WWCBD?

It must be noted that as I was walking towards the 15th arrondisement on Monday morning, my body and mind still somewhat hazy from a weekend of pique-niquing and regrouping from donkeys and couscous, I was very abruptly and quite undesirably thrust into a moral dilemma.

I can safely say that throughout my life I have tried to do “the right thing.” It is my hope that I have more than wing sprouts by the time I meet my maker. Yet there are those moments that test you, your strength, and your judgment. Whereas I typically like to keep these moments to myself, this one is worthy of mention for two reasons. First and foremost, it embodies the glamour of Paris. Secondly, it makes me love my husband even more.

As so it goes. I was strolling past the Bastille metro stop, ipod tuned to Beyonce, when I notice a black pump on the sidewalk. It is no ordinary shoe however, and the cherry red sole instantaneously pulls me out of my fog, as any Louboutin should do. One, fine. Half a pair is good for nothing more than a chic doorstop or perhaps a high-end doggie chew toy. But as it would be, not a foot (pun intended) away, was its twin. Its soul mate (yep, attended again). What to do? A girl dreams of a day when her luck would be such, yet there was this little part of me advising me to walk away, as there is a rightful owner somewhere (hopefully not in a dumpster). So, I text my more thoughtful half as I am grappling with morality. His noteworthy response? “At moments like this you need to ask yourself: WWCBD?”. And so I used that wisdom as my guidance, and put myself in the mindset of fashionista and do-gooder, Carrie Bradshaw.

My conclusion: she would kick herself (probably in Manolo’s), but come to the conclusion that although it would have been quite a way to start the week, they should be left for others to salivate over, and the rightful owner to eventually claim (as it was most likely noodles for a month to slip those suckers on). It makes me sad to think that they may be gracing the feet of another passer by, but at least I know that Carrie would be proud of me, as was my husband. More importantly, now my Fitflops won’t get jealous.

A Little Material Goes a Long Way

Marrakech is truly unbelievable, as the colors combined with the abnormal sensations are truly out of this world (take waking up at 5am to the call to prayer that is being broadcast throughout the town over loud speakers that seem especially loud when they wake you from a deep sleep). Or as Matt put it, you feel like you should be battling the crowds, turning a deaf ear to the shopkeepers’ incessant haggling, and swerving around motorbikes and donkeys with your Indiana Jones hat on. The experience is that different and that “movie-like.” But what disappointed me most from the whole experience was not anything having to do with the lack of sanitation, or the pollution that finally forced me to a pharmacist in Essaouira. It was that most of the tourists were dressed like Hollywood starlets off the screen, and therefore ruined the romantic effect. Booty shorts next to a burka are not okay.

I say this because it is clear (visually and audibly) that there is a very unique, well-respected Muslim culture in Morocco. Most Americans (and tourists alike) know about the real Muslim world only from watching the news, or forming their opinions based on what the burka has come to mean to the Western world. Being one of the many who knew that there was a different way of life, but not exactly what it was, I turned to the trusty Internet prior to departure. When I Googled “appropriate attire” for le maroc, it prompted me to tear through my closet to find the correct elements that would uphold and not insult the Muslim culture (covered shoulders, longer bottoms and a shawl for your head inside religious buildings). As I hemmed and hawed over my hem length, I got anxious thinking that I would possibly be deemed offensive, which is the last thing I want to be when visiting someone else’s country. Well, apparently no one else was running to H&M at the last minute to buy long shorts to wear under all of their sleeved kaftans. Apparently no other tourists even bothered to bring sleeves (or bras for that matter). The attire was appalling, and I am not a practicing Muslim. At what point do people realize that “when in Rome” has a dual meaning? It is important to be open to what a new culture has to offer, but you must respect that culture as well, attire included.

As any good American would do prior to departure, I also tried to find out where in Marrakech the scenes from Sex & the City II were filmed. Although the search was fruitless, I did see pictures of SJP in her t-shirt (sleeves included) and her floor-length skirt. Look, none of us know SJP, but we can all safely say we have seen most of her bod (and a fine one at that). If SJP is willing to forgo fashion and revealing a little skin to respect the Muslim culture, so should we. Respect goes a long way, and should go at least to your knees next time you visit Morocco.

On and Off the Avenue

Since we arrived in Paris, I've been fascinated by the length and uniformity of the avenues and boulevards here. Before you roll your eyes, scratch your head or simply click away, let me try to explain. When Paris underwent an urban renewal in the mid-19th century -- bringing sewers and other such things that turned what was in many ways still a medieval city into a modern one -- broad avenues and boulevards were run across the city. The new buildings lining them were all the same distance from the street and no more than a certain height. The result is lovely sight lines as you stand on the sidewalk and follow the continuous façade to the horizon. (Our friend Lindsay talks about this, along with Sarkozy's own plans for urban renewal, on her blog.) In downtown DC, the buildings are all the same height, but the architecture's blah, and the effect is lost. In Manhattan, the straight streets and skyscrapers create urban canyons, but you feel like the city's going to swallow you up. In Paris, the sight of all these lovely old buildings calmly lined up is altogether different: it's graceful and pleasing, without being rigid. (It's especially pleasing for someone who appreciates order like me. When I was young, I would cry that my hamburger was "broken" after I had eaten through the middle and split it in two. At work today, my colleagues marvel at all the neat stacks of paper on my desk.) Vive la différence.

It's been said that the grid of Manhattan helps to contain the chaos of New York. I think that in Paris the long boulevards and avenues enable it. It's along the busiest streets that you'll find the most bustling outdoor cafés, for that's where the most people are walking and thus where the best people-watching is. Most Parisian cafés keep tables outside all year long, and the chairs are always facing the street. True, a recent law against smoking inside has driven some people outside, but many were already there because of this other, deeper addiction.

In a country where strikes are common, the avenues are also a good forum for protests. Shortly after I started working, there was a march down the boulevard outside my office. I don't remember now what it was about, but it filled the breadth of the boulevard, it lasted at least an hour and it was loud. Several weeks ago, Ashley and our friend Carolyn happened across a farmers' protest parade in Bastille. Again, hard to tell exactly what they were against (Carolyn tried to take a photo, but was shooed away by an organizer), but surely the symbolism of a convoy of tractors circling la place where the notorious prison was notoriously stormed during the la révolution was lost on no French. Ashley and Carolyn returned to our flat -- only to find that the march had followed them: Looking out our living-room window, they saw the tractors rolling down Boulevard Voltaire on their way to another place, Nation, where revolutionary blood was also spilled.

That, however, was not the strangest thing we've seen on our street. As we were getting ready for bed one recent Friday night, we heard a low whooshing sound coming from outside. There, down on the street, was a surging river of rollerbladers, taking up a full lane of traffic. There were a few yells, but mostly it was the sound of thousands of rubber wheels rolling across smooth asphalt. As we later learned, it was an installment of [Friday Night Fever], a regular rollerblading event. It was a cool early-spring evening, and it must have been a thrill to be among the throng of skaters surging down the boulevard. But to the two of us, there at our proverbial sidewalk table, it was pretty amazing.

-- MBB

From The Noveaux Weds

From The Noveaux Weds

From The Noveaux Weds

From The Noveaux Weds

From The Noveaux Weds

Mom's Balls

As we cleaned up last night from our petite soiree, it didn't go without notice that the buckeye balls Paris-style (as chocolate refuses to melt here) were almost finis. There's something about peanut butter (which alone was enticing enough for these legume-hungry Americans), but mixed with sugar, butter and topped off with French chocolate, it's basically a ball of bliss. I can't take credit for this heavenly invention, as I frequently whip out Anne Miller's medley of recipes, which I knew had to accompany us on our journey. No Paris kitchen is complete without a recipe card for American macaroni & cheese. Nor can I take credit for my hostess skills, and the knowledge that setting out the dishes and polishing the ice bucket the night before is a must. As I walk away from last night (or "trudge" after too many cupcakes, glasses of wine, and not enough sleep), I feel the sense of accomplishment that any good party planner should feel. The vibe was good, the compliments were plenty, and the damage was minimal. Party-planning and attention to detail is in my blood, as my mom has taught me well.

As I sit here any type, tired from a combination of late night and early rise for help at the practice round of the Paris Spelling Bee, I feel like I have represented Anne Miller well on this American Mother's Day. Successful party (with meticulous preparation and lots of prior vacuuming): check. Volunteering (and special bond with the English language): check. Ability to write a detailed list for the upcoming week: check. Mom, I hope I have made you as proud as you make me! I love you, maman.

For those of you who couldn't make it (that damn ocean always gets in the way), a few shots from last night.

Yes, these are Kraft Macaroni & Cheese shooters (compliments of my other maman!)

Micki, this is Matt's tribute to you on this Mother's Day -- he cooks as he is told to (and what you have kindly sent us)!

Week Round-Up

As there were a few items of note this week, I wasn’t quite sure initially how to tie it all together. However, as always, you can count on kiddos to add something worthy to talk about. And in this case, they also gave me the idea for the title of this post. Let me explain....

As we sat at lunch today, having spent hours peeling eggs, cutting tomatoes and chopping onions, I was tired. However, a teacher at heart, my “up-to-no-good radar” is still strong, and I could tell that the Indian boys at the end of the table were staring at me and giggling. As I whipped around to inquire what was so funny, they beat me to the punch. They pointed at my necklace, a large coral colored-plastic chain-link number, and asked what it was. When I responded accordingly, they told me that in their country it was called “sengal.” Thinking I had learned the Punjabi word for my accessory, I settled back down to my meal. Couth having been quickly washed down by the l’eau on the table, they got my attention once again and were delighted to tell me that in their country it was a chain for bison. So quickly it went from fashion statement to cattle accessory.

This roundup, however, is without any cute cowboys or prairie grass -- just the proper fencing, apparently.

Wednesday I had the pleasure of another AWG country hike. As we boarded the RER for Lardy, based on the name alone, I was expecting little. However, I was in for a visual treat, and felt so far removed from the bustling city. Miles would pass and there wouldn’t be another soul except for our small group. We could see miles and miles of peas, maize in the making and other root vegetables that were just beginning to sprout (no bison, though). The rapeseed, also known as canola, was a breathtaking yellow crop that is harvested come summer and made into canola oil. In addition to the yellow flowers blowing in the wind, our walk took us through forests with a floor blanketed in white and purple flowers. It felt as if Snow White would pop out at any moment and ask us if we wanted to come into her home, have some tea, and meet her dwarfs.

Surreal found me once more, but this time it was in the Lavatronic drying sheets. I found myself learning all about Martinique via mobile phone photos when the man sitting on the washer found out I was American and was able to converse in English. Converse in English he did (more like preach in English), and little did I know that for my three euros I would get dry sheets, visuals of the carnival on his native island and a lecture on socialism. It is one of those moments when you are not sure how you got yourself in that position, but if you could close your eyes, click your heels and end up alone in the canola fields, you gladly would. Bison optional (although welcome if chained up by tres chic coral-colored sengal).

Bon week-end!

Stars & Stripes Radar

Here I sit with a scraped knee and a very bruised ego. This morning marked my first day of Operation Battle of the Baguette Bulge, but with that came a long walk down Rivoli in running shoes and strapped across me, both a Le-dork-sac containing my water bottle and cell phone, and across the other side, my monogrammed pink and green yoga mat carrier. I looked like American Exercise Barbie (plus roots and minus the figure). I have tried so hard to blend in here, but exercising in general makes you stick out like a sore thumb (or in my case, a very sore knee). As my friend Carolyn and I tried to find the spot where boot camp was to begin, it soon became apparent thanks to the North Faces and exercise mats forming large, obnoxious arrows (red, white and blue) through the blooming trees. After doing way too many squats, jumping jacks, push-ups and other exercises that escape my tired brain, we rounded out the session with a “game.” A grown up form of football, with a mini-basketball, and way too much running. As the ball headed towards me, and I could almost taste the sweet success of a goal (which would make my very first in any sport I have played), but in typical American house-wife fashion, I was tackled to the ground. Competition is the main criteria in being a successful housewife in the US, is it not? Instead of tasting victory, I tasted the dust that coats the grounds of the Tuleries. As I made peace with this incident limping home, I swear I heard two well-groomed older French women cackle and say “Americaine.” If only I had still had my “Think Thin” sugar-free meal bar (a recent acquisition thanks to my U.S. visitors) to help ease the momentary pain. Chocolate and peanut butter would have been a nice distraction.

So what is it about the collective U.S.? As my friends pointed out frequently this weekend (in addition to lots of people pointing at us), we stick out. I know I have discussed this before, but this weekend it was especially pronounced, and needs mention once more. It is more than the scarf-tying and being the only one using Splenda at Starbuck’s -- the French seem to have an American radar, and it is about time that it malfunction! Although I know I should be proud when asked about my home country, instead I feel like I have a large grilled cheese and dollar sign plastered on my forehead. I do think that a lot of it is centered around the American dream -- the land of plenty (and then some). A shopkeeper we spoke to talked about her desire to retire in NYC. A man in Kremlin Bicetre was beyond thrilled that Americans had ventured into his suburbs. There is a reason Rihanna (pronounced Re-Hahna) is such a celebrity here. She represents what the world over wants: success, fame, and money--in America.

But as our time here in France lengthens, I see the “American dream” all around me. Next door there is a cadre of young men working day in and day out to prepare their new mobile phone store. The space is a little larger than our living room, but they have been sanding, painting, and pouring in their all, sunrise to sunset (which is around 9:30pm!). I plan on breaking my phone just so I can get it fixed there to give them business. It has been wonderful to watch. Or three doors down there is a little café that has popped up, serving mediocre French food (divine guacamole, though), but giving it their all. Every day I see the chairs being set up, and the young host waiting eagerly for the customers to collect.

Instead of a conclusion, I do believe I am even more confused about our stardom this weekend (I am not discounting the fact that we make quite a cute foursome). In this neighborhood alone I see the American dream alive and well. And let’s be honest, it can’t be our cuisine or our belief that gluttony is simply a way of life. So, the mystery continues…but in my quest for the answer, I have some research to do. First and foremost, I have a glass of white wine calling my name three doors down so that I can better collect my thoughts. And it won't be so bad if I accidentally spill some vino on it either, as I know where I can get it fixed!