Premiere

In French class I thought it was cute that they kept using the word premiere for the "first example," "first arrondissement," or when dictating something to us. I still enjoy hearing the word tossed around with such informality, although I now know it is the French word for “first” and nothing more. It just sounds so much more sophisticated and gives the “first” of many things that needed zest. For example, the premiere time you tell someone you love them. The premiere time your husband learns that you are not a natural blonde (and how much it costs to keep it looking that way). SO much more than a “first.”

Although I have had many firsts here in Paris, this weekend was chock full of premieres.

Fashion Show at Gallerie Lafayette (front row at that): What started out as a day meandering through BHV and onto the Marais for the world’s best falafel (my premiere experience for that as well) turned into an up close and personal look at the long-legged models that were sporting the season’s finest attire. The show was divided into themes, where outfits deemed “Brooklyn Boheme” to “Hitchcock” graced the runway. What will never be a “premiere” for me was the sock and sandal combo. I don’t care who makes that sock, it is not finding a home in my sandal -- ever. However, I have found a new favorite designer (Manoush), but after going to look at the line after the show, I am not sure there will ever be a premiere purchase for me. I could buy my premiere home for what a dress costs.


A farewell to Paris: Matt and I took our first mini-break, and left the capital of fashion for the capital of Champagne. Reims was quite lovely, with an ancient cathedral where many famous kings were crowned, not to mention the plethora of fleurs-de-lis on both the royalty attire and the tapestries in the Palais du Tau. The highlight of the trip, however, was my premiere visit to a champagne cellar. The Tattinger caves housed millions of bottles of champagne -- that were in the process of being turned into just that. The science behind the manufacturing of champagne (and the time and energy that has to go into it) is tres intriguing, and makes me like bubbly that much more! Did you know that they introduce yeast into the wine to make it eat the sugar and produce carbonation? Then they freeze the dead yeast and extract it before it is sold? You are basically sipping a high-end science experiment. The champagne we had at the end of the tour was the best I have ever had, making this the premiere time I have actually enjoyed champagne. (It doesn’t count as a first since I liked it and I was in Champagne. It automatically gets bumped up due to the situation.)

A change in change?: I pride myself on being careful with my (and, now, our) money. We take earlier trains to save a few euros, even if it means forgoing much needed slumber. We buy the cheapest shampoo at Carrefour (which just so happened to have oeufs in it (to you English speakers, that would be eggs)). But after this weekend, I think that I may have had a change of heart. You see, it all started when we walked in to Hotel Du Nord in Reims, sopping wet, and couldn’t check in early. Understandable. However, when we finally did check in, despite the yellow and red toile on the wall, I do believe I would have preferred to have showered in that rain instead of our salle de bain. I don’t do dirty, and I am starting to think that thread count (as in sheets that have one), are more my speed. Could it be that I am changing my ways? For the premiere time, I am starting to think that I would rather have less mini-breaks, and instead sleep during those weekends away (a severe case of the heebie-jeebies was the culprit this weekend). For those of you who know me well, this paradigm shift may be disturbing, since my thriftiness defines me. However, I promise to be wearing Target attire while sleeping in my three-star hotels. And, just so as to not let you down completely, I will continue to pack my own snacks, cart around recycled water bottles, and wear the same outfit the whole weekend so as to not pay for baggage or rack up high laundromat bills upon return.

A Reason to Celebrate

“Anyway you want it,

That’s the way you need it.”

-- Journey

I can safely say that I have operated most of my life according to the above wisdom imparted by Journey (a favorite band of mine, thanks to my dad). But even more, it's the guidance of my parents that has helped me truly realize that in order to be successful and enjoy life, you have to be driven. You have to really want it.

Let me introduce you to my dad, William C. Miller. At first glance, you would see a handsome, well groomed, athletic forty-five-year-old. Looks can be deceiving however, as mon papa turned sixty today. As I walk around Paris, I have frequent moments where I stop and think, “Oh, dad would like that.” You may think this an easy comment to make about Paris, but I am talking about the more obscure, very “Bill Miller” moments. My dad has never been one to shy away from adventure. I can remember sitting in art class my senior year of high school, working on some horrific creation that would earn me a mediocre grade “for trying,” repeating in my head that my dad was going to be okay. This was not due to some surgery (or the battle with cancer he would later wage); it was because at that very moment he was heli-skiing. He was voluntarily jumping out of a plane to catch fresh powder. Flash forward twelve years, and he is still up to the same antics. Last year, he was concerned about his surgery as he wanted to make sure he got some skiing in. Cancer? As Samantha from "Sex & the City" said (and Bill Miller would have if he had less tact), “F*ck cancer.” There was fresh powder to be had, and no little “c-word” was going to keep him from it.

As I go through life -- and more specifically, as I live my life here in Paris -- I can only hope that I have a fraction of the determination and ability to live that my dad does. Sometimes I think I am an older soul than he is (stuck in an older body too, as that man can out-run, out-bike and most certainly out-ski me). But then I am reminded that his youthfulness and his desire to continue to live life have saved him. It keeps him going, and at a pace that is quite impressive.

I can’t imagine what life would be like without my dad as my guide. He is my source on things big and small, and has a magnetism that keeps me coming back for more (even if it is to yell at me for things such as purchasing a car on a whim). As I perused Paris for the perfect gift to celebrate my dad’s 60th, it was not to Bon Marché that I marched; it was to the Seine stands (as he speaks of that Paris memory fondly), and the only ski-store I have found in Paris. Whereas most 60-year-olds get a pen or a celebratory tie, my dad is the lucky recipient of a gold foil wrap to put in his pack next time he is somewhere that there's avalanche danger. I like to think it is Parisian because it is quite chic as far as avalanche-wear goes. He will like it because his beacon now has a new pal.

I can’t say I will be into extreme sports anytime soon, or that I will even be able to follow in my dad’s footsteps in speaking French. What I can say, though, is that after 60 years of living life, my father has become very good at it. And although it is his birthday, and he should be the one receiving the gift, I do believe that I instead am the lucky recipient. I am who I am because of watching my father. And I hope that I am able to watch this amazing man for 60 more years to come.

I love you, dad. Happy, happy birthday!

Enlightenment

Paris is a city so full things to be discovered that it can be overwhelming, especially to two hyper-organized individuals like us -- so many musées, so little temps. It's fitting, then, that the first exposition we went to see when we arrived in January was about inundation, though of the literal rather than the metaphorical kind. It's called Paris Inondé 1910, and it shows in arresting photographs what happened in January of that year, when the Seine rose 26 feet and flooded a quarter of the city. Reading about it now (because we couldn't read about it at the exhibition itself, since it was only in French), I see that, every year, "there is a one in 100 chance that a flood of similar magnitude will happen again." At the acclimating-to-Paris event that I attended last Saturday, one of the speakers said flat insurance is a must, because Parisian apartment buildings are old and leaky pipes are common. I now wonder which is the likelier occurrence.

So how does one begin discovering Paris? Two weeks ago we thought we'd try by taking advantage of the fact that most major museums are open for free on the first Sunday of every month. Talk about inundated: by the time we walked over to the Musée de l'Orangerie, around 3 p.m., the queue was several hundred people long. Disappointed but in no mood whatsoever to stand in line for a hour to save 15 euros, we walked back across the sunny, windswept Tuileries and over to WH Smith, the English bookstore on the Rue de Rivoli, where we thumbed through dog-eared display copies of the latest InTouch and Vanity Fair.

The night before our aborted museum visit, we dined at Le Dumas Café, a short walk from our apartment. It's one of the countless enticing places to eat in our neighborhood. We had an excellent meal, highlighted by a timbale (a round baking dish) of sliced potatoes and trois fromages and a perfect -- fruity but crisp -- white wine from Touraine. (We now seek out Touraine wherever we go: at the other great neighborhood joint where we ate this past Saturday night, on the shelves of the grocery store....) After dinner, I snapped this photo outside the café. I like how it suggests that history and culture are part of the everyday experience here. Since we live on a boulevard named after him, I took it upon myself to read Voltaire's Candide (which our friend Devon in DC thoughtfully sent us). The introduction to the book was stuffy and impenetrable. But the story itself was witty, caustic and very entertaining. The lesson may be that sometimes you have to skip the formalities and just dive right in to the experience. Or the timbale, as the case may be.

-- MBB

Sorority Security

Every morning I wake up, grease my paws, and put on my wedding rings. I was quite French in my choice of a smaller, less flashy declaration on my marriage, as there is no such thing as a marriage rock over here. It was not my interest in assimilation, however, that made me choose the small, blue enamel band with gold fleur-de-lis. It was my grandma, Jane Sheble Haigh, that began my intense love of the symbol. For those of you who were not privy to the “Animal House” experience in college, the fleur-de-lis is one of Kappa Kappa Gamma’s symbols, a sorority present at Bucknell that my grandma was one of the founding members of. Growing up, the iris (the fleur version) was on sweatshirts that my grandma wore, glasses that we drank out of, and umbrellas that she carried. As I followed in her (and my great grandma’s, and my mother’s, and three of my aunt’s, and two of my great aunt’s) footsteps, it became a part of me as well. I would feel that I was withholding pertinent information, however, if I didn’t mention that the owl and key are of equal importance to me, as they were also “Kapparific” symbols. One of the first purchases we made here were coasters with an owl imprinted on them--a Bon Marche find complements of Matt. Matt has now inherited my internal radar for any items sporting these symbols, a sixth-sense that my grandma would be very proud of.

As I was walking along the Seine the other day, fidgeting with my ring, and lost in my thoughts, I was remembering the dream I had had the prior night, where I had been talking to my grandma. I believe I could still recall it the following day because it felt so real, and so very good to be near her once more. I know that she and my papa would be so proud of me for making this move, and would have found a way, Parkinson’s and ailments aside, to get here to see me, and to delight in my new life with me. As two staples in my life, they have also helped to shape me. As I was frequently compared to my grandma for a myriad of reasons, one of them that is keeping me afloat over here, is looking for the beauty in the little things. She was frequently snapping and sharing pictures of what seemed so trivial—but to her was beautiful and worthy of documentation. Center pieces, place cards, trees in the backyard, flowers beginning to bloom, anything that she felt that others would delight in seeing. And I did, and find myself wanting to pass that love of the little things onwards.

As it has been quite cold here this winter, a staple of my winter wardrobe has been a pair of my grandma’s gloves that my cousin had dug up and given to me prior to my departure. As I pull them off to snap photos, dig in my wallet to pay for veggies at the marche (and most recently, purchase a light blue owl pin), or simply have them on as I walk around, taking in the sites of Paris, I know that my grandma is with me, watching me acclimate and start to feel at home here. My papa is probably tuning in more for the times when I am smearing pate on a baguette (scrapple was a favorite of his), or watching the ducks paddle around in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Although I am frequently feeling overwhelmed by my life here and my discomfort in not knowing the language (another way I am like grandma is my ability (in English) to be slightly demanding and authoritative, a skill I have lost here) I wander past boxes of brightly colored lemons and oranges covered with fleur-de-lis, or meander past a fragrant flower market showcasing the iris, or hand over my euros for an item of clothing sporting an owl, and I immediately feel a sense of comfort. And although grandma can’t be here to snap photos and bask in its sentimental beauty with me, I know that she is very much a part of it, just the same. And because my grandma is enjoying it from heaven, my papa is as well, because that is just how they worked.

Baby Got Back (and My Tongue)

As last week was “ski week” here in Paris, the kiddos were not out and about with book bags and stylish clothes on, heading to une école that would seem like prison compared to a school in the U.S. However, when I set out yesterday for my second week of class, upset that I had not had a lot of time to study my words (the auction catalog won out), I very quickly was competing for sidewalk space with fashionable mini-specs and trés chic attire that only Suri Cruise would be found in at home. The children were back to school, and so was I. As I followed behind a family eager to make their way to school, children giddy, and parents smiling, I couldn’t help but think that I was once a part of that dynamic (although I make no promises that my students were eager). I was the one who greeted the children daily, and I was the one whom the child would come home at night and talk about. And now, I can’t even speak to the children on the street -- if they dropped a pencil, I would have to run to catch up to them and then awkwardly stand there and hand it to them. No conversation, no dialogue. A smile and a shrug would have to suffice.

When I was the teacher, and an English one at that, I was constantly trying to infuse lessons on empathy into my curriculum. Thrown in amongst lessons on similes, metaphors and dissecting literature would be questions leading my monsters to look at the world from a different perspective. As I was thinking today about how I now feel like a child who is just learning to speak, unable to communicate in the ways necessary, and feeling frustrated in return (sadly, I can’t cry and flail in public), it brought me back to a book I taught yearly called Seedfolks. One of the vignettes deals with a man who lived in Ohio, but could only speak his native tongue, which was Vietnamese. When we used to discuss this plot in class, we would talk at length about how hard it would be to live somewhere where you couldn’t communicate. I would make this seem real to them for only a fraction of a second by speaking jibberish and appearing to be very mad when they could not respond. Although it got the point across, and elicited a few giggles, the reality was not there. I couldn’t produce that for them, because I didn’t know what it felt like.

Class, please answer the following questions:

4. What did Gonzalo mean when he said, “The older you are, the younger you get when you move to the United States?”
6. What caused Tío Juan to change “from a baby back into a man?”
8. Tío Juan spoke a dialect that people in his new community did not understand. How do you think he felt when he was unable to express himself through language? What else did Tío Juan have to get used to in this foreign city?

9. What did Ashley mean when she said, “The older you are, the younger you get when you move to [Paris]?” I am not talking expensive face cream here. If I ever teach again, I will now be able to answer that question for my students from personal experience. I am now the baby, and the étudiante. Not just at the Alliance Française, but as I walk around Paris, taking in the culture, the language and seizing all of the chances I have to learn about a new way of life. I can’t say that I am not struggling a wee bit, as I am grappling with learning French and can’t seem to grasp the correct timing of the welcome smooches, or make peace with the slow service that seems to be the norm here. Until now, I couldn’t remember what it was like to be so uncertain about my abilities, or to question my intelligence. However, it is all coming back to me now: in the marché, in the classroom, and on the street. I am starting from the very beginning, and in turn, feeling like a child.

I am trying to stay afloat by using humor in the classroom (the class clown was always popular), as I stumble frequently, and can never seem to find the right word at the right time -- a feeling very foreign to me. The other day I had to stop the class to point out that in the pictures we were observing to learn times of the day and the verb être, a young mademoiselle was initially wearing a shirt that had a neckline flanking her collar bones, and by the end, she had cleavage (and was walking out with the professor). Although I made my classmates laugh, I knew inside it was merely my way of distracting the class from my French language faults. I couldn’t let on that I was frustrated and upset by my own inabilities. I couldn’t let on that frequently I feel two inches tall, literally and figuratively.

So, who are these babies and youngsters that are now my newest cohorts? They are the quickly toddling (strollers for toddlers are few and far between), well-dressed younger siblings of their older daredevil-ish brothers and sisters. I say this for a few reasons; lots of scooters and bikes tear past you on the sidewalk, their captain’s hair blowing in the wind, as helmets don’t exist here. Nor does it seem that children’s booster seats, seat-belt wearing or staying in close proximity to your parent are even close to being trendy here. If you are one of the lucky babies to have a stroller (usually MacLaren), just hope your parent has not tied you to a pole outside of a restaurant while they are inside enjoying a nice warm thé (we saw that this weekend!). The good news is that at least I am part of the cool crowd here, as I was never allowed to go helmet-less while growing up. Now if only I could find a stroller in my size, I might make peace with my current demotion. I also wouldn’t mind wearing a diaper once again -- then I could drink lots of coffee in the morning and not worry about the repercussions.

Please note: attached is my Alliance Française student ID. This ID is much larger than the typical American ones, and reminds me of the cards we had to wear around our neck the first day of kindergarten. It seems to be quite applicable to this post!

Spring in the Suburbs

One of the many differences between Paris and the States, is that in ten minutes you can be on the grounds of a chateau, or visiting a palace. Today I went with AWG's hiking group to Bourg-la-Reine, a suburb five short miles from Paris, where we got off the RER and were greeted by green tree-lined paths, flanked by a gorgeous old building. As we rounded the corner, a breathtaking chateau came into view. Apparently in April the area surrounding the meticulously manicured grounds is full of cherry blossoms, and according to the token male on the hike, are more enchanting than DC's due to their density. I see a picnic with Matt one Saturday afternoon, under the trees, chateau in view, bottle corked, in the future. Every turn, every corner and every path led to beauty, peace, and something new to take in. As we wandered up a dirt path, upon looking to the right, there sat a gorgeous, authentic French estate. It just so happened to be open that day (a famous writer's home, although I forget whose) so we took a little detour to roam the grounds and delight in the crocuses that were sprouting up, adding a deep purple to the lush green. I am exhausted from the eleven miles (and LOTS of gabbing), but eleven miles very well spent! Now onto the French homework....

Spring Chicken

Pardon moi while I gloat. As the sun begins to set today, I just thought I should let you know how Madame Benz spent this warm, sunshine-filled day. As I limped to class this morning, it did not appear as it was going to be one of my more successful days as yesterday had left me bushed (please note: the acquisition of Reuilly was a positive one, but he is quite high maintenance—tucking him into his coozie was taxing!). However, as I rounded Rue de Fleurs off of Boulevard Raspail, and walked into my building, how quickly my pain and self-pity absolved. As I trudged to room 101, there sat Katherine and Stephane, two of my professors (the French word for teacher). They greeted me with a warm welcome, and I immediately launched into what I had been practicing last night and as I made the three-mile walk this morning. This was more to prove to myself that on the other side of the fence, as the etudiante, that I was not as moronic as I may have appeared yesterday.

Let’s rewind to yesterday, where I was one of five French newbies (sitting amongst four professors). Stephane wasted no time before we were up on our feet, role playing with what broken, horrific French skills we brought to the table. No one told me I was going to have to pay attention AND retain throughout the duration of the class, and as I was singled out as “professor” during one of the last mini-units, my five minute attention span had run out a long time ago. So, I tried to quickly digest my notes, and up I popped. As I stood next to the too-familiar chalk board, chalk in hand, I started to do what I knew all too well: fake it. For me, feeling comfortable in front of strangers while having no idea what you I am doing, comes way too naturally. So, I stood there, smiling, the token AmeriCAN, and waited for some audience assistance. Once I had mastered, “Comment vous vous appelez?,” I was onto the next hurdle; “Can you spell that please?” It simply wouldn’t stick, until I pulled out one of my old studying tricks: associate the word with an image you are familiar with. As luck would have it, mid-grapple, the epiphany came. Epeler (the way I say it), sounds like poulet (chicken in French). As I came about this discovery, and had annoyed the class for the umpteenth time by forgetting the sentence, I acted out my discovery by flapping out my arms like a chicken. Apparently that is the universal sign for moron, as all members of my class, each a different nationality, stared at me then broke out into laughter. This morning I was greeted by Katherine with a “Bonjour Ashley” and a flap of her wings. I am making America very proud over here.

I did try to make up for it today by hosting the best cocktail party yet that room 101 at the Alliance Francaise has ever seen. As we are still learning introductions, and today specifically how to “present” one another, Stephane had us attend a formel cocktail party in the middle of the room. As I carefully made my introductions (since yesterday I had called Cihan from Turkey the very wrong name of “G-had”), I also felt it necessary to hand out imaginary vodkas. I am not sure if the class wants more of this Ash-lay from America, or wants me to take my poulet and imaginary vodka and take a running leap off of the Eiffel Tower. By the way, Je m’appelle Ashley. Ju suis Americaine. Je vous presente Reuilly Diderot. Il est amphibian. No vodka for fish, though.

And, speaking of cocktails, it just so happened that I had a lovely bottle of white vino with my friend Carolyn this afternoon, sitting at a café (Le Saint Medard) in the 6^th arrondisment. We were parched after a casual stroll through the Luxemburg Gardens and then shopping on the cobble-stoned Rue Mouetard. The sun was beating down on my body, red Wayfarers were on, and life was good. This was the first time since my arrival here that I could feel the warmth of the sun permeating my clothes, and it was both a ray of sun, and a ray of hope.

On my way home, as I came upon a Polish grocery store nestled away on a side street near my flat, I went in to explore (in the hopes that the Polish are smart enough to have pre-made icing like the Americans---they are not), and walked away empty-handed after contemplating the purchase of a fresh pickle and jelly beans (more like misshapen bean knock-offs). But as I sit here and sip my tea, chat with Reuilly, and watch Matt on his work conference call (making sure he does not get pen on the new bedspread), I am feeling a sense of contentment. I am learning French in a breathtaking city (Paris looks damn good in the sun with the green starting to peek its head out), there are fresh muffins sitting in the kitchen as a result of my new silicone tins and mastering the micro/oven, and my calendar is full. Full of excitement, full of new friends, and full with my new life here in Paris. Friends, Romans, countrymen, and cyberspace, lend me your ears. Je m’appelle Ashley Benz, je habite a Paris, and I think I am starting to like it.

The Newest Benz

As I was walking home after a jam-packed day, the sun was beating on my weary body, and I was feeling very complete after my first French class (lunch on the go from the Alliance Francaise vending machine -- which makes a very good jambon and butter on wheat), a Gala meeting at the Marriott Rive Gauche, followed by marketing with a fellow-AWG member in Chinatown, and then a stop-in to say hello to my friend Carolyn, with a little Oprah-watching (yes, she gets it), while munching on some recently purchased Belgian chocolate.

As I was walking home, arms full of dumplings and French work books, I saw the chance to add to my list of responsibilities (and unnecessary tab for the day): a Beta. As I had just left Carolyn and Chuck (her Beta), I figured if she can do it, so can I. Our flat is a little small, but we could make the room. So, in I went, and was quickly welcomed by the shopkeeper -- and a large, well-dressed French man who appeared to be hanging out amongst the goldfish and frogs as a post-work activity. As I picked out my Beta and his accommodations (which ended up being his old digs: a free bottle from the owner), I had one of those "We speak different languages" moments. The dapper giant turned to me and said, "Moose?" To which I replied, "Non, fish." (I usually assume that if I use a French article, they will understand the English noun.) We went back and forth a few times before he made a suffocation motion with his hands and neck. I got a little freaked out, and then had my "Aha!" moment. "Moss?" I asked, and pointed to the green slimy clump in the nearest tank. He smiled, and then had the owner dig out a wad and toss into into the bottle. Glad to know he was looking out for the well-being of my Beta, and was not asking to see if I was interested in taking home a large, antlered mammal, which we would not have room for, for certain.

As I sit here and type, Reuilly-Diderot is enjoying his new home, and very thankful for the "moose" that accompanies him. His name stems from a Metro stop on Line 1 that makes me smile every time I hear the automated system pronounce it (and very much enjoy mimicking). Since he is supposed to be in a warmer climate and I will be turning off the lamp at bedtime, we have pulled out a Vineyard Vines coozie to serve as his blanket. Between his moose and his coozie, I would say R.D. is a very lucky fish indeed.