Merde!

To those of you who don’t speak French, congratulations: having read the title of this post, you now know at least how to swear in the language of Baudelaire. The "m-word," as those of you who do speak the language know, is the French equivalent of the "s-word" in English. Ashley and I don’t know much French yet, so the latter mot is still our go-to in times of need. Though as Ashley has noted, "the f-word" can also come in quite handy at times.

However, I want to talk here not about the "m" the word, but about "m" the stuff. For one of the important adjustments we've had to make here is to the constant hazard of dog poop on the sidewalk. "Curbing" your dog (as signs in the States entreat dog-owners to do), or pooper-scooping or using a plastic bag to clean up after him or her, is one of those practices that, like the use of deodorant or the donning of rubber gloves by butchers, one might simply assume is standard in big cities the world over. That is, until one catches a whiff of a fellow passenger on the Metro, or sees the man behind the counter, having just wrapped up monsieur's foie with his bare hands, quickly wipe them on his apron and fetch madame’s bœuf. Or until one quite literally steps in it.

When I lived in Brooklyn, I once witnessed the public excoriation of a man who didn't clean up after his dog. The man steadfastly refused, dismissing the outrage that quickly swept through the surrounding throng with a waive of his arm, and continued on his way. But his defiance seemed like a defense-mechanism -- an attempt to counteract the scorn and social shame he felt. He knew that what he did was, within the strictures of the Park Slope moral code, wrong. Perhaps he had simply forgotten to stuff a plastic CVS bag into his coat pocket as he walked out the door (and if so, he probably muttered the s-word under his breath when he realized that he had). Rather than go back and get one, perhaps he hoped that no one would notice if, just this once, he didn’t scoop the poop. Alas, it was a Saturday afternoon, and Fido chose the sidewalk in front of a bustling bagelry as the place to go about his business, and the man was done for.


In Paris, there are no such worries. As one’s dog does its thing, one can window-shop, scan the headlines at the nearby newsstand or, like one’s dog itself, simply stare un-self-consciously off into the distance until the task is complete. Alas, for everyone else on the sidewalk, there's a need for constant vigilance. This is difficult for newcomers like us, because we're already multi-tasking as we walk -- checking our map, people-watching, scanning doors for the right address or gazing across the Seine as the lights of the Eiffel Tower sparkle like a glass of champagne. Nothing ends the transcendence of a moment like that more quickly than squishing into a pile of poo. From the sublime to the ridiculous truly is but a step.

-- MBB

Even-Steven

I have stolen the post name from the premise of a “Seinfeld” episode that we watched yesterday as we were finally getting to use our Orange cinema channel (all English, baby). The ability to transcend channel seven should have been an invigorating feeling as it was something we had been waiting for a work week and counting. However, after having exhausted both the “Will & Grace” and Der Teufel Trägt Prada DVDs I had checked out from the American Library, it was our only other option. I say this as I was stuck. Stuck in the flat, stuck on the couch (with an occasional shift to the bed), and stuck watching TV. For many people this sounds like a dream. Sitting in a Parisian flat on a chilly Saturday, relaxing with the love of your life, snuggled in a blanket, catching up on quality TV. What it was to me, however, was a very bad, ironic dream.

Let me rewind to Thursday evening when I had to rush out from my cocktail hour (which turned into two hours) with a young lady I had been “set-up” with, to meet my husband at home for baguettes, cheese, and wine. Really, not a bad reason to dart home, and doing so with a high (as I made a friend!), was renewing my hope in my new life here. As I boarded the Metro, I glanced down at my phone to see that “Home Digits” had called. This meant that not only was our home line working, but our cable and home Internet was as well. You don’t know how badly you miss something until it is gone, and I can safely safe that life without Internet and contact to the U.S. was starting to wear on me. My Kleenex will agree with you. However, in the last eight hours, the tables had seemed to turn 180 degrees, and my desire for heavy meds was starting to subside (or so I thought). This had been after a packed day of French lessons, a meeting with the AWG gala committee at the Marriott Rive Gauche, and a quick stint at the American Library reading all about Miley Cyrus in Harper’s Bazarr. Tomorrow I would feed the homeless and get ready for my cocktail party on Saturday evening, as I now had friends.

Friday was a gray morning, and I hesitated to commit to make the six-mile walk, but as I thought about how I would pass Bastille and Louvre and cross the Champs-Élysées, I zipped up my rainboots and headed out the door. As I rounded the American Cathedral, I got a tad bit nervous, knowing that there would be a new group of faces to meet and tasks to do. My concern quickly subsided, as I immediately enjoyed my new co-volunteers, and knew that, to add to that contentment, sixty-five needy Parisians would walk through the door at 11:30 to indulge in the food we were preparing and the tables we were setting precisely (with the forks turned upside down, as apparently it is bad luck in France to have them placed upright). I could not have been more right: the cast of characters were fantastic, and so incredibly gracious. A good portion of them spoke broken English, so in between my handing out courses and clearing the tables, I was able to hear about the twins' brother who lives in Chicago (his name is Chips and the wife is named Jenny), amongst other snippets of life stories. Many of these stories were more precisely translated by the younger, shabbily, but dapperly dressed man who was fluent in English due to his time as an employee on Royal Caribbean cruise lines and the QE2. Then there was my marriage proposal that -- much to Matt’s relief -- I turned down. Although I was sweaty and tired upon completion of the event, I walked onto Boulevard George V (with some new digits in my cell), feeling that I was finally finding my place here. As I walked back home along Rivoli, I started to pick items up in preparation for our Saturday evening soirée. A new dress for moi and power strip at BHV so that we could clean up all of our wires (did I mention that we now have TV, Internet and a landline?), and some bowls for our baguettes and cheese spreads. I was uncomfortably warm throughout the entire ordeal, but attributed it to my quick pace and excitement.

As I got ready to meet up for cocktails at the Hemingway Bar with Matt and one of our DC friends who was in town for business, I got down to business of my own. I was in Paris, and needed to look that way. As I boarded the metro in my puffy Pucci skirt, fishnets, ankle booties, and green Chinese jacket adorned with a fur stole, I was Parisian. This was confirmed by the young lady who stopped me in front of the Hôtel de Crillon to take my picture for Vogue Italia. As Matt and I sat in front of the fire at the Ritz, waiting for our friend, I felt a sense of calm that I had not felt since arriving here. I had friends (and was entertaining them tomorrow) and had found volunteer work that completed me in a way that not many things do. I was also at the Hôtel Ritz with my handsome husband, about to embark on a swanky evening in Paris.

The night was fantastic. The perfect mix of conversation, scrumptious wine, and the best free peanuts in Paris. But, as Chaucer first noted in 1374, all good things must come to an end. For every ying, there is a yang. And for Ashley Miller Benz, it was basically too good to be true. As we were riding home on the Metro (the very same line where just four hours prior I was queen of the world), I knew that what I was feeling was not my typical Metro motion-sickness. I lie in bed, shaking and shivering, it was confirmed that it was not the train but, instead, a whole lot more. As I flew out of bed, making it as far as the hallway before I lost it all (literally), it was confirmed. My life was now even-Steven. As Matt and I spent the next hour on damage control, I crawled back into bed sopping wet from my shower, knowing that the tulips and roses adorning my flat that had been purchased in anticipation of Saturday evening, would now stare at me as I sat cradled in a blanket in the terribly un-chic material of fleece.

And so it was. The sun was out yesterday, and I was not. Inside I sat, lay and anguished. Instead of pulling out my monogrammed cocktail napkins, hitting up the Eiffel Tower with our DC visitor, and buying fresh baguettes to accompany our cheese and wine that I was to serve to my new Paris friends, I was watching our newly acquired, highly anticipated cable. If I could have kept my head upright, I could have typed away on the Internet. And if I had had the energy to carry on conversation, I could have picked up the phone. Karma is a bitch, and as Jerry so perfectly summarized my situation, I was indeed even-Steven.

Burnt Out

One of the books recommended to us upon arriving here was one to help Americans get acclimated called Bloom Where You Are Planted. What happens, however, if you fear that the last week might have killed any little shoots? Or worse yet, if you never even take root? It has been a tumultuous week, with little germination to speak of. Below are the ups and downs of week one of as residents of Paris.

The low of the week? Standing in Franprix with a basket of unnecessary items (although, pink toilet paper is trés chic) because you can’t use your card for less than 15 Euros, and having not received the pins for our bank cards (or so we thought), that was my only option. It was not the fact that I was teetering around, feet swollen from walking, blood sugar at rock-bottom, carting around Bridelight and stale (but cheap) galette des rois. It was the security that one finds in a grocery store that wasn’t there. I couldn’t ask for the location of the crème to make the chocolate cake mix I found. I anguished over which butter to purchase (PAM does not exist here), only to later find that that was in vain, as I actually had purchased three types, thinking that two were very inexpensive cheeses. It was the price of Coca-Cola Light as I decided to forgo the crème and make the mix MY way, a way that has seemed to have gone out the door. The tears welled, however, as I was wandering aimlessly once again, basket feeling like rocks, soles on fire, and Alanis Morrisette’s “Ironic” came on. These lyrics were what I used to introduce the concept of irony to my little monsters. Whereas I was once the guru of my language, and a teacher of it to boot, I now couldn’t speak the language. I had come full circle. I held back the tears, headed to the checkout where I said my “bonjour” and “merci,” and carted home my expensive basket of misery.

My high of the week also centered on food (a common theme you will find throughout my writing). The locale was a women’s shelter in the 12th district, where I had met some ladies from the American Women’s Group to offer desserts and “bonjours” to the residents. I had already established that one of the ladies grew up in Chestnut Hill, and combined with the fluid conversation (in English), and the reaction from the residents as we entered with our goodies, life was good. It was then, that one of my fellow AWG members pulled out her baked goods -- on a lime green, square, Caspari plate. The wind was knocked out of me as I stared at the plate. That plate was the plate at 909 M Street, my prior home, and still home to many ladies that I love dearly. If I recall correctly, Mrs. “Z” brought them for a birthday party for Martha Jane two years ago, and we still pulled them out for special occasions (as in whenever our Lilly-themed parties called for paper plates in the correct color scheme). That plate means so much to me, and it made me feel foolish to have such warm feelings during the unveiling of the lemon cake. I, of course, had to apologize for my shriek, and went on to explain why her choice of paper goods solicited such a reaction. I imagined that plate filled with monogrammed cupcakes at a picnic in Montrose Park, or brimming with pasta salad at Gold Cup, and for one little moment, I felt as if I were home.

As Matt and I both discussed recently (as I was shrouded in a blanket due to the fact that our apartment does not have heat), this too shall pass. We are acclimating to life in a new city, and there are bound to be some rocks in our spokes. Matt doesn’t complain much, but his nails are a good indication of how much he is taking in stride. Let’s just say that he is in need of some very good acrylics. I, on the other hand, am seeking solace in sugar. Since the patisserie is too expensive, and I failed miserably trying to bake my cupcakes in the convection oven/microwave (as we don’t have an oven), I have become good friends with the jar of Nutella. At least that is one word I can say, spell and savor.

Over the last week as we have been Internet-less due to our move into 241 Boulevard Voltaire, I have picked up some French trivia that I believe should be shared.

1) You cannot get Internet, landlines, mobiles or cable until you have a checkbook. That is correct, one of those little rectangular paper booklets that are obsolete in the United States.

2) Once you get your checkbook, and head to the Orange store (with a translator), you then have to wait 7-10 days until your phone, cable and internet get turned on. Those of you that detest Comcast and Verizon might want to rethink those feelings. You are living the life of luxury over there! And by the way, if you call for service, at least you can understand what they are saying.

3) Mobiles in Paris are a little more costly. Or perhaps a better way of putting it (while using a lovely American idiom) is that you get more bang for your buck in America. I have the 1h plan (also termed “Origami Star” by Orange). For about $75 a month, you get one hour of talk time. That is one measurement that is universal. One hour equals 60 minutes, which equals one hell of a rip-off! If you call me, I will not pick up. But please leave a message, as we did establish that calling your voicemail is free.

4) Coffee makers from the U.S. do not work with a European adaptor (unless your purpose is to use it as a smoke machine).

5) Whereas sewage and algae are the main concerns for reservoirs in America, calcium is what plagues the Parisian water. When you pay the mandatory $175 for someone to come look at your boiler, they also take a look at your faucets. Let’s just say that anything living in our pipes would be very, very, strong, as the buildup was foul. The solution is to run vinegar through all electronics (like coffee makers and hot water pots), and to put special solutions in your washer, dishwasher and any other appliance where water is present!

6) Reuse and recycle. Laundry is obnoxiously expensive (a trend here), so drying racks and heated racks in bathrooms are common practice. Also, you can recycle anything from paper to small electronics all in the same bin (which is outside our kitchen window, and therefore anything not gingerly placed in it sounds like a recycling truck that lost all of its cargo).

7) Soldes. Initially, I thought stores were marking the items in their windows that had been sold. However, my newfound French knowledge now tells me that soldes means “sales.” These soldes occur only twice a year in France, as regulated by the government. So it appears as if I better run out now and purchase myself those much-needed Chanel suits, as they will be back up in price after the first week of February (and by the way, if you can stave off your temptation, the percentage off increases weekly from January 4 to the first week of February). If you visit in between the two declared soldes periods, nothing is on sale! Jos. A. Bank would not like it here.

8) We found heaven in a box this weekend. For nine Euros we have been kept content two nights in a row now. Le Journal de Bridget Jones is so much more than a DVD here. There are lots of different functions, including a “paper doll” Renée that you can choose outfits for. There are two music videos from the soundtrack, and a French version of the wretched Bridget rendition of “All by Myself” that plays as you are choosing your language. It is good introduction to our remote control if and when we ever get cable.

9) The clothing tags in Paris lie. As we wanted to take advantage of the soldes, and I was certain that none of my pants were Parisian enough, initially Matt and I “window-picked” (a Parisian practice), and eventually went in for the kill this weekend. Now, I know that it doesn’t help that my daily diet consists of bread, cheese, and sugar-coated everything. However, I am certain that I have not gone up three sizes since December. Please tell that to my new French pants, because they seem to disagree.

10) The French health system is wonderful. Such is the rumor. My concern, however, is that I don’t get it. I don’t understand how it works, how to access it or what I do if I get hit by one of the high speed mopeds that whip around the corner as I am crossing the street. I know there is an American hospital somewhere, so perhaps I should just try to eek out, “I am from the U.S.” if lying there without any form of card, language skills or knowledge about how to call an ambulance (and not wanting to use my minutes to do so).

11) The vacuum cleaners in Paris are magnifique. I can safely say that of all the things I will have accumulated here, my stylish little red Proline from Darty (our Best Buy) will be the hardest thing to part with. Mom, I am channeling you big-time right now!

12) Learn the phrase “How much does that cost?” When I was en route to a meeting on Monday morning I stopped to pick up a little hostess gift, choosing lively colored mints from a patisserie. To avoid embarrassment I handed the employee the largest bill I had, as I have made this common practice, in hopes of dodging the language barrier. In return she gave me 1.5 euros in change. This means that those cute little mints were just about thirty dollars...and I forgot to give them to the hostess! They will stay tucked away in our pantry and declared on our insurance as a valuable.

13) There is not much to watch on the three channels our TV currently receives, but I have found what I believe to be the French version of “Ugly Betty.” Lisa is a very homely young lady who is in love with her boss and whose co-workers spend a lot of time karaoke-ing. It is sort of an “Ugly Betty” soap opera meets “Glee.” I have not been disappointed yet (from the three words I can follow).

14) A rundown of Parisian pricing
Overwhelmingly expensive:
-Eggs
-Batteries
-Coca-cola (especially at restaurants)
-Light bulbs
-Nails
-Keys (4 door keys and three mail box keys: 71.5 Euros)

Pleasantly cheap:
-Bread
-Cheese
-Wine
-Packaged sweets

When in Rome (or Paris)….We may be living in the dark with little hung on our walls, but we will be pleasantly full on wine, cheese, and bread!

15) And while on the ever-so-welcome topic of inexpensive things in Paris, I would like to introduce you to wall stickers. These static-electricity-driven, paint-safe decorations are the new hip way to take a boring space (e.g., chez Benz) and turn into in a home lickety-split (that is not what the packaging says, by the way). Every home store we have been in has had its own unique selection. From Paris road signs to clocks that actually function, your selections on how to junk up a room quickly are endless!

_______________

Please note: the content in the above selection in no way shape or form reflects the opinion of the newly transplanted, cheap and somewhat ornery American who wrote them.

UPDATE! I found a cafe/mini-marche yesterday in the 7th (the American stomping grounds) called "The Real McCoy." There I found PAM (about $15 a bottle, and Betty Crocker (about $15 a batch). Do I perhaps feel a root forming?

"Jules et Jim" It Ain't.

Hollywoodland. Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. Swing Vote. There's no shortage or lack of variety of American films on French television. It's become part of our routine to flip around the channels after dinner in search of movies that we can zone out to (or have on in the background while we blog); the aforementioned are three that we've watched in the last week. The BBC or CNN in the morning is a good way to learn the day's headlines (and what the weather is on every continent in sixty seconds). But after a busy day's work (me), trekking round Paris in search of volunteer opportunities (Ashley) and encountering resistance from some part of the French bureaucracy, such as the post office or l'Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration (the both of us), we gravitate toward lighter fare. And for us right now, the most important aspect of "lighter" is "in a language that we can comprehend."


Since mid-December, "routine" has become a relative term for us. Between navigating the holidays, packing up our lives in Philadelphia, getting our our visas (after initially not getting them), flying over here, starting work and getting to know Paris, no two weeks have looked the same. Tomorrow we move out of the hotel that we've called home since last Wednesday and into the flat that we will call home for at least the next year. That means, among other things, sorting through boxes of clothes and personal effects we haven't seen since before Christmas and finding a boulangerie to replace the great one that we discovered around the corner from our hotel a few days ago. It will be good to be settled in an actual apartment, but between now and settled is a fair amount of heaving, stowing, arranging and re-arranging. Lethal Weapon, Bride Wars or whatever other random movie we find on TV will no doubt continue to prove to be a welcome respite each night (assuming we can tune into one via the antenna we'll have to rely on until I sort out how to sign up for the France Telecom pay-TV package).

We may not have an Internet connection of our own for several days, so the blog is on temporary hiatus. (Don't worry, mom, we'll be back as soon as possible.) Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to find out whether Kevin Costner casts his vote for Kelsey Grammer or Dennis Hopper.

-- MBB

Foch.

As I rolled out of bed this morning, I was definitely feeling the effects of having spent the previous day hiking through the snow. However, there was a renewed spring in my step, as my day today was filled with "acclimating activities" -- a coffee group for the American Church's Women Group, in addition to an appointment with the head of Girl Scouts International about the possibility of volunteering. (Can you even imagine the potential for the uniforms? Look out Troop Beverly Hills, because here comes Troop Champs Élysées!)

Rummaging through the bare bones of the hotel room, I found a tolerable metal tray and packed up my carefully thought-up "snack to share." As we don't have the supplies to cook yet, and I would be walking about three miles to get to my destination, I stole a idea from an old Real Simple: orange slices and dark chocolate. As I am sure this will not come as a surprise, the citrus in Paris is divine. Succulent, fragrant and, to top it off (literally), with beautiful dark green leaves still attached to the stem. Since the metal tray had previously held dish-washer tablets, I chose the most leafy of clementines, and plucked the waxy, symmetrical leaves to use as my doily. Feeling clever with my snack packed carefully in cast-away plastic bags and packaging, I started my journey down Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle after smooching my husband farewell. As I sauntered past the "soldes" signs at Galeries Lafayette and Printemps, the sun began to peek its head out from behind the thick gray clouds that had been shrouding the city for days. Life was good.

As I rounded the Champs Élysées, I glanced at my watch, only to realize that I would not be punctual. I made peace with this as I figured the ladies would understand my tardiness since I was still a newbie. Avenue Foch was my last and final turn according to the map, and as I briskly walked past the gorgeous homes with their perfectly manicured balconies and expensive foreign vehicles lining the street, I began to dream about the palace where I was to spend my next two hours. Foch -- which is pronounced strikingly similarly to a word my students used to adorn my desks with -- would soon be the word I was repeating rapidly in my head. Round and round I went along Foch's circle, taking the tangential streets, only to walk back, dismayed and ready to try another possible route. At one point I actually left Paris proper, which was both exciting and overwhelmingly disconcerting at the very same time. My only interactions were with a jogger who smiled at me, and a shabbily dressed, ill-kept man who followed me for about three paces, until he did not get the response he had hoped for (the first time I was glad I did not speak the language). As I had just about given up, I came upon a map that for a mere second gave me false hope. As I looked under the "L" section for the name of the street, it would be just my luck that this particular map had been improperly installed, with the "L" section being covered by the frame of the structure. My silver tray, clementines, dark chocolate and I sulkily went back down Avenue Foch, repeating its name at a very loud decibel in my head. It had happened: I was sad in Paris. The upside? I now had the entire bag of French chocolate to drown my sorrows in.

And, as any good American would have done when feeling disheartened and displaced in Paris, I went and visited Julia Child's flat on Rue de Loo (the nickname she and her husband gave their street, Rue de l'Université)! This was going to be my little detour en route to the American Library of Paris, where I was going to check out a good book, give my feet a break, and use the loo. As I went to pull my map out of my bag to head towards my respite, the map, like my tissues from earlier today, had evaporated. Here I stood: no map, no sense of direction, only my snack for the gathering that never was. I was on a steady decline.

As I would have normally done had I been stateside, I would have called up Matt to complain. This Parisian, however, is still sans mobile. So, I set out to do the one errand I needed to do prior to my meeting at Girl Scouts International. Matt had rehearsed with me how to stay stamp this morning (very similar to tampon), and since I was as close to PMSing as possible, minus the "M," I thought that it was a good time to get the stamp I needed to send Devon's birthday card. As I scrounged up the courage to say the three words that would secure me my stamp, the impish lady behind the counter spatted off something so quickly, that I became flustered and choked on my words. She looked at me with confusion, and back I reverted to my mother tongue. "Stamp to the USA, please." She glared at me with two beady little eyes, and handed it over. At that very moment, after the day I had had, if I could have afforded the stamp, I would have shipped myself back there too.

A kiss of death

After a somewhat tumultuous start to my eagerly anticipated hike through the French country side (do you believe it was offensive that I asked any female at La Defense station wearing hiking boots or a backpack if she was American?), I found my crew. With no time to spare, we hopped on the RER A to land ourselves in a snow-covered, peaceful countryside. After winding our ways through a large open field coated in snow and dotted with children not in school (French children don't have school on Wednesday!), we started out on a narrow, berry-flanked path. It was at our first pause that someone pointed out the perfectly rounded, picturesque mass of leaves that seemed to populate many of the large trees in the area. To my dismay and large disappointment, I learned that it is the poisonous, and parasitic, mistletoe!

I write this short blurb only to inform you of the fact that the greenery that we associate with love and a warm-spirited holiday season is actually a parasite, and sucks the life out of its host. This disturbed me greatly, and I only thought it fair that I ruin the false image of mistletoe for you as well. Think twice the next time you try to steal a smooch under the mistletoe after a few glasses of egg nog.

Mission Impossible?

Three ibuprofen and two cups of coffee later, my day is ready to begin. Some would call me overzealous, some may even defer to the adjective "crazy." Whatever you choose, my feet and back agree with you. I am not sure when my love of walking began, nor my need to start a list and finish it in the same day (although blame could be given to Anal Annie; thanks, Mom). Regardless, it is my belief that I am here in a new city, with one very clear, necessary mission: to make it my own. That does not come by leisurely waking up each day, primping to impress those that may see me tear by, and sauntering about when the spirit moves me. Napoleon and I do not see eye to eye on much (literally), but one thing we do agree on, is that France must be conquered.

So what does this conquering entail, and where has it led me each day? Most French would not be able to answer that (nor would I understand them if they did), as I am a gold streak in FitFlop boots that goes tearing by from one destination to the next. There are times that I can be seen hunched in the corner of a rue, glancing at my already well-worn map, but that is not to refuel, but simply to redirect. Some may say my internal compass is broken (except for clothing stores), but I simply like to think that God has given me this lack of a radar so that I can be that much more knowledgeable and cover that much more ground. Why go from point A to point B when you can make seven wrong turns in between? This is doing wonders for my mission, and has allowed me countless uncomfortable moments. I would say I am well on my way towards success.

To those that have been fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the gold Lands' End puffy coat (tres chic), and my French Lands' End polar fleece hat (which I have adorned with a flowered hair tie that Meredith rejected), they would have seen that her first stop yesterday, after walking her husband briskly to work, was the American Women's Group of Paris. After a mere hour of speed-racing, she landed in heaven at 32 rue du General Bertrand. Not only was it an escape from the bitter cold, but the door was answered in the highly coveted tongue of English. It could have been an easy end to my mission. In one fell-swoop I joined a book group, writing club, volunteered to work with the homeless, signed up to go on an eleven mile walk through the country (and snow) tomorrow, and have already established contact with a number of welcoming, wonderful women. But this would have been way too easy, and Napoleon would not have been pleased. So on I dashed, stopping to offer my teaching skills to three bilingual schools in Paris. I did gleefully come away with contact emails, but I also came away with aching feet and a need to regroup. And just as I was feeling as if my aching feet were a signal of success and accomplishment, on I went to the marché to go shopping for the week.

Who would have thought that the inability to open a plastic bag would cause distress? But, when you can't ask for help, and start thinking that perhaps the French make grocery bags differently, so you are standing there looking like a buffoon, holding up the line, due to your inability to ask for help to open the bag, slowly your mission doesn't seem so easily conquerable. Slowly, you realize that there is more ground to be tread, and more things to be learned. Tonight Matt and I will be attending an event at the American Library of Paris that entails watching Breakfast at Tiffany's. And although Napoleon may see this as cease-fire, sometimes those are necessary in order to win the war.

Qu'est-ce Que C'est?

OK, time to get meta and blog about the blog itself. First, an explanation. The accompanying photo is of David Byrne of Talking Heads, whose song, "Psycho Killer," includes the phrase "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" ("What is it?") In this post, I want to discuss what this blog is all about. Hence, the title. (As I see from the Wikipedia entry, "Psycho Killer" includes several other lines in French -- none of which I ever picked up on in the dozens of times I've listened to the song. While that may be an indication of how much (i.e., how little) French I know, I think it also reflects the fact that what I like best about the song is simply how it sounds. It's catchy. I couldn't tell you what any of the lyrics are, even the ones in English.) I considered titling this post "Malkovich Malkovich...," in reference to another piece of post-modern art, Being John Malkovich. As those of you who have seen the movie know, when John Malkovich enters the portal that leads into his head (those of you who haven't seen it: I told you it was post-modern), bad things happen: everyone looks like John Malkovich, and though they appear to be speaking intelligibly, every word they say is "Malkovich." Here's hoping this post ends up better.

On to the task at hand. I see this blog as being several things at once:

- A way for us to let our family and friends know what we're up to and and how we're doing in our vie en France.
- A chance for us to step back and process all of the new things that we're experiencing.
- A forum (an excuse?) for us to write. We both enjoy writing. What better fodder than a move to Paris?
- Relatedly, a way for us to talk about us. As my mother says, people love talking about themselves. (Remember this adage, and you'll be able to minimize awkward silences at dinner and cocktail parties.) What is a blog if not an excuse to tell the world what you think?
- A way for us to communicate with one another. This may sound strange. We're husband and wife, and until we learn French and make some more friends, we're spending just about every minute together (outside of my time at work). Surely we share with one another everything that we're thinking already? The answer is, Yes, to a certain extent. We do talk a lot about what we see as we walk down the street. But not everything we see or feel can be immediately related; some thoughts and observations develop over time (and we're both very thoughtful and observant). This blog lets us share those deep thoughts not just with you, our faithful readers, but with one another.
- A way to remember what happened to us here -- not just the formative living-in-Paris experiences and aforementioned deep thoughts, but our favorite cheeses, wines, restaurants, etc.
- A means of reflecting on life as a newly married couple. Certainly, living together as strangers in a strange land draws two people even closer; we've noticed this already in our short time here. Indeed, it's almost a metaphor for how marriage is, or should be: two people, bound closely together, against the world. And certainly as well, it is important at the start of a marriage to develop the right habits of talking, sharing and, for lack of a less touchy-feely word, togetherness. But as our lives become busier and we each begin pursuing our individual activities and interests, the dynamic may come under some strain. Regular postings on a shared blog can help to re-center us. Hence, the title of this blog.

That's the "what" and the "why." The "how" depends on the "who" -- that is, which one of us is blogging. Ashley sits down, starts typing and, 20 or so minutes later, has produced a smart, snappy, cohesive post. I sit down, and I mull. And mull. And write a few sentences. And bite my fingernails. And glance up at the television. And mull. And then, with luck, write a few sentences more.

For me, the "when" is even trickier, for even when I'm finally done, usually I'm not. Five minutes -- or two days -- later, a related thought or a different way of saying something comes to me, and I go back and revise the post. And when I re-read it, some other phrase catches my eye, and soon I'm re-working other parts. Walking through Paris is very conducive to thinking, so this happens regularly. Needless to say, Paris is also full of wonderful things to do, so what may be less regular are our actual blog postings. Ashley has been good about making time to post, and encouraging me to do the same, but I'm not as disciplined as she is.

But that's my process. Personally, I think our contrasting styles make for entertaining reading. I hope others agree, but at the end of the day, it's our blog, and we'll post if, when, in whatever manner and for whatever reasons we want to. To paraphrase another song.

-- MBB

More than just a glove

I am a people-watcher par excellence . (One of the only vocab words I retained from tenth grade. That and "excoriations," which doesn't seem quite as useful). Wanting desperately to fit into Paris, I believe this skill is simultaneously welcomed and also very dangerous. Over the last few days roaming around our new city, Matt and I have observed some items of note. First of all, most of the adorable French children (a redundant expression, if there ever was one) wear glasses. And not just the unfortunate glasses that the young American children get forced on their faces. From speckled pink to neon blue, these youngsters already embody chic. Apparently, however, after their eyes are checked and specs purchased, the parents feel that their duties are over, as rarely is a child seen wearing any sort of glove or mitten. This struck me from the very beginning, as Matt and I, whose bodies are accustomed to this frigid weather, have been walking around looking like the abominable snowhomme and snowfemme. Matt and I came up with a few theories. Perhaps their hands can't be held as tightly if they're shrouded in material. Maybe the frugal French parents feel that a glove purchased for a wee one is a dollar wasted, as they inevitably end up lost (proof pictured above). Whatever the reason, it has been the ONLY concern I have thus far with the culture I am trying to embody. Give me time, as I am sure I will come up with a few more to add to my list.

That being said, as I was uploading the picture for this post, I looked a little more closely. Upon further inspection, I realized that the glove was giving me the universal "middle finger." Sadly, this is one thing I can understand in French. Is it a sign? I have been trying to shake off the small incidents here and there, like the fact that I almost walked in on an older gentlemen using the loo because I didn't understand the table behind me telling me that the restroom was occupied. Whoops! I wanted to go in and flush myself down the toilet out of embarrassment. Or, the deliciously thick almond pate that Matt and I purchased last night for dessert, cutting it up into pieces and enjoying every morsel. After further investigation, we learned that it is to be placed in dried fruit, and not to be eaten in chunks (or rolled into ornate snowflakes and snowmen with berets) like we had done. I am sure it was just one of the glove-wearing anomalies simply dropping a glove, but it seemed to be calling out to me; a wee slap in the face. I don't believe our road will be without bumps, which will make it even more magnifique when I can not only take a picture of the glove, but say "glove" in French, and eventually even inquire as to the habits of en'fant gloves and glasses.


It is with my extreme delight, however, to report that we are making daily strides in becoming Parisian (despite what the glove may be saying to me). In the Bon Marché today, Matt was sporting red corduroys, just like the ones in the Ralph Lauren section (putting aside that it is an American brand). Fashion, check. We now know the layout of our local Franprix supermarket. Food, check. I have almost mastered "bonjour" (with the exception of one instance today when I said "merci" instead. At least I was being polite?). French...help.

Overall, though, we are enjoying every moment here. The cold weather has brought a lovely blanket of snow which could not be more picturesque or romantic. Even though we are exhausted come night, each day and corner brings a new breathtaking sight and adventure. From gorgeous statues, to snow-dusted cobblestone, we are taking it all in. Even my sinus headache was cured by our new French pharmacist, Jean-Philippe! Over-priced medicine never seemed so glamorous.

And just when I start thinking about how different I am from the people here, and feel a twinge of doubt, Beyoncé comes over the radio, or in the case of today, you run into two couples from Michigan (U-Mich alum!) and New Canaan, Connecticut, on St. Germain. It will be a while before that gloves rescinds its middle finger, but for now, I will appreciate the fact that I can understand what it is saying, and make the best of it.

La Grenouille

Tonight, for the first time since arriving in Paris, Ashley and I felt like outsiders. We were at a friend's apartment for a party, and all of the people there were very pleasant. But all of them spoke French -- all of them, that is, except us. (Je parle un peu, as I usually sheepishly explain before retreating back to the safety of English.) Some of the English-speaking party-goers would talk to us for a while, and then get pulled in to other conversations, leaving us stranded in our little corner of the kitchen; we were almost entirely reliant on the kindness of étrangers. We both want to learn French -- we know we have to to make our Paris experience as full as possible. But having survived our first few days with only basic interactions with the natives (many of whom, not surprisingly, speak English) at our hotel, the boulangerie and pharmacie, we had heretofore managed to deftly sidestep the language barrier. Tonight we ran squarely into it.

There's no need to feel sorry for ourselves or to make any more of this than it is. We must -- and we will -- learn French. It will take a little time, but it will happen. But at times one can be tricked into thinking that one has enough in common with the French that learning the native tongue is not necessary. David Brooks could probably express this more succinctly than I'm trying to now, but if one is educated, cultured and aware, as we are, one can almost feel equally at home in the West Village as, say the West End of London or West Paris. This was illustrated for me by the fact that on Thursday two people from back home sent me an article from that day's New York Times about a store in Paris called Merci. As it happens, it's a few blocks from our hotel, and it's as great and notable as the article makes it out to be. While browsing, Ashley and I heard a few college-age Americans exclaim over the store's selection of shoes. To borrow the phrase of one of David Brooks's colleagues, the world is flat. Though at times it may be a to-die-for Christian Laboutin.

Comforting and alluring though this Paris is, it is not the complete Paris. Another way to say this is that there is La Grenouille, and there is la grenouille. The former is a restaurant in New York -- "the last great French restaurant in New York," to be exact, as the Times proclaimed a few weeks ago. It sounds wonderful. But right now I am more interested in the latter: la grenouille -- the frog -- as Ashley and I experienced her at our first meal in Paris, three days ago. Ashley sang the dish's praise in her most recent post. It was indeed exquisite. It wasn't the frogs themselves but the sauce -- brown, rich and garlickly, but with a clean finish. Ashley shared with me willingly, but after the meat was gone I found myself reaching back across the table several times to sop up the sauce with pieces of baguette. The bread, in turn, was as fresh, firm and chewy as one could ever hope to find in Paris. The meal was exalted -- not in a $95, three-course, prix-fixe sort of way, like Grenouille, but in the around-the-corner-excellence sort of way that Paris does so well. We look forward many more such revelations.

If I can, only three days in, take stock of where we are in our in terms of our French-ification (or "French-frying," as Ashley sometimes likes to say), I would say that we are right where we should be. What we lack in knowledge of the language, city and culture -- and it is much -- we make up for in willingness to learn. Tomorrow we'll head out another exploratory walk of Paris. We'll cross the Seine, wind our way through Saint-Germain and, if Ashley's map-reading skills are correct, end up at Bon Marché. As a devotee of the store, Ashley jokes that she needs no map but only her shopper's intuition to guide us. What she may not realize, but which I must seriously note here, is how truly intuitive she is. Not just about Bon Marché, but about la vie française. What I am referring to are the little flourishes that mark her as one-at-heart with the French. The way she elegantly arranged our Thursday-night dessert of Haribo candies and Fig-Newton-like cookies. The way she ties her scarf (an art that I have yet to master). The way she took one look inside the restaurant as we walked past it that first night and knew that it was where we should eat. We may not know their language yet, but the French can't take that away from her. Or me.



UPDATE: I had meant to sign this post as "The Frog Prince," but by the time I finished writing it was late Friday night, and I forgot. Then on Saturday afternoon, when we visited Bon Marché, we saw this sign. C'est moi sur le droit.

-- MBB

You have to kiss a few frogs....

I can't believe I am living in Paris. It was barely 6am when we landed this morning, and even though it was pitch dark the city was already alive. It was infectious as I sat in the cab, watching the lights, feeling the energy, and holding the hand of my new husband.

Matt did not just fall into my lap. As my gals can tell you, I did my fair share of dating the duds, and kissing the frogs. Although there were those times that I thought Mr. Right was simply not out there, and I was going to be the real-life Brigid Jones (minus Colin Firth) those failed relationships simply led me to one that is fail-proof. As Matt and I settled into our hotel room this morning, each secretly hoping to have enough shelf space so as to meticulously arrange and store our belongings, I smiled inside, knowing that in many ways it was an analogy for our life in Paris; making the best of what we have, sharing with one another, and delighting in whatever comes our way (yes, organizing does that for me).

That being said, and with the sentiment set aside (Devon, stop reading), I am elated that I have found my prince charming, and am done kissing frogs, because I may now be the catalyst for their extinction. This evening, after a stroll through our new neighborhood, we stopped in a quaint little bistro for what we hoped would be an authentic French meal. We were not let down. In addition to the most chewy, fresh baguette, I had warm goat cheese crostinis with rosemary on a bed of greens. That may have seemed sufficient (especially if you could see me sitting here inhaling the Haribo that we secured at the Franpix this evening), but that was just not going to do if I were to now be "French." The kind waiter arrived and placed the aromatic, dark stew in front of me. To the unknowing eye, it appeared as if it were in the same family as Manhattan clam chowder. Exit clam, insert frog. The entire body of the frog was served within the sauce, save the head. Luckily for the frog, he was not alone in his misery, as I believe there were between 7-10 little fellows, about to be eaten by the pseudo-French madame hovering over them. As I plucked the meat from the first little thigh, I was expecting to gag, and perhaps make my first scene in my new home town. To my utter shock, the tender meat slid right down, soon to be followed by many more bites.

Although I felt as if I walked down the rue today with an American flag plastered on my forehead, I believe my transition from Mrs. Benz to Madame Benz has begun. Sorry, Kermit.

"Whatever You Desire"

It's a symbol closely associated with the French monarchy and Florence, Italy. It adorns the helmets of the New Orleans Saints. It was even the logo of Pierce Patchett's high-priced call-girl ring in L.A. Confidential (an odd reference perhaps, but the movie's a favorite of mine). I speak of course of the fleur-de-lys (or -lis, though I prefer the former if for no other reason than I think the word looks cooler spelled that way). It may be hard to lay claim to something so prevalent, but there is no other symbol that I more closely associate with our marriage and move to France.

The symbolism is rooted in Ashley's background. The fleur-de-lys is the logo of her sorority, Kappa Kappa Gamma -- which was also her mother's and grandmother's, all three of them at Bucknell (Ashley's sister, Meredith, was a Kappa at Colgate) -- and the lily ("fleur-de-lys" literally means "lily flower") is Ashley's favorite flower. This alone would have landed it a prominent role in our wedding celebration. But the fact that that the fleur-de-lys is so very French as well made it, as the Americans say, a slam dunk. And indeed, the symbol graced our wedding invitations, and the flowers adorned tables at the ceremony and reception.


Because of this, I suppose we are especially attuned to fleurs-de-lys sightings. And so it was both fitting and comforting to see the logo on the sign of our hotel, the St. Gregory in DC, where we stayed the last few days. We took it as a cosmic sign that though we are heading out on a big adventure abroad, we will perhaps not be as far from home as we might think. It was similarly fitting and comforting -- though more surprising -- to see the fleur on the doors (pictured above) through which we entered Dulles airport a few hours ago. Its placement there probably had to do with the Air France check-in desk located just inside, to which we were headed. In eight-and-a-half hours we'll be in Paris. Where, I'm guessing, we'll see a few more fleurs-de-lys.

-- MBB

A four-letter word

I have always loved the word "Visa," as it conjures up images of a tiny little piece of plastic that can bring so much joy. It shares that life-altering ability with the American Express, Mastercard, and Discover card. It is, indeed, the closest thing we have in the modern world to a miracle. The Visa has come to my rescue so many times -- in times of despair, in times of need (like the 4-inch pink stilettos that were calling to me), and in times of desire.

Now, "Visa" is a curse word. I have been continuing to capitalize the word as I have been moaning about it in just about every email, text, and letter I have written as of recent. However, I realize that it is wrong for so many reasons. First of all, it is a common noun, so it is not deserved of a capital "V." More importantly, however, for no reason should it be given any special treatment, as it has shown us none. Whereas initially the visa process was exciting -- we got married so that we could begin it, for heaven's sake! -- it very quickly has lost its luster. Now, just the thought of it raises my blood pressure and makes my heart race.

Yesterday, at 8:00am, Matt and I sped through Georgetown, up Reservoir Road, and stood outside the French consulate patiently, nervous that once again we would be told to hit the road, Jack (and don't you come back). The visa would plague us once again.

"Mr. Benz and Miss Meeeler, please come forward." And just like that, we were stamped. As I look at the last page of my passport, it stares right back at me. I know that I should be elated that it is covered with my ticket to a life of wine, cheese, and glamour in Paris.

To me, however, "visa" will forever be a four-letter word.

The better half speaks....

As I watched the snow fall from the balcony of our carriage house in Chestnut Hill yesterday, I felt a slight twinge of concern (dare I say doubt as well?) about the journey we were about to embark on. My move to Philadelphia only six months ago was prompted by my need and desire to be closer to my family, and now I had agreed to leave both my family and my country. I shouldn't be that dramatic -- I do have an amazing new husband, Matthew Benz, who is not only my soulmate, but also my travel buddy. Our departure from home to DC (first leg of the journey to Paris) was not made any easier by farewells from loving "landlords," or the scenic ride on the R8 to 30th Street Station. Even the North Philadelphia stop tugged at my heart strings, as that is where I spent the last six months with an amazing group of kiddos. It is also no coincidence that over the last month my introductory Facebook albums that I posted almost two years ago, have reunited me with some of my DCPS monsters. It has been a constant reminder to me that I have spent the last few years of my life as an English teacher, mother, mentor, and friend -- a profession and passion that I will be putting on hold across the ocean. This not only saddens me, but scares me as well. What will I do to fill my time? Side note: I don't speak French.

This brings me to our "honeymoon" (as my Aunt Beetle termed it this morning) in DC. Here we will wait for the "oui," living at the St. Gregory on M Street. Last night on our way to surprise all of my dear DC friends at a NYE party, we were blessed with a gabby Kenyan cabbie who only had thirteen or so blocks to help remind me that I was soon to be in a country where I would not know the language, be able to work, or be able to study. It all seems so surreal and a little less romantic as I have been afforded more time to process now that we are waiting for the red tape to be ripped away so we can be on our way.

So what to do in the interim? Shall I take the necessary step forward and pull out the French dictionary, or do I wait until we make it to Paris and I am home alone during the day with nothing to occupy my time but my trips to the market and wine selections for the evening meal with my new husband? Something is preventing me from taking the plunge, and it is not the fact that my French books are now sitting in a storage space in France, waiting to be collected by their tardy owners.

In semi-subconscious protest of what will be, Matt and I are ringing in 2010 American style, in the nation's capital. There is no hip cafe across the street from us, but instead a Chinese restaurant and a gaudy new construction in view. Our first meal of the day was not a fresh baguette with butter, but a fiber-enriched, fortified and highly preserved loaf of bread with America's own gem of a spread: peanut butter. In the midst of a marathon of MTV's "Teenage Moms" and TLC's "One Big Happy Family" (a fabulous combination of America's obsession with reality TV and our country's struggle with obesity), I ran to CVS to get us Kraft Macaroni & Cheese for lunch. For dessert, Matt decided that in lieu of a bon-bon, a prepackaged Oreo would do.

Paris will happen. But until it does, I believe there is no better diversion from the uncertain than a healthy dose of the Kardashians while munching a Domino's pizza in our hotel room -- which, by the way, is adorned with fleur-de-lis.

And We're Off! Kind Of

Well, here we are. Not in Paris, as we expected to be by now, but in Washington, DC. It turns out that our visas weren't ready on December 23, when we thought they would be. When we visited the French Consulate on Reservoir Road that day, the pleasant but firm visa officer told us (in an accent that, curiously enough, sounded more Eastern European than French) that Ashley was nowhere to be found in their paperwork. We had married quickly in the fall so that we could move together to Paris. We had a flight booked for December 27, and movers had carted away most of our belongings a few days prior. We had been told by the agency that was assisting us with the visas that they would be there for us on the 23d. The news that they weren't was deflating. To make matters worse, as we drove back to Philly that night, we got bogged down in holiday traffic the likes of which neither of us had ever seen. Having spent 3+ hours in the car and only gotten as far at Baltimore, we were physically and emotionally spent. We found a hotel in downtown Charm City and regrouped.


So here we are. Again. Christmas in Philly with Ashley's parents (the first that I didn't spend with my own mom and dad) was great. The city had been home to us over the last six months, but with no jobs or possessions remaining there, it was time to go. Figuring that DC was at least theoretically closer to Paris, since it's where the French Consulate is located, last night we moved in to the St. Gregory Hotel, at 20th and M. It's next door to my old France Telecom office, and a few blocks from the school where Ashley used to teach. It's kind of surreal. Here we plan to say one more farewell to our friends here (some of whom we saw for New Year's Eve last night at Ashley's old house), before we visit the Consulate Tuesday morning and -- fingers crossed -- receive our visas. Then we'll head to Dulles, hop on the next Air France flight and be in Paris at last. Stay tuned.

-- MBB