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.