Sights & Sounds

As we sat in the Luxembourg Gardens Tuesday evening, eating homemade pasta salad from Tupperware, Ashley and I heard a strange sound: the faint roar of an airplane overhead.

Most weeks, the sound of an airplane isn't strange; along with traffic, sirens and mobile phones, it's part of the din of everyday life. But after six days of no flights into or out of Paris because of, as one aviation consultancy dubbed it, the "Ash Attack!!!" (the name is theirs; the exclamation marks are mine), this one made us stop and take notice. Jet vapor trails also usually aren't anything special. But when I glanced out of my office window the next day and saw them crisscrossing the sky, I was mesmerized for a few seconds. The ordinary had disappeared for a while, and when it returned it felt a little eerie -- like when the power goes back on and your refrigerator starts humming again.

At the park, we scanned the sky for the plane, but even though it was cloudless and blue we couldn't find it. One of the surreal aspects of the flight stoppage is that one couldn't have had better weather in which to fly than those six days when you weren't allowed to. Mornings in Paris are still crisp, but the heat of the sun during the day suggests that, after a winter that was long and cold (by Parisian standards at least), spring has finally arrived. That's why we had decided to have un pique-nique in the park Tuesday.

Seeing no plane, we returned to our dinner and the other sounds and sights: tennis balls thonking on the courts behind us, pigeons perching on the head of the statue of Paul Verlaine in front of us and, to our right, a man intently reading l'Etranger, by Albert Camus. Not even the sound of two Americans chatting in English about how their days were and what they wanted to do during the coming weekend could pull his eyes from the pages.

Earlier in the evening, as I was walking on a boulevard clogged with rush-hour traffic and pedestrians to meet Ashley, I heard the sound of a clarinet. At first I thought it might be coming from a busker on the street, but I also noticed that the sound was muffled. Then I turned to my right and discovered the source: it was a man at the wheel of a Peugeot sedan. He had been playing while waiting for the light to turn. When it did and the traffic began to move, he set down the clarinet on the front passenger seat and continued on his way, presumably to his leçon.

Just another (extra)ordinary week in Paris.

-- MBB

P.S. Here are some random photos from another pique-nique we had in the Luxembourg Gardens on Saturday. This one was with former colleagues of mine from DC. Two of them had come to Paris for work two weeks ago, but had to stay a week longer when flights were grounded. A third, who now lives in the south of France, was supposed to come to Paris last weekend, but couldn't because not only were there were no flights, there also were no trains --French railway workers were on strike. Unlike volcanic eruptions that disrupt flights across an entire continent, French railway strikes are anything but freak. From my experience so far, they are (to use a meteorological simile) like squalls that you can see coming across the water. They stir things up a bit but leave them pretty much as they were. I picture labor leaders exchanging wide-eyed glances last weekend at the timing of this particular stoppage.

Just another extra(ordinary) week in France.

The Luckiest

The phrase “I am the luckiest” takes me back to my wedding celebration, where Mark strummed away on his guitar, and Scott complemented him with a lovely rendition of the Ben Fold’s song. The song starts out:

I don't get many things right the first time
In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here

As I stroll around Paris, flowers blooming, birds chirping, I can’t help but feel that I connect even more with that song than when Scott suggested it as a possibility for our ceremony. In many ways the timing of the song was quite symbolic, as it was during this song that my dad walked me down the aisle to Matt (never mind that we were already married). Now, there was no “first time” (and least not with someone else), but there had been the possibilities of such commitment. Those stumbles and falls are critical, however, or you never know how lucky you truly are. You aren’t capable of feeling grateful.

As I sat preparing African food on Friday with some of the young ladies from Enfants du Monde, we had little ability to chat, due to the language barrier. When I would throw a word out to see what reaction I would get, “Obama” was quite a hit. With my terrible French I went on to tell them about Madame Obama and her deux filles. From there we went onto Rihanna and Jay-Z, with the mention of New York City causing wide eyes and much excitement. After this “connection” was made, the use of "thank you" was frequent, as it was their effort to connect to me, my culture and my language (one that I keep forgetting is paradise for most of the world). But it was one of the young men whom I sat next to as we ate who explained to me that the rice, root vegetables and beef that the girls worked so hard to prepare (slicing in ways that caused much alarm to this nervous Nellie) were what was cooked daily back home. He used the wording, “we eat to survive.” (This said to me after he explained that his journey to Paris was in the hold of a boat for a month -- no birds, no flowers, no sun).

As if I wasn’t feeling fortunate and yet sad enough, I moved onto a conversation with a young Afghan man who was asking about Matt. When I told him Matt was a lawyer (which he pronounced "liar"), he told me that he knew that all American liars make lots of money. I tried to explain that there were many types, and that because he is the only one working for both of us, we don’t have lots of money. His response was, “So you just eat and live, like all of us here.” That to me was quite poignant, and definitely struck a nerve. In many ways we are “just eating and living” here, as our material frills are few and far between (at least to what we were accustomed to). But the major difference between those children and me, regardless of how needy I may feel, is that I have love. These youngsters are with out that, and I can’t imagine how awful that feeling is.

As I think about how I will never know the hardships that these children must face, I do know that hope is something that we all have in common. The best thing is that love is free, so whether you are a high-paid liar or find yourself sleeping on a cot in a room with four others, with nothing to your name, you too are able to one day be “the luckiest.” That is certainly a reason to keep going, and for me, a constant reminder that it is not how much you have, but who you have.

I live in Paris with my soul mate (and together we are determining our values, dreams and needs). I have friends and family that love me unconditionally, even thought they may be an ocean away. My inability to work causes me to reflect and analyze a lot -- a gift that many people will never have. My stumbles and falls have indeed brought me here for a reason; to remind me that I am the luckiest. Not a bad thing to be.

Excuses

Before you read my trivial drivel, watch this noteworthy palindrome:
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=42E2fAWM6rA

So what exactly do I do each week? Why does it take me way too long to respond to emails, and why have you not received a thank-you note yet for the fantastic wedding gift you bestowed upon Matt and mw almost half a year ago? As I was hoping to start my volunteering on Mondays and Tuesday for Enfants du Monde, it has been put on hold. However, it worked out just fine as this Monday I had a five hour-long (vino-drinking) pow-wow about the Gala, and came up with the oh-so important contribution that next year, leading up to it, we should have “psyche” up happy hours. It is time to shake things up a bit. And on that note, because of this meeting, I missed my spelling bee meeting! Maybe I should suggest the idea of happy hours for the bee as well (or maybe they already covered it in my absence).

Tuesday I ended up missing both the WOAC brunch and the AWG coffee group due to lethargy and sinus issues associated with the pollen. I love the trees and flowers, but my head seems to believe otherwise. I could go get some medicine, but I would rather suffer than spend $800 on Claritin or something of the like. So, it was me and the couch (and my Disney Princess and Humpty-Dumpty CD-ROMs, picking out songs for the English lesson I would give that evening). Fast-forward to two adorable, eager-learners handing me my Pure Romance pen that I had left at their house the week before when I was tracing their feet for the “body part” lesson. Hopefully they weren’t able to understand what body parts were being advertised via the pen. Post lesson it was time to head to a happy hour where we discussed the fashion show a fellow-AWG member is going to put on the benefit our charities. Surprise! I volunteered to help.

Wednesday was laundry, and a missed book club meeting. My pillow case was growing things, and the other small issue was that I hadn’t read the book. AND, I was going to start my wedding-thank yous. Well, one good Jennifer Weiner chapter led to another, and instead, I hauled Certain Girls and my sorry self to Parc Butte Chamont. After taking a peek at the photos below, I do believe you will support my decision.

Thursday was a fantastic cooking class (in French!) at l’Atelier des Chefs and a test drive of my new spring/summer walking shoes. Yep, I can’t believe I am saying this (mom and dad, you will be so proud), but I now wear one pair of shoes, the SAME pair, almost daily. And, to add insult to lack of injury, they are from a walking store (however, Nicole Richie was wearing them in the most recent Us Weekly so I feel a little but better about my decision). Post-class, I headed with one of my friends to a magazine swap, where I soon befriended the hostess’s four-year old son. Perhaps it was the brightly colored sugar puffs I brought, but whatever the connection (or confection), I got shown fire engines all afternoon long. I can also, I am pleased to announce, now name the cars from Disney’s Cars. A successful day, I would say.

My creation (onions, citronelle, zucchini, sprouts, and dorado....steamed and polished off with salt. Voila!)

Friday started off with a four mile walk towards the rec center in Kremlin Bicetre to cook Colombian fare with the kiddos from Enfants du Monde. After hours of chopping tomatoes, scallion, and avocados, the end product of empanadas, guacamole, yucca, fried plantains and bananas, and rice with pepper was well worth the early rise. One young lady was beyond pleased with the “pepper sauce” carrier I brought for her: an Estee Lauder make-up case that was the perfect size to fit the jar she toted around with her. I told her that she was in Paris now, so she needed to look chic, even when toting around her spices. And then, as a gift in return, as we were inhaling our fried deliciousness, I was handed a quarter by one of the young men who had brought it for me. He could not communicate to me where he had gotten it, but I think I made it very clear how honored I was that he had brought me American money. As an aside, I did let him keep it, and did not rob him of his 25 cents. And on that note (literally) as we ate, we jived to Fifty Cents (I tried for Dido, but for some reason they weren’t as excited with that selection). I am sorry to say that Soulja Boy was not available. Post-meal, I headed to the coordinator’s grand palais for an afternoon coffee and chocolate. Her home is simply perfect -- filled with items she has collected on her journeys and with a view that would make it hard to leave. The Eiffel Tower, roof-tops and church spires all greet you when you stand on her long terrace (covered in meticulously planted pots). I walked home with a new collection of English books and a spring in my step, as we had just had a lovely conversation about emailing. I told her that I have a hard time keeping up with it. She told me to write a nice long ditty in Word, adjust accordingly, and paste for each email. So, as I walked home along the Seine, sun beating on my face, morale high, I decided to forgo the Word document, as I have a better idea. I hope you enjoyed my post/email. I look forward to chatting with you again next blog post. Bon week-end!

Parc Butte Chaumont

Six Month Synopsis

Smooching underneath wild mistletoe in Reims, Champagne

When we first arrived in Paris, “anniversary” referred to how long it had been since leaving our homeland and setting up shop here: two weeks since we had left, one month since our departure and, most recently, one-quarter of a year. But more monumental, and somewhat swept under the rug (or, in our case, faux wood flooring stuck to concrete), was the duration of our marriage. And so, today, which marks half-a year of marriage for Monsieur and Madame Benz, I thought I would enlighten you with a little reflection on just how we operate.

Matt: the gentle soul, inward-looking dishwasher. Yes, my husband LIKES to wash the dishes. Perhaps it is more that he enjoys staring out of our kitchen window to the courtyard filled with trashcans, but regardless of his motive, I adore him for this. Additionally (and, yes, you will think I am lying as I launch into this next part), he likes doing the laundry as well. I never minded the laundry -- when the machines were in our apartment and I could simultaneously watch “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” or bake cupcakes. However, to be sharing the laundromat bench with a madame who could use a little spin cycle herself, is just not quite as alluring. So it is with much enthusiasm and admiration that I let him indulge in the lugging our Target laundry bin teeming with our soiled duds to the facility next door. Now that I have listed the most important reasons why our marriage works, I will move on to the more emotional component.

Matt is my cheerleader, par excellance. Don’t worry, he has not changed teams over here (and for that, our marriage is thankful), but he has continued with incessant praise -- a necessity, I believe, for any successful relationship. And although I know I am fantastic, it is nice to hear him verbally pat me on the back (and physically; another plus for my hubby). I struggle with not working over here and therefore contributing to our pot, and instead of making me feel inadequate, Matt makes me feel like I am moving mountains. From Gala Girl to Gangsta Benz, he consistently builds me up and allows me to really just be myself. There are few people that are so lucky as to be true to themselves, and Matt allows me just that.

I know at this point you are wiping the vomit off of your computer screen, as my above words are just too much. Don’t worry, we have a few areas to work on as well. I get inappropriately frustrated when Matt can’t regurgitate verbatim a story that I have told him three weeks prior. He has some nerve, not remembering everything I say to him. But then again, he has some nerve interrupting me when I am in the middle of some fantastically Parisian story, like what my lunch was, or why my feet hurt. So, we aren’t without some marital issues. However, I don’t doubt that we won’t be able to work these out (or at least be okay with yelling at one another when they happen) because we communicate. Sorry, back to my gooey feelings.

Yesterday Matt came with me to proctor the Paris Spelling Bee. He and I were the two pronouncers for the 3rd-5th grade participants. As we were rehashing the preliminaries at a meeting following, one of the proctors in our room made the following observation: “Matt and Ashley were a really good team.” I don’t think I could have said it better myself. And that, my friends, is where we are at month six as “Mashley.”

Park de Sceaux, site of our afternoon pique-nique:

Leave your pastels at home!

As I received an email from Devon yesterday asking me about footwear for her visit at the end of this month (YAY!), I got to thinking about the need to share where I am right now with my thoughts on life in France as an American. Preparing a friend for a visit to the promised land of Paris is nothing short of daunting. I don’t mean the long flight or the language barrier. In this case, I am referring to attire. In America, anything goes. And, as the capital of fashion, you would think that it would in Paris as well. As the French say with such conviction, "NON!” Although everyone here seems to pull off chic, it is much more effortless than in America---which may be confusing at first. In America, effortless refers to sweats, sneakers, and a pony tail. In France, you must look effortless in order to look French. Your scarf may not be tied “just right.” Your shoes are worn down from lots of wear (as Parisians do not have a pair of shoes to complement each day of the week). Your hair is tousled and usually on its way to being greasy (thanks to the calcium in the water, your hair turns into fortified frizzle). Your black clothes (that you may have already worn all week, ignoring the café crème stain) have a cut to them that is only available in the finest shops in America, but here it is the norm. And, heavy make-up aside, your lips are coated in an alluring shade, so as to offset the frizzle. If only you could purchase this look at Macy’s and put it in your carry-on. But alas, it comes as a result of living in the land of the baguette.

This also sheds some light onto the mystery of the empty streets prior to about 10am. Why get up early to de-tangle your frizz? Additionally, your outfit is already on the floor. It is quite efficient, really. This morning as I was high-tailing it to my spelling bee meeting, there was no one to keep me company along the Seine. In America, it would be teeming with people in their sweats; jogging, walking, or more often than not, enjoying their McMuffin on one of the benches. We operate on a need to get up and seize the day, or we are considered lazy. In Paris, you enjoy the nighttime, you savor the dark. This morning it was just me and my buddy Le Tour Eiffel. Here, you needn’t rise at 6am to get in your morning jog and then throw on your black duds. In Paris, life begins around 10am, which means that if you only brought sweats to Paris (or a rhinestone-studded fanny pack), the time that is most safe for you to not be noticed, are the early hours of the morning. And by the way, if you plan to exercise here in the summer, just be forewarned that there is no deodorant available with anti-perspirant. So, don’t forget to pack your Speed Stick (and stay of the Metro).

And, just in case we thought that maybe it was all in our heads that the French think us to be poorly-attired, overzealous Anglophones, you need to look no further than the American Embassy here in Paris to confirm that. It was one of my American friends who pointed out to me that the street that borders the embassy on one side is named, “Boissy d’ Anglas.” Although it is actually the last name of a French statesman during the Revolution, is looks mighty similar to “bossy English,” which I am sure has no connection to the Anglais-speakers inside the embassy. But, then you have the young adults at Enfant du Monde that would dispute anything of the sort.

As I went in Tuesday for my meeting with the director of Enfant du Monde, I was lingering in the hallway chatting with some of the kiddos, when I saw a young man, wearing an “I ♥ NY” t-shirt come barreling out from the conference room. He heard an American ‘accent’ and wanted to come find its origin. He proceeded to tell me that he thought very fondly of the American soldiers in Afghanistan, so much so, that he taught himself English so that he could communicate with them. As his shirt broadcasted, and he wasted no time in reiterating, he dreams to one day go to America. To him, it is the promised land. It made me stop and reconsider the angst I had toward the American tourists on the Metro the other day, and instead, it reminded me that although I now wear the same pair of shoes everyday, and I love scraping my mop into a barrette so as to look French, that I am an American, and in that, I should be proud. I make no promises about wearing my sweats in public, though.

Hubby-razi

As we headed to the Gala (set-up) last weekend, Matt did his final preparations on the Metro...










And, after spending the afternoon setting-up for the Gala and then hiking to Place d'Italie with a duffel bag full of duds to change into and to have some pre-soiree champagne with our friends, we hopped back on to return for some bubbly, bidding, and debauchery at the Marriott Rive Gauche!

Madame Gangsta Milla Benz

At the ripe old age of vingt-neuf, you would think that I am about due for an identity crisis. For some, Paris brings out one’s romantic side or artistic side. For me, it brings out my schizophrenia (I wonder how you say that in French?). Once upon a time, in a dirty classroom in Washington, DC, I was “Gangsta Milla.” When I left for Paris, my wedded bliss had changed my title to Gangsta Benz. But as I was no longer teaching, and certainly not making much of a difference sitting over here in the 11th arrondisment watching the mold sprout on my bathroom ceiling, I then transitioned to Madame Benz (who by the way, is very excited about the Lilly Pulitzer LeSportSac).

As Madame Benz, I was content. I was learning my way around Paris, making friends, and learning about what life was like for a madame in Paris. I was also learning how to live with my life partner and soul mate, and how not to serve him cereal and canned food every night for dinner. Of all my identities thus far, I can safely say that was, and remains the most challenging task (the current gourmet spread of soup from a box, Franprix cheese and baguette is wearing thin on my thinning husband). Yet in the course of my quest for American friends, I was quickly tasked with taking on the American Women Group’s auction catalog, and assuming the role as “Gala Girl” for which I wrote my weekly column.

As Gala Girl, I was a bit of a celeb, if I do say so myself. Initially my identity was kept a secret, but slowly word got out that the bubbly youngster from Philly was writing the borderline rude, overly shallow paragraphs about the upcoming event. Although I was somewhat embarrassed about my ability to conjure up such garble, the ladies of AWG took to it quickly. I am still glowing from being asked to pose for a picture with a member and her husband at the Gala---two of my “fans.” As a result, I will also be serving on the board next year as VP of Communications.

Yet that hat has been removed for now (which was actually a feathered headband), and now I am back to being Miss Miller (now Mrs. Benz). It was a few months back that I saw the notice for the Paris Spelling Bee and emailed the coordinator to see if she needed assistance. My French classes and prior commitments precluded me from attending a meeting until this week. On this Easter weekend’s agenda is picking the final words for the bee list (hopefully before Easter brunch and vino). It felt so good to be at a table surrounded by driven women who love the English language. It also felt good to consulted about my“teaching wisdom” and English expertise. Next week I will be interviewing as an English teacher for some well-to-do families here in Paris. The thought of compliant students is overwhelming.

And just when I thought that I would be hanging out at Mrs. Benz, this morning’s events have let me right back to Gangsta Benz. After crossing the Paris peripherique on foot today, I walked in circles until I hit upon a small, unassuming building on route D7. I was beyond pleased with what awaited me behind the smudged double doors. I had signed up to assist at these Friday lunches upon arrival in Paris, but was told that the facility had been inundated with sewage, so that my help would not be needed until April. Fast-forward to April, and the beginning of what I believe will be my mission here in Paris. Whereas I thought that my ability to assist teens in need would have to wait until I learned French (so as, never), I arrived this morning to be greeted by multiple hellos -- music to my Anglophone ears.

These multi-cultural, upbeat children, 13-18 in age, have a plethora of nationalities, a multitude of differences, but share one commonality: they are orphaned homeless, displaced from their homeland. I met one young man from Nigeria who dreams to be a footballer or electrician (but is afraid it won’t happen because he doesn’t speak French -- which he described as feeling like he "has fire on his tongue"). He believes that the reason the Africans are so poor is their inability to have foresight and their lack of interest in education. His friend who stood there and listened to us chat could not participate because he only speaks Farsi and Pashto, which he told me was the "language of the Taliban." The lovely British woman that runs the lunch told me that their stories are harrowing and unbelievable: hitch-hiking six months to reach Paris, escaping rape and war, leaving families behind for a “better” life. At lunch I sat with three young ladies (with extreme Anglophone names) who were also from Africa. One of them had brought along a Tupperware of pepper sauce to smear on her food, as it reminds her of home. Instead of thinking it odd, I smiled about the tubs of peanut butter we had lined up in our cupboard. We chatted about Rihanna, Easter and their jeans that they had decorated. We also discussed what it feels like to be in a country where you can’t speak the language -- a connection that we all share. I am meeting with the director on Tuesday to discuss how else I can assist, as I am taking this bull by the horns, and not letting it get away. The only way that Gangsta Milla knows how to operate.