The Attire of Defeat

Today I walked out of the house in my Target nightgown, a Nike hoodie, and plastic gold Chinese slippers adorned with sequined flowers. Although our laundro-mat is typically filled with an eclectic crew, today I was the sore thumb. This is after Monday evening when Matt and I walked to the park nearby, my tired feet (and tired mind) reaching for my obnoxious FitFlops (and not my black subdued ones purchased at Galleries Lafayette)---my clumsy thick, white soles reminding me with every-step that I was giving in.

I am losing my Paris mo-jo. Yesterday during my French lesson I was being taught the various levels of like/dislike. I put my couthe aside as I went for Francais administration under the category of “je deteste.” After feeling like it was an inappropriate joke, I quickly followed up j’adore with pain aux raisins. They are both authentically French, right?

In jest, I called last Monday “V-Day” as it was the long culmination of a battle we have been waging with the various groups that would give us immediate answers about the status of our visa and our necessary paperwork. And like D-Day, the French have won. We simply can’t get the answers we need, the work papers I am yearning for, and the peace of mind that would allow us to enjoy our time as Americans in Paris. They are testing our desire to stay-put, as they have gone so far as to schedule our medical/paperwork appointments for our mutelle on Monday (and with a week’s notice). This is also the day of a “July 5^th” picnic that I have been planning with a friend, and was very much looking forward to. As I put the wrapped up the prizes in red and yellow ribbon to send to my friend across town, as I will no longer be present to partake in the egg-toss, balloon toss, three-legged race, and patriotic flatware, I couldn't help but think that this is a sign. A shame of a coincidence? I think not. I am beginning to think I have a choice to make, as it seems that I can't be French and American simultaneously.

As I end this post and head back out in my floral nightgown, I can’t help but feel defeated and a yearning to return back home. This goes against all that Gangsta Milla, USA edition, stands for. Yet there comes a time when change is welcome, and in this case, it may be necessary. I miss Betty Crocker, low-fat cheese, spray butter, and more than anything, I miss my voice.

Still April in Paris

It officially became summer in Paris this week, but up until a few days ago you wouldn't have known it from walking outside. Sure, the trees are in bloom, people fill the outdoor cafe tables (as they do almost year-round) and the tourists take up what little sidewalk space remains. But the warm weather we had been looking forward to since arriving in January just hasn't taken hold.

Weather takes on added significance when you're somewhere new. It can make or break a vacation -- or, in our case, amplify the highs and lows of life in a foreign land. When the weather's nice, even a short stroll for a baguette is a joy. When it's not, we grow restless inside, warily eyeing our French homework and the e-mails from family and friends piling up in our inboxes.

It's not like it's been cold. But it almost has been. Last weekend, the temperature was stuck in the low sixties, and I wore only pants and long-sleeved shirts. Saturday night, as I was crossing the Seine, the wind gusts were enough to make me wish I had on an overcoat.

I've noticed numerous references to harsh French winds in ex-pat literature. In A Year in Provence, Peter Mayle writes of his first January in the South of France, when the Mistral "came howling down the Rhône valley, turned left and smacked into the west side of the house with enough force to skim roof tiles into the swimming pool." I just expected les vents to have subsided by now, giving way to sun-filled days ready-made for picnics in the Luxembourg Gardens and strolls through the Tuileries.

And that is the problem. It's difficult to come to Paris without these romantic visions, especially if you (like us) have read Mayle's tales (and those of Child, Gopnik, Hemingway...) of life in France. And we have in fact had our share of these experiences, despite the lack of consistent warmth. But those books are distillations of what's best about la vie francaise; the day-to-day reality is something more prosaic. In the end, these experiences may be so special not because they happen every day here but because, like at home, they are seldom. Plus, the historical average high in Paris in June is only 70. It's no wonder the city waits until July to set up the artificial beach along the Seine.

Our problem also is that we arrived in early January, in the depths of an especially cold Parisian winter. Warm weather was to be our reward for all the work we did acclimating -- settling into our apartment, starting my new job, making new friends -- during those cold, dark months. (And dark it was -- Paris is farther north than Montreal.)

If this weather trend persists, we may have to wait until the end of July, when we head to Provence for a week, to be rewarded. We'll just have to hope that the Mistral isn't summering there too.

-- MBB

A plea for my kiddos....

Bonjour to my family and friends,

As most of you know, one of the greatest difficulties and fears for me about moving to Paris, was losing my ability to work with my little monsters. As my luck (and fate) would have it, I was introduced to Enfant du Monde, an organization made up of children who have been displaced from their homeland and currently are both homeless and orphaned. Their stories are horrific, their situations heart-wrenching, and yet them have an energy and spirit that is truly unbelievable. I have been joining them every Friday at a rec center to help them prepare their "meal out" for the week (which is organized by an UNESCO retiree who spends her weeks planning the meal for these children). For the last two weeks this program has been canceled due to budgetary issues, and it has come to my attention that their summer field trip is now most likely canceled. These children have already experienced so much pain, and I want to do my best to make sure that they still receive the little joys that we take for granted.

My following plea is also selfish. These children are the one thing I have found here that makes me feel like I am giving back once more---not monetarily, but with my heart and my passion for equality.

I am asking that you send what you can---not a lot, as in this case even a little bit helps. My understanding is that the fee for the field trip is 10 Euros a head. The Friday meal is 150 Euros and feeds 30 children (not to mention the fact that it gets them out of the shelter and gives them a meal that is above and beyond what they experience all week).

So that we can capture our stateside friends, Matt has a Paypal account that you can use (and then I will convert it into Euros and give it to Zubair, the head of the Paris division). Of course that it goes without saying that that is where the moola will go.

PayPal to matthew.benz@orange-ftgroup.com

Or, if you are here in Paris (or in America and would prefer to skip the Paypal), here is the mailing address:

Enfant du Monde
c/o Zubair Tahir, Responsable Educatif
21 Place Victor Hugo
94270 Le Kremlin-Bicetre

More info on the organization?
www.emdh.org

Please consider helping my kiddos and moi!

Love,
Ashley

Battle of the Bulge

Despite what the title may indicate, this post has nothing to do with my previous one on Normandie. This post is about a very personal battle. One that is about to be fought between me and the patisserie.

I have come full circle. A very round, flabby circle. As I was running two days ago (for the very first time in almost half a year), I had to smile, while simultaneously trying hard not to stop breathing. Not only was I back on the exercise train, but my desired path was none other than Avenue Foch. For those of you who have been following this since the beginning, the very same street was the location for one of my most disappointing early Paris moments. Not only was I now exercising on it, fully aware of my surroundings, it seems only appropriate that I now know the correct pronunciation, which is Foe-shh. Not the more harsh and less welcoming “f*ck,” which I had initially drummed up from my lack of French skills (and which also seemed much more fitting at the time).

Matt and I have now been here almost half a year. I can safely say that we know Paris. Last night we attended a “Play Day” 30th birthday for our next door neighbor. Moi, clad in a marabou-lined bunny outfit, and Matt as the bunny hunter, donning wellies and carrying a fake rifle, felt right at home as we hopped (pun intended) on the Metro excited to celebrate with our new French friend (and her fantastic friends, who were only too willing to chat with us in English -- a large "Merci beaucoup" for that). Being here for almost six months, I can also start to talk about Paris from a more realistic, and less idealistic, position. And with this, I have a secret to share, and a myth to debunk.

This French woman is getting fat. It started out as, “We are new here, so let’s test all the goodies Paris has to offer.” Six months later I find myself still delighting in the pain aux raisins, the bliss of Haribo, and the satisfaction of a warm, chewy baguette. But like all good things, this too must come to an end (or so say my thighs). With this change of heart (and literal change in my heart), I have decided that it is time to swap my boots for Nikes, and get back in the game.

Don’t worry, this battle is one I am determined to win. It is hard to not keep your battle face on when your boot camp takes place in the Tuileries gardens, walking past the Louvre every Tuesday and Thursday to get there. Or when you use the Arc de Triomphe as your point of reference when running to and from the Bois de Boulougne. The looming issue, however, is that this scenery seems to be more fitting a backdrop for a nice café crème and a pistache macaroon. I must keep reminding myself of the ultimate goal: baguette-bulge elimination. Ladies and gentleman, the French patisserie is going down (and hopefully not down my throat).

Let the battle begin!

The Price of Freedom

As Matt and I were waiting at Avis to secure our Ford Fusion, little did I know that our first road trip to the French country would result in such strong emotions and vivid memories. We set off on our trip, Google Maps ready, Micki, Matt, John and I four happy sardines (anchovies if I am being French) in our little tin can.

As we drove past breathtaking little villages, brilliant orange poppies, and rolling lush hills, it was hard to not relax. It was one of those “pinchable” moments. One of those times that is just so calm, so enjoyable, so surreal that it seems almost dreamlike. Little did I know that my tasty Tut crackers from the BP (I know, sorry---slim pickings on the French highway), was nothing more than just that in retrospect. The real disbelief and surrealism would not come until after our gorgeous sun-drenched lunch in the charming seaside town of Deauville.

As we pulled up to the Normandie beaches, I was in awe of the clear blue water and wide expanse. The lack of tourists is always a plus, but in this case it was a necessity. As you stand on the sand and look around you, it is hard not to feel the sacredness of the grains under your toes. In the distance were remnants of the Mulberry harbor, which remains as a reminder of the monstrosity and tragedy that was.

In typical Gangsta Milla fashion, I was overly annoyed by a cadre of teenagers unwilling to acknowledge and uphold the quiet that the experience warranted. However, who am I to fault the kids? It seems that in many ways the memories are lost, with the reality being that sometimes the story is never even imparted. We simply didn’t make it to World War II in AP U.S. History, which means that the only knowledge I have is what I have gleaned from teaching The Diary of Anne Frank to my monsters (as my preferred reading material of chicklits and gossip magazines has not increased my knowledge base of WWII).

This is perhaps why the Normandie American Cemetery, 9,387 graves wide (which is technically American soil) was not only overwhelming, it was heart wrenching. As you walk through the exhibit prior to reaching the cemetery, you get to know not only the story, but the people. In a poignant film, you meet the young men who sacrificed all to allow us to be where we are today. To allow the Marais to be not a safe place for Jewish Parisians, but today a chic and popular place for tourists. My neighborhood is filled with Kosher restaurants, bat/bar mitzvah party stores and has a distinct energy on Sunday, the day after the Sabbath. This is all possible because of those soldiers. The peaceful cemetery is located alongside pristine beach, which was one of the locations for the invasion—the exact opposite of the serenity you feel now. Heroes who left their families, their friends, and their lives behind them to uphold the human right of freedom.

Today marks the 66th anniversary of D-Day, and as I type away, the sky is dark and ominous, and the thunder is loud and jolting. I will never feel the direct impact of war, or fully appreciate all that has happened so that I can be an American living freely in France. But what I know now, is that a day like today is not just another date on the calendar. It is a day that marks the beginning of freedom and the end for many who fought for us to have it. As the rain comes barreling down outside, it is as if the city is crying. Crying for all who allowed it to stand, and allowed it to be free.

Remnants of Mulberry Harbor on the horizon

Our hotel in Bayeux