J'aime un Défilé

On Wednesday Ashley and I walked down to rue de Rivoli for some peace and quiet. On any other day this would be foolhardy. Rivoli is a main thoroughfare linking Bastille and place de la Concorde, in the center of Paris. Usually the sidewalks are teeming with tourists, forcing faster walkers like us to dart in and out of the street, which itself is usually full of speeding cars. But Wednesday was le quatorze juillet -- Bastille Day -- and the street was blocked off. No cars. Some pedestrians, but few tourists. It was refreshing and relaxing -- almost peaceful -- the way a mid-week bank holiday should be. Sans voitures, the only sounds on Rivoli were the occasional clatter of a loud pair of high heels on the wet sidewalk and the homeless man at his usual post in front of the Hôtel de Sully. He's given to sporadic loud ranting, which startles passers-by who don't know him to be the fixture in the neighborhood that he is. On Wednesday he was ranting in English (maybe he always does but it's just too noisy to hear). He was dressed quite well, in a fashionably rumpled white oxford tucked into jeans, and dark-green suede boots that I might have to get a pair of myself. The only sign that he's homeless is his face, which is unwashed and sunburned. Ashley says he's kind of handsome.

Our day did not begin so peacefully. We awoke, as we often do, to sounds from the street outside our open windows. But this morning it was no ordinary noise. As if some cruel joke, city workers chose this day, when most people aren't working, to begin jackhammering on the sidewalk in front of our building. This forced us to begin our day earlier than we would have liked, so, after breakfast, we decided to try to catch some of the military parade that was making its way down the Champs-Elysées. On our way over we ended up doing some shopping on Rivoli. This must be one of the better-kept secrets of Paris: shop on Bastille Day to take advantage of the surprising number of open stores, remarkably few other customers and the ongoing, government-mandated soldes (sales). "2eme" or "3eme demarque!" some of the signs read.

En route we caught sight of some of the air-show portion of the military parade: sleek jet fighters flying in formation, followed by huge bombers and a succession of older aircraft, including prop planes. Then some camouflaged military vehicles rumbled by: tanks, missile-launchers, amphibious vehicles. There was even a truck towing a raft with two men in scuba gear. By this time it was pouring rain, so they were well equipped for the occasion. They waived as they passed, each man steadying himself with his free hand on the steering wheel of the raft. A little while later, after stops in a few more stores, we looked up in the sky, above the Hôtel de Ville, and saw parachuters drifting silently toward the ground. They looked fake, like G.I. Joe figures or miniature soldiers with napkins tied to them that kids play with. A military parade seems out of place in the post-Cold War West -- but then again so is jackhammering and shopping on le quatorze juillet. Sometimes you just have to go with it. And anyway, the parachuters unscored that this parade not about flexing military muscle but about entertaining the crowds. (I doubt France's enemies were cowering at the sight of the scuba divers.) It was not the start that I was expecting to my first Bastille Day in Paris, but entertaining it certainly was.

Oh, and since the seemingly urgent jackhammering Wednesday morning, we've seen no further work being done to the hole in our sidewalk -- and don't expect to until Monday, November 1. That's All-Saints Day, the next French bank holiday.

-- MBB

Biking in Paris

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Bad Romance

Change of Hearth

As I sit here topless (come on, it is totally common in Europe), braving the heat and feeling slightly woozy still from the stifling metro ride home, I will push past the fact that for forty-five minutes I was slobbered and stepped on by two of the mangiest mutts in muzzles that Paris has to offer, and make the overarching conclusion that this has been a much needed good week.

As Matt wrote about in the last post, Monday would have led us to believe otherwise, as our Monday yielded nothing positive but the x-rays of our ribs that I have framed and hung in our petite living room right next to the entrance to the kitchen (to serve as a reminder to me that somewhere under this flub I have a ribcage and it is time to reacquaint with it). Tuesday sped by with my most recent routine of boot camp, French lessons, teaching English, and then ended with a delightful dinner party whose hostess walked us to the la Tour Eiffel before bidding us farewell. A full accomplished day indeed. Wednesday was another amazing AWG hike that led us through forest, small towns dotted with vibrant roses adorning mailboxes and climbing walls, landed us overlooking a chateau for lunch, and culminated with a steep incline to overlook the town from the ruins of an old chateau. The American flag hung proudly outside a small pub and the 4 Julliet celebration signage was an unexpected added bonus. The fresh air, lovely scenery and good company was rejuvenating as always.

Thursday started out on a deceiving low. I hauled my sore toosh to booty camp (term complements of CWH) only to have it canceled. As I was trudging down Rivoli feeling frustrated with how my day had begun, Matt called with the news that we are being granted the visa we have been fighting for, and I will now be able to travail---which sounds awfully similar to prevail. Coincidence? This has been all-consuming and to get the “oui” felt and still feels truly awesome. I will no longer be Ashley M. Benz, femme au foyer (housewife---or as my next door neighbor endearingly calls me, the desperate housewife). Desperate no more!

And today, I feel like I was given the ultimate sign that things are going to be okay. Not only did my friend Karen give me a large tub of puree cacahuete (that is right, French natural peanut butter—it lives!), but one of my co-volunteers at Enfant du Monde sent me home with raspberry jelly that she made from her garden. I believe those two items are dying to be smothered on bread and turned into the American delight of a PB & J. Although just maybe I am now leaning towards the baguette instead of the Wonderbread as its foundation. I do believe that the course of events this week have caused me to have a change of hearth----one that you can find in a patisserie.

I ♥ ...

Today, the American Women's Group in Paris held its annual picnic in the Bois de Boulougne, and the CEO of my company came to my office to announce a much-anticipated new corporate strategy. But Ashley couldn't join in any egg-toss, and I wasn't there to hear the speech, because we had to be at our neighborhood Office Français de l'Immigration et de I'Integration. There, over the course of the afternoon, we watched a short film about living in France; underwent brief medical examinations; were adjudged to have a decent enough grasp of French that we didn't require free lessons from the government; received various certificates in a range of colors; set up another appointment in September for another integration session; and got our incorrectly issued visas approved. But first we had go to a nearby tabac and purchase several hundred euros worth of stamps, bring them back to l'OFII, affix them to a photocopied letter and hand the letter back across the counter so that it could be filed away somewhere. Oh, and my visa actually was not approved, so now I need to go to some other office of some other government agency to get it sorted.

Confused? Nous aussi. It seems each step in the immigration process brings us not that much closer to finally being (or, even more critically, feeling) settled, but instead exposes some new deficiency in our original application or paperwork hole to plug. Frustrated with our moaning about the various administrative hurdles we keep tripping over? Again, us too, in addition to being frustrated with the hurdles themselves. "It's a marathon, not a sprint," is an expression I use often (I'm a slow starter). Tonight, still smarting from this latest trip, moving to France feels like a marathon, sprint, steeplechase and juggling act all wrapped into one.

In addition to various certificates in a range of colors, we also walked out of l'OFII with x-rays of our chests. These were made during the medical examination, presumably to confirm that we don't suffer from tuberculosis or weren't lying when we said we don't smoke. "C'est parfait," the doctor said as she scanned my x-ray one more time before handing it to me. I was very proud. But why did l'OFII let us take these home instead of filing them away along with the photocopied letter with all the stamps? My best guess is that our doctors can now refer to them if they need to, rather than go to the time and expense of taking new ones. I will presume logic and efficiency in the vaunted French health-care system, even as I struggle to find those virtues in immigration.

The timing of this look at my innards is ironic, for reasons I shall presently explain. Saturday night, we went to the second annual Lady Gaga party hosted by our American friends Chris and Lisa. The idea is to (1) show up in an outrageous, over-the-top costume that would make Mademoiselle Gaga proud, and (2) try to avoid as best as possible the many creative but treacherous drinks floating around la soirée. I succeeded in doing neither. In a lame attempt at a conceptual costume, I wore an "I ♥ Paris" t-shirt. This was intended as an ironic statement about our Gaga-esque "bad romance" with Paris: we love it, but we're starting to hate all the hoops we're having to jump through (yet another metaphor) to settle in. Alas, my wry inside joke was easily overlooked that night amid all the fishnet stockings, gold shoes and feather boas -- and that was just the guys. And either because I didn't want to seem a bad sport or because I'm a fool, I downed lemon drop after margarita Jell-O shot after lemon drop, with little regard for the consequences. Suffice it to say, the t-shirt needs laundering before I can wear it again. Whether it will be worn ironically or in earnest remains to be seen.

-- MBB

Home is Where the Heart Is

They say home is where the heart is. Yesterday as I watched my kiddos from Enfant du Monde clap, sing, dance, and best of all, smile, I couldn’t help but momentarily feel at home. Although it is stark contrast from the actual situation of these young adults, I do believe that it is how you act and feel that makes you feel at home---even if you are miles (and continents) away from that spot. My friend Sarah’s husband, Sidney Benichou, an amazing recording artist who speaks multiple languages and has a special place in his heart for children in need, came to entertain the kids as they munched on their Betty Crocker cupcakes (not sure those were as much of a hit as they had a much higher content of sugar than the children are used to from their native lands, but intrigued by the colored frosting and packaged mix the students and staff were). Not only was Sidney a flawless performer, he ignited a spark in the kids that I have not seen since my time with them began.

So what is it that makes us tick, and more importantly, how do we find that joy wherever we are? I think that after six months removed from my native America, I can see more clearly than ever what I need in order to be able to feel at home: a community that appreciates who I am and what I can offer. This has nothing to do with money, or what I can tangibly contribute. This is a deeper contribution, and it comes from the heart. I got nervous a few weeks ago that the only thing helping me to feel at home here in Paris was going to be washed away. It was a very selfish concern, as the children themselves would have truly been home-less in the literal, much more problematic sense. However, as of yesterday it appears that there is hope, and that once some major kinks are ironed out, I will be dancing and singing with these children once more---and potentially forevermore.

As my heart and mind yearns to be back in a place where I feel that I can give back on a daily basis, I need to remember that it is fate that brought me here (and a wedding ring), and fate that has allowed me to realize my calling in the first place. As I already look forward to next Friday’s lunch, I need to recognize and acknowledge that it is my heart that receives such satisfaction out of being with these intriguing and powerfully uplifting youngsters. And if home is where the heart is, then just maybe I can call Paris home. And if Target, my other true love, ever makes its way to Paris, I may even consider staying put.