Rainy Days

Gabriel lost his first tooth yesterday! The one next to it is wiggly, too.

It's been a rainy week, so we've been spending a lot of times indoors. Can you tell?

But we made a blanket forth this morning after bath time and read books to make the most of the "crying sky." 

“Different” things I’ve noticed about French culture

This is a quick list I made of little differences I've noticed and/or had to get used to so far since moving to Paris:

• Everyone dresses like they’re going to a job interview. For Coco Chanel. All the time.

•  Europeans drink a TON of Coca Cola. They call it “Coca.” It’s seen as so American, but they drink way more than people in the U.S. do.

•  Also, France apparently never got the memo that smoking cigarettes gives you cancer, because everyone smokes. Everywhere.

•    Cheese is its own course with every meal, even in normal households. Not even just in restaurants. They eat dinner with wine and then say, “Would you like some cheese?” and they bring out a plate of wonderful, stinky French cheeses and you cut it and say merci and whatnot. Then there may be dessert after, but sometimes cheese is dessert.

• They’re wine snobs, but only because everyone really knows wine.

•  They’re skinnier than Americans on average.

•   But they aren’t necessarily healthier. They eat and drink so much sugar and other processed food and smoke cigarettes, like I said, but everything is in smaller portions and they value the quality of their food very much.

• They’re always talking about food, especially when they’re eating it.

• They really love their black-and-white striped shirts.

• The cheese is its own brie. Get it? Like, it's its own breed, but it's its own brie. APPRECIATE MY PUN. The cheese we eat in the United States isn’t even the same stuff as here. Even the brie.

• The women have immaculate nails but do absolutely nothing with their hair.

• People don't clean up their dog's poop on the sidewalks. 

• The men are bolder here.

• Everything closes by 7:30 p.m. if it’s not a bar or restaurant.

• They don’t eat dinner until 8, 9, or 10 p.m.

• They prefer lunch to be the heaviest meal of the day, rather than dinner.

• You’ll never hear someone say, “Mhm,” in the pleasant way we do in English. It’s rude. You always say, “De Rien."

• Some people do live up to the stereotype that French people are snobs who don’t like Americans, but it’s not nearly as large a percentage as we think back home.

•  It is true, however, that making an attempt to speak their language gains a little respect, even if it’s just “Bonjour” or “S’il vous plait.

•  There’s no such thing as food to-go or taking your left-overs home. You eat it or you don't.

• Coffees to-go are rare.

• You can’t find coffee that’s not espresso.

• Tiny! Tiny cups, tiny coffees, tiny streets, tiny showers, tiny men, tiny apartments, tiny portions, tiny lips.

•  Personal bubbles get popped on the daily because everyone kisses each other on the cheeks, even when they first meet. I knew this before, obviously, but I never had to do it all the time, and it’s honestly taking me a long time to get used to. I didn’t think I had a bubble, but having a stranger get up in my face before I’ve even seen what color their eyes are is uncomfortable for me still.

• They really like crappy American pop music in public places.

• Did I mention the cheese?

Met my host family. Also - Paris in the rain.

I lugged the smaller of my suitcases across Paris on the crowded metro. You have to take two lines from Rue De Birague to Rue De Boulainvilliers, so by the time I arrived at my host family’s apartment at 11 a.m., I was already wiped. That didn’t keep me from noticing how cute calmness of the 16^th arrondissement. Few people walked past me as I wheeled my suitcase down the street; I saw more construction workers and garbage men than pedestrians.

I rang the doorbell at the address Laetitia had told me, and the door opened. Standing there was Gael, my host father, and my two adorable little charges. (Laetitia was at work and Gael was on holiday). They gave me a kiss when I walked through the door and Josy immediately wanted to show me her room and to play. Gabi went to the television and shyly curled into a ball when I asked him questions, but over the next few days, after many tickle fights, bouncy ball games, and Uno matches, I’d venture so far as to say he’s already my little buddy.

 The first day meeting my host family was wonderfully exhausting for many reasons. For one, I wanted to make a good impression, of course, and exerting that much energy toward trying to be perfect is exhausting. (Gael and Laetitia graciously made me feel comfortable enough through many gestures of kindness to where I could drop that tiring endeavor).  But it was also physically and mentally exhausting because we packed so much into the first day, since there’s so much to know.

First, we went for a walk to Monoprix, the big grocery store here. Gabi pushed the stroller with Josy in it while Gael and I dropped some things into the grocery basket – coffee, cereal, hand soap, cleaning supplies. While Gael paid for the items, I took the kids out of the store into the mall to wait for him where they wouldn’t be so crowded – my first time being alone with the kids – and I made the grave mistake of unbuckling a struggling Josy from her stroller. She wasted no time; she booked it to the office supply store across the mall courtyard. I had been alone with them for hardly a minute before I was chasing Josy through the store while holding Gabi’s hand as he laughed hysterically. Of course, Josy had no apparent goal in mind, and randomly stopped in the post-it note section before I’d caught up to her. I didn’t let her leave my sight, but my heart was beating like a war drum when I scooped her up and carried her back to the stroller, making sure to buckle the straps, just as Gael came out of Monoprix carrying the reusable grocery bags lumpy with all my necessities.

Back at the flat, the four of us jumped into Gael’s car for another tour. This time I could relax, since Josy and Gabi were both securely fastened in their car seats. The 16^th, the arrondissement where my apartment is, as well as theirs, just borders the 7^th, where the Eiffel Tower and many other famous sites are. We drove past Hotel des Invalides, Trocadero, the American Embassy, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower and Parc du Champ de Mars, the huge lawn in front of the Tower where people, mostly tourists, sit on blankets amidst a sea of cigarette butts and make out because they’re in the City of Love.

Gael also showed me my apartment that Laetitia picked out for me, a ten minute walk from their house. It’s nothing short of perfect. It’s a tiny studio apartment, but it’s pretty big for a studio apartment in Paris, especially in this area. I wouldn’t have it any other way, anyway. I love that it’s tiny. I have a couch-bed, a table, a kitchen that is barely wider than my hips, a big closet, wood floors, and windows that open inward and look out onto the quiet street. There’s a white ladder that leads to a loft where my mattress is, and above that is a moon roof. I can climb out of it and sit on the roof of my building and look at the Eiffel Tower whenever I want; I just have to remember to close the moon roof at night when it rains … learned that the hard way. I even have a washer! It only took me a half hour to figure out how to use it. And the building itself is so French. You walk through a heavy, iron-grated door first, but when you’re leaving you have to press the button that says “Port” (“door”) for the door to open. When you’re walking in, though, you then have to go through another door, this one a glass French door, and press an old-fashioned button with the word “Lumiere” (“light) written above it so that you can see where you’re going before ascending four flights of winding, carpeted stairs or taking the one-person glass elevator.

I’ll post photos or a video when I’ve had time to decorate a little.

The last week has been extremely busy; I’ve been with the kids every day since I left Maia and Matthieu’s. Saturday the whole family and I took a train to Futuroscope, a theme park outside of Paris. You know those high-tech, 3D games and films where you’re securely fastened to roller coaster seats that move all over the place and you’re splashed with water and you feel like you’re inside the game? That’s what the theme of this park is. I’m not sure what the word is for that, but I’m just going to say it was wicked fun, especially this one ride where you feel like you’re flying over a beautiful landscape for a few minutes. I got butterflies as I descended and landed gracefully in a field of dandelions. It was like lucid dreaming. I definitely recommend going if you ever have the chance.

We came home Sunday night, and I watch the kids every day from 8:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. until Friday; school starts next week, so I won’t be working all day after that, but my classes start soon, too, but I’ll have more time to explore and go out after this week.

Last night I left my apartment at 8:45 p.m. for a walk; I walked for fifteen minutes before crossing Pont d’lena and standing directly underneath the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled, letting me know it was 9 p.m. I was surrounded by throngs of tourists and lovers and vendors trying to sell me colored mini Eiffel Towers and cheap wine, but somehow all that made the moment even more magical. I sat on the lawn for an hour soaking in the fact, for the hundredth time, that I’m here.

I’m sitting on my couch drinking wine that Gael picked out for me jokingly; apparently Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have a house in France and make wine, so I’m currently sipping a Brangelina rosé called “Pink Floyd” … The confusion of the situation dissipated after the first glass. I was listening to Ella Fitzgerald and a song about Paris came on, and I wasn’t even surprised. Then it started raining, so I turned off the music so I could listen to it fall on my tiny balcony.

I now understand why so many romantic poets obsess about Paris in the rain. 

First Adventures in Paris

Coming “home” to Maia and Matthieu’s apartment in Paris was amazing after two weeks on the road. It’s weird that lying by the water, eating fresh seafood and wandering aimlessly around beautiful European cities all day for 14 days is exhausting. 

We took a train from Montpellier in the South of France all the way up to Paris, then took a bus to their street, Rue De Birague. There’s a cute, quintessentially French park right by their apartment with a fountain and old men in trench coats feeding pigeons, and Victor Hugo lived right around the corner.  

Carrying all of our luggage up six flights of narrow, winding stairs was no fun, but I forgot all about that when I entered their apartment. It’s beautiful. Black stairs wind up through their front door past a bookshelf filled with hundreds of books; at the top marble steps lead up to an adorable bathroom with a footed tub. The room I’m sleeping in, which is usually Matthieu’s music room where he keeps his five guitars, faces out over roofs and balconies, and when I swing open the windows I can hear church bells every hour. Black and white framed photographs of India hang on the walls all through the apartment, taken by Maia’s mom’s friend in India. In the living room, Matt’s hundreds of cd’s, mostly blues, are lined along a wall. Three small glass balls hang from string over the kitchen table, and when the sun shines through the window they cast rainbows through the room. Also, you can see the Eiffel Tower in the distance from their kitchen window.

(View from the bedroom window in M&M's apartment)

After we settled in a bit and had showers, Maia’s mom, Diane, picked us up in her car and drove us to her apartment. Maia acted as my tour guide from the passenger seat, pointing out the River Seine, Notre Dame, the most expensive restaurant in Paris, the city’s most famous ice cream with a snaking line of tourists in front of it … I teared up – I couldn’t believe I was actually here. Finally. Maia teared up, too. She feels all my emotions since we’ve been basically glued together for weeks.

 Diane’s apartment is even more spectacular than M&M’s. She has a hammock in her living room. We had tea and sandwiches, tarot readings and did some fun magazine personality quizzes.

My first whole day in Paris was a Sunday; Maia woke me up with coffee and croissants, and we went straight to the open market by her house. The weather has been like Fall the last week, so I’m in heaven. Everyone was wearing pants and long-sleeved shirts and scarves, and some people were even wearing jackets. There was a light breeze, and it’s been a little overcast, but not nearly like the Mistral in the South.

The market is like a farmer’s market on steroids. I couldn’t see where it ended from where we entered the square of white tents set up in perfect rows. People, mostly men, yelled out what they were selling -fruits, vegetables, fish, beef, clams, jackets, jewelry, shoes, exotic sculptures, soap, herbs, and paintings. Maia bought mangos, peaches, onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro, and figs (for me!). Last night she made a salad with mangos, figs, cilantro, onions, olive oil and some spices I don’t know. She also made dank guacamole. The last few nights I’ve looked forward to 9 p.m. for two reasons: One is that I’m still not used to the way French people don’t eat dinner until nine or ten, so I’m absolutely famished by the time it’s ready; and two is because Maia makes amazing food. And we always have wine.

(Dinner by Maia May)

After the market, Maia went to visit her Grandma in Rue De Boulanvilliers, which is where my apartment is, so Matthieu spent his last day off being my tour guide around the neighborhood. I can’t even remember all of the major sites I saw in just a few hours, but some of them were St. Michel, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Pont des Arts (the bridge with all the locks on it), and Quai Malaquais, which was probably my favorite. It’s a strip on the opposite side of the river to the Louvre where vendors have stands and stands of really old books, records, posters, and furniture. Down the street a bit I felt like I was in a movie because a band was playing the kind of music you expect to hear in Paris – something like this:

We only got lost once, (Matthieu is a WONDERFUL guide, but neither of us is a human compass like Maia), and on the way back we went through the gay/Jewish neighborhood. In one part, some Jewish guys dressed in orthodox garb were standing in the street asking people who walked by, “Are you Jewish?” I don’t know why, but probably for something having to do with the Israel-Palestine conflict. It’s a lot more prevalent of an issue here since there’s such a large Jewish community in Paris. Anyway, I didn’t know Israeli food was so damn good – Matthieu bought me a falafel at a place where you stand outside and one of two bearded guys comes up to you with a notebook in hand and asks you what you want and gives you a number; when your number is called you hand your receipt to the guy behind the counter and he whips it together without even looking. The falafel was way better than Aleka’s, I’ll tell you that.

(The best tour guide)

Back at the apartment, while Matthieu and I waited for our counterpart to get home (it was the longest the three of us had been separated at all since I arrived, and I think we were suffering from mild separation anxiety), Matthieu introduced me to Jacques Brel, Barbara, Leo Ferre, George Bressens, and other famous musicians, and then he jammed out for a while on the guitar.

I let Maia cut my hair. I haven’t had a professional hair cut in more than five years; I always let my friends do it, but only after being pestered by friends and family about how my ends look like hell, and then I give in after hearing this from four or five people. This time, though, it was my decision, and I didn’t even flinch when I heard the sound of the scissors over the bathroom sink. In fact, it’s the first time in five years I haven’t secretly cried after caving in and letting a friend cut my hair. In the spirit of new beginnings, my hair is three inches shorter.

(Hair cut!)

That night, around nine o’clock, I sat drinking a glass of white wine and reading La Farme des Animaux by George Orwell when Matthieu yelled to me from the kitchen. “Flea! Viens! Come here! Vite!”

I ran to the kitchen where he was pointing out the window. There, the Eiffel Tower was sparkling with a trillion lights and shining a spotlight over the city. “It sparkles every hour,” he said.

I can’t wait until seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, shopping at open markets, taking the metro, and drinking good wine and cheese feel like a normal part of life for me. 

(By Maia and Matthieu's apartment, Rue De Birague)

Le Sud

Right as we crossed the border to Slovenia from Croatia, it started to rain. It rained when we drove through Slovenia on our way there, too.

A few days before we left Croatia, when we were waiting in line for one of the many boats we’ve taken, two guys came up while I was waiting in the van and said they were washing people’s windows. “I don’t have any money,” I said.

“For you it’s free,” they said, and they cleaned the van’s windshield, and then the guy with the swisher thing drew a heart on the window with soap. The residue stayed for days, but as we drove the Slovenia I watched the rain wash away the soap heart.

We stopped in Bergamo, Italy for a couple hours for lunch. This city is ancient and beautiful, just like everywhere in Italy, but there were far fewer tourists than in Verona and Venice, which was wonderful. A young man played an accordion on a street we walked down to get to a fancy ristorante called “Il Sole.” I had a pizza with gorgonzola. Afterward, I took a walk by myself around the courtyard and watched people stroll around speaking in Italian and eating gelato. I also got to see another Italian cathedral, Cappella Colleoni. Someone was playing an organ, and it felt very eerie standing under such high ceilings with elaborate painting and decorated with hundreds of little sculptures all done by hand and then put up there with a ladder…It’s overwhelming to think about the work that went into these religious places.

The rest of our drive through Italy took us through the Alps. We drove through a 12 km-long tunnel and came out on the other side in France.

We arrived in a small village in the South of France around midnight and were greeted by Maia’s friend Elise and her brother Jerome. It was dark, but I could see cactuses and mint permeated the air, reminding me of mojitos and mint tea. Elise led us down the driveway, through a tall iron gate, and into a stone cave at the bottom of their home. She showed us our beds. Beds! Actual beds!

A block party was happening a couple miles up the street, so after resting for a half hour we all hopped back into the van and headed there. I’m not sure what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t to see hundreds of people from ages 5 to 70 dancing to techno music in front of a stage of lights and smoke and drinking alcohol at an outdoor bar. Everyone was smiling. And stumbling. Mario and Luigi tripped past me, and two men in drag, their fake boobs hanging out of their dresses, smiled at me. Maia ordered a licorice-flavored drink that she only has when she’s down here, and I got a crappy beer. Even though we were exhausted, we danced harder than anyone else. It was past 2 a.m. when Matthieu, Maia, Jerome, Elise and her twin sister Marion and I piled into the van and made our way back to the house. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow and didn’t wake up until 12:30 the next day.

Apparently this incredibly adorable, old stone farm house is typical of the South of France. It’s exactly the kind of house I’ve always imagined living in someday. We’re surrounded by hills and lavender. There’s a pool outside. The wind is powerful and refreshing in the South of France and even has its own name – “Le Mistral.” M&M and I ate lunch with Elise and Marion’s parents outside on the patio – silver fish that wasn’t filleted, pureed carrots, mashed potatoes, bread, and, of course, cheese and white wine. For dessert, homemade chocolate mousse and tiramisu and espresso with sugar cubes.

I’m going to spend the rest of today out by the pool reading. Our only plans for today are to clean out the van before we bring it back to the renting company.