WTF (Welcome To France)

WTF.  Most of us have heard or used this phrase and know what the usual meaning is.  However, I find this alternate meaning very witty, and wish I had thought of it myself.  Credit goes to a new friend, Tina.   Everyone who has moved here from another country has a story of some sort.  A minor annoyance or something strangely enchanting that happens for no logical reason.  The annoyance gets resolved (or not) for reasons that defy explanation or are completely beyond your control.   It's best to focus on the strangely enchanting stuff.   

 

Something enchanting, in her new bed.

Like, how the men here always wear bright, colored socks under their ultra chic dark suits.  A hint of color, peeking out at their ankles, as they sit on the metro.   Or, recently, in a waiting room, I observe the woman next to me, hand down her shirt, calmly holding her breast.  Like it was some comfort toy.   Maybe it was.  Good for her, I thought.   Both the annoying and the enchanting stuff leads you to shrug your shoulders and think to yourself,  “WTF”, Welcome To France.

This is our friend Frida'a dog, Contessa.  She is also very enchanting. 

As I mentioned in previous posts, we had to move to a new apartment.  Despite the minor inconvenience, we love our new place.   It is in a “hotel particulier”, otherwise known as a townhouse.    It’s on a little gated street, next door to a small elementary school.   We are a bit further from the tourist areas and just next door to our favorite market street.  Though technically smaller then our last place, it feels more spacious, with high ceilings, and lots of white.   It’s also got a terrace – with an actual barbeque grill.   So, we’ve been able to resume our Sunday family “burger” nights.   The feng shui factor is high in this new place.

Our little hotel particulier.

There are two other apartments in the building.    The only negative is the eau de cigarette smoke scent at the ground floor entrance, at certain times of the day.   We think we met the source of it – a very nice Russian guy, who occupies the first floor apartment.    Since we don’t really notice it in our unit, we just accept it (along with an air diffuser).  WTF.

Morning Calm.

The Grill!

Our little terrace view.

Where we get our daily baguette . . .

and our news.

It didn't really feel like home until I did this though.

The backstory to our recent change of address was its own little annoyance.   Another WTF moment that one would naturally assume we got through with copious amounts of wine.   We did the opposite.  We had “sober week”.   We may be the only people to have returned from a year in France, drinking less.  It can be enlightening when you’re outside of your hometown bubble, and it’s just you and your family.  Be it Paris, France or Paris, Texas, you are forced to consider certain truths.   

 

Soon to cruise the streets of Paris.

We walk five minutes down the street, look up, and there's this.

When your kids challenge you to go for a week without any wine, it makes you pause.  So, we did.  For just one week.   It doesn’t sound like such a big deal, and it really wasn’t.    But, it made Jim and I more closely consider how our family functions and how we are perceived by our kids.    Anyway, we’ve made some changes and are being smarter about our consumption.   Appreciating wine versus needing wine.  

We still really appreciate it, though.   Fortunately, at the end of sober week, we had a couple of events lined up.  We attended the annual “Bonne Année” cocktail party hosted by the girls school.   It wasn’t a fundraiser or anything like that.  Just a celebration of the New Year, at a glamorous venue nearby.   Afterwards, we were invited back to a friend’s apartment, with several other couples.  It was us, a Dane, a German, a Brit, an Indian, a Scot, a Canadian, and a couple from Houston.  I think we all had a good time.  Actually, I know we did, because Jim came home wearing some other guy’s shoes.   

Bonne Année!

This past weekend, we went to a wine tasting dinner.  There is a local wine expert in our neighborhood (Geraldine, the “wine domini”), and she periodically hosts dinner parties, focusing on a specific wine region in France.   It’s great fun and we actually learn a lot . . . about the region, the grapes, climate, how to swirl and taste and sniff.   Four or five different vintages are served and each is paired with delicious home cooked French food.  It’s pretty fantastic.   We’ve learned about wine from Châteauneuf-du-pape and Bordeaux, among other places. 

Usually, the guests are primarily American.  However, on this night, we were the only non-French speakers, and lone “outside” participants.  Therefore, we were at an actual Parisian dinner party, with actual Parisians.  We met Bruno and Clara (a dead ringer for Meryl Streep), Laurent and Pierre (a Javier Bardem look alike), and Michelle and Marco.   Their professions included an architect and an operating room nurse and a librarian and a food flavorist.   They were so kind and funny, and all spoke English with us during our apéritifs.  

However, during dinner, it was full on French.  We caught a few words here and there, and Geraldine translated as needed.   For the most part though, we were kind of lost, but in the best possible way.  The beautiful French conversation surrounding us, along with the glorious food and the wonderful wine.  I tell you, it was almost meditative.    

 

A visit to the Paris Catacombs. 

 Like most dinner parties, the later in the evening, the more relaxed things got.   So, once the serious wine discussions concluded, our fellow dinner guests engaged us  in our native tongue.   It’s fun to have all new conversations about our same stuff:  crazy American politics translates well in any language.

Just outside the Catacombs, a demonstration against the pending visit of the Iranian president. Yes, those are pretend hangman's nooses that you see.

The evening went so late, that the metro was no longer running.  Clara and Bruno were nice enough to give us a ride home.   When I mentioned Clara’s resemblance to Meryl Streep, she said she hears that a lot.  Bruno then immediately asked us if we’d seen “The Bridges of Madison County”, and told us “we love that movie!”    I’ve never heard a male admit to reading that book, let alone seeing the movie.   Bruno, with his sweet smile and beautiful scarf, professing his love for a romantic, American movie.  I was so charmed.  WTF.

We’ve been here for six months.   Friends from home are assuming I speak French now.   I had taken French classes for two years before we moved here, so I myself assumed I’d be speaking French now.  Simply by living here, I thought smugly, the language would just seep into my brain via osmosis.  There are some people with brains wired to do that.  Mine is not one of them. 

However, I do okay and that is enough.  I can manage the dry cleaners and the post office, and buy light bulbs.  I can request how I want my coffee beans ground.  I can ask the Poissonnier which Salmon is best.  Last week, my daughter left her house keys in an Uber car.   I was able to have a phone conversation with the driver, enough to learn that yes, he found her keys.   We had a wifi issue in our new apartment and had to have a technician visit.  His English and our French were about on par, but we managed.   When you really have to communicate, a little French, a little English, and a few hand gestures go a long way.    

 

The first visitor from my side of the family - cousin Richard!!!

The girls are doing well (I think).   They work much harder then either Jim or I did at that age, with a seemingly endless load of homework.   Nevertheless, Katie has become quite adept at making the most of her adopted city.  This both thrills and terrifies us in equal measure.  She also seems to have a much better “ear” for the language then her parents, frequently translating for us.   At present, she is consumed by college prep activities – taking the SAT last weekend and then starting an ACT prep course the following day.  The school has two dedicated college counselors who will (in theory) help her figure out where to apply.   I can’t even believe this is here already.   

Allie gave the dance school here her best shot, but we’ve let her cease participation.  She now goes for a run on those days and, along with Katie, plans to join Track & Field in the spring.  What did it for me was when she said that it just wasn’t fun.  Not like her dance school at home, which felt more like family (her words).  Her big news is that she is going to Romania in April with a club from school.  They will be working with disadvantaged kids in Bucharest.   Overall, it seems like the girls really like their school, and their friends seem pretty great.  So naturally, we look forward to messing with their lives again in six months, when we transition back. 

I was asked to be a Parent Ambassador for the girls school.   I’ve avoided volunteering for anything school related while we’re here.   My kids don’t want me around, and really, I’ve been there and done that.   But, this sounded fun as it's basically just me talking to someone about our experience here, if they’re interested.  At the first meeting, 17 of us gathered in a conference room at the school.  A veritable United Nations of parental involvement:  Denmark, South America, France, and just a few Americans (interestingly, mostly from California).    

My only suggestion at the meeting was that the school perhaps do more outreach to the new families during the month of August.  At which point, the French people, all in unison (and quite angry sounding), said to me, “BUT NO ONE IS HERE IN AUGUST!”  Translation: if you’re stupid enough to move here in early August (like us), then you’re on your own.  Mon Dieu!   At least I know what my first piece of advice will be as Parent Ambassador.   WTF.

À bientôt