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!

16 Weeks

I have a friend here who likes to do something called “tatting”.   Yeah, I didn’t know what it was either, but it’s the process of making knotted lace.  She told me that she used to blog about it – posting something everyday about her craft.   I’m certain that tatting groupies achieved a certain high reading her blog.   I’ve seen her creations, and she’s a really good tatter.   I’ll go out on a limb and say that my writing skills are nearly as good as her tatting skills.  Still, I suspect a daily diatribe about our Paris comings and goings would be either boring or pretentious.  Plus, that’s what we use Facebook for.

A few pictures of my new favorite place to run, the Lac Inferieur, in the Bois de Boulogne.

Showdown with a swan.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything.   My real life petty dramas would make for a good read, but I’d probably get in a bunch of trouble if I wrote about them.  So, that leaves me with the following slices of life, which hopefully are not boring, and are only marginally pretentious.

A common daily sighting:  well coiffed elderly woman in a fur coat.

Tributes for the November 13th attacks -  at the Place de la Republique.

We are finally free of our prior landlords.   Just as we were contemplating legal action, they “decided” to return our security deposit.  A game of real estate cat and mouse, the likes of which I’ve not ever experienced.   We received a crash course in French rental laws and also coined a new curse word.  

"Cooking with Dominique."

Charlie had a vet appointment with Dr. Pierre Métivet (that’s his real name).  Dr. Metivet told us that Charlie was the first Goldendoodle he had ever seen.  He also told us that the former French President, Jacques Chirac, is one of his clients.     “Monsieur Chirac tells me he wants a Goldendoodle.”  “I say to him that I do not know what is this Goldendoodle you speak of.”  “And, now I’ve seen one!”   “Can I take Charlie’s picture?!”    I must say that every time I pass by some gross American fast food chain here, I hang my head in shame.  So, the Goldendoodle contribution makes me proud.

Scene from the Passy Cemetery - not a terrible place to be buried.

Discovered this little alleyway on our walk home.

We visited the Musée Rodin.  It’s in the Hôtel Biron, a beautiful setting worth visiting for the gardens alone.  We saw “The Thinker”, of course, but I was more interested to learn about Camille Claudel.   She was a sculptor in her own right, as well as Rodin’s model/muse/lover.   Sometime after their relationship ended, she went a little crazy, but was actually mentally sound.  Despite this, her family had her committed to a mental institution.  She stayed there for 30 years, until her death.  There is a whole section in the museum dedicated to her work.   A beautiful talent, yet tragic life.

"The Thinker"

"The Gossips".  Camille Claudel

Yet more pretty, shiny things.  The Musee Baccarat.

I attended a lecture at the American Ambassador’s residence.  The event was sponsored by the girls’ school, and this was the only reason I was invited.   The speaker was Tim Egan, an accomplished author and journalist, who currently writes an online opinion column for the NY Times.    He spoke about the current American election cycle and equally skewered both parties.    I admit that he leans left, which was probably why I enjoyed it so much.   In any event, it was pretty wild to be able to visit this place – a fortress like building I’ve passed numerous times, but never knew what it was. 

Scenes from the Ambassador's residence, and a glass of wine at Hotel Le Bristol.

Our niece, on her semester abroad in London, visited us for a weekend. We climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, and took in the views from the dome.   We had lunch on the Rue des Martyrs and had fun sharing a bottle of wine with this girl – who only yesterday was an infant at our wedding.   Listening to her opinions on politics and her plans for the future makes me feel optimistic, despite the dismal worldwide news.

Our niece, Mary Catherine, and a Dome view.

My friend Stacy was in town.   She is a dealer in vintage photos and was in Paris for work.  We went to high school together, and have only seen each other a handful of times over the last few decades.  She is beautiful, smart, and wickedly funny.   The time goes too fast whenever we get together.    Reminiscing about our school years, we discovered that we’d both been harassed by the same evil twit named Michelle. Discussing the person who bullied us in high school, while sitting in a Paris bistro, did take the sting off.   Stacy heard that Michelle had become a meth addict.   Very sad.

Stacy!

The girls’ had a week off for winter break, so we spent a few days in Amsterdam.  I LOVE this city.  Jim and I were talking, and we think, just for one year  . . .  kidding.  We stayed in a beautiful home on the Herengracht Canal near “The Fault in our Stars” bench (loved the book, never saw the movie).   We visited Anne Frank’s house.   If you’re in Amsterdam, this is a very necessary visit.  If for no other reason then to remind us that very terrible things happen to very normal people.  People just like us.   It will give some perspective to your life’s petty dramas. 

Jim and I also visited the Red Light District one evening.  Our girls opted not to join us on this cultural journey.   It was fascinating to me. Strolling along these charming little alleyways, with numerous glass doors.  Behind each door, a pretty young naked thing on display, offering her services.    All legal, just doing their job.    It didn’t feel sleazy, just surreal. 

If you see this, you're in the Red Light District.

The Most Interesting Man in The World.  In Amsterdam.

Many, many houseboats.

Yet another forced pose.  Someday, they will thank me.  Maybe.

View from our little Canal house.

After Amsterdam, we did a road trip to Normandy and visited the American Cemetery.   This is a beautiful part of France and worthy of a return trip.  Even though D-day was long ago, one gets the distinct feeling that the French here remain very grateful to the United States.   The locals are really kind, and positive American sentiment permeates the area.  It’s quite impactful.  It made me a little weepy, truth be told.   We also toured around Mont St. Michel.  Our driver’s name was Frederick LeBastard (really).  I’m not certain of his parentage, but he was not bastard-like at all. 

Scenes from Mont St. Michel and the American Cemetery. 

Our Seattle friends, Matt & Steve, visited for a week.   They are very well traveled and had been to Paris a bunch of times.  So, we did a few slightly less touristy things on our bucket list.  We finally made it over to the Porte de Clignancourt Les Puces – a massive flea market in a somewhat sketchy part of the city.   Afterwards, we had lunch at an out of the way bistro called Chez Louisette.   We ate boeuf bourguignon, while a chanteuse serenaded us with Edith Piaf songs.

Lunch at Chez Louisette.

This little guy was the official greeter.

An impulse buy I wish I'd made.

We spent a morning at the famed Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Throughout the large property, there are various guys loitering around wanting to tell you about the graves - covertly offering their tour services.  We came across a wild looking, semi-toothless guy, and we said, “Jim Morrison?”  The guy replies, “he’s dead!” We decide he’s our guide, and spent an entertaining hour following him around.   He was a character.  In addition to Jim Morrison, he highlighted a bunch of other graves, including “Mr. Viagra” (the picture below speaks for itself).

Our tour guide, giving us an animated description of this grave, which he referred to as "Mr. Viagra."

Jim Morrison.

A picture of your dog indicates fidelity.

We checked out Les Caves du Louvre.  This is a wine museum/tasting room housed in the 18^th century wine cellars once used by Louis XV’s sommelier.   It’s described as an “interactive wine experience for the whole family”.    You download an app, and go through the cellar’s rooms learning about the winemaking process.  We got bored midway through the soils room and headed straight for the tasting area.  

Steve and Matt.  Lunch at Caffe Stern - probably the best  Italian food I've had yet.

The whole place is really beautiful, though the concept was a little gimmicky:  there was a photo booth where you could make your own label.    We thought this was a little cheesy at first and weren’t going to bother.   Then we started tasting with the other participants.  This included an American group with a distinct southern accent who expressed their desire to “chug” the wine.  The kind French woman doing the pouring asked us “what is this word chug?”  We moved a little further down the bar.  There was a very nice, well-preserved couple from southern California who weren’t chugging their wine.   We had a nice conversation with them, until the husband says, “Donald Trump is starting to make sense.”  We moved further down the bar.  We finished the tasting and decided the photo booth was a good way to commemorate the experience.

Les Caves du Louvre.

That's me, on the right.  It was supposed to be an exotic masque look.  

We are in the last part of our stay here.  Four months left.   I will admit that we seriously considered staying in Paris for another year.  Many a well-meaning friend here has implied how much better it would be for my kids to stay.  I agree.  In a perfect world, we would let both girls finish high school here.  However, we will return home as planned.   It’s been a glorious adventure, but we miss our California community. 

A little pink house and other scenes from a walk in the Parc de Bagatelle.

I’m so grateful for this experience.   However, even as I’m happily swilling my burgundy, a subtle doubt is constantly there.  The disruption in my daughters’ lives, the unknown impact on their friendships back home, the challenge of transitioning back both academically and socially.  Will it all have been worth it?  Probably.  I think so. 

On a lighter note, here’s why I personally think it’s time to go home.   This is a silly, corny anecdote, and I apologize for another high school reference.  However, it’s my blog, so I’ll write what I want to.   When I was a senior, I was obsessed with a certain guy in my English class.   I recall absolutely nothing of what I learned that year at school, but I still remember this guy’s favorite band (Foghat).   In reality, I barely knew him, but my teenage brain was in love.  He took me to the prom, we graduated, end of story.   I never got to know him any better, and haven’t seen him in decades.   Honestly, I prefer it that way.   I’m content with my happy memories of that time in my life, even if they’re not totally realistic.

If we stayed in Paris, fully integrated, made it our actual “real life”, I think some of the glow might fade.   The things I find charming or amusing, might become frustrating.   I’d rather leave while we still love it here.   I’d rather leave while I still want to return, so I can discover more.   My kids would say that they are living a “real life” here (and they are, compared to Jim and I).   But, I still hope that there remains a novelty in all of this for them.    Besides, if we stayed I’d have to do more real life stuff, like find a new gynecologist.  That would take the bloom off the rose for sure.

à bientôt