No Child

I find myself frequently thinking about Julia Child as I walk around Paris, wondering what she would have done had she been in my shoes (suede magenta Arche boots that are oh so French, by the way). It was very wrong of me to read My Life in France on the flight over in my comfortable business-class reclining seat and then a little more each evening as we retired for the night, in our clean, warm hotel room our first week here. Not to mention the fact that I taught a project-based learning unit to my students called “The Moody Foodie” (how applicable to me these days) using Julie & Julia as the premise prior to leaving. I set myself up. I was coming to “Julia’s Paris,” and not my own. We have a few differences in our Parisian lifestyles that immediately make the comparison a little tricky. For starters, Julia’s move was a lot more hefty and luxurious. They pulled up to their two story flat in the swanky seventh district (image above of 81 Rue de Loo) in their car, not a cab that drove in circles initially, either totally unaware of where he was going, or one-hundred-percent aware that we were not Parisian. Either way, it was a rainy day, and we were loaded down with the same possessions we had been carting around for almost two weeks (and the terribly necessary items that we had collected, like the remainder of our almond paste that had not gotten transformed into snowmen or snowflakes). Julia was thrust into a circle of American women, as she was here through the U.S. government. I was on my own with that one, which makes each day a little more stressful, as you continue to go to events (or trying to navigate your way there), solo, hoping that you will meet a potential friend, or at least get some free food out of it. And, if Julia wanted a day to herself, and a break from her new group, she would cook, in her kitchen. That had a stove. Another difference that I am still grappling with.

Now, this is not to say that Julia’s opinion of France will not some day be mine. We do already have similarities that are worthy of sharing. For instance, neither of our apartments have heat. She talks about wearing lots of layers in the winter, indoors, and as I sit here in my pajamas and housecoat, I can already begin to feel the bond (or is that my scarf tied a little too tightly?). There is a scene from the movie that I just adore. Meryl is on Rue Cler (I will be bringing all visitors to this charming cobble-stone street that is closed to traffic and serves as an outdoor market to the needy seventh-arrondissement dwellers) and is smiling from ear to ear, with her basket of goodies. She is clearly jubilant, and just in love with her surroundings. Total Parisian bliss. I, too, have felt that feeling.

I have been unable to get a doctor’s appointment because we still don’t have our insurance cards. The first week here when I was ready to rip my sinuses out myself, I decided to see if JP (the English speaking pharmacist we met) could help. He went so far as to offer me more Nasonex, which I declined, but tucked away in the back of my mind. As Sunday approaches, and it time for me to arm myself once more against the possibility of bebe Benzes, I was desperate. I threw on my shoes and walked the two miles to JP, to see if perhaps I could buy some time by buying some Nuva Rings -- sans prescription. Not only would that be illegal in America, it would be astronomical. Thank goodness I was in the presence of a pharmacist, because I almost fainted. Not only did I walk out with three, they were a fraction of what they would have cost in America. As I walked out, with a spring in my step, I was finally like Julia. Though the contents of my bag of goodies was quite different, my smile was infectious, and my feeling of elation was clearly visible.

I would also like to note that I am getting better with the convection oven. For the Valentine’s Day brunch I attended yesterday (and will be attending a Valentine’s Day cocktail party next week -- just like Julia), I made cookies! I had to get inventive with my icing, so each almond paste heart I created was frosted on by means of Nutella. The tray was sprinkled with chocolate hearts that I found in the bag of uber-expensive mints I had accidentally purchased two weeks ago. My cookies were a hit at the party, and I felt a sense of culinary accomplishment that I had yet to feel here in Par-ee. It is no themed cupcake, but perhaps that too will come in time. Just like Julia’s adoration of France.