.


A wine tasting dinner with some French, a Swede, a Canadian, and us!

I’ve always been a relatively good girl.   When I was five, I stuck my tongue out at a girl who threw sand in my little brother’s face.  My mother only saw the tongue incident and punished me for it.  To this day, she is still puzzled as to why I never told her that I was defending my brother.   I’ve never been that woman who leaves her car in the pick-up line at school because “I’ll only be gone a quick sec” (no judgement).   That whole theory of “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness then permission”?  I can’t even.   The words “collection agency” don't sit well with me.   So this letter freaks me out.  I tell Jim I’m just going to pay the fucking thing.
  
For the record, in our relationship, I deal with all the paperwork minutia crap that it takes to keep our little household running.   I like it.  It works for us.   I don’t really involve Jim in the details, because they make his eyes glaze over.   Plus, he makes dinner, so we're more then even.  So, when I stated I was going to just pay this bill for a service we hadn’t received, he didn’t know any of the backstory.    He just saw that I was upset and tried to make a helpful suggestion.  I didn’t respond particularly well.  Poor guy.


Happy 17th to my beautiful daughter - who left shortly after this was taken, to begin her evening at 10pm.
Samara calls again and talks to someone higher up on the cable company food chain.   They confirm (again) that I certainly don’t owe any money, but that any cancellation of service must be made in writing.  Just send a letter and that should do it.    Samara overnights a letter to them.   The next day, I get a follow-up scary letter from the collection folks, threatening all sorts of torture on me if I don’t pay 69 euros.

Random Paris Scenes:  firefighters on their morning run, lady in red smoking on her terrace, a really wonderful wine bar and a "Je Suis Charlie" tag near our local market.
Samara calls the cable company again and they assure her that they’ve notified the collection agency that the debt is a mistake.   The letters probably just crossed in the mail.  Samara asks for some sort of documentation to this effect, but is told, that since I’m not a customer, this is not possible.  However, they give her an email address to another person in the cable company, and that person can send some sort of confirmation to me.

Samara composes a request in French for me to send.  I send the email and it gets kicked back.  Samara scours the cable company website for a better email address.  I try again and that gets kicked back too.  She finally fills out a form on their website with our request, but who knows where that ended up.    That was on Friday.


Barcelona!
Today is Monday.   We still have no documentation from the cable company.  Samara and team have admitted defeat, or perhaps they sense I wouldn’t do particularly well in a French prison.   Also, that outcome wouldn’t do much for their company’s marketing efforts.    

They suggest I just pay the 69 euros at this point.   Theorizing that it is less dangerous to deal with a cable company then a collections agency.  So, today I paid the 69 euros, which I should have just done in the first place.   Lesson learned.   Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

Just before we received the collections agency letter, we learned that our apartment lease won’t be renewed for the second six months of our stay.   I am optimistic a few stories will result from this.   Please stay tuned.

á bientôt

 
Barcelona "street art".
Montserrat
Barcelona food tour - a little Vermouth before lunch.

So much olive oil, so little time.


Sangria break.

Gothic Quarter, Barcelona.

Barcelona bike ride.



A Fall Sunday in Paris.  Just because.



Thursday, October 15, 2015

I Went To Paris Fashion Week (almost).


A tangential item on my life bucket list has always been to go to an actual fashion show during Fashion Week in some major city.    I’m living in Paris now, so why not here?  I’ll just go to the website and buy a ticket, I smugly think to myself.  Just like the Statue of Liberty or an Alcatraz Tour, yes?  Non.   Evidently, you have to be somebody to go to a Paris Fashion Week show.   You have to be INVITED.    I suppose “people” know this, but I did not.   A new friend I’ve made here actually knows “people” and she was able to score an invite.   She inquired if I could be her plus one, but sadly was denied.  However, since I was only one degree of separation from the actual event, I feel confident in saying that I went to Paris Fashion Week (almost).

In any event, we celebrated the week in other fashion-oriented ways.  The silver lining to not understanding your local language is that you wander into places you wouldn’t normally go into.   This week, while waiting for Allie at dance, I opted out of café drinking and decided to engage in some retail reconnaissance.  I passed by a little shop with lots of cashmere sweaters in the window.   Upon further inspection, there were racks of great clothes sorted by designer, and another room full of cashmere.  It all looked new and of good quality – and at greatly reduced prices.   I knew it wasn’t really a “sale”.  These are government regulated in France, and there are only two official sale periods: once in summer and another right after Christmas. 

It turns out that I stumbled upon a consignment store.  I never go into these places because I don’t really understand how to choose good used clothing.  For some reason, it was easy today.   I bought a few grown up sweaters, but also picked up this little gem, because it was fun and I love Marilyn Monroe (I also love Jackie Kennedy – that JFK knew his stuff).   Plus it’s pink and sort of highlights her breasts.  It is Breast Cancer Awareness month after all.  Jim likes it, but the girls vetoed it and won’t let me wear it outside of the house.  What do we think?

J'adore Marilyn.
Allie and I also happened upon Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.   She was in need of new dance apparel and the shop she was interested in happened to be on this street.  It was purely coincidental that we were here during Fashion Week, as almost every major fashion house is represented in this location.    We saw lots of “people”, but alas, no accidental consignment shop sightings.   Our destination was Bloch.  Quite possibly the most beautiful dancewear shop ever.   They also make wonderful ballet flats for regular people like me, in a cornucopia of colors.  I limited myself to basic black and, following Allie’s advice, a gorgeous deep maroon.
The showroom at Bloch.

My acquisitions!
Jim also stepped up his fashion game.    We ventured into Printemps.   For those familiar with Neiman Marcus, it is very similar – a veritable museum of designer goods.  25 floors spread out over three buildings.  There is an entire building dedicated to menswear.   After careful consideration, we decided Hugo Boss was the designer for Jim.

He road tested his new ensemble at a party last weekend.    Another event we were required to be invited to, the 9th grade cocktail party (just to clarify, because a friend asked:  this was a PARENT cocktail party, not for the actual 9th graders).   A new friend introduced us to her husband by saying:  “honey, this is that cool couple I was telling you about”.  I looked behind me to see who she was talking about, but no one was there.  I’m certain it was Jim’s new look.   Maybe we will be considered “people” now.

Fashion Week street action.

There are some wonderful flea markets in Paris.  As much as I get high on the smell of Nordstroms, I equally love wandering around a good outdoor market.  Unfortunately, I don’t have the skill or taste to make the right choices.   This week we visited the Foire de Chatou, which is only open for about a week every year.  I think if you’re into flea markets, this one might just make your head explode.    My Marilyn Monroe fetish continues as you can see below.






Earlier this month, the “Nuit Blanche” occurred.   This is an all night festival which exhibits art, musical, and theatrical events.  It was inspired by St. Petersburg’s “White Nights”, designed to keep folks entertained on those summer nights when the sun didn’t set.  The Paris event occurs on the first Saturday night of October and is a way of shaking off the summer and welcoming fall.  This year’s theme was “Atmosphere”, to tie into the World Climate Conference, which will be held in Paris at the end of this year.

I went with a friend (whose husband also didn’t have a hankering for an all-nighter).  Among the offerings that we saw:  a huge ice installation, slowly melting all night, to demonstrate the effects of climate change.   We also observed a large vat of goat cheese, in the middle of a lighted courtyard.  It was surrounded by people dipping chunks of bread into it.   I’m not sure what it had to do with climate change, but we chose not to sample this particular goat cheese.

Nuit Blanche.


With Kelly, fellow adventurer.


Our culinary enjoyment continues.  For the most part.  Last Sunday night, the girls being otherwise occupied, we decided to take it down a notch and sample a place called “Frogs” (because it can’t be all champagne and goat cheese).  It puts itself out as an American style brew pub of sorts, and is popular with the high school crowd.   Katie discouraged us from going (for various reasons).   However, it’s down the street from us and we feel it our duty to sample all of the local eateries.   We ordered burgers – beef for Jim and veggie for me.  

Living in California, I’m a bit spoiled in the veggie burger department, so I should have known better.   When my food arrived, I was a bit puzzled.  The “burger” looked like a piece of  rubbery white fish, and had a “unique” flavor.  I asked the waitress what it was exactly.  Brows furrowed, she peers a bit closer.  “Hmm, I’m not sure, but I’ll go ask.”  Never a good sign.  She comes back a moment later and declares it to be “cheese and meal”.    I’m not sure what else needs to be said, except that there is a huge opportunity in French casual cuisine for someone who wants to introduce a good veggie burger.


Veggie burger? Judge for yourself.

Jim on a mission in our new favorite wine cellar on Rue Poncelet.

We did another walking tour this week with our guide extraordinaire, Philipe.  The focus was the French Revolution.  We wandered around the Saint-Germain des Prés neighborhood, ending up at the Ecole des Beaux-arts de Paris.   A public, very prestigious art college.   It was fun to observe actual French college students sketching in the historic courtyard.



Ecole des Beaux-arts.


Our guide, Philipe.

The last event worth noting is that I took a quick trip to Brussels with a couple of other moms.  This was ostensibly for the purpose of watching Katie’s x-country meet (which I did).  Brussels is a great city and the people are really lovely and welcoming.  Among other things, it is known for chocolate, biere(beer), and the "Mannekin Pis" (little boy pissing) statue.    



Grande Place.

We did a bike tour, which was great fun, but we're pretty sure our guide was a bit intoxicated.   Apparently, she decided I looked responsible and made me wear the fluorescent vest to keep track of the group from the back.   She briefly lost track of us when someone’s bike chain fell off, and another had a flat tire.  But, she introduced us to a most delicious frites and biere place.

As we were admiring the view from one of the many historic spots of the city, a slightly inebriated, possibly homeless young man looked at me and said (slurred really), “tres jolie.”    I realize I should be offended by the sexual harassment intonations, but I took it as a compliment.

A wonderful Champagne bar in Brussels.

Finally, we indulged in some local shopping.  After the requisite chocolate purchase, we found an Italian leather glove shop.  A rainbow of colors and various types of gorgeous, soft, creamy leather gloves.  I bought these cashmere lined leather beauties. 



 We did pass by a really interesting consignment type shop and I’m having buyers remorse for what I didn’t buy:  a pair of vinyl Wonder Woman boots, which would have been perfect for the next Halloween party we hope we are invited to.    When we return home to our “people”. 

À bientôt

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Street Food & Condoms


In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  This isn't the actual picture I took, but we did see it lit up on the train home last night. 

A funny thing happened.  I was at a college information event at the girls’ school (that’s not the funny part).    I met this nice woman whom I had only spoken to briefly on the phone several months before.   She kindly gives me a ride home and we’re doing the usual debriefing of each other’s lives.    When I tell her where I live in the US, she says she has a friend who lives in my town, and she casually mentions the name.  It turns out that we have a common friendship with a fabulous woman named Kathy.   Kathy is the one who bet me a bottle of very good champagne that we won’t return to the US after one year.

Everyone swears to us that our kids will be begging us to stay.   This slice of pretend life we’re living is fun, and our girls seem (dare I say it) happier with each passing week.    Still, I’m not convinced they will want to prolong our adventure.   Last week, a daughter declared, “we should go to London for Thanksgiving!”   I’m so taken aback by this statement, naively thinking she is embracing our travel opportunities.  Then she says, “they have a Whole Foods there.”   So Kathy, if you’re reading this, make sure the Veuve Clicquot you buy has that cute little ice jacket on it. 

Of course, this next statement may cause the French government to immediately rescind my Visa:  I don’t really love the Louvre.   Last year, we visited with the girls and did a drive-by (think of that scene in National Lampoons Vacation when the Griswalds visit the Grand Canyon, but substitute The Burns Family and the Mona Lisa).  As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, we prefer the smaller museums.  Regardless, Jim and I are determined to explore the Louvre thoroughly over the next year, and we started today.

We focused on the Egyptian and Greek Antiquities, and Islamic Art.   An hour in, and we’re drowsy.   By the time we wander over to the Greek statues, we’re ignoring our headsets and making up our own stories.  Jim calls the one pictured below:  early ancient pole dancer (obviously it’s a guy, but maybe men were the original pole dancers?).    We departed the Louvre after that.   Fortunately, we’ve got nine months left to see the rest of it.


Early Man - Pole Dancer
During the month of September, the Journées Européennes du Patrimoine (European Heritage Days) takes place.   For two days a year in Paris and the rest of France, thousands of monuments, government buildings, etc., open their doors to areas generally not accessible to the public.   We didn’t do this.

Instead, Jim, Allie and I ventured over to what I later learned is the “hipster” part of Paris.    We went to a street food festival at Point Ephémère in the 10th arrondissement, next to the Canal Saint-Martin.  This area was an artists’ squat for a while and now it’s a venue for local art exhibitions and independent music concerts.   The area feels very Berlin-esque (or what I imagine Berlin to look like), as there’s lots of graffiti covering the concrete walls.   The day we visited, the Street Food Bistronomique was happening.   Local DJs were providing the music and about a dozen really good restaurants were selling their food.   We mingled with the locals, and ate some great food (BBQ pork for Jim and vegan cake for Allie). 


Point Ephémère

Canal St. Martin


Bistronomique!
We also stumbled upon a dog march.    The activists were from dogfidelity, which defines itself as “the first social network of the canine community”.   They were chanting something to the effect of “chiens vivent dans la ville trop (dogs live in the city too)!”  This reminded me of home and my friend Cassandra, who is always working tirelessly for our pups with Marin County DOG.   She would have approved of the French equivalent. 

Dogfidelity!
Katie did not accompany us that day, as she had just returned from a cross-country meet in The Hague and was bogged down with homework.    It turns out that the junior year workload is brutal no matter which country you live in.   Because this school offers the International Baccalaureate diploma, she is able to take several IB classes.    Jim and I are blown away by how hard she’s working – compared to us at that age.   I’m embarrassed by what a slacker I was.   My only real accomplishment in high school was to acquire a prom date.   

Allie had a teacher in middle school a couple years ago, who liked the phrase “productive struggle”.    I’ll have to send her a thank you note.   All of Allie’s teachers here seem to instruct based on this premise, but she seems well positioned to handle it.   Dance, on the other hand, is a little different.   If, by the age of about ten here, you’ve not committed yourself as a professional dancer, you’re relegated to a larger class with “mixed” skill levels.   So, suffice it to say, my dancer girl is a bit frustrated at the moment.  C'est la danse.   Additional material for the future college essay.   


Allie taking the Metro to dance.
More on our cultural immersion.  We now do walking tours a couple times a month with this group of parents from school.  Our guide, Philippe, explores a  different part of the city with us each time, and then we have a wine infused lunch.    We’re gathering a list of excellent restaurants and learning a bit too.   That guy holding his own head at Notre Dame?  St. Denis. 


Walking Tour Scenes in Montmartre.

A vineyard in Montmartre.
We continue on our quest to visit small, unique, museums (sorry Louvre).   Last week was The Musée Carnavalet (Paris History Museum), and the Musee Cognacq-Jay, both in the Marais.   The Musee Cognacq-Jay houses the art collection of a wealthy, childless couple (this seems to be a theme), who founded Paris’s first department store, La Samaritaine.   This is a very cool museum, but still, my mind tends to wander.  On one of the walls there is a quote from Diderot (he was an 18th century French philosopher).   It was a complaint about the Parisian Haberdashers Guild.   He called them “vendors of everything and creators of nothing”.   I immediately thought of the Kardashians.  See, we're never far from home. 

St. Paul, in the Marais.  We actually went in. And then the rains came.

This store is called "Thanksgiving".  It sells all kinds of American processed food.  We're sorry France.
We went for lunch afterwards at Le Petite Marchè.   An intimate, locals only, kind of place.   Wonderful food, and walls covered with sketches of naked women.   See photo below of my content and relaxed husband.    Jim seems to be surrounded by naked women without trying all that hard.   Last week, two mornings in a row, he opened our kitchen blinds to be greeted by a woman undressing in front of her hotel window across the street (she has since checked out).


We finally started our French classes.  A group of us will meet a couple times a week with our instructor, a lovely French woman named Isabelle.   She has assessed us all to determine our skill levels.   The first class, we had to tell her about ourselves in French.  I proudly declared I was born in 2063.  She looked at me completely seriously and said “ce n’est pas possible (this is not possible).”   Anyway, I’m not called a beginner, but rather, a “debutante”.   Finally.   There are four of us debutantes, and Jim.  I’m not sure what the male version of debutante is. 
 
We’ve attended a couple of parties.  Granted, they were parties we were required to be invited to, but still.   One was an 11th grade parent cocktail party at a very beautiful, posh, Parisian apartment.  The guests were an eclectic mix of expats from all over the world.   The expat community is huge here, and very welcoming.   It’s easy to find your people, if you want.   However, I did have a conversation recently with an actual French parent.   Even after living here just a short time, I can say that the French rudeness stereotype is wrong.  They aren’t rude.  They are honest and won’t waste your time with false niceties.   The Jersey girl in me finds it really liberating.  Sometimes I just don’t fucking feel like smiling at random strangers on the street. 

The other cocktail party was hosted by our personal concierge and was in the Montmartre area .   This has become my favorite neighborhood (it reminds me a little of NYC’s Greenwich Village).   The crowd was younger, mainly child-free 20-somethings.   They were all very beautiful and interesting, and nice.   I noted the following:  we met at least three couples where the guy was French and the woman was American.   It’s true what they say about French women and I now understand that whole “je ne sais quoi” thing.  They are gorgeous and effortlessly chic, and certainly worthy of their very own blog post, so stay tuned.   Yet, we American women hold our own.  Or, in any event, there were at least three French men at this party that thought so. 

Montmartre at night.


Le Basilic in Montmartre.  The food here was perfectly fine, but we'd go back for the ambiance alone.
As I’ve alluded to in previous posts, there is a very relaxed attitude here towards alcohol.  Likewise, there is a more pragmatic view towards sex.    As evidence of this, there are vending machines all over the city, which dispense condoms.   They’re usually right outside of the pharmacies, and also in some metro stations.   I’m told that most of the public high schools also have them.   My very crude research tells me that teen pregnancy rates are way lower in France than in the US.   I love how this topic is not taboo here and that there is a pro safe sex attitude.  Condoms for everyone!   All this being said however, I’ve not yet encouraged my daughters to get the icondom app on their phones (yes, there is an app for that).   I think that must be the American prude buried deep within me speaking. 


à bientôt!