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!