Paris Est Mort. Vive Paris!

In "Trouble at the Tower," a short piece that's part of Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik posits that Americans, who mostly "draw their identities from the things they buy," "long for a closed society in which everything can be bought, where laborers are either hidden away or dressed up as nonhumans so as not to be disconcerting. This place is called Disney World." Whereas the French, who "draw theirs from the jobs they do," want "a world in which everyone has a métier but no customers to trouble him." "This place," he says, "is called Paris in July."

It's part of the natural order: just as birds fly south for the winter, Parisians in late summer head to their maisons de campagne or sur la mer ("or, in any case, away," says Gopnik). For those who remain, the city can seem like a ghost town, with noticeably fewer people on the street and in the Metro, and many more parking spaces around the Champ de Mars. This being France, the surest signs that things are not normal involve food. Boulangeries close for a month or more (although the closings are coordinated and regulated, so in many cases next to a sign in the window reading fermée you'll find directions to another in the neighborhood that's still ouverte). At cafés and restaurants the outdoor tables may be full, but the hum is not the same, and inside they're deserted. The offerings in the cantine at work are perfunctory, at best.

The trouble of which Gopnik wrote was an altercation between an elevator operator at the Eiffel Tower and an English tourist: the latter had a ticket for the second platform but wanted to get off the on first; the former refused to let her. While Ashley and I of course empathize with the tourist -- seemingly gratuitous assertions of French authority like this drive us mad (but then again we are consumerist, efficiency-loving Americans) -- this is not at all how it's been for us in Paris this past month. Perhaps because my urgent work e-mails are fewer and further between, and Ashley's busy schedule of tutoring and volunteering has not yet started back up, we are more relaxed and ready to appreciate la via quotidienne. Perhaps because the shopkeepers and waiters are not swarmed with customers, it's easier for them to smile and be helpful.

Whatever the reasons, we have found Paris this August to be an easy place to enjoy. We take strolls after dinner, as the sun is setting (it still doesn't get completely dark till well after nine). We window-shop. We discuss the trips we'll be taking and the friends and family we'll be entertaining this fall. Sometimes we stop off for a drink at a café. Many nights we hear more people speaking English, Spanish or Italian than French. One morning, while sitting at the bus stop, I saw no less than three advertisements in English. One was for a company that gives tours of Paris, and another was for a new movie. The third struck me as a little redundant: "Disneyland Paris."

-- MBB

On le go....

Although I always wish I had my camera, I never bring it. I blame this on two things. 1) I try to carry nothing in my purse. Should anything heavy or abnormally large find its way in, it is in the form of a baguette. 2) Although I am not a tourist by definition, I am still one by trade. I like to pretend this is not the case, and therefore my camera stays in the case. On those moments that I deem memorable, my Blackberry steps in to immortalize it.


Please look closely to see the gum that is sitting on the edge of the gutter. I accidentally dropped it there when emptying out a backpack for a hike. It looks at me everyday and smiles (with very white teeth I might add -- and most likely fresh breath as well).

This poor chien was spotted on an evening stroll. But it does the beg question, "How much is the doggie in the window?"

Fighter jets over the Seine on Bastille Day

Just a little ole Chateau on AWG's June hike

This is as bad as it looks. This wooden window was a product of the city custom fitting a plank in the middle of the night to take the place of the window that had been broken. As I lay in bed thinking I was listening to multiple cars being broken into on a Saturday night, little did I know it was just Paris municipal services cleaning up the glass and hack-sawing a custom-fit fix -- at 3am. If only they were this quick with paperwork, and this efficient with ANYTHING else.

First time under la tour with le lights. A magnificent site!

Perfect French chat.

Just a little stroll past Fontainebleu...

No, we didn't fail to mention Matt's newfound fatherhood. This adorable bebe is Luchian, whose proud parents are dear friends of ours (at the American Hospital -- yes, there is one in Paris!).

Rambouillet chateau -- ending point for my AWG hike last week.

Life Goes On

It would have been polite of me to write a “thanks for reading, we are done” post. But, as life took over and blogging took back seat, it never happened. Or, perhaps it was my subconscious way of not wanting to throw in the towel quite yet. Whatever the rationale (insert: laziness), here I find myself. Even if our three readers have decreased to one (coucou Micki!) one day it will be grand to look back and read about how Matt and I voluntarily uprooted our already hectic lives in another country to squeeze our possessions and our relationship into 200 square feet, fought French beauacracy, failed to learn the language, and still managed to carve out a nice life for ourselves. Either that or this was the closest I could get to therapy (as yes, it is not covered by French healthcare).

Below you will find the “need-to-knows” of Mashley’s last 4 months.

Mont Saint Michel (April 30-May 1) We were given this weekend getaway by my parents who visited the magical mont years ago and found it to be so romantic, that they sent us there for an anniversary gift (perhaps in a secret attempt to show us that hectic city living does not lend itself well to romance?). We didn’t decide to pack it up and live as nomads on the sand flats surrounding this mystical spot, but we did have an amazing weekend together. Kate and Will started the weekend off right, but staying in an old hunting lodge and watching the tides rush in certainly helped to make it a weekend to remember. Merci, maman et papa!

Waiting for the tides to come in

At the top!

May proved to be both exciting and trying. When I was given the news that my father would need to start radiation, the ocean between us seemed a little too wide. As is my compulsive nature, I decided a visit home to check-in was a must (although without my parents' consent). I have never carried out such a large surprise, and to this day look back on that visit with no regret and only fondess. The gods were on my side as I had a whole row of seats on my journey over which started off the trip on the best foot (or more like back) possible. What followed was even better. Time with my family, and the much coveted routine that I still don’t have here. Bikram yoga, train downtown, reading Twilight in the park, and radiation session with my dad. Although at first I was apprehensive about the last component, it ended up being just what I needed to get peace of mind about what has happening. Besides befriending the nurses that were administering the radiation, I still have vivid images in my mind about the waiting room and the people that were sharing this journey with my dad. There was no stereotype – people of all ages, races, socio-economic classes, and stages. This was the first time I truly realized that this is a disease that affects everyone --- right down to my father. What makes the difference is how people let the disease affect them. Most days we would be leaving as a very tall, imposing African-American man with a park service uniform would come in for his appointment. He would switch the TV in the waiting room to a Nickelodeon sitcom and sit there and howl at the sub-par comedy. I will carry that laughter with me always.

It worked out only too perfectly that Mother’s Day also fell during my time home. Although I would like to think that my trinkets from abroad are usually ample as her gifts, I do hope that this year my presence was just a wee bit better.

I got back just in time to exit the country once again. This time I had my husband with me and we made the much shorter voyage to Finland. The home of Marimekko is simply divine. Parks everywhere, a low-key pace of life combined with beauty, friendliness, and grandeur. Matt and I immediately fell in love with the city, only to spend part of our time there traversing via boat (think cruise ship meets booze cruise) to Tallinn, Estonia. In the two hour boat ride we were transported to what Disney was channeling when they mass-produced the fairy tale. The sun shining on the cobblestone, gorgeous medieval buildings, lush gardens and grass, and another population that was both charming and welcoming. As we sat outside having a beer, it was one of the moments where everything felt right.

Main shopping street of Helsinki

Tallinn

View of the picturesque Estonian roof tops!

And, to continue the high, we were met upon return by Micki and John! It was such a treat to come back to Paris to the in-laws, and made coming back to Paris that much more welcoming. As always, our time was spent with Matt and I being spoiled in a multitude of ways. Roland Garros, amazing dinners, and Londres! Although our weather in London was far from our stint in Finland and Estonia, being in such a beautiful city prompted us to still enjoy our time there. Whether it was eating mac n’ cheese at Tom’s Kitchen (in Pippa’s hood!), or having an afternoon drink at the Brown’s Hotel, it was both relaxing and special. If the sun had come out, I may have forfeited my return ticket on the Eurostar. Although, then I would be stuck speaking English everyday. Where is the fun in being able to communicate?

Roland Garros

Chez Benz

In June and July the travel slowed down which was necessary in order to celebrate birthdays, births (welcome to Ella and Luchian), and enjoy our new piece of Paris. We also mourned the move home of our dear friends, Carolyn and Erich. This was my first time “losing” a good friend since we moved here and it quickly reminds you that this lifestyle is quite transient. It also reminds you how important it is to have good friends in order to make a city truly your home. We know that although our time was spent together in Paris, we will be friends regardless of our location. That is the test of friendship, and we have been quite fortunate to find lots of it here.

Elise's Baby Shower

Au revoir to Carolyn & Erich
Les Hommes

Day trip to Giverny (look closely to see the lillipads behind us)

And, as fortunate as we are to have amazing friends here, the family can't seem to resist the City of Lights every now and again as well. My parents finished up an eastern European tour with us here, which reminded me where my ability to walk for hours comes from -- them! We also were to privy to dinner with my CA family. It was a nice teaser for the summer vacation to come!

CA Haighs on rue Cler

We are also finally settled into our little shoebox with a view, and were privy enough to be able to see the Bastille Day (le 14 juillet) fireworks after picnicking on the Champ de Mars. You know you live close to the Eiffel Tower when you can walk home to use the loo instead of squatting at a port-a-pot. Life really has improved by moving to the 7^th arrondissement.

Sunset on July 14!

Our new location also made the return to Paris after three weeks in the States (dare I say) tolerable, and even potentially enjoyable. However, my time home was filled with so many wonderfully American activities (and friends!) that it was hard to know that it had to come to a close. From the Jersey Shore with Quinn (yes, it can be lovely and quite demure despite what Snookie has done for it), to le grande pomme with the Core Four, I took back with me a slue of fantastic memories (and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers). And although it was not France, the Miller/Benz clan also did a little wine tasting and museum-going so as to not make us feel too far from “home.”

The fam in Bayhead

Wine tasting with the whole crew!

The Hofmanns and Benzes in LBI

The Core Four tearing up le grande pomme

And, what now? We aren’t sure. Although ideally we would like more euros, a work visa for me, better healthcare and the ability to flit back and forth across the ocean without any financial damage, we do seem to be in a good place. We are truly “living” in Paris. Yesterday was the Barbes-Rochechart marche where your groceries for the week can be bought for 20 euros (pending no hospital bills for being pushed over by aggressive cart-carters). We are eagerly awaiting all of friends to come back from summer vacances, but in the interim are enjoying the company of those braving out August with us. We still see La Grande Dame sparkle everynight from our window, and we are a happy married couple. To quote the French, “C’est la vie.” And right now, it seems to be going well for us.

PS-- The title of the post comes from a string band that was preforming in the Concorde metro stop. As they sang "Life Goes On" in mangled English, the bigger meaning really hit home (and reminded me of my days watching Corky).

The green (and pink) eyed monster

Today the sun was out (as it has been for the last two straight weeks!), and the day screamed spring attire. As I had spent a good forty-five minutes last week blabbing on and on to a future transplant about the importance of embracing the fact that you are American in France and it will always be that way, I was yearning for my Lilly Easter skirt. But, alas, I believe that disappeared in our “One Buck Chuck” pre-Philly move, so I settled for a vintage number acquired in Philly that would fit in at Ralph Lauren’s for brunch, the Tommy Hilfiger prep shack après, and make me feel in the Easter spirit. I applied my bright pink lipstick, threw on my quilted flats and corralled my green-pant sporting hubby to head to our day of celebration. But instead of that holiday spirit, I was the Grinch (with the added splash of spring appropriate pink). As I knew that the US would welcome me in my present attire, the French/tourists did not appreciate Mashley’s Easter duds. I spent more time giving the evil eye back to the poorly-dressed fanny pack donning invaders than I did embracing my own advice. As Tommy Hilfiger is trying to push the prep movement here in Paris and seer-sucker has even made it onto the shelves of H&M, the moral to this madras-clad story is that Paris may be seeped in the green-eyed monster, but they are not sporting it.

And while talking attire, our little stint in Russia made me wish that I had purchased at least one pair of thigh-high boots and studded-jeans (with eye shadow to match my boot color). The green-eyed monster I was not, but instead completely perplexed by the amount of day clothes that could have doubled for club attire (clearly they have the day to night clothes issue solved so Glamour can rest soundly in Moscow). Although I did not find it terribly attractive, as a post-Soviet country it is fascinating. It seemed eerily similar to the neighborhoods I used to drive through on my way to work --- dilapidation with satellite dishes and fancy SUVs abound. New found wealth and freedom can be more of an ultimate devastation than uplifting in a perplexing sort of way. I don’t like extremes, which is why perhaps I was so turned off by Russia. That being said, the Hermitage was breathtaking, and quite a pad. Twist my arm and perhaps I would have lived there – but only if I was allowed to wear pink and green. I think the monogram thing was already covered in the palace, so at least that is one step in the right direction….

Tommy Hilfiger Prep Shack in front of the Pompidou

**********

Russia, April 2011

Snapshot

As I sat down yesterday in my obnoxious pink scarf (secured at the Hermes soldes) with my white pants, stone-colored poncho and BR flats (this outfit being my “middle finger” to all the Parisians in black on this glorious spring day), attached to my Blackberry and all in a tizzy as I was leaving my Bee meeting late and was therefore off-schedule, I experienced divine intervention. Or at least pretty close. As the metro-pulled up, I flew up from the green egg-shaped chair with my poncho cape-like in my dust. I was busy typing a text apologizing for my soon to be tardiness, when I plunked down in the nearest available seat without looking up. Text complete, I put my head up to take a deep breath and survey my fellow 2pm metro companions. As I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of stink, annoying breathing or excess spillage from my seatmate, I looked over. There, sitting next to me, was a demure, deeply engrossed priest clad in all black, reading his Bible and most likely thinking pure thoughts. I couldn’t help but take a snapshot in my mind of what a pair we made --- me in my white and pastels typing away in my sunglasses, while he sat there calmly in all-black, reading his pocket-sized Bible. He was the one sporting the correct colors for Hell, but I was the one going there. It made me slow down for a minute and just think – something only the good Lord himself would be able to make me do.

In an attempt to slow-down and recount, here is a snapshot of activities I partook in from the last few weeks that I deemed Bible-worthy (in honor of the priest, I will be rating my experiences using a scale based on Bibles ... which apparently turn into ampersands post-Word).

Lacroix exhibit at Quai Branly &&&&

-An amazing green space with an even cooler museum! The most interesting section of Lacroix’s exhibit was the large collection of ornate, celebratory burkas.

“I eat you, you eat me” at La Maison Rouge &&&

-The concept of an exhibit based on cannibalism was tres cool, but the pictures were mildly disturbing (especially the sushi made with human body parts). I would definitely go back to the Rose Bakery within the maison (as long as their menu does not include human).

American Prayer exhibit at the National Library &&&&

-The priest would not have approved of this one. The title was based off of a Jim Morrison poem and included many American (pornographic) pop-culture items. Lots of original manuscripts and nipples.

Dior exhibit at Le Bon Marche &&&&

-Enough said.

And, when I wasn’t busy texting, flying around on the metro, or having God speak to me, here are some snapshots of note.

Celebrating Elise's birthday at chez nous

On our way to the US Ambassador's Residence for tea

Divine decor in the Ambassador's pad

Monday night splendor

les Levets at "Suck me I'm Pamplemoose"