The Bold Soul

This message is inspired by the sadistic bastards who are in charge of currency exchange rates

I will be the first one to admit I know absolutely nothing about how one currency is valued (or devalued) against another currency. I simply don't understand it so I don't wrack my brains trying. I just try to cope with the bad news that the dollar is sinking against pretty much every other currency out there, except for the Swiss Franc and even with that we're now just breaking even. Even the Canadian dollar is beating our asses.

But THIS? This is just plain P-A-I-N-F-U-L. Today I needed to transfer some bucks from my American bank over to my French bank, so as usual I checked the going exchange rate... and nearly had a stroke:

1 EUR = 1.58407 USD

This means that $1,000 of my money only buys me about 630€ of goods and services here in France. And doesn't that just royally suck.

God help us all, we poor (and getting poorer by the minute) ex-pat Americans. We may love living abroad and there are many good things about having this kind of life experience, but we sure are paying a high price for it right now.

So my message to whomever it is out there who is tinkering with my hard-earned money all for the sake of trying to get rich, at MY expense, by gambling (they call it "investing") on which country's currency is going to be worth more today than another, is this (and I apologize in advance for not be more elegant in my phrasing, but sometimes you just have to say it):

Dear Greedy, Inconsiderate, Selfish Creeps:
I hope some day someone comes along and tries to piss all over YOUR dream by fucking with YOUR money, you rat bastards, whoever and wherever you are. And when it happens to YOU, I will laugh maniacally and do a little happy dance around a pile of my bank statements, in your honor. And then I will burn a dollar bill, in effigy. Because at the rate these rates are going, it won't even be fit for burning before long.

But know this: no matter how you try to screw with the US dollar, you will not kill MY dream or force me to crawl back to suburban New Jersey with my tail between my legs, whining about how it's too expensive to live in Paris. I will just live my dream on a budget if I have to. And then I will write several best-sellers and be fabulously wealthy, and will be paid by my publisher in euros, in order to beat you at your own game. I will sit in a café along the Seine at sunset, watching the pink-amber afternoon sunlight work its magic over the old stone buildings, thinking how good my life is here in ways having nothing to do with money; and I will then happily drink a bottle of champagne with my amour as we toast a victory over this game you are playing with other people's lives. Because living boldly is the best revenge.
Sincerely yours,
The Bold-But-Totally-Pissed-Off Soul

Sometimes, you gotta

One of the things that helps, when you live far away from your roots, your friends, your family and your culture, is occasionally splurging on things that remind you of home. Even things you know are ridiculous. I had one such splurge today, at lunch.

I first became acquainted with the famous Kraft Mac and Cheese as a very little girl. I came home from my friend Claire's house one afternoon and raved about Mrs. Verguson's macaroni and cheese. My mother, a wonderful cook (who was a Martha Stewart-in-training long before Martha was old enough to dream of her own empire) went to all the trouble of making a macaroni and cheese casserole from scratch, with four cheeses and everything. And I wouldn't touch it. Somewhat deflated by my less-than-enthusiastic reaction to her culinary masterpiece, my mother asked Mrs. Verguson for her recipe for mac and cheese.

To which Mrs. Verguson nearly wet herself laughing, before explaining to my poor mother that her "recipe" was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, with the powdered fake orangy "cheese sauce", that me and her own daughter loved so much. I've been eating it ever since, although to be honest the past three or four years I basically stopped eating it because just didn't appeal to me anymore. I figured I had finally "outgrown" it at the age of 44 or so.

Or... have I? Today, I do not blush to say: I ate ALL of it. The whole pot full. By myself. I did not even offer to share it with the children or Georges. And it was delicious, even considering it cost about 4 times what it would have cost me to bring a box from home (which I forgot to do on my last trip). It may not "gourmet" but it sure tasted a little bit like home.

Hey, don't judge me harshly until you've walked in my cheesy shoes.

One!

Forgive my 3rd post today... I was originally planning on posting this one on Monday the 12th, because I thought THAT was the date of my one year anniversary of being in Paris. However, a friend just reminded me that it was really one year ago TODAY that I arrived!!! (Wow... so many milestones in the past couple of days: 1 month with Georges, yesterday. 100,000 visitors just minutes ago. And now THIS! I am going to drink some serious champagne tonight at the Bloggers' Bar Night to celebrate!).

It hardly seems possible.

One year ago, I came here with the goal of "trying it on for size", this living abroad in Paris thing. It is something I have been wanting to do my entire life, and I blogged about wanting to do it for 18 months before ACTUALLY doing it... but for too many years I had pushed that dream aside. Finally, I had to ask myself: "Will I regret it more if I do NOT do it?" And the answer was an immediate YES.

So, I found a place to live for the first few weeks, filled out some paperwork, and got on a plane. The first 5-6 weeks, it was mainly like being on vacation with a little bit of work thrown in. I wandered the city for hours, camera in hand. I was alone the majority of the time, except for an occasional Meetup.com drinks party, a weekend in London as the guest of a client, and a few days in December when a friend from home was here on business. I was alone, and sometimes frustrated with things like figuring out public transportation, but I was happy because I was finally HERE. Yes, I pinched myself regularly.

Then, a month back in the States over the holidays, while I waited for my long-term furnished rental to become available. Oh, that was a LONG month. Back here again in mid-January having sold my car and shipped over more of my "stuff", and also bringing with me a bout of bronchitis that slowed me down for the first few weeks. Still in working tourist mode though, for a good month or so, because I was only here a few weeks when my best friend came over for 10 days. More sightseeing, another hop to London, tons of fun.

After that, another few friends came through town as we headed from winter (unseasonably mild) into spring. Around that time, I started to realize I'd better get more serious about working if I wanted to STAY here, so I finally started to settle into a regular routine of working and socializing the way I would do if I lived anywhere, with the emphasis being more on the work part. Except I was living and working in PARIS, which was still completely cool to think about.

Another visit back "home" around Easter... and telling the family that in all likelihood I wouldn't be home again until Christmas (that didn't go over so well). I really wanted more time to immerse myself here, plus the cost of all that flying back and forth would cut into funds I wanted to use to travel around Europe more in the summer months.

Business started picking up fast after that. In fact, I now typically seem to have more work than I know what to do with -- I know, what a "problem" to have, huh? My social life also picked up fast; I started making more real FRIENDS instead of just random acquaintances from Meetup parties. I spent my 46th birthday in Provence, another dream come true. There were Blogger picnics and 14 Juillet picnics to be enjoyed, and even a trip to Disneyland.

July found me planning a lovely two-week solo train trip through eight cities in five countries... until bad news from home made me wonder if I wouldn't have to cancel those plans and possibly attend a funeral. But my grandmother stabilized, and I decided to make the trip anyway with the support of family back home who thought it was the right thing for me to do... although I was constantly checking up on her as often as I could, hoping for the best but prepared for just about anything. Still, that trip was a definite highlight of my year... I finally feel I can call myself reasonably "well traveled", even though there are so many other places to see on my "list". Right after that, I was already mentally planning a 4-5 day driving tour through southern England for October or even November, as part of some book research I wanted to do; plus, let's face it, I was dying to see Oxford and Stratford-upon-Avon and some of the English countryside.

But life has a way of throwing you a curve now and then. My grandmother's situation worsened, requiring me to make an unexpected trip home to attend to some of her care-giving needs. The British driving tour would have to wait a little bit longer now. It was a long, tiring week, that NJ trip, but I accomplished everything I wanted for my grandmother plus a bit of fun and shopping for myself, and was extremely happy to come back to Paris. Seeing that Eiffel Tower lifts my spirits every time, even now. And for the first time, I started to feel like maybe Paris was really more of my "home".

I came back expecting to just go into my usual routine of working and spending time with the wonderful friends I'd made. Four days later, I "met" Georges online for the first time, and a few days after that, we met in person. All of a sudden... EVERYTHING changed.

I went from being someone who was still, even 11 months later, "trying Paris on for size", someone who loved it here but who still wasn't ready or willing to put down any real roots... to being someone who now knows that Paris, and France, is going to be my home for the rest of my life, because this is where Georges is. And THAT was definitely unexpected.

I never thought I'd end up with a Frenchman. Sure, OTHER people seemed to think I would, friends or acquaintances who had a romanticized ideal of Frenchmen, but who didn't realize I had some fairly negative experiences with them. So, falling for un vrai Français was the last thing on MY agenda. I thought, if anything, I might like to find another Anglo-expat who loved France as much as I do, and maybe THAT would be enough to cause me to want to stay for good... but at the same time I was already thinking of other options, other places I might like to visit or perhaps live. After all, I was "still single" and I definitely had the wanderlust as well as the means to be flexible in where I live and work, so why not explore the world a bit?

So the biggest surprise of all, of this entire year, was that at the end of it, I find myself in the deepest love I've ever experienced, and planning to build a future with someone in a way that was the furthest thing from my mind.

And yet... I couldn't be happier about having him in my life and the prospects of creating a life with him. I just accept that this is the way it is: HE is the man I want to be with, and he happens to have children, so he's a package deal. I embrace it, and I have no doubts about my ability to handle it, although it will take a lot of adjustments on everyone's part, over time, and I do not want to rush those adjustments. We've only been together a short time, and yes, there are so many unknowns ahead of us, things we have to learn and discover and decide and work out. Yet there is one thing that feels completely certain: France is now "home", because Georges is my home. He needs to be here, so this is where I will be, too. It's just that simple. Nothing more to discuss. And I'm thrilled... I mean, I already LOVE Paris. So this is not a hardship, the idea of building a life here, and with someone I love so much.

As I look back on this year, I am sometimes amazed even at myself, that I finally had the nerve to do this, and then even more amazed at how things turned out. There were things about this year that were sometimes hard, but overall it has been a dream come true and a mainly positive experience. I wouldn't change a single thing.

A friend asked me the other day if I thought I was different since coming to Paris. I had to think about that for a moment, because I felt the answer was both yes, and no. Yes, I am different in the sense that I think I see the world, and my place in it, very differently. I see myself as someone who can now handle anything, who is strong enough to choose a path in life when it is right for me, even if someone else is opposed to it. But in another sense, I do NOT feel that I am "different" because of Paris -- I feel instead that Paris has given me the gift of letting me FINALLY be the REAL me... the me I always felt like I could be, but who I was perhaps suppressing in the face of circumstances or by getting swept up in what other people needed or wanted.

This first year in Paris has not been about "finding" myself, so much as it has been about becoming reacquainted with myself again after many years of "hiding out". I am more myself here in Paris than I have ever been able to be, anywhere. Maybe this is why the right man and the right love has now come into my life... because I AM finally myself.

Now, as I move into Year Two... I am filled with eager anticipation, the kind of anticipation that comes when you have something wonderful to work towards -- and someone to share it with. Last year, my eagerness was all about the novelty of the experiences I was about to have, about discovering new places and maybe new parts of myself, but otherwise everything was vague, open-ended, very "I'll just figure it out as it happens".

This year, there is a direction. There are things I (and We) want to do, and this involves, for me, certain professional goals as well as the personal goals of creating a life with Georges and his kids. A year from now, I may not know exactly what everything will look like, but one thing is clear: I know who I'll be with, and I know where I'll be heading. It's a different kind of feeling, one I don't think I've ever quite experienced, having been living my life in the "make it up as I go along", be-free-at-all-costs mode.

I'll still be that way sometimes: flexible about things, loving spontaneity and variety, and still seeking to be "free". It's just that now, I'm redefining what that looks like. I can still be free in my soul, even while I'm choosing to merge my life with that of another person (or in this case, persons). It's a little scary, sometimes, but mostly... it feels fine and fantastic. It feels right.

It just shows that when you are brave enough to step out of your front door, you never know where you may end up. Oh, what a year it's been.

A first time for everything

Well, it had to happen eventually. You are going along, happy as a clam, smiling from ear to ear because someone special loves you... and then it happens.

Le Gastro. What we call a "stomach bug" in my neck of the woods. Oh, la. 

I've been in Paris for just over 11 months and haven't really had more than a headache since I've been here.  Until about 8:30 this morning when it came from nowhere.

Two hours later, the Pepto and Immodium (imported from the U.S. of A., thank you very much) still don't seem to be kicking in. I can't keep anything down for very long; even the Pepto is coming back up. Dry heaves. The skin around my eyes is starting to look bruised from the strain. I am starting to wonder if I have gotten a mile case of food poisoning, even though that seemed unlikely given that I didn't eat anything yesterday that would have been a cause. I wanted to drink some Coke to try and settle my stomach, but had none in the house, and couldn't seem to get out of the W.C. long enough to make it around the corner to the Ed store. Oy. There is nothing like a stomach bug to make you the most miserable person on earth for the duration, no matter how happy you were hours earlier.

I even considered calling the SOS Médecins, the doctor house-call service they offer here in France; I was getting concerned it might be more than a brief wave of illness. I called a friend who talked me through the process, in case I needed it, and gave me a few good suggestions of foods I could eat that might help, uh, cork things up a bit. I made a cup of tea. And waited.

An hour later, I felt well enough to put on some clothes, brush my hair, and go out to buy the Coke. It feels like a major accomplishment. I still feel queasy, but now it feels more borderline uncomfortable than "oh, please, someone shoot me now".

Aimee says I probably picked up a touch of the gastro on the metro or the bus, rather than food poisoning from the rice I ate for dinner last night (plain white rice, too) -- and I was out yesterday using public transportation, which carries not only human passengers but apparently some nasty germs, too. I knew this, of course, and I'm pretty good about not touching my face after traveling around town until I can wash my hands, but it just takes one tiny bug to wreak a whole lotta trouble.

So... no doctor to call this time around. I'll live. I just have to wait it out. Patientez, as they say.

No comment

More and more frequently, I have been receiving questions from readers, both via comments and email, asking me about various aspects of the legalities or financial considerations of moving to France. Some want to know which visa I applied for, or about getting the carte de sejour; others want to know how much money I needed to have or what my tax status is.

As much as I appreciate that people are naturally curious and that some readers may be in the research stages of orchestrating their own move to La France, I need to go on the record right now and say something about this.

While I truly wish I could be helpful and reply to these questions, I have made a decision NOT to answer any questions about my personal experience with French immigration or about any of the financial aspects of living in France other than to say: I'm here, and it's all fine, and that's all I need or want to say about it. I may discuss general challenges with the French system from time to time, as I see fit, but what I'm not prepared to do is advise anyone else by telling them the particulars of what I did and how I did it.

Relocating to a foreign country is complicated, and France certainly is no different. I totally understand how frustrating it can be to figure out all the official hoo-ha and to plan your course of action if you have designs on moving to France; believe me, I've spent weeks of my life trying to sort it out for myself. And I know how appealing it can be when you think you have found a friendly resource who might just help you find what that one critical tidbit you're looking for.

However, I must graciously yet firmly decline to be that resource when it comes to sharing the intimate details of my dealings French immigration and the financial considerations of living here (except to say, it ain't cheap and you need to plan for that!) If you want a restaurant recommendation or advice on which Metro to take to get to your favorite tourist haunt, I'm your girl -- ask away. But I am not seeking to become the definitive expert on the legal details of moving here.

Keep in mind that what rules and laws apply to ME may not be the same as what would apply to someone else. Every situation is unique. So while sharing the anecdotal benefit of my experiences might be interesting, it really wouldn't be helpful to anyone else, and might, in fact, be misconstrued as giving advice I am definitely NOT qualified to offer. That could get me in trouble and at the very least, would be highly unethical of me to act like I have expertise that I don't have. The French government has information posted on various websites (confusing though they may be) and that's the official authority. Find the French embassy or consulate near you for more information (see below). There are also professional relocation companies that offer immigration, legal and financial advice to people considering living in France. If you're trying to figure this out on your own and you're really stuck, you might need to consult those experts to avoid getting the wrong information. (And no, I can't recommend any particular company or organization.)

So, as much as I appreciate the interest in the hows and whats and whens of getting over here, in the future, I will politely direct all such personal inquiries to this post. Not because I'm trying to be difficult or secretive (although I do think I'm entitled to some privacy), but because I don't want to inadvertently tell you something that may be irrelevant or flat out wrong in your situation. I don't want to add to your frustrations!

Becoming an ex-pat is challenging enough; you don't want to take advice from some random blogger about how to do it! So, I will wish you luck in your efforts to come and live here, because it's completely fabulous; and I'll give you the following to help you get your questions answered -- by someone with better answers than I could ever hope to provide.

Bonne chance et bon courage!

French Embassy in the U.S.

Entering France (French Ministry of Foreign Affairs)

French Embassy in Canada

Visa Website of the French Consulate in London

Australian Government Travel Advice for France

Living and Working in France, from French.About.com

Sound Affects

Back in New Jersey, each year in the days prior to the Fourth of July, and the days immediately following, we could always count on hearing the sound of firecrackers and small rockets being set off, as somewhere in the neighborhood, people were getting their celebrations off to an early start. (Illegally, I might add, because New Jersey does not permit the sale of fireworks or even those great little sparklers to the general public. Therefore, if you want 'em, you usually have to drive to someplace like North Carolina to get 'em. The South is cool that way.) The sound of all that annoying "POP", "BANG", "BOOM" would always get more frequent and obnoxious as we got closer to the Big Day, and I used to hate the extra noise.

For the past two hours, I've been hearing the same sounds going off all over the 15ème (and in fact, I suspect there is actually some kind of official fireworks display taking place somewhere not far from here, as the random and smaller bursts close by have been replaced by a steady stream of resonating and organized explosions), because tomorrow it's the French "independence day", and just like back home, someone somewhere can't wait to light up the night with noise. I'm thinking they'll probably be doing this all night long, by the sound of it.

And instead of being annoyed by the racket and the prospects of having my sleep interrupted, I am surprised and amused that the noise actually feels a little comforting -- the very familiarity of it -- and I find myself thinking of that song lyric: "Feels like home to me..."

Funny, the things that affect you and take you back to your roots in a heartbeat (or a rocket POP) when you're living in a foreign country.

Happy Birthday, America!

Today is America's Independence Day, and although I'm here in Paris today, eating French food and doing French things, I am no less mindful that today's a big day back in the good ol' U.S. of A. I'll be sorry to miss the festivities (the Macy's fireworks display in Manhattan can't be beat, even if you're only seeing it on TV), but I will make myself a hot dog for lunch and tonight I'm planning to go to Harry's Bar (can't get much more American than that here in Paris) to toast my country. I'll even break from my usual uniform of Parisian Black and put on the one Red and White shirt I've got, with a pair of Blue jeans. I might have even brought a little American flag pin with me in my jewelry case for an added dose of patriotism.

For those history buffs among you, here's a little timeline of America's road to Freedom, courtesy of The White House website. And wherever you are, whatever you're doing today, dear fellow Americans, I wish you a grand and glorious 4th, filled with barbecues, beer, hot dogs, fireworks and maybe even The Boston Pops. Remember our soldiers who are serving our country and send a prayer their way that they return safely and soon.

Even those of us Yanks who live abroad, whether by choice, chance or force, love our America.

Independence Timeline

1765-1773
The British Parliament bypasses colonial assemblies and imposes several internal and external taxes on the outraged colonists.

Dec. 16, 1773
The colonial response to taxation without representation culminates in the Boston Tea Party. The Sons of Liberty dump 342 chests of tea into Boston harbor.

Sept. 5, 1774
Delegates begin meeting for the First Continental Congress and agree to send grievances to King George III.

April 19, 1775
Armed conflict between the colonists and British redcoats begins in Lexington and Concord, Massachusetts.

May 10, 1775
A Second Continental Congress begins meeting in Philadelphia.

June 11, 1776
The Continental Congress appoints a five-man committee, including Thomas Jefferson, to draft a declaration of independence.

June 28, 1776
The committee presents the declaration for debate and revision.

July 4, 1776
The Continental Congress adopts the Declaration of Independence without dissent.

Plus facile

Dealing with the little challenges of daily French life is getting a bit easier lately. At least, that's what I'm telling myself, although it could be I'm merely delusional.

Today I had two important, yet mundane, errands to run. First, to the bank to transfer some funds from my American bank to my French account, in order to write a check to pay the location (rent). Each month when I do this, I try to go at a different time of day, experimenting with when they might actually have more than one teller on duty, but so far it seems the answer is: NEVER. Or almost never. I'm not quite sure what the system is that these people follow or what kind of "customer service" training they've had (like, none?) but it's not unusual to be waiting in a long line of 7-8 people with two tellers, and one of them will just get up and walk away, never to return. And the remaining teller will not hurry herself one iota. Of course in fairness to the French banking system, I had the same problem at my bank in New Jersey, too.

But I'm getting the hang of being patientez... and on days like today, when I enter the overheated bank and see that there are already 5 people in line and one teller on duty, I don't even bat an eyelash. I queue up, take out my little folding fan to cool myself off a little bit, and try to improve my vocabulaire by reading all the signs posted around the room.

Twenty minutes later, I exit the bank, and head across the street (I live in a very convenient neighborhood -- LOV-ING THAT!) to La Poste for errand number deux, where I have two tasks to take care of: one easy, and one I am frankly dreading. The easy one: sending some documents back to a client in Switzerland (which necessitated an extra errand to Office Depot on the way to the bank, as I realized I had no extra-large envelopes on hand, and where I also picked up some totally cool erasable ink pens that I heard about from Kyliemac). I go in, and the line here is blessedly short (note to self: 3:30-3:45 pm is a great time to hit the post office). When it's my turn to go to the guichet, I am easily able to tell the man that I want to send the envelope to the address in Switzerland, I am able to understand him when he asks if I want to send it overnight express or 2-3 day express, and I am able to reply that I want to send it via the cheapest means possible. Voila! 4 euros, please. Transaction complete.

But then there's the other postal task, the one where I have no clue what to expect. On Friday the 15th of June I paid 48 euros to overnight a letter back home, and it was important or I never would have paid that kind of money to ensure it would get there. The nice postal employee set me up with a service called "Chronopost" which he said was like "FedEx" (which sounds the same in both languages). It was supposed to arrive in 2 mailing days which would have been Monday or Tuesday at the latest, giving them an extra day in case of customs backlog.

By Wednesday of the next week, the letter had not arrived. I got online to the Chronopost site, used their tracking tool, and discovered the letter had indeed arrived in New York the very next day (16th) and had cleared customs the same day. After that, NO mention of where it was. I tracked down a customer service number with some difficulty, and called the number which was on Long Island. I won't go into details of how over the next THREE days I had to call back several times to follow up with these people who are some of the worst customer service reps ever, only to find out that Chronopost handed off the letter to DHL for delivery, and DHL apparently LOST it, or so Chronopost claims, but who knows. Bottom line: no letter, and since it was a document they were not going to make further attempts to locate it. I was told I had to go back to the place I shipped it from to put in a claim to get my money back.

Oh holy crap. Never mind that I should have been furious at my 48-euro express delivery being tagged as a permanent MIA... I have to go back to La Poste! [Cue music: Dum da-DUM-dum.] And ask for my money back. [Dum da-DUM-dum DUUUUMMMM!] Talk about striking fear into a girl's heart.

I had put off doing this for all of last week but could avoid it no longer. So I brought my pocket Larousse with me, just in case, and after posting my envelope bound for Geneva, I moved on to the petite problème with my Chronopost shipment, expecting a bit of a battle or at the very least, an attitude problem from the postal guy. And miracle of miracles, I got probably the one postal employee in that location who spoke English. Between my French and his English, I told him the package had been lost by the carrier in the U.S., that I had phoned the U.S. offices for help, they tracked it but said it was permanently lost and that they had said I should come in to the post office to put in a claim for a refund. Of course I did not say all that in French, but somehow I made myself understood with the help of the other guy being able to speak and understand some English as well as my French. He got on the computer, and printed a copy of the same incomplete tracking information I had seen online at home, and instructed me to speak to his supervisor who was the one who could authorize a refund.

The supervisor wasn't as friendly but he also had a fairly good command of English. I explained the details, having to repeat myself a few times to make sure he understood the situation. He wasn't as friendly, but he took my paperwork and went in the back for a while. When he returned about 4-5 minutes later, he'd made a copy of my original receipt, told me to write on the bottom of it that I wanted my money back (I said, "Can I write that in English?" and he said yes), and put my name and mailing address on it. He gave me back my original receipt and said I should expect a check. I asked when, in several weeks and he said it should come in one week. And that was it.

So... whether or not the check comes in a week or not, each time I tackle one of these little chores with any level of success, I feel like I have done something major. On a daily basis I really have so few of these things to deal with, but each time I do, I feel like I've cleared another hurdle in understanding how to maneuver here.

And really? The people I'm having to deal with may not always be super friendly but rarely are they what I'd call rude. And sometimes, they're even quite friendly and nice; they'll laugh with me at my mistakes in French, we observe the niceties of "hello, thank you, have a good day, goodbye" that are common courtesies here in France; and sometimes I even get a smile out of them. What more can I ask?

As the mundane parts of Parisian life get easier, my confidence in being here gets greater. The metro and bus is a breeze now. I never feel awkward ordering in a restaurant or asking directions, even if my French isn't perfect. I'm no longer anxious going to the bank (although when I get that refund check from La Poste, I'll have a new banking challenge to cope with: depositing a check). And now, even going to the post office doesn't seem so formidable.

And maybe some day, I will be able to have an entire conversation with a group of French people, in French, and know I've done it just about perfectly.

Paris: Just One Beautiful Distraction after Another

Procrastination has been a recurring theme in my life as a writer, and never more so since I moved to Paris last November. The problem with trying to be a working writer in a city like Paris is that there are just too many wonderful things to do with one's time when one is supposed to be working. On the one hand, I do need to work so that I can afford to live here (and I also enjoy the work I do), but who could expect me to stay home and write when my adopted city is constantly calling me to come out and play?

When I relocated here, I spent the first few months working very little and playing tourist a lot. It didn't help my wavering work ethic that I had a string of friends from home coming to visit Paris during those early months, which gave me even more reasons to go out and experience the city. As a newcomer myself, I was still getting the lay of the land and discovering the city, and it was fun to be able to do that with my good friends since I knew virtually no one in the city and I'm living here on my own. Exploring the different arrondissements, finding out which restaurants I liked, going to museums, taking hundreds thousands of photos... having the luxury to spend weeks doing that instead of just days was my dream come to life.

As the months have passed, I've now settled into a routine where I feel more like a "local" than a tourist. There is less of that feeling of (completely self-imposed) pressure for me to rush around "seeing things" with camera in hand, and I can relax and enjoy the small pleasures of the city as well as occasionally blending in with the tourists at a major attraction (even the Parisians go to the Louvre on occasion). Along the way, I've finally managed to do two things that are critically important to actually building a new life for myself in Paris: (1) I've made some delightful new friends and have started dating, and (2) I now spend a lot more of my time working. The problem is, accomplishing the former makes it that much harder to stick to the latter.

Take this past weekend, for instance. I had an important project deadline to meet for one of my clients, and I really needed to spend a portion of my weekend time working. But I had tickets to a production of "Measure for Measure" (Shakespeare - my favorite!) held in an outdoor theatre in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne, where I was joining a group of about 55 other ex-pats from a Meetup.com group. The choice between work or a play... what to do? Well, I'm not a workaholic (anymore), so of course I went to the play and told myself I could catch up on the work later.

I was really glad I went... the weather was clear, sunny, and a bit too hot for my tastes (but a few of us managed to score seats in the shady edge of the lawn). The open-air theatre was charmingly unexpected: no fabricated stage or amphitheater, it was completely natural and was set with simple red drapes hanging from the trees on the "stage" (a raised stone and gravel terrace backed by a stone arch and stone steps leading into the tiered shrubbery), a few tables, chairs, and a carpet for props. It felt exactly like the garden of an Italian villa! It was such a delight to experience Shakespeare in such a lovely setting. And having access to cultural events like this is one of the reasons I love living in Paris so much.

Afterward, I dutifully skipped the after-event dinner invites from my friends, and headed home to get back to work. The challenge then was that it was roughly a 25-minute walk from the theatre through the incredibly beautiful and HUGE park (my first time there; I loved seeing all the people out rowing on the lake) to the nearest Métro station, and by the time I got all the way home I was happily exhausted and mellow from the day. After all that, who could bear to work on a Saturday night?

So, instead of working as I had intended, I ended up on-line and then on the phone with a (charming, attractive and also younger) French guy, someone I had just met through the wonders of Match.com. We've got a date to meet for drinks later this week. (Oh yes I DID!)

See what I mean? Too many distractions!

My regular blog readers already know this about me, that I've often blogged about the myriad of ways I (like most writers) can dream up to avoid doing ANY sort of productive writing whatsoever, even before I set foot on French soil. Paris is just giving me a lot more interesting (and fun) reasons to procrastinate! At this rate, between the warmer weather and the outdoor cafés, the concerts, the Meetup get-togethers, blogger picnics in the park or along the Seine, and all these nice-looking men out there to be met and conquered... how is a girl supposed to get any work done around here?

So now that I've killed enough spent adequate time working on this post, I see that it's now time for dinner. After which -- I promise -- I will do some work.

Really, I will.

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Author's Note: In case you were wondering (and thinking you were crazy), I did post another variation on this article several days ago as a new contributor to The Paris Blog. However there were some editorial bugs to be worked out with that article, so I took it down for a few days in order to rework it. Sorry for any confusion. But if you haven't checked out The Paris Blog, it's something all you francophones will love and a great way to discover other blogs about Paris. Enjoy!

Ugly American? NOT!

I debated for a while about responding to NotAnUglyAmerican's and Gautami's comments to the Toilet Post. It's sometimes hard to know where to draw the line with one's critics, especially when silly IS as silly DOES (as Forrest, Forrest Gump might have said). Clearly, these people have a chip on their shoulders about Americans, that much is obvious. While I really don't care that they think I'm silly schoolgirl or even an egocentric American, what finally swayed me to put a reply together was that I thought this was a good time to tackle a sometimes sticky subject for Americans living abroad -- coping with anti-American biases when you're traveling.

For starters, I think these two commentors (and there might be more to come, you never know) rather over-reacted and were really off the mark in how they perceived my reaction to the toilet. Part of traveling to new places is seeing things you've never seen before, and sometimes you're going to have an unfavorable opinion or reaction to some of those things. How is MY reaction to this toilet any different or any worse than, say, a foreign tourist coming to New York for the first time and complaining about the noise, chaos and pollution -- or kvetching because the food in America isn't like the food THEY are used to "back home"? No place on earth is perfect and sometimes when you travel there are going to be things you find very odd or uncomfortable. It doesn't make you a bad person for feeling that way.

I find it interesting (and when I say "interesting", I really mean hypocritical) that whenever an American has an unflattering opinion of another culture, it makes us "ugly Americans" -- but it's supposed to be perfectly OK for non-Americans to constantly bash Americans for the smallest thing -- like saying "Ew" about a toilet I thought was really odd in contrast to what I'm used to. Since we're on the potty subject, I also continue to think it's odd that in many French homes, the toilet is in a separate "water closet" where there is NO SINK NEARBY and where you have to go into another room, sometimes located inconveniently across the house, to wash your hands. I find THAT rather unhygienic. But I've got that setup in my own apartment and I've adjusted. The point is: I find these things ODD and may not LIKE them, but it doesn't mean I don't ACCEPT them. Everything is an adjustment when it's new to you. If I see a turkish toilet for the first time and think: "Wow, I've never seen THAT before, that's really weird!", that's just me reacting to what's new to me. Now, on the other hand, if I'm still bitching and moaning about it 3 months later and saying "Why can't the effing plumbing in France be like it is in AMERICA?", THAT is being ugly and intolerant.

Since moving here, I've been asked by people back home if I've encountered any anti-American sentiment, and up until now I've honestly been able to say "Short of no one in Paris, including the Americans I've met in Paris, liking George Bush, no, I haven't." The people I've met here, both the French and expats from more countries than I can count, have all been lovely and excited to exchange ideas and experiences about America and about their own countries, or other places we've all travelled. Like the time the local fruitseller asked where I was from and when I told him "New Jersey", his face lit up like a Christmas tree and he said: "I LOVE New Jersey... I lived in 'oboken (Hoboken) for two years and loved it. Oh, I MISS 'oboken so much!" We chatted for 10 minutes about all the things he loved about America. I've never yet told someone "Je suis Americaine" and had them wince or make a face, let alone say or do anything in the slightest bit rude to me because I'm an American. I've never been made to feel unwelcome here because of my nationality.

My favorite part of travelling is meeting people from all over the world and being able to compare what we think we know or don't know about each other's countries, which often includes admitting the flaws in your own country or having a chance to correct a misperception someone has about your country.

Like the misperception that all American tourists are automatically the "ugly Americans". Or that it makes me U.S.-egocentric and intolerant of other cultures because I spotted a TOILET [I still can't believe a toilet would generate such controversy!] that was completely different than anything I'd ever seen before and because, yes, I found it to be a little gross. It's not my fault, you know, that I was born in America where these toilets don't exist. You're born where you're born. Do I feel lucky to be born into circumstances that provided me with excellent plumbing that allows me to sit comfortably when nature calls? You bet I do! It's not "belittling" other cultures to say that I don't think I'd care to use one of those turkish toilets, but hey, in a pinch I wouldn't exactly quibble about it and I'd be grateful to have it.

But I think it's safe to say that it is certainly belittling TO America that some individuals will find any excuse to widen the gap between America and the rest of the world. These are people who seem to take real pleasure in "taking America down a peg" whenever they get an opportunity. Even if it's about a toilet.

These are people who are bigoted and biased against America and Americans; they are people who are guilty of being as egocentric, pompous, self-important and intolerant about America as they accuse Americans of being about everyone else. They really don't want the world to become a more peaceful, unified place where diversity is not only tolerated, but accepted and embraced; their agenda is create a feeling of separateness, of "us versus them", so that they can feel superior. Americans are often accused of being isolationist but it seems that others in the world WANT to isolate us... then cut us off at the knees any way possible. And not just with words, either. But those people don't know the REAL America. They've got a really twisted view of what they think America is, probably as a result of being spoon-fed propoganda and lies. And they've probably not spent a whole lot of time with a variety of different Americans, either, and therefore have never bothered to challenge their own negative assumptions about who we are, we Americans.

Yes, I know about the "ugly Americans" that one of you is clear to point out you are Not, and unfortunately they do exist. They're the ones who travel outside the US and complain non-stop about how nothing is as good as it is back home. The food is strange; people aren't bending over backwards to be nice to them; and for crying out loud, Mildred, why won't people speak ENGLISH already? I cringe whenever I overhear these whiny tourists, and I, too, wonder: "If you wanted it to be just like home, then maybe you should have stayed home and just had a barbecue". I'm not going to make excuses for THOSE Americans, because they simply don't "get it", what travel is REALLY all about, and they probably never WILL get it. Let's just write 'em off because they're not worth thinking about (and because while other countries love to complain about the ugly Americans, those same countries also love to take our U.S. dollars in tourist trade and when Americans don't travel abroad, you're all trying to get us to come back and spend money. See what I mean? Hypocrites!)

Travel is supposed to break down cultural barriers. It's about challenging yourself and your perceptions of the world. It doesn't mean we're always going to see eye-to-eye or like everything we see or experience when we travel. But travel shows us that sometimes, other countries have something really wonderful to teach us, like the way France has already started to teach me it's OK to slow down a bit, and sit in a café for an hour instead of rushing somewhere else. (Or realizing that yes, a turkish toilet probably DOES have an advantage in terms of hygiene. But I still hope I never have to use one.)

How great it is that I can sit down to a meal with a group of new friends from France, Finland, England, Italy, Australia, China and Japan and talk about international politics and cultural differences without our differing opinions or experiences creating a rift in our friendship. I'm learning from them, and they're learning from me. It's a beautiful thing.

Not one of them seems to think I'm an "ugly American" because I thought this toilet was a real hoot. They'd rather not use one, either, given a choice. And they thought it was funny, my reaction to it. So how come they're not called "ugly"?

So, that's it for my rant tonight. Frankly I don't care if narrow-minded people are accusing me of being narrow-minded; they're just projecting their own issues onto ME. It's fine if they've got an opinion and think I'm silly, or worse. But I did think these comments provided an opportunity to address this thing about how Americans are perceived and how there is a real double-standard with what some of the world thinks Americans should be, do, and say. And how they also seem to think we should be apologizing for being American and for our way of life. THAT is what I really take issue with, this view that Americans should be ashamed for being who we are as human beings and for being proud of our legacy in the world. We're not perfect, and our country isn't perfect. But it's still pretty freaking great, and a lot of other people seem to think so too or they wouldn't be sneaking over our borders in the dead of night and on water-logged rowboats. And when some other country is up against a tyrant or an attack or a natural disaster, who do they call? America.

Lest we forget.

Most Americans work like dogs to get whatever they've got, and some of them don't have a lot. They are not "rich Americans" with nothing better to do but shop all day; they are just trying to survive. They get up every morning, feed and dress their children, send them off to school, then rush to a job they quite often hate working for sub-standard wages for 8-10 hours, then rush home to take care of their kids again, fall into bed at night bone-tired, and get up the next day to do it all over again. Just like in the rest of the world, Americans are trying to create a better life for themselves and their children than their parents had, and their grandparents before them. Why do so many people in the world resent us for that? America is not what you see in the movies.

I love living in France. It, too, is imperfect, but so far I'm loving it. I hope I am able to stay here as long as I want. I also hope to visit many more places around the world because the more I travel, the more I learn about the world, and about myself. But I'm damned fine proud to be an American, and if a few snide bigots expect me to apologize for BEING American, you're wasting your time. Best move on if you don't want to read about an American's perspective -- good, bad, or indifferent -- on her travel experiences.

Or better yet, go find a turkish toilet and put your anti-American biases where they belong.

If you're within the sound of my voice, Part Deux

More laughs from podcast-ville with Katia and Kyliemac, in Episode 24: The one where they get even more bold... and stuff. (If you missed Part Un, it's here.)

Thanks again, K & K, for a really fun experience and making me feel very special, and I hope we get to do it again sometime!

I have no shame

Today was a really great day. It started off with me meeting Aimee for lunch, and we got Latin American food over near Saint Michel. We had a great time dishing about the recent date and our respective past dating experiences; her pregnancy, which is nearing the finish line -- she looks amazing, by the way; Frog with a Blog (and I'd love to meet you too, FwaB - name the date!); and sundry and assorted other items of interest to two girls hanging out in Paris on a Tuesday afternoon.

After lunch we headed up to the Marais to check out leather wallets at a particular boutique Aimee had been eyeing. I ended up walking away with a cute little silver leather change purse, perfect for those pesky euros and centimes that bulk up my wallet.

Next, Aimee decided to accompany me down to Convention where there is a Pass Navigo office; I've been wanting to sign up for one of these to make getting around Paris more convenient but wasn't sure how to do it. We got there only to discover we can only apply by mail or online, not in person as we'd thought. So, we came out with the applications and Aimee later helped me fill mine out.

We then took the #62 bus to my stop, since Aimee wanted to be the first of my Paris friends to see my apartment, and it was on her way home on the 62 anyway. Unfortunately it was a real mess -- I hadn't been expecting company -- but she didn't seem to mind. When we got to the building and I picked up my mail, turns out La Poste had left a note: my other 5 boxes had arrived!

This is where the "I have no shame" part comes in. Aimee offered to help me get the boxes from the post office and bring them back to the apartment... and I let her. I let an 8-month pregnant woman help me lug five heavy boxes three city blocks. OK, so I did give her a wheely cart, and would only let her tote the two lightest boxes, and she said they were perfectly light enough. I'm only hoping she didn't go into labor on the bus home*. And I did loan her my DVD of "In Her Shoes" and gave her a glass of water before she left. I'm not totally insensitive.

So not only did all of my boxes turn up safe and sound with nothing broken or damaged (other than the boxes themselves -- didn't they start out with corners on them once?), but I also got a call from a new client letting me know he is Fed-Exing my nice big check, the contract, and a package of notes and material for the book proposal I am about to write for him (ghostwriting the actual book will follow). This is a really exciting project for me, and I wish I could say more about it right now but confidentiality precludes me from doing so. Suffice to say, this book will most definitely be published and I wouldn't be one bit surprised if the author ends up getting a movie deal out of it and appearances on Oprah and Larry King Live. It's THAT good a true life story.

My lack of shame notwithstanding, it's been a damn fine day today.

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*She didn't. WHEW!

Primping in Paris

I have a few "need to know" personal care items that I'm not sure where to locate in Paris and thought: here's where a network of Parisian ex-pat bloggers will REALLY come in handy (not that your moral support isn't greatly appreciated). So write in, either here in the comments or email me privately at lthwriter AT gmail DOT com, and share your favorites or your information on the following:

• Mouthwash. Do they not sell mouthwash, like Listerine or Listermint, in France? Or is it something you can only get by speaking to the pharmacist? I have looked in several of the best supermarkets and see all kinds of toothbrushes, toothpastes, and floss, and the only thing that came close to being a regular mouthwash was the Colgate Plax. But nothing else. I'm beginning to wonder if mouthwash is a banned substance in France.
• Haircut and Color. I am very close to needing a haircut and possibly some professional haircolor or highlights, although I normally do that myself to save money. I see that the places local to me have haircuts advertised for about 37 euro but the clientele seems to be little old ladies. I want a really GREAT cut, something very Parisian. I don't want to spend my life savings but do want to know I'm being styled by someone with some talent and flair, and someone who won't treat me like a piece of American dirt under his or her expert feet. If you have a recommendation or two, let me know. I am tempted to try Marianne Gray in the 6th as they look like they have a rather nice salon and spa (also do facials, etc.) but would prefer a referral to someone who gave you the best haircut you've ever had.
• Pedicures. Do nail salons do them like in the U.S. or do you have to go to a podiatrist? i just want someone to buff 'em up and make 'em pretty but don't need a doctor to do that. Or do I? Where is your favorite place to go?
• Day Spa. For facials, massages, and general pampering... where are your favorites? And who do I ask for if there's a specific expert I should try?

Thanks in advance for helping me look my best in Paris!

If you're within the sound of my voice

For a few weeks now, I've been keeping a little secret. Two fellow Paris expat bloggers -- amazing Katia of Aussielass fame and the dynamic Kyliemac -- decided to interview me for their podcast blog! We've had this up our sleeve for a while but I didn't want to say anything until it was a fait accompli. Because, you know, the Earth might open up or swallow me whole, or I might lose my Metro pass or something and would have missed the recording session. Stuff happens.

So last Sunday we finally got together, and after experiencing some unexpected technical difficulties (please stand by), some pain au chocolat and coffee, we had too much enough caffeine in us to record not one but two episodes!

So here it is for your listening pleasure, Katia, Kyliemac and The Bold Soul -- the terrible trio -- in Episode 23: The one where they get bold... and stuff. You might want to crank up the volume to hear us all -- as I said we had some little glitches but it all worked out in the end. The follow-up will follow... well, whenever the girls feel like posting it.

I just want to send a big MERCI to the girls for honoring me with this interview. It was great fun and ladies, any time you want to invite me back, I'd love to do it. If Symphony the cat doesn't mind, of course.

And I still can't get your theme song out of my head... doo-doo... doo-doo BAH-bah...

Redfining normal

Living in a foreign country requires that the ex-pat redefine what "normal" looks like. There is no way you can uproot your old life and plunk it down in a new culture and expect it to work, because it just won't. Adjustments must be made and your expectations of what's normal must be shifted, or you'll be very frustrated and miss out on the great overall experience of living abroad and experiencing a new culture.

It's not just the language barriers (and believe me, even if you moved to another Anglophone country you'd STILL have a language barrier of sorts). It's about adjusting to a hundred different small things that you take for granted every day in your "normal" life in your native country.

Take just these few examples:

• Changing a lightbulb. Two lightbulbs blew out in my apartment within the past two days. A no brainer, right? Uh, not so fast. They're not lamp bulbs, they're small ceiling-mounted pot lights. I could reach the one in the water closet by standing on the throne, so I figured out how to remove the old one in order to make a note of exactly what kind it was. The other, over the kitchen breakfast bar, looked to be identical, although I can't reach it without a ladder, which I do not have, and my landlords are in Asia on vacation for another 10 days. I located a replacement bulb at Monoprix today while doing my shopping but was staggered at the price: 10 euros and change EACH (that's over $14 per bulb), and the package claims they should last 2 years. Whoopee. This apartment is just about two years old. I am now waiting for the other 10 ceiling bulbs to blow now, in which case I may need to take out a small bank loan to finance the replacment costs for all of them; in the meantime I bought two.
• Speaking of shopping, I actually quite like walking to the market or the stores in my neighborhood with my folding tote bag or little pink cart with wheels. (PINK, you say? Hey, if you have to do the shopping anyway, why not make your accessories look as girlie as possible.) I have fun improving my vocabulary in the supermarket by looking at foods I recognize by sight and then reading the French labels. But in America we're used to heading out in the family SUV and loading up enough groceries and household products to fill an underground bunker, enabling us to survive for years in the event of nuclear war (or in the event we get stuck with another war-mongering conservative President for another four years, which actually may be one and the same thing). When you have to walk to the store and lug your purchases home with your own two hands and the sweat of your brow, you learn to adapt and shop French style: buy only what you need for a few days at a time, in terms of fresh foods, and spread your non-perishable purchases out over the course of the week. The alternative is to get home delivery ("livraison") of your groceries which is an option -- for a fee -- at some of the larger chains like Champion. After the first few times you over-buy and end up with a screaming backache and sore arms after carrying everything home 7-10 blocks, you learn your lesson: don't buy more than you can comfortably carry. The store will still be there tomorrow.
• Doing laundry. This is another thing that needs to be planned out for several reasons. One, the washing machines only hold about 5 kilos or about 11 lbs of clothing, and some of them won't wash well if you put in even that much. In the States I would let my laundry pile up until I was in danger of having to buy clean underwear, and then cram it all into the nice big washing machine followed by the nice big dryer. The whole cycle took about an hour to an hour and 15 minutes. In France, I no longer have a dryer at all, so first I have to do a tiny load of wash (2 bedsheets = one load, or 2 prs of jeans, 5 shirts and a few pairs of socks and underwear also equals one load) which can take up to TWO HOURS if I want them washed well or about 45 minutes if I use the "rapide" option and wash them in the coolest temperature setting. Then I have to hang everything up to air dry. The drying rack might be up for 24 hours or longer, and the only place I really have to put it is in the living room. So I can't wash clothes if I am having company.
• Lack of space. French apartments, even the modern ones, are small, and storage is always at a premium. I come from a culture of excess: walk-in closets bursting with too many clothes, shoes and handbags; buying a Costco in bulk; pantries full of yummy goodies. Here, I have no bedroom dresser and one small closet in the bedroom with one shelf in it, and a hall closet that is very room and does have a couple of built-in drawers and shelves as well as hanging space for coats and jackets (and my ironing board, vacuum, and shopping cart and bags. I had the presence of mind to bring my folding shoe-bag that now hangs on the back of the  bedroom door; behind the door I now store the extra folding laundry rack I bought (the one that came with the apartment wasn't sufficient). I bought a small rolling cart to store personal products in the bathroom. My kitchen, which is a DREAM kitchen by French standards, still lacks cupboard space and basically you can see most of my cereals, pastas and snacks because they're up on some open shelves in plain sight. I do have more than enough bookshelf space, thank goodness, and the apartment comes with two large ottomans and a sofabed that all have storage space built in for extra bedding, sheets and towels. And thank goodness there is a big basement storage closet just for me and my washing machine is also in the basement (usually in France they are right in your apartment, in the kitchen or bathroom) -- I will probably need to get some plastic storage containers to keep off-season clothing safe and dry. But basically I'm learning not to overbuy and to do with less... gee, what a concept!

Everything I do here seems to take longer, take more thought, take some translation, take additional research or take some extra planning. I'm sure, in part, living in Paris is like living in any big city, and if you're a city dweller already you're probably wondering what I'm complaining about. But this is a big adjustment for a country girl like me. OK, so I'm not "Little House on the Prairie" country but I grew up and lived my whole life in a fairly rural-suburban area where a car was a necessity and shopping malls make everything really convenient.

Someone asked me the other day if there was anything about living in Paris I was especially surprised at. Actually, I can't say anything I've encountered has really shocked or surprised me. I guess I did my homework well in planning to come over here, because even though I am sometimes frustrated by the bureacracy and certain inefficiencies of French life, I had already read all about it at some point and so wasn't surprised.

I think what might surprise me most is how easy this actually has been, at least so far. I mean easy in terms of how well I seem to be adapting and coping, how comfortable I already feel most of the time, how I've been able to make a few friends and even figure things out as I need to -- like changing the stupid million dollar lightbulbs today. Every small thing I conquer becomes a triumph of sorts.

And today, after I had stopped in a cute little bric-a-brac shop and bought a few small, very cheap things for the apartment (like a few sturdy wooden coat hangers as the cheap plastic ones weren't holding up under the weight of winter coats), the cute young guy behind the register gave me a cadeaux as I was leaving the store -- a little glass votive candle holder.

I didn't spend that much in the store -- just 17 euros -- and I'm positive he knew I was foreign as my French surely isn't THAT good. But that one small gesture, a parting gift, was like someone was saying "Welcome to our country. We're glad you're here. Thanks for spending your American dollars with us!"

French people, rude? Not from where I sit.

Care package

The first of the six boxes I shipped to Paris on January 15th arrived just a few minutes ago, and it feels like Christmas all over again.

This box was one of the two largest, and was very heavy, so although I couldn't recall what was in it I was pretty sure it contained some books.

And it did! About a dozen books ranging from French language to English tutoring materials to books about France to some good fiction (Dan Brown's Angels and Demons is tops on my "to read" list).

But it also included some personal items:

• 3 pump-bottles of Purell hand sanitizer for the WC (so American guests don't freak out about the absence of a sink in the room);
• my favorite brand of deoderant (which I have since learned I can get here anyway);
• a big container of multivitamins (because good health is important);
• two whopping big bags of dried cranberries (I love them in my cereal and they're très cher here);
• a few small clothing items; and
• Breathe Right strips (now you know - I sometimes snore).

And best of all -- the box brought me the rest of my DVD collection from home! And just in the nick of time, too -- I ony brought a handful of movies with me initially, and I had been watching them so often I was actually getting tired of looking at Hugh Grant and Colin Firth... what a shame!

Now the only remaining mystery is: where are the other FIVE boxes? Keep your fingers crossed that they eventually show up.

Small challenges and small victories

Life as usual today... no more fun and games, no more goofing off and ignoring my business commitments, while spending a precious week with my visiting friend from NJ. She's back in the loving arms of her husband and four energetic children (ages 6-14) and I've got things to do here.

Well, life is not entirely "as usual", because I'm in Paris now and what used to be "usual" is no longer. Doing things here that used to be no-brainers back home now take thought, planning and often a dictionary. Case in point:

Laundry:

Just before my friend arrived last weekend, my combo washer/dryer decided to take French leave. La machine est morte... R.I.P. That meant that yesterday, not only did I have 10 days worth of my own clothing to wash, but towels and sheets for me and my guest. I knew the repairman was slated to come this week but I didn't know when or what the outcome might be, so I did the laundromat thing yesterday, and still have things drying in my living room even now, a day later.

Then, a few minutes ago, my landlord, Georges, called to say a new machine had been purchased, delivered and already installed downstairs! The repairman was unable to rescusitate the old machine (which wasn't that old, really) without ordering a part that was so costly, it was cheaper to get a new one. But the new machine ONLY does washing -- no dryer. It was determined that the combination machines are too quirky and unreliable so they put the money into a better quality washer instead. Tant pis pour moi... I will be living with a drying rack for the length of my stay in this apartment. It's a very French thing to do, so I guess the American in me will have to do without the convenience of dryer-fluffed towels and sheets unless I want to drag my damp laundry around the corner to the laundromat again (not likely).

La Poste:

Another task on my to-do list for today was to ship birthday gifts to my sister and brother-in-law (can't tell you what I bought them on the off chance they might actually READ this). I found an empty box, packed up the goods, found some packing tape and sealed it up. There's an Office Depot down the street that is a UPS shipping center, so that's where I had planned to take it because I have a UPS shipper account where they can bill me later. But for some reason, they did not have any of the forms I would need to fill out and they expected me to miraculously have these forms myself. #1, wouldn't you expect an authorized UPS shipping center to be able to provide the proper paperwork for you to fill out, including customs forms? And #2, where was I supposed to find these forms here in France? I debated about using the local post office, just one more block away, but decided to first check out the UPS.com site to see what I could find out about other UPS facilities here in Paris.

Turns out there are such things -- two specific centers plus a range of Office Depot stores around the city (including the one I'd just been turned away from). I would have to go to one of the centers, I'm guessing, to ship the packages and pick up additional forms for any future shipping needs, but both centers were across town on the Right Bank.

Next, I checked out LaPoste.fr to see what I could learn about shipping packages via the local post office. It actually looked like something I could handle, despite the fact the entire website is in French and my translation skills are not always accurate. So, down the street I went again, prepared to do battle with La Poste, knowing my French was not great and their English was not likely to be much better. There was a long line (no surprise there) but I wasn't standing there long when a postal employee went up and down the line asking what people were there to do, so he could see if there was anyone who needed something special. Voila! He got to me, and although his English was minimal, the lovely woman in line behind me (seeing an opportunity to move ahead one place in line) spoke better English and between the three of us I explained what I needed, and was told that I needed to be willing to repack the items in a special box before they could ship it, AND the man could take me right away. Merci, madame, and I went to the special counter. A few minutes later, my gifts were repacked in a red box marked "colissimo", and I had paid 36 euro and gotten a receipt. My gifts should arrive on or about February 25th - not too bad, really. My sister's birthday is February 15th and her husband's is March 10th so that's like splitting the difference. But can someone explain to me why an Italian-sounding word is used for package shipping in France? What is "colissimo" and how did that word get into the French postal service?

La Banque:

Last on my list of French errands and chores, was picking up my checkbook at the bank. Did I mention that I did, indeed, get approved for a non-resident checking account here, and that the approval mysteriously and miraculously was granted BEFORE I produced the letter the French bank had asked me to get from my American bank confirming my status as a customer? I've had my ATM/bank card for over a week now, but the checkbook wasn't ready yet; plus I have not yet received my PIN code for the ATM card by mail even though I was told it should come last week. So it was back to the bank to see if I could make myself understood.

Being a Monday, I knew that my new best friend, the woman at the bank who speaks English and who helped me open my account, was not working today, and apparently NO ONE ELSE in this branch speaks more than 2 or 3 words of English -- not that they will admit, anyway. I started out by apologizing to the woman at the reception/teller desk (they're one and the same) that my French was not very good, mais... I was there to pick up my checks and to find out about getting my PIN code.

My checks were ready (another step toward being something approximating "official" in France) and the receptionist did something or other on the computer to re-request that my PIN code be sent to me via mail in the next 3-4 days (I hope). I signed a few pieces of paper... and I was done!

The surprising thing was that I seem to be able to communicate well enough to get things done -- with the occasional help from English-speaking passers-by -- despite the fact that I only really understand every 3rd or 4th word, and sometimes not even that much, spoken to me in rapid-fire French. Each time I face a new situation or challenge in daily living, I kind of dread it a bit, not knowing what to expect or how frustrating it might be... but in the end it all seems to be working out, and I'm able to understand and make myself understood enough. Even though I know my French is no where near perfect.

Just as my French teacher back home predicted one day last November when I was panicking about my French skills, I'm really doing okay.

And making myself quite at home.

Support Your Local Mairie

In France, the "mairie" is the town hall, the place where the city administration works and functions. Sometimes also known as the "hotel de ville", in Paris there is actually more than one such place. There is the main "Hotel de Ville" (Aimee just posted this great photo of it) where the mayor of all Paris lives and works, and it's a stunning building right on the Seine. Frequently, the city sets up fun attractions right in front of the building, and right now there's a big ice rink there; last summer there were some volleyball courts set up, with sand and everything.

But Paris being a very big place, with twenty "arrondissements" or districts, there is the need to decentralize some of the administrative functions. This is where the local mairies come in. Each arrondissment has it's own mairie and it's own "mayor" as well, and if you have any bureaucratic red tape to deal with, that's the place you go if you live in that arrondissment.

I had my first visit to the mairie in the 15th today. I had two missions: (1) get a list of of