Therapy starts with "P"

Last weekend I strapped on my back brace and we headed off for the weekend to Lisbon, Portugal. The extent of my Portuguese knowledge had been in thanks to the cookies my guardienne swapped me for Betty Crocker cupakes (blue frosting and all) post building “block” party. We had been in Normandie but I wanted to make our American presence known throughout the building by leaving a sampling of American delicacy, whereas I think she was just being nice. Regardless, I went into the weekend feeling good about this country (and it’s baked goods). Side note: Many guardiennes in Paris are Portugese. If I could actually communicate with my guardienne I would ask her why she would ever leave Lisbon to come here!

So perhaps you have already picked up on where this ditty is going. We left an angry, gray Paris (literally --- union protesters blowing whistles at us and chanting as we were trying to enjoy our Starbuck’s Café Americano in Terminal 2), which left me with a bad taste in my mouth (mind you not from the Starbuck’s, from the protesters who seem to follow us where ever we go) and landed in a sunny, welcoming, palm-covered, pastel-painted (English speaking) Portugal. If I had a Lilly Pulitzer in Paris, I would have worn it. I felt at home and alive.

The weekend was just what I needed to lift my spirits (defiant back still present). We climbed hills to take in magnificent views of the colors, the tile facades, and in the distance, a hint of the Atlantic Ocean. Cable cars, markets of plenty, authentic attire, all meshing with a new hip movement in pockets such as Bairro Alto --- think a love affair between Anthropologie and Merci. What a chic baby they have made. This is not to discount its equally trendy sister, Chiada. From wine bars in ancient aqueducts, to hair pieces only SJP could love, the city is understated cool, but still has the basics (like Hermes and Louie V.).

As another week has gone by, and we are back to our life here in the City of (No Sun) Light, I have to keep in mind that while it would be a lot easier to buy a sun lamp and a wheelchair to fix my current despair, our life here allows for experiences that some could never even dream of. So, I believe it is time to self-prescribe to conquer these issues once and for all. Prescription: One week in Paris, one weekend away (pastel provinces preferred). And so it goes, doctor’s orders.

PS--Next weekend is Krakow, Poland. I don't believe there will be palm trees or warmth, but at least it starts with a "P"!

Change

This morning I went over to my dually-stacked fuchsia-colored Target Tupperware tubs and pulled off the mauve sweater, black tee with a ruffle at the neckline and ill-fitting leggings that have found a home there for the last four days. On Monday I carefully chose this ensemble, as my fresh start to the week welcomed fresh attire. Yet as the week has worn on, and the humidity seems to amplify my sciatic pain, combined with a larger hurt that comes from memories of recently being home, I find myself unable to start anew each day. Although my days are filled with a number of activities and no down time, there is still that lack of a routine and constant change; which in turn means that I rarely see the same person twice a week, leading to my lack of change.

As I sit here on the metro, unable to stop staring at the lady across from me donning the seasonally inappropriate open-toed high-heels with revolting unpolished toes, inhaling a yogurt, with interspersed swigs of a Coke, I can't help but compare her to me. Although I would like to think my grey Chuck Taylor's are a little less of a turn-off, the overarching issue still remains the same. She is racing around, a sore thumb in her surroundings. She is out of place and in a hurry--- two feelings that encompass my day to day life here in Paris.

Yet I still struggle with how to make that ultimate change to really feel like Paris is my home. As a year has passed since I moved here, I have grown in so many ways. But in so many ways I am still sporting open-toed shoes in the dead of winter. I am inhaling my dinner at metro stops and staring at people with wide-eyes when spoken to in French. I am on over-drive but driving no where.

On Friday we go to the prefecture and collect our long-awaited carte des sejours, which will solidify my work status in France. Yet, as the character of Nelson Mandela so eloquently put in Invictus, “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul,” so to am I in charge of my destiny. As another year has begun here in Paris, it is time to lose the mauve sweater and mix it up. The change will only come when I am ready, and I believe that time has come.

The long walk to the RER A in Opera

Soldier

As I trudged through the mucky and warm metro station yesterday, newly tired from the week behind me, and still battling jet lag, I had to push myself to ascend the hill in Kremlin-Bicetre that would take me to my kiddos. It was will-power forcing me onwards, as I had received an eager phone call from the organizer on Thursday, telling me that when she arrived at the center, the children were diligently compiling recipes, mounting photos, and deciding on what attire to wear to lend to the Indian fare that was to be cooked on Friday. I am not sure if it was more the smell of garlic and thought of kheer (rice pudding of a sort) being served to me with freshly diced almonds, or whether it was due to the thought of the energy that would be present as a result of a morning spent “visiting” the homeland of so many of the children at Enfant du Monde, but either way I allowed myself to robotically move in the direction of the center. My autopilot was turned on as I allowed the heavy rain to drench my leggings and saturate my grocery sac.

As we sat waiting for the hand-made chapatti to finish, I started talking to a group of the girls about their indigenous gods, which of course naturally led into a conversation about the infamous “Soulja Boy” (who, on a side note, is not referred to as a god in Singapore or Rwanda). As I enlightened them with the story about my performance at the Francis-Stevens 8^th grade prom, and promised them that there would be no repeat performances, I smiled thinking that even worlds and religions apart, something as foolish as Soulja Boy could unite.

Yet as lunch progressed and the new young man next to me did not speak, I once again felt a sense of disconnect that permeates my life in France. As I tried in my mangled French to strike up conversation, he turned instead to the educator to his right and asked if I was American. His eyes widened, and silenced followed. It turns out that he is newly arrived from Iran, and had never met an American so casually. Although I am far from an appointed diplomat, I used my very best efforts to make amends, which stemmed from the first word he said to me: “Obama.” I kept the ball rolling as we discussed other tres important Americans such as J.Lo and Madonna. After much conversation, and my olive branch being offered in the form of a color-infused, corn-syrup induced candy cane carefully selected at Target, we were on the right track. Who knows what situation this young man found himself in in Iran. Like most of the other brave boys at Enfant du Monde, chances are he was a real “solider boy.” But as we finished our kheer and I went to get my coat, he whispered to me, “In English I say, “I love you.”” I think I may have just won my battle, all in thanks to a little (colored) sugar and spice.

And, as I settled in for the evening with Matt, supper being the left-over Indian food with the real meat being my story to share, a new solider boy arrived at our door. Those of you who met Reuilly-Diderot a while back will be sad to know that he passed away while we were in America. However, our neighbor and vet, Severine, did her best to nurse Reuilly back to health by entertaining him with the colors and pizzazz found in the container of “Quality Street” candy (in hopes of combating his diagnosed depression). As RD gave in and went to meet his maker (or more like the moldy baguettes in the sewers of Paris), Sev purchased another Japanese fighting fish, and named him Quality Street in honor of Reuilly’s final days. As she tried to show us how she “taught him to be bad” he was non-compliant. Blame it on his ride home on the metro in Tupperware, or being passed off to a new owner, but regardless of the situation, QS seemed defiant. This morning, as I fed him his shrimp and dragged the blue pen across his tank once more (instructions via Sev), his boxing gloves came out. My solider boy is back, and I believe that I am as well.

My departure from America was a battle of its own sort, but as I sit here typing away in my leopard Snuggie (thanks, Micki!), it is time for me to wage and win my own war. The French may never love me (take rude neighbor across the hall who glared at me this morning as a result of me taking my trash out late one night after our kitchen sink pipe broke and flooded the floor, yet to the neighbor depositing trash at 11pm could potentially wake his baby who cries incessantly and all summer long the sound resonated throughout the courtyard) but it is time for me to start loving my time in France. As 2011 has been deemed my year of positivity, my boxing gloves are being pulled out and polished, and I am ready to solider on as well.

Welcome to Quality Street!

Le Retour

It's our first week back in Paris after three fun- and food-filled ones in the States. We're shaking off jet lag (some friends recommended 5-Hour Energy; it's OK, but it's far from a miracle cure), getting back into our work routines and weekly rhythms and coping with occasional bouts of sadness as we come down from the high of the holidays and seeing so many dear friends and family. We're also running errands. Last night I had to go renew some books at the American Library that went overdue while we were away. Mine was a mixed bag, to say the least: Travels in Siberia for me, an excellent book that's further feeding my fascination with Russia in advance of our visit in April (alas, we'll go to Moscow and St. Petersburg, but not Siberia); and two Dr. Seuss books for Ashley for use in her tutoring work. As I was crossing a street near the library I caught this glimpse --


-- of la tour Eiffel, sparkling like champagne. In the immortal words of Ron Burgundy, drink it in; it always goes down smooth. It was a nice welcome back.

A short while later, as I was punching in the door code to our apartment, I noticed this flyer for an American Western-themed extravaganza in a nearby park on Sunday:



We already have plans for that afternoon -- a Bulgari exhibition at the Grand Palais, if you must know -- but perhaps we'll swing by afterward. A "Western Day," replete with a mechanical bull, lasso demonstration and pony baptisms (?), might help ease our transition from America back to France. From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a short Metro ride.

-- MBB