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!

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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?