A quick note on my CHANGES

A quick note:

When I initially decided to post a blog series on "changes", I had NO idea how much change was on the very near horizon. In a very spontaneous yet romantic move, my man proposed only days after my initial posting. I was caught rather off guard and left speechless...for about a week. In his infinite patience, my man left me the necessary time to mull it over and give him a full hearted "YES!". I knew we were headed down that path and I was trying to clear the debris (a.k.a. my past as a single girl) for sometime. I decided I couldn't imagine my life with any other. I was fully ready to relinquish my former existence and take make leap. However, I was very unprepared for the whirlwind I would quickly be pulled into of engagement announcements and wedding preparation...and the endless inquiries or comments regarding "starting a family". (Woo, slow down! ONE THING AT A TIME PEOPLE!!) Needless to say, in a moments notice, my life was turned upside down and I soon found myself in some uncharted waters. After an initial sprint into wedding planning, we've decided to pull back the rains and postpone any more planning until we are more settled in. Did I mention we are moving? Anyway, it is only now I am finding some peace to evaluate it all...

CHANGE Prologue

It’s been awhile since I’ve added commentary to my blog. In that time, lots of thoughts and ideas have been spinning on that little hamster wheel in my head. Not to mention all the travels, challenges & changes I have experienced over the last 4 months. I hesitate to say, “I’ve grown”, both literally and figuratively, but in many ways, I have. (Did I mention I gained 25 lbs. in my first 3 months here & managed to lose all but 10 in the second 3 months?) Anyway, with every passing day, I watch as others around me go through changes in life. It seems more and more, my friends are getting married, having babies OR having babies, THEN getting married. I see changes in my body, the seasons, my loved one’s and the world with a new pair of eyes. Leaving the Big Apple for Paris has aloud me the time to really grasp all these things happening to me and around me. With the spirit of “change”, I’m dedicating these next few blogs to my observations and new tales of city and not so city life, love and the pursuit of happy change. Feel free to comment. =) Hope you enjoy!

Amsterdam or bust!

Queens Day weekend, my first introduction to Amsterdam!

After boarding the train Amsterdam bound from Paris, I immediately noticed travelers dressed in the national color, bright orange. About half way into the trip, I awoke from my slumber from a loud metal crashing sound under the train. Within seconds, the announcer translated in 3 languages that there is a mechanical malfunction and we will be changing trains in Brussels. I turn to Joe and express how I’m equally concerned and impressed by the quick and organized response to the problem. Joe responds by telling me more often than not, his supposed 3-hour trip to Amsterdam turns into a 5+-hours trip from train malfunctions. I was somewhat disappointed but not willing to let this dampen my excitement for my first trip to Amsterdam.

The train transfer was a bit chaotic & our train car lacked air circulation, but we made it to Amsterdam only 30 minutes late. We quickly debark the train and make our way to the tram station. The tram is a handy mix of metro meets bus. I quickly learned to beware of walking near the tracks or risk being warned by a loud, terrifying tram horn. The streets of Amsterdam are rather narrow and you see very few (and very little!) cars. The main means of transportation by locals is a bike. Imagining what this must be like in winter is daunting, but from what I’m told the people in the Netherlands are a hardy bunch, used to long, cold winters. I witnessed this first hand as the weather was mostly wet & chilly throughout the weekend, yet, bikers wore no gloves or rain gear.

From our tram stop we walked a short distance to the house. On the way, I notice the block filled with very narrow & tall colonial like homes. We enter our temporary residence and immediately climb the stairs to our lofty room on the 4^th floor. The stairs are just barely wide enough to fit the toes on my size 8 feet. I couldn’t help but wonder if humans were really that much smaller just a couple of centuries ago. As soon as we settled in, we head out to eat at a restaurant just across the street. Less than 24 hours later, this quaint Amsterdam Bistro serving all entrees with the typical local side dish, chips (a.k.a. fries) and mayo, will be transformed into a club like setting with a DJ playing Euro House music from 10am-10pm.

Everyone who visits Amsterdam tells me how much he or she loves it. Beyond the hype about the red light district (which I did NOT visit by the way!) and the cannabis friendly town, it’s been relayed that Amsterdam is a beautiful & peaceful city. With the picturesque canals running in and around the quaint, narrow streets, it’s very easy to feel a sense of tranquility. However, as soon as nighttime came the streets started filling up with visitors from all over. Joe & I decided to take an evening walk. We stopped to have drinks at one of the many bars with outside seating near the water. Sitting just next to us was a friendly Russian couple that quickly became our companions for the evening. Skena was a lively 27 y/o who was obsessed with French culture (she loved Joe!) & Eugene (don’t think that was his real name!) was a friendly, 50 something with a questionable vocation. From what we could gather, she was a pseudo housewife and he worked very little but they lived & traveled comfortably. Anyway, I’ve never really met a real Russian couple from Moscow. But, Skena & Eugene, were everything that I imagined. Animated, boisterous, obsessed with 80’s heavy metal and able to drink Joe & I under the table.

Needless to say, the following day Joe & I decided to take it easy. We got up early enough to walk around the streets before the madness began. The entire city became one big outside flea market. Children were selling & trading toys, vendors & families were selling homemade baked goods (sans cannabis!), and shops & locals were selling off clothing items & house goods for next to nothing. By mid afternoon, the streets were filling up with waves of people dressed in neon orange hats, shoes, jackets, shirts, dresses & more. Some were still drunk from the night before and most were on their way. By the early evening boats were over crowded with people dancing, drinking & blasting music. Every street corner had an outside DJ, people dancing and a guy passed out in the corner oblivious to the passersby taking pictures & blowing orange horns in his face. The party went on most of the night despite the wet weather. The next morning the picturesque streets & canals were littered with garbage & orange memorabilia. By Sunday, most of the city was cleaned up enough to enjoy walking around and see some sites. I recommend the Van Gogh Museum & kilometer long market! Just when I was finally getting used to not having to say, “Pardon” & “Oui” all the time, it was time to hop the train back to Paris.

All in all, Amsterdam is an enjoyable spot, especially for an American. Most everyone speaks English, it’s pretty easy to navigate, and compared to Paris it’s quite affordable. You can expect to meet interesting people from all over, see some cultural sites and drink cheap but good local beer (Amstel & Heineken!) but DON’T expect to find a good cup of coffee at a coffee shop! J

Until Next Time! –City Girl

MOTHER'S DAY

When I was about 3 years old, I would dress myself up in a pink tutu, sparkly silver & blue leotard (that my mom probably decorated) and dabble on some lipstick. As soon as I was ready, mother would call out from the living room, “Preeeeesenting…Kellie…Nicole…[Last Name =)]!” I would then dash down the hallway excitedly while my mom would sing some funny, unrecognizable introduction tune. My grandmothers, aunt or cousins would be my captive audience as I did some sort of impersonation of a dancer or possibly some dance move my cool, young aunt recently showed me. (Obviously, I quickly found out that dancing was NOT my forte!) This is just one of the “when she was…” stories my mother love’s to share.

Living in Paris surrounded by Joes family, I’ve heard many “when he was a child” stories, especially from his mother. Though Joe cringes every time he is within earshot, I quite enjoy the tales. It reminds me of my own mother, my childhood and her love of sharing often times embarrassing stories of my youth. I’ve come to appreciate the fact that story telling is a shared trait amongst moms.

In a way, mothers surround me. I grew up in a family of women. Both of my wonderful grandmothers lived within a mile of my house, and female cousins, aunts, etc… always seemed to be visiting since we lived in sunny south Florida. If I think about it, the ratio of woman to men in my family is about 4:1. This makes for very interesting, sometimes humorous often emotionally, chaotic moments. But in a way I’m lucky (as my mother reminds me) because beyond all the chaos, I have a number of strong female mentors. Sometimes it’s a grandmother (even though both have passed), a cousin, an aunt or even a close friend I’ve adopted as family. All of who are strong, loving, passionate, sensitive, intelligent, (the list goes on) women.

Even in these modern times, women still bare the responsibility of balancing “professional self” & “family self” while keeping some sense of “attractive self” for their romantic life as well a little room for “just being me” self. My mother is no exception to the rule. I watched my mom run her own business, pick me up after work, cook dinner, keep a clean home and still find time to work out, socialize or savor some alone time before starting her day again. It wasn’t a burden but a role she cherished. So much so that when I went into High School (and my father’s business was thriving) my mother decided she needed to be a full-time stay at home mom (okay, partly because she wanted to keep me from being the wild child she was in high school!). Some teenagers may not have appreciated this, but I look back on those years fondly. My mom was a permanent fixture on school trips. Going to an inner city schools, I was always impressed how easily she adapted to the diversity of students. I had numerous memorable parties where my mom would go all out with games & decorations, even entrusting me with a sans parents after prom party! My mother kept me organized and on track all the while keeping an open door, no judgments policy that she still maintains to this day. Many friends from all walks of my life know my moms as well as they know me. And no matter where I’ve lived, (Tallahassee, NYC, Paris and who knows where else!), we maintain a mother-daughter relationship like no other. (Not to say we didn’t go through the normal, occasional growing pains!)

Needless to say, I’m taking a sentimental pause to express my love and gratitude to the most important woman of my life. She is my role model, my best-friend, but most importantly, my mother. A woman I’ve watched be a rock through family illness & loss, stay focused and positive through financial hardships, stand steadfast & firm on her beliefs & values and have the determination to pick herself up & start over no matter how scared or exhausted she may be. She is strong & independent and equally sensitive & sincere. It’s through her strength of character & passion that I find the courage to follow my heart & life’s ambitions. And although I sometimes fall flat on my face despite her words of wisdom and advice, she is always there with words of encouragement to help me pick myself back up and move on. So, as hard as it may be to admit, (And I have learned the hard way!) the old saying is true more often than not "a mother really does know best"…

Thank you to all the mother's out there for your patience, love & support.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

My Utopia

As I am way over do for a blog posting, I’ve decided to take a little break from my endless French studies and write. After almost 3 months of stumbling around with Rosetta Stone for French, I’ve finally decided it’s time to get serious. So I did a little research and found the least expensive French school around. By the way, French Schools must make a killing with the rates they charge! Most schools offer 15 to 20 hours a week of class. This is pretty intensive for a girl who’s been out of school as long as I have. NOT to mention, that I ambitiously enrolled in ”false beginners” class thinking I was savvy enough to avoid a true beginners class. The experience thus far (I’m on day two) is terrifying. The class is small with a diverse background of students from Hong Kong, Russia, Brazil and then there is me, the American. This all makes for interesting French accents. As soon as you enter the building, NO ONE (including the worker in the café) will speak English to you. This seems normal since I live in France. However, I’ve been a bit spoiled. Joe and most of his family speak fluent English and pamper my Anglo centric persona. So, on my own without Joe to translate, this is all quite terrifying, but a good experience none-the-less. Did I mention I have homework every night? Ugh!

After reviewing some of my previous postings, I realize I have pretty much commented on the more unfavorable French experiences. However, for anyone who has been to Paris or at least seen a movie that is filmed here, you know that Paris is quite lovely and breath taking. I have to say April in Paris deserves all the hype. It’s sunny, cool & a perfect relief from winter. Since I am getting out and about more, I am taking notice of the conveniences that Paris offers. First there is the obvious…health care. One never intends on becoming ill in another country. But, if your gonna get sick, get sick in France! The doctor’s office was something out of the series Madmen with a scale older than me, and a fully equipped doctor’s examining bed with stirrups and all right next to his antique desk. Despite the dated ambience, the doctor really new his stuff. Even with our language barrier, he managed to quickly figure out my ailments and prescribe the appropriate meds. Diagnosis? Well, let’s just say it’s time to get back to my normal eating habits. Aurevoir, fromage, croissant & baguettes! Anyway, 40 Euros later (about $55 dollars?) I paid in full for my doctor’s visit and had my prescription in hand.

On my way back from the doctors, I took the metro line and decided that New York could take a lesson or two from Paris public transportation. When waiting for a bus or the metro, a considerate little sign at every stop flashes informing travelers when the next bus or train will arrive. Do you know how many times I waited endlessly for the subway or bus, either it doesn’t come or arrives as soon as I leave the station? Well, more times than I can count! And for drivers, there is a handy little illuminated sign telling traffic goers how long to expect delays to the next exit. Amazing! However, I’m guessing the heavily taxed consumer items pay for all these conveniences. Oh, the dream of utopia, conveniences without penalty of cost! In that utopia I imagine everyone speaks a universal language (no, not love!), travel without stress & worries of being late to work (again!) and quality affordable healthcare for all…oh, wait, that one is already in the works! Á bientôt or until next time… - City Girl

Printemps á Paris!

Spring has sprung in Paris. In a short time, the trees, parks & gardens throughout Paris went from barren to full bloom. It feels only natural to sit outside, enjoy the fresh air, sweet smell of the flowers & hum the familiar jazz tune "April in Paris". With such beauty surrounding, it’s hard to imagine a thick cloud of volcanic ash above wreaking havoc globally. Despite the apparent chaos of the volcanic disturbance, life in Paris seems to go on as normal.

Much like springtime in New York, the restaurants and bars are opening their sidewalk dining, and the streets and sites seem to be more crowded than usual with tourists & visitors. I know this because not only do I visit the sites, but also I run past them. With the weather warming up, I decided it’s time to stop being on vacation and start running off my weekend pastries, daily cheese fix & whatever else I have indulged that is not in my regular dietary menu. After spending my first two months lavishing in French food, I am faced with the inevitable prospect of retiring my bulky winter clothing and exposing my new curves. So, like any good New Yorker, I am working out, more specifically running.

By all accounts, gyms in Paris are far too expensive and more akin to the upscale Health Clubs a la 1980. But, running around Paris is a great way to see the sights and get to know different areas. While running, I window shop, enjoy the beauty of Paris & people watch. However, I started noticing people giving me the once over with looks of disapproval on their face while I run past them. This did little to faze my runners high. I admit that looking fashionable on my run is not a priority. However, I do wear the traditional workout attire of any American; i.e. black, spandex workout pants, brightly colored running sneakers, tank or over sized t-shirt & a cap. On my first few runs, I saw very few female runners. The female runners I did see would be wearing everything but appropriate attire for running. One girl stomped away in her black converse sneaks, black tights, black mini skirt & black long sleeve blouse. Another woman ran in her flat, ballerina-like shoes, tights, and denim mini-skirt, finishing the outfit with a leather fanny pack. At a lunch date with another American expat, I was told stories of women wearing fishnet stockings, thong body suits or denim cut off shorts and cowboy boots to the gym. (Oh, cringe!) I started realizing why I was the one getting the funny looks. Joe informed me, that this is very “Parisian”. Apparently, Parisians get all dressed up & primped just to go out and grab a quick baguette let alone run through the streets of Paris, and Parisian women do not usually own work out attire.

Per Joe’s suggestion, I have recently started splitting my time running by the sites with running laps in a nearby park. I was relieved to immediately see a number of female runners in normal workout attire, with the occasional “fashionable” jogger. When I’m out for my runs and see these woman in their make shift workout attire, I find I’m actually inspired to run faster with this little voice in my head saying, “I will NOT be lapped by a woman wearing a denim mini & a fanny pack!” For that, I guess I have to thank them. Though my wardrobe is adapting to a more Parisian style with frills & floral now making their way into my fashion choices, I will continue to enjoy my springtime runs through Paris proudly wearing my stylish grey & lime green sneaks, baseball cap & oversized t-shirt.

Mishaps of Klutzy Kitty!

While I was growing up, it seemed like something was always falling apart or breaking around the house; dishwasher, disposal, washing machine, etc... My dad would mysteriously find forks, knives or paper towels in the disposal, chunks of food & icky stuff piled up in the dishwasher, and wonder how the washing machine got 6 inches away from the wall. Despite the inconvenience of it all, these mishaps were always more amusing than annoying. Though we didn’t point a finger, my mother seemed to be linked to these mysteries in some way as she did most of the housework. (Disclaimer: I have the most amazing, loving & understanding mother. She’s always kept an immaculate home & cooked yummy food!)

It’s not until very recently that I’ve come to appreciate the complexities of real domestic life. I’ve cooked and cleaned for myself since I was 18; so one would think I was competent at such everyday activities. A little background info: My mother had to type 4 pages of instructions on “how to do laundry” before I went to college. Needless to say, my first year of college I struggled to balance taking care of myself with studies. I quickly came to appreciate 24hour Wal-Mart and visits home. But, that was a long time ago. I have obviously managed to figure out how to balance my life and responsibilities since then. However, I have spent the past 5 ½ years living in New York City (a.k.a. an adult playground) where I worked in a restaurant (free meals!), had the luxury of Laundromats and cleaning services, as well as every kind of good food imaginable delivered upon request day or night. So, I guess you can see why my domestic skills are a little rusty.

It’s important to disclose that Joe & I live with his mother. Joe’s flat is simply too small for the two of us, so his mother offered to let us live with her while Joe finished his studies. I have a feeling she may be regretting that invitation now! Anyway, it’s been a looooooooong time since I lived with a parent. There are perks and drawbacks. I get to appreciate a home cooked meal every night, the wisdom imparted by a mother & I live in a much nicer residence than Joe & I could afford on our own. However, I am in someone else’s home with their rules and, more importantly, their things. To date: I have managed to ruin a frying pan & fill the entire apartment with smoke. I immediately, but discretely, ran around the apartment opening all the windows. All the while, I was having flashbacks of my mother performing a very similar task with the additional image of her frantically fanning a broom in front of a beeping smoke detector. Fortunately, the smell of burnt Teflon & eggs was over powered by cigarette smoke. Joe’s mother, ever efficient and patient, had the pan replaced before I could make a proper apology or explanation. (PHEW!) I have also managed to melt a knife...well, the handle of a knife, by leaving it on a hot stovetop. (I was wondering why there was an aroma of burning rubber while I cooked?) Fortunately, this was a mistake more easily rectified. Joe quickly scrubbed the stovetop and threw away the evidence. Then, this morning, I found myself in front of the washing machine for two hours cleaning up puddles of water, googling what code “F09” on a whirlpool A993 meant & trying to figure out where the drain plug thingy was located. Apparently, I managed to break the washing machine too!

Joe & his mother keep telling me it’s not my fault, “these things happen”, but I can’t help but feel pangs of guilt & incompetence. I usually do quite well with life’s responsibilities and domestic duties...at least I did while I lived on my own. It’s just that, Joe’s mother handles everything with such finesse and grace; I am constantly left feeling like a novice, which I guess I am next to her. So, tonight I cooked dinner in hopes of easing my guilty conscience & proving I’m not entirely a klutz. Joe & his mother were more than gracious with their compliments as I managed to cook a delicious meal from scratch without any mishaps or problems. Thankfully, I’m a quick study.

"She's American", french kissing & more eating...

In exploring life as a Parisian, I have come to understand that life is very much all about food. Food is an experience here. Food brings together family and friends. Food connects us. It seems, at times, my life is all about the next meal. We eat dinner with Joe’s mother and boy-friend most nights. We join his father and sometimes friends for at least one meal a week. Then I follow Joe around to more dinner & lunches with extended family members for holidays and family events. Needless, to say, I am enjoying the good food, and company, but my wardrobe is dwindling.


From showing me how to cut my meat, to introducing me to French cheese, Joe & I have shared some very humorous moments over food in Paris. Then there is Normandy… Last fall, Joe took me for a weekend to Normandy more specifically Deauville. It was a majestic beachside, fishing village. It looked exactly like what you expect of a fishing village in France. Up until then, most of my food experience in France was meats (mostly ham), cheese and bread. In Normandy, you enjoy the freshest seafood imaginable. So when ordering off my pre-fixe menu, I naturally order a seafood tasting for my entrance (or “entre” confusing for Americans!). I had no idea what was on it, but it seemed like a good idea. When the plate arrived, it was covered in little crustaceans that looked like they could walk right off my plate. Joe greeted his plate with a ,“Mmm”, then immediately started eating. I just stared at my plate contemplating how I was going to manage to eat the little guys looking at me. For the record, I don’t eat whole fish, I don’t do whole lobster and I don’t like to eat parts of the animal that still resemble an animal. When Joe finally looked up and saw I had barely touched my plate, he asked, “What’s the problem?” I replied, with a bewildered expression, “They are looking at me.” Apparently, eating the fish or crustacean whole is apart of the experience. It’s a sign of the freshness of the seafood. This is not an experience I wish to partake, so Joe took my plate and beheaded & dismembered all the little guys as I looked away. I promptly placed a leaf of lettuce over the side of the plate where bits & pieces lay feeling somewhat guilty. Before the next course was served, Joe requested that all head and tails be removed from the plate. The server looked somewhat confused. Joe explained, “She’s American and not used such presentation.”


“She’s American.” is an expression I have become quite accustom to these days. It seems to explain a lot to people in a very short amount of time. For example, I remember the first party Joe took me to in Paris; we ended up hanging out near the entrance while partygoers came in. I felt so awkward as EVERY SINGLE person came in, immediately gave their name and greeted me with K2 or “kiss,kiss”. I smiled as big as I could, eyes wide turning to Joe with my look of “what the hell is going on?” while this all would transpire. I wasn’t sure if they thought they knew me already or if I was the party host. Eventually, someone would pick up on my confusion. Then Joe would throw in the, “She’s American” speech while he could and turn to me with an amused grin to explain. They would nod with an “OOOOH!” a sudden recognition that I wasn’t a complete social retard. Shortly after, someone asked me if the typical greeting in the states was a hug. I told them it was simply a handshake unless you were already VERY familiar with the person…another “OOOOH!”, but this time with less enthusiasm seeming more perplexed by our rather “impersonal” greeting.


I’m still never sure how to greet people, but unlike in the states, you are supposed to acknowledge every person regardless of how many (could be 10+) or in what circumstance. Whether you greet with a “kiss, kiss” or a handshake seems to depend on the level of intoxication and formality of the party. Though the whole K2 thing is very welcoming & friendly, it really throws me off. I’m never sure if I am doing it right or when to do it. Not to mention, it's just a little too close for comfort when meeting a complete stranger. Whenever possible, Joe tries to let people know I am American upon first meeting. However, this seems to lead to more confusion. Sometimes this is disregarded and they immediately go in for a K2, sometimes they immediately put out their hand for a handshake, or worse stop mid K2 to awkwardly shake hands. Then, sometimes I am only required to kiss the woman on the cheek and shake the man’s hand. It’s all very confusing! At this point, I have decided to wait a moment to see what the other person does first. If they looked as confused as me, I just smile, nod and say, “echanté” trying to seem more, well, French. I’m still never really sure if I look as awkward as I feel or if I’m pulling off the whole routine, but it’s worth a shot.

Window-shopping & Normal Life

I’ve officially been in Paris for a month and it’s been quite a whirlwind. Going from my hectic, crazy life in New York City to Paris felt as if I went from 100 mph to 10 in just a moment. I had all this energy and residual anxiety from a jam-packed month prior to leaving with; saying “see you later” to my friends, putting on a going away show & packing up my entire life in NYC. But, I’m starting to finally feel like I can chill out and settle in to this more relaxed, normal lifestyle. Though I sometimes find myself curiously thinking, “Is this how normal people live?”, as if I’m apart of some social experiment in the domestication of a wild creature into normal society.

Along with settling in to my new life, I find the simplest things entertaining. I get excited over discovering Amazon.com has a UK & French site. I suddenly feel exhilarated, like “Oo! I’m getting it!”, when I pick up on French words & phrases in conversations. (I’m still too shy to try and converse.) And, I’m slowly learning how to maneuver the metro system alone with my handy dandy pocket map, which I analyze before every outing. Though I still have my “moments”, like walking around in circles underground trying to find the exit all the while cursing the matrix of a system they call a subway! Some days I just walk and explore. Window-shopping is so much more interesting in Paris. There are sexy lingerie stores on every block. Even grocery stores carry an assortment of thigh high stockings. Oh, AND you can buy a bottle of Veuve Clicquot or Laurent Champagne in a regular grocer as if it’s a can of coke! Observing the differences between French & American everyday life, can be enthralling. That is until I’m in need of something from the pharmacy.

Pharmacy’s here are quite different than our typical Rite Aid or CVS in the States. Here, you can’t even buy eye drops, bandages or aspirin without asking the actual Pharmacist. Mind you, some things are just too embarrassing to ask! AND it seems the American pharmaceutical companies haven’t made there mark yet on France. If you’re looking for a product associated with a name brand, Advil for example, you’re out of luck! So one day, Joe took me to a pharmacy because I had a bit of a sore throat. He politely asks the pharmacist for zinc lozenges, as I requested. It seemed perfectly natural for me to want Colde-Eez or at least zinc lozenges, right? (Ok, I’m a bit of a homeopath nut!) Anyway, the pharmacists responds with the French version of , “What the hell is that?” So I said, rather excitably, “Zinc, like a vitamin, Zinc lozenges that you suck on.” I use my hand to gesture. The man looked me like I had two heads and responds with “Zinc is a metal NOT a supplement”, then proceeds to hand Joe a multi-vitamin that says “A to Zinc” on the bottle! (Ok, where is the camera?)

Despite the frustrations of it all and the apparent differences in “everyday life”, I’m getting quite cozy & enjoying the pleasantries associated with this “normal” rather domestic lifestyle, BUT I still have MANY awkward, fish out of water moments…

How to ski Part Deux

I’m not a person who typically panics. On the contrary, I usually do quite well under pressure. In the past 3 years I’ve come to appreciate the perks of growing up: i.e., becoming more comfortable with one’s body, becoming wiser through experience, letting the little things roll off, etc… However, I under-estimated that fears & phobias seem to also enhance with age. Just at the point of me starring down the mountain, I realize that my minor case of vertigo has grown-up too.

I look out onto the steep descent, look back at Joe and say, “This is not a green trail. Where is the green trail?” Apparently, it’s been so long since Joe has done an easy trail that blue (intermediate) and green (beginner) are interchangeable for him. Next thing I know I am having a full on panic attack. The tears start coming, I can’t move and I can’t breath. It takes Joe 30 minutes to calm me down enough to convince me to try and make it down. In the mean time, he starts demonstrating skiing 101, but there is a bit of confusion in the translation and I grow more anxious. I am so paralyzed by fear that I can’t remember anything I’ve learned from my previous skiing trips. Finally, I decide I am calm enough to try and make my way down. Little by little, I follow Joe down like a little duck, looking only at him and not down the mountain. I slowly start to feel more comfortable and relaxed. Apparently, Joe sensed this and decided to take a mini smoke break about half way down.

How to ski Part Un

Let me preface by saying I am from Florida. Every year my parents and I took big trips to places like Costa Rica, the Bahamas. California or New Orleans. Though my parent’s enjoyed adult ski trips while I was a kid, I wasn’t introduced to snow, mountains or skiing (I use that term loosely) until I was 13. It’s not that I was deprived; we just enjoyed the warm outdoors. Since then, I have only been skiing a handful of times; a week in college and a few weekend trips my fist 2 winters in NYC. Joe, on the other hand, started skiing the slopes by 4 years old and skied regularly every season. By 17 he was free styling, doing crazy jumps and going off trails.

We decided to celebrate Joe’s winter break & our year anniversary in the French Alps where Joe went to boarding school. It’s been 3 years since my feet touched skis. However, at that time, I was quite comfortable on the slopes after a couple of seasons skiing back to back just outside of NYC. First on the agenda after arriving to the quaint mountain town, was renting equipment. I freely admitted ignorance as to my level of skiing when choosing the right skis. So we chose the appropriate skis for a beginner. (Thank God!) The ski store was run by a townie named Marcel. He spoke little to no English. Marcel had to mime to me how to pretend to ski with my boots on to make sure they fit correctly. With equipment rented and securely fitted, I felt confidant for our first day out skiing.

The next morning we woke up early, piled on our ski attire, had a hardy breakfast and excitedly made our way to the slopes. We walked a couple of blocks in our ski boots with skis in hand. I felt like a transformer and quickly grew tired before we even began. I briefly started having flash backs to exactly a year ago when I was sunning on a beach in Mexico and imagined Joe & I were actually caring towels in hand instead of 10lbs of ski equipment. (Sigh!)

First we traveled up this thing that looks like an egg (appropriately called “les oeufs“) to the actual ski site. Then we ski over to the different slopes. As soon as I put my skis on, I feel like a fish out of water, but I tried to look like I’ve been doing this for years. I recently invested in a sexy new ski outfit just for this trip. I figured I could at least look cute skiing even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing! So here I am trucking up to a ski lift in my fashionable ski attire…well as fashionable as you can get in 10 layers of fabrics! Apparently, to get up to the top of the trail, we have to take a little ride up on a pole. Yes a pole! A long pole with a tiny little tire at the end and attached to a line by a bungee chord replaces the chair lift I am used to in the states. Without hesitation, Joe pushes me ahead and tells me to go in front of him. I yell back, “What the hell do I do?” Joe then says “Grab the pole and put it between your legs!”. Me, “Put what? where??” Joe, “Grab the pole and put it between your legs!” Mind you, I have limited speech, sight and hearing at this time as my hood nearly covers my entire face & head. Confused, I finally shrug my shoulders, grab the pole and I am suddenly jerked forward. I yelp out a “Whoo!” and almost drag my ass on the ground before I stabilize. I catch my breath and start to grasp the pole as tightly as possible. Normally it might be thrilling to have a large, metal pole between one’s legs, but as I made my way to the top of the trail, I started to feel slightly nauseated. I made the mistake of looking back down the lift. I desperately clench my inner thighs around the pole as the climb became steeper. By the time I reached the top and I let go of the odd bungee pole my knees are shaking. At this time, I assumed my knees were shaking due to how tightly I grasped the pole with my legs. Then I stare down the mountain and suddenly feel like I am in a tunnel and can’t breathe. Joe gracefully skis in front of me to where other skiers were preparing to go down, smiles and says, “Ready to go?” I couldn’t form the words to express my pang of fear, so I nod and slowly follow behind trying to remember how to move my legs in the skis. All the while, I am talking to myself saying “You can do this. You can do this.” Joe immediately notices my stiff movements and asks if I am ok. I finally form the words “I’m scared”. And before I know it, panic sets in and I can’t move. For the moment, all I can think about is “How do I get off this mountain without actually skiing down it?”

To be continued…

Let me introduce myself...AGAIN!

Side note, I started this blog over a year ago but never found the time to really write. Jump ahead to one year later and I finally finished/amended my first entry. Here it is:

Hmm...where do I begin? Love, life, career? It's been an uphill battle ever since moving to New York City. But I haven't regretted a moment of it. I remember every person, adventure, mishap and heartbreak along the way. They say this city makes a person hard. As much as I agree, the city also makes you stronger. It tests your commitment, integrity and endurance every step of the way. If it weren't for the friends I made, my amazingly supportive family and my own self-awareness, I don't know if I would've lasted in the city. There is an energy in NYC that is unequaled anywhere else. Once your here, your addicted. Sure its crowded, dirty, loud and often times scary, but its also amazing.

Ok, a little about me. I was born and raised in Sunny South Florida. Needless to say, winters are still a struggle! I graduated top of my class. Started college a year ahead with a full scholarship and graduated Magna Cum Laude with degree in Music. So, I ask, how is it I now make a living slinging drinks and formulating cocktail recipes in New York City? My mother had aspirations for me to be a music teacher, and for a time I was. I'd teach voice and piano privately by day, then slip on some skimpy outfit or cocktail dress and rush to sing for whatever private event, night club or wedding by night. It was safe. I was in South Florida, my hometown. It kept my parents from worrying about me and my bills paid. For the most part, I was content. I had a entirely different life and lifestyle before moving to the city. I was a serial monogamous with little time between boy-friends. I fell into the same routine when first moving to NYC. Being in a relationship was stability (no matter how dramatic the relationship) in a very unstable place.

Anyway, after a couple of years I ditched the boy-friend, settled into a reliable income at a nice, respectable restaurant, put my band together, even made a CD and got a nice apartment, but my love life was a tangled web. I was independent, making good money & living a comfortable life. I was loving being single with all it's freedom. I wasn't accountable to anyone but myself. My girl-friends (and some guy friends) were the only relationships of importance and value. BUT I'm a girl who always wanted it all! I guess I started to miss having that special someone. (not to mention satisfying, regular sex with a person who actually cares about you) Just when I was ready to give up the search (a very loooong list of romantic disappointments) I got swept off my feet by a frenchman. Nearly one year later, I have uprooted my entire life to live with him in Paris for a time. I don't speak the language. I don't know the culture and I don't have a job! Well I've always followed my heart. It gave me the courage to move to New York and now it brought me here, to Paris. It can be isolating at times, so I write. I write about my past and present experiences in the bar business, as a musician, romance & heartbreak, life's struggles and incredible moments, partying it up as a single chic and finally learning how to adjust to an entirely new life of domestication.

The Secrets of Stinky Cheese

I always considered myself a cheese lover. Mmm…Chocolate & Cheese...(drool)! I could NEVER be a vegan. I love stinky cheese like Gorgonzola, Blue cheese, etc…well, at least I THOUGHT they were stinky cheese!

Last summer, while Joe was staying with me in New York, I revealed to him my love of cheese, specifically stinky cheese. Side note: NEVER tell a Frenchman you like stinky cheese. One afternoon, we decided to have a wine and cheese party…well, really just Joe & I. So we made our way to my local gourmet grocer to pick out some cheese. I let Joe pick out the cheese since he obviously knows more about it than me. Turns out, the gentleman in the cheese & meats area was French as well. So he and Joe spoke rapidly in their native tongue and before I knew it we were handed to nicely wrapped blocks of cheese. As we waited in the check out line, Joe had a mischievous look on his face and started giggling. He commented that these were some of his FAVORITE cheeses.

When we got home, Joe carefully opened the wrapping on the cheese and placed them neatly on plates while I uncorked the wine. As soon as he placed the plate in front of me, I got this whiff of the most pungent odor. “Oh...My...God!”, were the only words I could speak. My eyes started tearing about and I couldn’t believe that this smell belonged to something I had to pay for let alone was going to eat! I can only compare the smell to that of a stinky, dirty garbage can. All the while, Joe was laughing at my dramatic reaction. Regardless, I decided to try it. I cut a small slice of cheese, placed it on a nice size piece of French bread & brought it to my lips to eat. All the while, Joe would eat equal portions cheese to bread. The cheese was so pungent that I had to hold my breath before biting down. Joe found this all quite entertaining. The texture was enjoyable and the flavor even fine in small doses. However, after a few more pieces I gave up. Eventually, we wrapped up the remaining cheese and put it in the fridge. Not long after, my roommate and I discovered that the aroma of the cheese was permeating through the entire fridge and slowly making it’s way out. Needless to say we quickly threw it out tightly wrapped in a couple of bags.

I later revealed this story to Joe’s family on one of my visits to Paris. Since then, they have promised to reintroduce me to French cheese variety with care and caution. Then at dinner the other night we were eating with Joe’s family when I noticed two beautiful blocks of cheese sitting on a counter not far from the dinner table. They looked like small cakes. After dinner, Joe’s mom brought them to the table and explained that these were very fresh, very special cheese from a local cheese store. Apparently, it was time for my reintroduction to the French cheese experience. I was a little skeptical. Fortunately, Joe’s mom warned me that the first will be sweet and mild, but the second will be a very strong cheese. She then explained how each cheese is like a wine with distinct flavors from the area it is cultivated and what they feed the animals. The first cheese was a crisp, delicious goat cheese that smelled of clean, sweet grass. Deeelish! Then it was time for the second cheese. I cut into the block and immediately let out a “Whoo!” I was suddenly struck by a familiar aroma…seriously stinky cheese!! I was reminded of the pungent smell of a dirty garbage can. Joe’s mother encouraged me to give it a chance while she chuckled at my distorted face, (nose scrunched with an over all look of disgust). She said to smell the complexity of the cheese. I tried my best given it’s overwhelming odor. And wouldn’t you know it, I could pick up the complexities of flavor she mentioned. I ate a few small pieces (again while Joe ate large chunks), but that was all. There is only so much stinky French cheese an American girl can take!

Afterwards, Joe’s mom tightly wrapped the remaining cheese and put it on the balcony. I was struck by the rationale of all this. It makes sense, it’s cold enough outside to keep AND you avoid it smelling up the apartment! Oh, the things you can learn from the French…

StIr CrAzY kItTy!

When I made the moved to New York, I took my cat, Angel, with me. She went from a 3-bedroom home with a yard to a tiny 2-bedroom apartment in Spanish Harlem. I started noticing sporadic bursts of manic energy. Every few days Angel would run up the small hallway, stretch out on the wall or hug a doorframe, look back at me then wildly run back and forth until exhaustion. It’s only now I can appreciate her coping mechanism in adjusting to her new world.

Early last week, I found myself laid up with a broken toe, well, maybe a sprained toe (it was all kinds of colors and looked like a mini hotdog!), a casualty of my efforts in trying to be more domestic. I was making the bed and hit the corner of the bookcase with my little toe. Up until then, everything had been going smoothly. Joe treated me like a princess for my birthday the week prior & surprised me with occasional gifts “just because”. We celebrated Valentines Day comfortably with dinner and a movie at the Champs Elyses. I was finally adjusted to the time change and started feeling productive and getting a sense for my surroundings. My toe incident seemed like a minor set back.

Only two days later, I started to feel noticeably edgy. I had too much idol time on my hands. Like my cat, I had sudden bursts of manic energy. I wanted to do everything at once but couldn’t decide what to do first or how to finish. All the while, Joe sat patiently watching me hobble around the room like some cartoon character OR, well…a stir crazy cat! He calmly reminded me of my obvious momentary limitations as I anxiously limped from one corner of the room to the other. I whined about frustrations of my limited independence. I was coming close to a melt down. Joe soon decided I needed to leave the apartment. He took me on a drive around Paris. He showed me monuments and mile markers that I could use to get a better sense of direction while walking around. It’s amazing how a drive through Paris at night can soothe the soul. By this point, I felt almost catatonic, but incredibly thankful to be out of the apartment.

Living in New York City can be a stressful task. Though I had a very physical job bartending, I found that working out was necessary for my sanity. Dealing with the strains of everyday life like crazy people in the subways, obnoxious customers & annoying taxi drivers was all the more manageable. Joe knew this and decided he would take me to his gym in Paris whenever possible. My toe was healing thanks to my bed rest and a magical, French topical gel Joe rubbed on everyday, so we made our way to the gym on Saturday morning. I agreed to do Joe’s weight lifting workout routine. I lifted, pushed, grunted & scrunched more than I ever had in hopes of relieving the past week’s pent up anxiety. Walking out of the gym, I felt like my legs were detached from my body. After a hardy lunch, my brain felt vacant. I had to take a catnap to recover. The next morning as I lay in bed, my body was in shock. Every muscle in existence ached. I felt like a mummy trying to get out of bed. The entire day, I moved like an old lady, slowly walking up & down stairs and painfully sitting & getting up from chairs, etc... Though I cursed Joe, I really could only blame myself. My body is still recovering, BUT my mind is as content as a house cat! :)

This week Joe is making the bed.

“Le Grand Gros Rat Ratiboise son Gruyere”

"Now repeat after me Luh GRahn GRoe Rah Rahteebwah sohn GRooyehRR", Joe's mom is sweetly trying to help me with the French throaty R's. "G-G-G-G-G Rh-Rh-Rh-Rh," she exaggerates the difference for me to repeat. I feel like I'm in grade school again. I imagine that I am choking or gargling with salt water. "G-Rh-G-Rh GRhan" She will randomly stop me to repeat this phrase over the next few days. If this is my attempt to assimilate, I have my work cut out for me.

I have to admit, I tried to avoid singing French in college. It was always so complicated & unpredictable. (Symbolic? Hmm…) Latin, Italian, Spanish and even German were far more reliable and, well, easy. I could kick myself now for not rising to the challenge. If only I knew then what I know now. (Sigh! Isn't that always the case?) None-the-less, I am making a whole-hearted attempt to learn the language…or at least SOUND like I’m learning it. Note to self: Don't speak the "s" or "t" at the ends of words or phrases unless followed by an “e”. However, there are always exceptions to the rule. Words can run together like one big contraction, so if you do pronounce the "s" its as a part of the next word and can sound like a “z”, “X” can also sound like a “z” and “F” like a “v”…PHEW! My head is spinning. Basically unless you know the context of the conversation, you are lost. I find myself lost pretty often these days. I try and listen to conversations over the dinner table, but decide eventually to give Joe my desperate "please translate" look.

If I go out, I try as little as possible to speak or even mumble anything. I probably seem like a deaf mute to most people around. At the check out counter I smile, nod and fumble for the colorful bills & change in my wallet (even the money is complicated & elegant!). When walking in the streets or passing by a person in an isle at a store, I meekly whisper "pardon" in my best French. If Joe & I are at a restaurant I look like a deer in headlights when the server tries to tell me the specials or ask for my coat. This all seems so silly. I'm a New Yorker dammit! I don't apologize when I need to pass by someone. I don't smile at cashiers. I'm not a meek person by nature. I'm afraid if I speak they will realize I am American. Why? I guess the "French people hate Americans" thing was subliminally driven into me. Apparently, I’d rather seem like an idiot than an American!

As if the language barrier isn’t stressful enough, there is the whole etiquette thing. My first trip to Paris last spring, Joe took me out to a nice lunch near Notre (don’t forget to swallow the “r”!) Dame. I ordered a pork dish from the prefix menu as my main course. I was happily enjoying my meal when I look up and see Joe staring at me with a frozen look of shock. “What? What did I do?” I say. He doesn’t say anything. I am suddenly very insecure, “Do I have something in my teeth? My face?? What???” Then he says in his French accent, “That is how you cut your meat? No, no, no, no!” He gets up, walks behind me and proceeds to show me how to “properly” cut my meat. I’d say I was embarrassed, but I felt more ashamed. I had to explain to him that my mother cut my meat until I was nearly 20. Her theory was, if she cut the meat up before she handed me the plate, I would eat more of it. I’m not a heathen. I took etiquette class, but it was never very interesting. Again, if only I knew then what I know now! My shame was soon replaced with gratitude while eating dinner with his father that evening. This was my first introduction to Joe’s family. It was a more formal sitting for dinner than I ever experienced. I suddenly felt like I needed to sit up more straight, watch my elbows, etc… The main course comes, and it is steak. I’m frantically trying to remember what Joe taught me. I don’t want to come off as a heathen American at my first meeting! I put my fork & knife in the proper position as he showed me. I glance up at Joe for approval. He smiles sweetly and shows me how he is holding his silverware and nods.

Months and months later, I am quite comfortable and proud of my fork and knife etiquette. Now if I could only manage those damn “r’s”! G-Rh-G-Rh GRhan…

Doorknobs, Cross Walks & Severe Jet-lag

Well I made it! I’m finally here in Paris. I find myself repeating these words often to remind myself this isn’t just a vacation. My first few days are still a bit hazy as I battled je lag and shock. The jet lag is pretty self-explanatory. The shock is a little bit harder to explain.

My second day in Paris, I decided I was already getting a little stir crazy. I felt like a drunken person falling in and out of sleep all day and night. Our bedroom has a blackout shade which makes it even more difficult to gauge time. Eventually, I found that I was feeling anxious to be normal. So I asked Joe to write me little directions to a store where I could pick up some necessities while he was in class. I finally stumbled out of bed, grabbed the keys and headed to the door. I reach for what looks like a doorknob oddly placed in the center of the door. It doesn’t turn. I fumble around for a few minutes feeling like a blind person. “It can’t possibly be this hard,” I say to myself. Ah ha! I finally feel a latch and manage to push the door open. This is just the start…

Still feeling a little unbalanced, I decide to take the elevator down. It’s a tiny elevator barely big enough for two. I push the first floor button. As I wander out onto the first floor I realize that the first floor is not like the first floors in the US. “Stupid American!” I then notice there is a 0 floor. As you know, in the US most ground floors are actually floor #1, and basements are actually floor 0, right? Well Europeans seem to like to screw with Americans! I walk down one more flight of stairs to what seems like a door to the outside world. A tiny little knob is on the door. I turn it left, then right, then right, then left, etc… All the while I am talking to myself saying, “This is ridiculous!” I nearly start having a panic attack and I’m not even out of the building yet! I imagine that I am stuck in this evil building that has a life of it’s own and has decided to play tricks on me. I’m tired, disoriented and suddenly feeling claustrophobic. I almost give up when I just happen to push a little on the doorknob and it suddenly frees me from captivity! I’m free…well not yet, another dark corridor awaits. “This has to be a joke!” I make my way to yet ANOTHER big door. At this point, I feel a bit like Alice in wonderland. Another door, another oddly placed knob, another latch to figure out. As soon as I push the door open, I nearly knock a deliveryman in the face. All I can think about is that I’m finally outside.

The frustration of making it out of the apartment building has left me even more exhausted. I make my way towards a crosswalk; start walking when the little man turns green. As soon as I am in the middle of the street, I start to hear a high-pitched mini honk. I freeze and realize there is a motorbike headed straight for me. Confused, I stop in the street. I notice the other pedestrians ignoring the warning and keep walking without evening turning to look. Eventually I take off running the rest of the way toward safety. Though I’ve been in Paris before, I usually just follow Joe around not even paying attention to things like doorknobs, floor levels or cross walk etiquette. Apparently, in Paris, you just walk, don’t hesitate, don’t stop! I finally make it to a store where I can get things like shampoo, conditioner, etc. I’m starting to feel normal. I tell myself I can get around this city just like New York City! I just need to adjust. However, I am still feeling like I am having this weird out of body experience. I am still incredibly jet lagged. Twenty minutes later, I am still standing in front of the hair products staring. “Shampoo, Shampoo, Shampoo…where the hell is the conditioner? Do they not use conditioner in France?” I’ve had Rosetta Stone for French for a few months at this point, but I guiltily have not made it past Lesson 2 of Unit 1. Hmm… I ask the clerk finally. He doesn’t speak much English but eventually figures out what I am asking for, “Apres Shampoo!” Oh, After Shampoo! (Again, stupid American!) Ok, maybe this doesn’t sound very important, but I’m a girl used to walking out her door and getting anything she wants at any time of night or day. It never occurred to me that finding a hair conditioner would be such a task.

On my way back to the apartment, I bounce like a ping-pong ball back and forth through crosswalks until I make it to the side of the street where the apartment building is located. I make it into the building with a lot more finesse than it took to get out. I start to head up to the apartment, when I realize I don’t remember what floor the apartment is on. Damn jet lag and disorientation! I sigh a big breath, sit on the steps, text Joe and wait to hear back…

One of "those girls"

One of Those Girls

After spending Sunday afternoon with girl friends at Great Jones Spa Water Lounge celebrating my pre-birthday, I rushed to the airport for my Paris departure. The cab driver had a broken trunk latch, so we made a quick stop at to get it fixed. I had luggage big enough to pack a person & had to sit one of my pieces in the front passenger seat. Check in at the airport was the most stressful ever with 4 pieces of luggage & a guitar. The plane ride was easy and smooth, but I felt rather anxious. All I kept thinking about was the question asked repeatedly over the past weeks by EVERYONE, “Aren’t you excited?” I would smile and say, “YES! Just a little overwhelmed “, but what I was really thinking was “NO! I’m terrified!” I’m terrified of the unknown. I’m a planner and here I am moving to Paris to be with my boy-friend while he finishes his school year. I’m leaving a well-paying, reliable job in a global recession. I don’t speak the language, know the customs nor have a work visa. But it is Paris with the man I love…

Still, I had butterflies in my stomach. I hadn’t seen him in almost 3 months…3 very loooong months. I made a decision 6 months prior on my last trip to Paris that I needed to live with him in Paris to understand him better. Not to mention, we are happiest away from my crazy New York City life. My life in New York is busy, exciting, and I’m constantly surrounded by the familiar with friends all around to support me. I’m a bartender (well a glorified bar manager) in a successful SoHo restaurant. I have friends and customers who come to visit everyday. I’m a musician. I have a great band that took me two years to put together as well as a loyal fan following. I’ve networked my way in with other songwriters and producers. Yet, that all seems empty when you are without the one you really love in a city like this.

I never thought I would be one of “those girls”. You know the one’s that leave everything behind for a man?! But I guess living in NYC for 5 years makes you cynical but also incredibly appreciative of the good things in life, like good food, a nice apartment and a good man. Men are easy to come by in the city, but good men are few and far between. There are the one’s you think are good: “Married Guy” who takes his ring off and seems so mature & together, but really he is a struggling actor who is going through a mid-life crisis and can’t deal with his wounded ego. “Sweet, Sexy Smile Guy” who takes you on a hot taxi ride instead of bringing you home because he has a live in girl-friend he forgot to tell you about. The “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing Guy” who says he’s “not like all the other New York men” it’s just that he’s still broken hearted from his last break up & doesn’t want a relationship right now. Meanwhile, he only wants to see you on weekday nights. Oh! And your long-term boy-friend who travels on a business trip to China and thinks he can hide his war wounds from drunken night indiscretion with a local. Then there are the not so good guys who still seem oh-so-appealing like; “Mr. Hedge-Fund,” way to young for the amount of disposable income he incurs but oh-so-charming and mystifying. He takes you to the nicest restaurants and lounges, buys you expensive perfumes & treats you like a lady, but bores of you when you try to define the relationship. Then there is “Captain America” divorcee with a sparkling personality and seems oddly sexy when you find out he has a son he adores. Meanwhile he has more baggage than you can carry and secretly hasn’t broken it off with the fatale attraction mistress who ended his marriage. And then there is the “Mr. Big”, the guy that faithfully appears in and out of your life throughout love’s heartbreaks and disappointments. The friend with benefits that you always wonder what could be if only he could commit. You have the comfort of two people who known each other for years. But the dream of happily ever after fades just as quickly as soon as you realize why it will never work; the timing will never be right, you want more than he could ever give and he is better at friendship than he is at a romantic relationship. (period!)

After finally giving up on truly finding a good man a crazy, sexy Frenchman walks into my life…well into my restaurant to be exact. And what I thought was just going to be a hot one-night-stand, turns into possibly the love of my life. That’s a whole other story, but let’s just say that it took going through all these other types of men for me to appreciate meeting a good one; the guy worth taking a chance on and packing up my life in NYC to move to Paris.

I get off the plane dazed and disheveled from a 7 hour plane ride. I immediately see Joe amongst all the other people waiting for passengers. Suddenly all my anxiety seems far away and I realize I am one of "those girls", and I'm okay with that…

CIty Katz

Let me start by saying, I am an animal lover. I've had pets (dog & cats) my whole life. When I moved to the city, I left one cat in Florida and took the more docile to New York. My Angel. My savior through the good times and bad times. Angel survived my first hell hole New York apartment. She comforted me while I mended a broken heart. She gracefully tolerated "visitors". And though she was a fluffy, princess of a cat, she kept my apartments rodent free. Angel would venture out into the hallway of my apartment buildings as if exploring a jungle. She would stare at the window at the pigeons on my air-conditioner for amusement. Now, Angel is temporarily fostered by my wonderful mother in Georgia while I set out on my Paris adventure. She is now, as my mother says "a country kitty".

It's surprising how many pets there are in New York City. With such little space to live & frolic, New Yorkers still keep and collect pets as a touch stone to suburbia. We have dog parks, pet day cares, dog walkers, cat sitters, designer animal wear, etc... All to pamper our little loves. I've even seen a cat once walking on a leash. I mistook it for a monkey! (Apparently, monkey on a leash is a much more rational than a cat on a leash in NYC!!) My friends and I shamefully trade little stories & pictures of our pets as if they are children. It's a rare occasion that you actually meet the so-called "angel". New York apartment living does not permit regular social gatherings. BUT most New Yorkers have pull out sofas! So when family comes to visit or a friend needs a place to crash, New Yorkers are always welcoming.

As was the case with me when I found I had no where to stay after moving out of my apartment and in between New York and Paris. Without hesitation, my very sweet friend invited me to stay in her lovely studio apartment with her cat. Missing my Angel, (I still haven't recovered from the image of my mother carrying her upside down through LGA security) I immediately started to greet Miko with a high pitched "hello" and pet. I was very quickly warned by my friend that he can bite and scratch. Four days later, I look like a cutter; one of those people who secretly cuts themselves to feel more in control of their world. I keep the spray bottle near for protection. I've learned to keep a foot of space between us if I need to walk by. If he is sleeping, I try not to disturb him. When awake he flips like a switch with crazy eyes and will lunge at you without warning. He is a city cat.

I called my best-friend from back home and told her of my dilemma. It's not easy to admit you actually hate a cat when you are an animal lover. A certain amount of guilt persists. My bff suggested I pee on him to show who's boss!! I guess as much as I am terrified of this little beast, I kinda get him. We live in this great city. Always somewhere to go, friends to see & something to do. But it can be surprisingly solitary. We make our apartments comfy & cozy but they still can only seem like places to sleep and keep our clothes. So we have pets. We have pets to make us feel more at home, more normal. Whether it's a cat, dog, fish, bird or plant, our pets make us feel more human is city that can dehumanize. They sit and wait for us to come home. I guess I'd be a little crazy too if all I had to do all day was stare out a window and wait...

Where am I?

I am currently "in between". I am in between New York and Paris. A week ago, I was preparing for my big move to Paris to be with my man and get lost while I figure out what I am doing with my life. A week ago I was still bartending at a great bar in Soho. A week ago I was celebrating my move with a going away show with my band. A week ago I had my own apartment. But things can become unraveled rather quickly. I had some drama in love land and decided to postpone. No my boy-friend didn't cheat! Though A common occurrence amongst "city men". (I'll reflect on that later) So I postponed. NOW, I am unemployed and crashing on a friends couch until I figure out when I am leaving. I am in limbo. Idol time....not my thing. I like being busy. I do better with my plate full. That's why I love living in the city! Now I am in indefinite limbo. It's a strangely scary and thrilling feeling. But if I stay in this place too long, I'm liable to lose my mind! To be continued...