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

La Rentrée

So many thoughts, emotions, impressions on our first trip back to the States since moving to Paris in January.... Here are a few notes from the first leg of that trip, Washington, DC:

Our return to American soil was rough -- literally. Our plane landed hard on the runway at a rain-soaked Dulles Sunday and skidded to a stop. The cabin was silent for a few seconds, until everyone realized we were OK. We then spent ten minutes pulled just off the runway, as the pilots made sure the landing gear hadn't been damaged. The plane made whirring sounds, then fell silent; we would heave forward for a few seconds, then shudder to a stop. Finally we taxied to the gate and disembarked. As we were walking off the plane, a fireman was making his way up the other aisle to the cabin. "Now I gotta talk to the captain," he said.

At passport control, there were several flat-screen TVs up on a wall. One was showing the Redskins game, and as we stood there, Fox cut away to show the roof of the Metrodome leak, sag and then finally tear under the weight of all the snow on it, sending however many tons of it spilling thunderously on to the empty field.

One of the more bizarre things about being back is that we can understand everything that we read and hear. Here are a few signs in my native language that I saw that struck me:

"May I help you?" Badge worn by the shy young man who directed people to the various lines at passport control. There was not much directing to be done. Ours was the only arriving flight, and there were about ten lanes to choose from. As he did his thing, two females co-workers, equally young, stood behind him in their uniforms of yellow shirts and black pants and chatted to themselves.

"Try on a pair of shoes, get a smartphone." Sign in a store at the Tysons Corner mall, where we hung out for a few hours after arriving on Sunday, as we waited with the friend who picked us up for another frend to arrive at Dulles so we could swing back to the airport and pick her up. It was an enticing offer, but I did not investigate further.

"Gushers." The name of a snack at the end of an aisle in the aptly named Giant supermarket (American supermarkets are truly massive in comparison to French ones) near where we were staying.

"The American Spirit: Meeting the Challenges of September 11." Title of a book on the shelf of the apartment where we stayed. There's exceptionalism everywhere -- not least of all France -- but here's our unique can-do American spirit encapsulated in a book title: 9/11 as an obstacle to be surmounted, like conquering the frontier.

"I'm making money on the Internet while driving! Are you?" Advertisement painted on every visible square inch of a Honda Accord waiting in morning rush-hour traffic.

"EVACUATION ROUTE." Blue sign above the standard green street sign on Wisconsin Avenue. Does that mean that there's a sign somewhere in the Maryland suburbs indicating that "You Have Reached SAFETY (brought to you by Raytheon)," where young men and women in yellow and black direct you to available parking spaces?

A Ghanain cabbie drove us to where we had to pick up our bus to Philadelphia. I don't know his name, but he was very talkative, and he's a huge Pittsburgh Steelers fan. There were numerous Steelers stickers on the inside and outside of the cab, and he pulled out a Steelers cap and scarf from the armrest between the two front seats. He and Ashley talked the entire way to the bus -- among other things about immigrants who come to the U.S. and then criticize the country (his take: "Then leave!"); Muslim immigrants to France who fail to integrate; all the international news networks available on Comcast (Russian, Arabic, Asian et al.); peace in the Middle East (he thought the Palestinians were not well served by Arafat); and George W. Bush, whom he called "uncle Bush." He showed us his AARP magazine, which had Bush on the cover and an interview inside, and he joked about the limited regrets Bush said he has about his presidency (e.g., no WMDs). He also said that no recent president had done more for Africa in terms of financial aid than Bush.

I didn't add anything to the conversation except to ask how he had become a Steelers fan. (Answer: he had gone to a small college in West Virginia, where two friends -- a white hippie with long hair and another guy -- introduced him to weed and took him to his first American strip club. They also told him to root for Pittsburgh. Since then, the Steelers have been in five Super Bowls, winning four, the lone loss being to the Dallas Cowboys. And then he was off on the subject of Jerry Jones's "60 Minutes" interview Sunday night....) I was content to soak it all in....

-- MBB

On one of those bizarre buses that take you from the international terminal to passport control and baggage claim at Dulles. Note the emergency vehicle outside.

A Flop

As I sit here looking outside at the slush coating the sidewalk, I am trying hard to hold back my tears. It has been almost ten hours since I sauntered down the stairs of 2 rue Pentiere, having attended a fantastic Hanukah party, and feeling very fortunate to have spent my day in festive snow-covered Paris, when those feelings of bliss came to an abrupt stop. As we had been told in the party just four floors above, this area of Paris is the safest. Sarkozy is also a resident of 75008, and therefore police are in abundance and crime is minimal. So why can’t the odds be against me in something like the lotto? But instead, sitting in the spot where my heinous Fit Flop boots once stood, was nothing but a dust bunny. And I know he didn’t steal them.

When we first moved to Paris almost one year ago I was very conscious of my attire. Did I look American? What needed to be done so that I meshed in with the black coats, chic hats, and sleek boots? But as winter is upon us once more, I no longer feel that need. Perhaps it is attributed to the fact that after three months, I am still picking up prescriptions for French vicodin in mangled French at the pharmacie, or perhaps it is because I am finally starting to feel at home here (and now that H&M is selling sweatpants on the Champs-Elysees, I may pull those out for daily wear as well). My FitFlop boots allow me to painlessly fly around the metro and RER, scurrying from lesson to lesson, and yesterday, helped to make the stint down Avenue Kleber far less treacherous in the newly fallen snow in which all the other Parisians had opted for their Chanel boots instead. It felt so good to be able to silently snicker as I cascaded without care, watching everyone else hobble and slide. Deep black slush at each corner? Bring it on.

But as I turned the corner on the staircase last night, knowing that my safe and warm walk to the metro was almost in sight, it was more than just a financial loss that stared back at me from an empty space next to the oak table in the foyer. I felt that part of my identity had been stolen, just when I was starting to get it back. As we return home in just a few days (barring no snow), I will find it quite interesting to see where I stand (and what I will be standing in). My life here has made me change in so many ways, and has made me compromise myself in ways I never imagined. I don’t dare say that it has been a flop, but I was fit to be tied last night. And I don’t think it was because I am now wearing Uggs instead.

View from my "office" window (i.e., our living room)

My view after ascending the stairs at Etoile

View from Matt's office window

Hungary for Turkey

On Thanksgiving I ate turkey. This would be less remarkable if I were in the States, experiencing Thanksgiving with everyone else. But turkey is uncommon in France, which made it remarkable -- and, I'm convinced, not coincidental -- that my office cantine served dinde on Thursday. There were no sweet potatoes, green beans or gelatinous canned cranberry, though. For that I had to wait until dinner that night, when we had friends over for a Franco-American Thanksgiving, featuring poulet rather than turkey. A minor pre-dinner plumbing crisis in the kitchen delayed the meal, and seemed to set off a series of minor catastrophes (undercooked potatoes, dropped plates, insufficiently sweet mulled wine) that is sure to make our first Thanksgiving one to remember, just not in the Norman Rockwell sort of way. The next day we hopped a flight to Budapest for our last EasyJet weekend getaway of the year. (That makes three in the last month, with five more planned for the first half of next year. Seriously, we should become spokespeople.) Now, just two more weeks of lawyering and tutoring separate us from our first trip back home since moving here in January.

Even more than Thanksgiving, the deep connection between food and home was underscored shortly after arriving in Budapest. As we were walking around, getting a lay of the city and looking for a place to have dinner, all of a sudden Ashley yelled. There, down the street, was a Vapiano. Vapiano is a chain of pizza, pasta and salad restaurants at which we had many a meal in DC -- so much so that that's where we're meeting some friends when we return in a few weeks. Ashley didn't scream because it just so happened that she had been wanting a salad (although she had been). It was because she saw a familiar face in a strange place. And familiar it was: the food and the experience, from the menu to the color of the stools to the bowl of gummy bears at the cash register, was as we remembered it in DC. In short, it was proof that it's not the food per se but the familiarity of it that makes for such a powerful connection. Indeed, it'd be tough for Ashley or me to defend on grounds of taste alone our love of gelatinous canned cranberry or spinach dip from my parents' grocery store, respectively.

This has gotten me thinking of our visit to the States not in terms of the places we'll visit but of the the food we'll eat.

- 12-15 December: Vapianoville
- 15-26 December: cream-cheese country (aka cheese-steak land), with a weekend trip to bagelburg
- 26-30 December: spinach-dip falls, with a quick trip to stadium-mustard town
- 30 December to 2 January: city of deep-dish pizza, from which we fly back to cheeseland.

Who's Hungary? Speaking of which, here are photos from cold, snowy, paprika-laden Budapest:

-- MBB

Belly Ache

If France were to have turkeys (which they don’t --- I am still on the ultimate quest for dinde sausage), I do believe it would differ from the American turkey. First and foremost, it would be black and grey. That whole brown, yellow and orange motif is way too much color for the French. Secondly, it would be too slow to be fair game (pun intended). The turkeys would never feel the need to run around, as exercise is unnecessary, and to add to that, it is stressful to rush. So, they would simply sit quietly in the field all day, every once in awhile running into each other to uphold that love off invading personal space. Gobbling? Absolutely not. That would expend too much energy. And, all the meat would be smoked (and I don’t mean for flavor--- instead of Pilgrim pictures on the wrapping there would be Marlboro Men). If you were to score a turkey here in France, chances are the paper booties that come on them would have heels---and be designer. But even if you do find one, I wouldn’t bother eating the turkey as it was probably packaged after the worker decided to stop striking and go back to work. So, chances are that it is spoiled (I mean the turkey, but we can throw the unionized worker in that category as well).

As I frequently like to drown in my turkey-free sorrows here, I read an interesting OpEd this weekend when I was in Prague (okay, I know that is grounds enough to stop complaining). The quote was, “If your belly is full, quit your belly-aching.” It went on to talk about how we don’t stop to think about how good we have it. As I sat there sipping my coffee in a five-star hotel, my instant response was not one I should type on a public space. There may be children reading this.

It is the day to day shee that I so enjoy lamenting over. I am starting out my Thanksgiving day here with an MRI that was three months in the making (in a clinic where they don’t speak English), fetching a pair of insoles that I had to track down after paying gobs of money (since we still don’t have our carte vitales) only to take my notice to the post office and have them tell me that the package will arrive tomorrow at the post office. What?! Or, the fact that I was offered a job three months ago and still can’t get an answer as to if and when I am starting it. But, at least I have tutoring, which feels really nice on the days where my back and leg are aching, and I am on the dirty metro toting around a bag with foam balls, felt letters, and bribery bon-bons. But as I collect soaps and travel shampoos from my hotels for my kiddos at EMDH, or receive emails from my monsters-of-yore, it stops me for just a moment and reminds me that I am so privileged. Um, maybe even spoiled.

As I leave on Friday for Budapest with my soul mate (yes, he has stuck with me through my belly-aching for “two” anniversaries now), it will be a nice reinforcement that I have pages of things to be thankful for. Not to mention the fact that Hungary was once under a communist regime --- now there is a reason to complain! And, as I gear up to head back to the States to see a million people that I love and adore, but will be sad to leave new friends behind, that alone should be enough to fill my belly (which by the way has gotten a lot bigger since gyms are too expensive here!). I have learned that love is the ultimate food, and that you will never be fulfilled if you don’t have it---beaucoup d’elle. But yet I can’t seem to cease my incessant whimpering. Maybe that whimpering is a side effect of a belly that is so full of love that it aches?

Yet selfishly, I wouldn’t mind just one little juicy piece of turkey (the American variety, of course). However, since my belly is already approaching maximum, I will settle for living in Paris with a husband I adore, a family I love dearly, friends who are supportive and caring, a want for nothing, and a sense of purpose. With of course, stuffing on the side.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, and may your bellies be full today, tomorrow and everyday!

One of the many reasons I am thankful (taken in a Prague tower)

A shot of the glorious city of Prague

The Beginning and the End

Yesterday I walked into the discount bookstore that is located adjacent to my ligne 8 metro exit, and braced myself for what was about to come. As I said out loud, “You can do this,” I did just that. “Avez vous une agenda pour 2011?” The man looked at me and said (as if it was nothing; as if I hadn’t almost had a panic attack): oui. As I looked down at the mediocre selection, I was determined to walk out with what I had so painstakingly asked for. I selected the agenda that had quotes on the front (none of which I understood), hoping that they were at least mildly entertaining (or at the very least, non-offensive). What was more entertaining, however, was the fact that the agenda went from September-September. If you recall from many posts ago, I mentioned the idea of La Rentree (which translates into “the beginning”). For the French the year does not go by the calendar beginning and end, but instead by school year. As a teacher I concur! (Don’t ever repeat that I am agreeing with French mentality). However, as I am eagerly anticipating my New Year’s Eve celebration in Chicago, I am willing to honor January as the beginning and end as well. And with this being the case, on January 6^th Matt and I will have survived (I mean lived) in Paris for a full-year. As Matt has just celebrated a birthday and we have made it through one year of wedded bluster/bliss, time seems to be ticking abnormally fast --- especially for being in a place where clocks and a sense of time (and urgency) don’t seem to exist.

So why the lapse in posts? I would like to attribute it to me starting my new position, but alas, that is still on hold. Instead, it is a combination of things they cause me to run in circles (slowly, however, as my back is still ailing), pull out the remaining hair I have left (no thanks to the calcium in the water), and be in a constant state of mayhem (the only way I like it). Those of you that know me well know that this means that Ash-lay (my Frenchified pronunciation) has finally “settled” in Paris.

There has been so much to share, but alas, as each day brings something new, I will spare you the mundane details and give you the high and low-lights of the last month.

---For Halloween Matt and I traveled to Madrid. Whereas there was an entire city of grandeur to explore, I was more excited about the Dunkin’ Coffee that Matt would fetch me every morning while I read in my fluffy bed (nestled in our small room that had purple mood lighting). The calamari was divine and the people were beyond welcoming. I desperately wanted to eat at TGIFriday’s there, but we settled for guacamole and chips from room service instead (you Americans take your culinary delights for granted).

View from our hotel (ME Madrid) roofdeck

--Ferme Gally (which may sound reminiscent of an animated alien from a Disney movie) is a romantic old farm located about fifteen minutes outside of Paris. On a grey day in October (which would basically describe all the days in October and November thus far), three tres American couples picked apples, perused Christmas decorations, and roamed around a gourmet grocery store full of delectable locally grown produce, cheeses, and wines. Julia Child would have deemed it heaven. Whereas some of the charm was the fact that it had everything (down to Gien china), so it felt like a glorified Target, it also felt so good to just escape the grime and close quarters of city-living. If you get the chance, I highly recommend a Suntan apple. Regardless of the origin of the name, c’est parfait! Amongst other vegetables and fruit you could pick, were Brussels sprouts. I had no idea that those suckers grew on a stalk!

---Mes amis used to just be another French saying that was reserved for mangling during my French lessons (which, yes, I am still taking). However, now I can confidently say that it is applicable to my life here á Paris. I am so fortunate to have a fantastic group of friends here that do everything from “Blondes versus Brunettes” exhibitions (DC gals, of course I thought of you!), to watching NFL on Sundays (I am along more for the cordon bleu and baked goods). It feels good, and it puts things in perspective. Life feels so much better when you have people around that you care about. That being said, I desperately miss my family and friends (and Friendly’s) in the States. December can not come soon enough!

La Parisienne
Matt's Birthday "Bow Ties & Berets"

---Over the river and through the woods (and over an island, and through gorgeous foliage) to Mennecy we go. This month I was able to throw back on my very neglected running shoes (who were dusty from lack of use) to join my AWG hiking pals on not une, but DEUX country hikes. As toussant vacances was the last two weeks in October (two weeks of for All Saints Day), I was able to rearrange my lessons so that two Wednesdays in a row I was strolling through orange, yellow, red and green that painted the skies and lay in heaps on the ground. Whereas Paris seems to go from green to brown (even the leaves like to be standoffish), it was a needed respite, and therapy that even the best doctor can’t offer.

---I have a few friends who are French, and j’adore them. However, the longer we stay here (and the more strikes we encounter), it is hard not to feel a sense of frustration in the overall French modus operandi. As the last month was filled with protests, metro strikes and destructive behavior in hopes of impacting Sarcozy’s ruling on retirement age (which is still a mere 62), it made me for one second see politics from a doite. I have since gone hobbling back over to the gauche, but it forced me to do some internal reflection (that is, when I was afforded silence in between protesters filing down our street chanting indistinguishable words, sticking stickers on anything stable, and leaving a sour taste in my mouth). Beaucoup des benefits, but no gratitude.

Just another Saturday protest outside our window (Boulevard Voltaire is one of the main routes)

---Most importantly, I have received the monumental news that Lands’ End has made it to this side of the ocean. Whereas I have been really struggling to figure out the best way to schlep around all of my tutoring tricks, I can now order monogrammed bags in every size (with a discount for AWG members!). The dark cloud seems to be lifting, and I just might be able to make it here (or at the very least feel confident in knowing that I still have a life-line to embroidered pants).

In exactly one month we will be departing from Charles de Gaulle aeroport to the US of A. Until then, I have 200 words to choose for the Paris Bee, two AWG bulletins to produce, French lessons, English tutoring, teaching, volunteering at EMDH, chronic pains to have diagnosed and cured, travels to Prague and Budapest (my homeland!) and Christmas activities to conquer (did someone say tea at the Ritz?). In stealing from the words of the astute Little Engine That Could, "I think I can."

As I would have initially tried to cleverly ended my soliloquy here, as I was coming back from visiting a friend this afternoon, I received the sad news that John Doran, my teamster bud (and fatherly mechanic) from HACK had passed away. This was a man who knew how to love and to laugh. As I stood on the street corner in the pouring rain wishing I had not just read the horrible news, I could see John in his fishing cap saying, “Tissue? But I don’t even know you.” A man who spent many hours working, but more hours spreading joy and his good humor, his positive outlook was infectious. I look back on those days with such fondness, and it is a reminder that we must make the most of every day. John did, and because of that, he was a light that will never go out. As I frequently find myself frustrated by my situation here in Paris, I need to hold John’s energy and selflessness with me. John, you will be missed, but never forgotten. Thank you for reminding me of what it is important.