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.