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...