The Bold Soul

You asked for it, you've got it

I've been doing a little blog housekeeping lately: new banner (time for a change), moving a few posts around and miscellaneous whatnots. And I finally decided (since I'm no longer writing for them, mainly because I haven't got much free time and they don't pay their contributors -- and if I'm going to write for free, I might as well do that HERE) that I would post the COMPLETE text of all my Bonjour Paris articles that I contributed from September 2006-January 2007.

So, here they are, in case you didn't get the chance to read the Premium articles (or any of them) - link away and enjoy!

• Single and Moving to Paris, September 26, 2006
• To Visa or Not to Visa, That is the Question, October 5, 2006
• When Your Paris Plans Don't Go According to Plan, October 12, 2006
• Safety in the City, October 19, 2006
• Packing Light, October 26, 2006
• So Many Men, So Little to Talk About, November 2, 2006
• Paris: Reflections, November 8, 2006
• The Firsts and Lasts of Moving Abroad, November 16, 2006
• An Etrangère in a Strange Land, November 23, 2006
• Making Amis, December 1, 2006
• Lost in Translation, December 7, 2006
• Chocolat 'til you drop!, December 14, 2006
• Down the Rabbit Hole, and Back Again, December 23, 2006
• There's No Place Like Home, January 5, 2007
• The Direct Approach to Dating in Paris,  January 24, 2007

More on The Direct Approach

For those that enjoyed my post on the direct approach to dating in Paris, I wrote an expanded version of that incident for Bonjour Paris recently.

A recent night out found me at Carr's (a real Irish pub in the 1ème, owned by a real Irishman) with a group of international ex-pats. I struck up a conversation with a personable American guy whom I'll call Bill (not his real name) in which we were discussing the challenges of being self-employed writers, which we both happened to be, and attaining residency status in France.

Bill has been in Paris about 3 years and has a freelance writing niche that’s kept him pretty busy, but it was only about 6 months ago he decided that he definitely wants to stay here in France. Since then, he’s been racking his brains to figure out how to do this legally. He's been trying to look for a full-time job of some kind, but this is next to impossible particularly if you don't already have working papers (which you can't get unless you have the promise of a job).

As we were running through the options available to freelancers like us, I offered: "Well, there's always the old standby: marry a French national." To which Bill said, jokingly: "Yes, I haven't really tried that. Hmmm, let's see... what about one of these French girls right here?" (There were several young, attractive French girls in the bar at that moment.)

Which kicked off a lively debate between Bill and me about the potential effectiveness of "I need to get married. Will you marry me?" as a pick-up line. You have to admit it’s got a certain appeal; you just cut through all the B.S. and get right to the point. This idea of combining dating with residency status was kind of intriguing to me, and I wanted to make an experiment out of it. I bet Bill the kingly sum of the 2 Euros I had in my pocket if he'd actually go up to one of those women and try it out, but he thought he needed to be drunker first; in the event the girl in question decided to haul off and belt him one for his impertinence, he figured it would hurt less if he’d had a few pints in. I can’t say I blame him; this was risky business!

Since coming to Paris, I’ve met a number of women who ended up here simply because they met and fell in love with a Frenchman. They didn’t especially set out to do that; in fact, most of them met their French husbands back in their home countries where the men were either at school or working abroad. Some of those women don’t even particularly like France; they came here only to be with the one they love. But I know there are some people out there who do try and get around the complex immigration laws by marrying not for love, but for a residency card. In American, for instance, it’s a constant challenge for the INS to catch couples in the act when they marry just for the green card.

The thing is: I’m not the type who could do that—marry someone I didn’t love—no matter how badly I might want to move to another country and make it permanent. If I WERE that type, I don’t think I’d be “still single” at 45. Therefore, should I someday decide to make my stay in France permanent (something that I have not yet decided upon one way or the other), I think I’ll end up having to do it the hard way.

Nevertheless, the whole comical episode with Bill reminded me of the time 20 years ago when I was on vacation in Switzerland, where one night I met a cute Italian boy in a club. This boy wasted very little time in his approach to trying to sweep me off my American feet. We had a dance and a drink, then he went right for the punch line:

"You beautiful American. I marry you. I buy you big house, big car, beautiful clothes, everything."

"Why, are you rich?"

"No, YOU rich American. I marry you, I buy you things!"

"What, with my money? I don't think so!"

"No, no -- if I marry you, it be MY money!"

"Not where I come from, Pietro! In America, what’s mine is mine!"

I don't know if Bill ever got up the nerve to try out the "Marry me" pick-up line. But another girl who was within earshot of Bill and me confided to me that she once had a man offer her $10,000 to marry him so he could get American citizenship. In retrospect, she wondered if she should have taken the offer.

Maybe Bill will need to throw in a cash bonus to sweeten the deal. It will either work like a charm… or get him slapped even harder.

There's no place like home

Just realized I never linked up last week's Bonjour Paris post, There's no place like home.

With the holidays just behind us, many of us (myself included) made a trip back home to be with our loved ones. Most of us think of home as the place where we grew up (our “home town”), or the house we grew up in, or wherever our parents live. But for those who live abroad, the concept of “home” takes on a whole new meaning.

There are two kinds of expatriates: the temporary kind, and the permanent kind. The “temps” are those who go abroad for their jobs, or to spend a year or two having the experience of living in a place they’ve dreamed of for years. For the temp ex-pat, there is no question in their minds that after their job is over, or after they’ve “gotten it out of their systems”, they will return home again—happy to have had the experience but glad to get back to “normal”. For the temps, living abroad was never really meant to be “home”.

The permanent ex-pats have a much different take on things. They are embedded in their new country; they’ve made a life over there. They arrived at their state of permanent residency either by design or by default, but for one reason or another, they came, and then decided to STAY. For them, the place they are living now—be it Paris, Tokyo, Milan or Rio—is “home”.

In the not-so-distant past, people rarely traveled far from the place in which they were born. You grew up in a town, and married someone who also lived in that town or in a town very close by. You raised your family, and eventually died within a few miles of where you came into the world.

Advances in transportation and technology have meant that more and more people leave home and move far away. Sometimes they do so to advance their careers, to earn more money and create a better life; sometimes they do so to achieve freedoms not available in their country of origin. Sometimes they relocate for love; I’ve met several women who came to France because they met and fell in love with a Frenchman. And sometimes the “love” that makes us move abroad is the love of the place itself, nothing more. I place myself in that category.

As I was flying home the week before Christmas, I found myself thinking of my mother’s house, and the town where both she and my sister live, as “home”, despite the fact that I’ve lived in several other homes or towns in my adult life. I simply haven’t been living in Paris long enough for it to feel like home—yet.

But now that I’ve been “back home” for a couple of weeks, I’m already longing to go back to Paris. There’s something about it, something inexplicable that pulls me in and holds my affections. The light, the architecture, the energy, the very FEEL of the place… there is just something special about it. I felt at home there long before I ever set foot in the city for the first time.

Gertrude Stein, the quintessential American ex-pat in Paris, once said: “America is my country, but Paris is my home town”. (From 'An American and France,' 1936)  I am looking forward to the day when I can claim the same sentiment. I’m already on my way.

America will always be my country, and “home” will continue to be where my family is, no matter where I’m actually living. But Paris is a place that holds a claim on my heart like no other.
And isn’t THAT the definition of “home”?

Down the Rabbit Hole, and Back Again

In this week's Bonjour Paris article, Down the Rabbit Hole and Back Again, I was inspired by my recent visit to London and seeing the Alice in Wonderland windows, particularly the one where Alice is about to plunge into the rabbit hole and enter a free-fall. It seemed an appropriate metaphor, now that I'm about to shift into the long-term plan of being in Paris, not on vacation but for a year or perhaps indefinitely.

One of the perks of living in Paris is that you’re centrally located for easy travel to other exciting cities in Europe, and train travel makes everything accessible. On a recent weekend in London via the Eurostar, I came across the shop windows at Fortnum and Mason (gourmet foodies extraordinaire!) depicting scenes from Alice in Wonderland, which happens to be one of my favorite books. And when I looked at the first window where Alice is about to fall down the rabbit hole, it suddenly occurred to me: that’s precisely how I’ve felt during the past five weeks since coming to Paris! There is nothing like deciding to go to a place where your language skills are at a 4th-grade level to make you feel like you’re in free-fall, plummeting into a strange new world where nothing is what it seems and where you don’t know the rules.

As I’m writing this, I am in the midst of preparing to leave my temporary housing in Vincennes for a month back in the States before returning to live in a long-term furnished rental in the 15th, and there’s much to do. I have just returned from carting one huge suitcase and six boxes across the city to my future apartment, where the owners have generously offered to let me store my things until I return in January. I got lucky with this moving chore, in that a friend of a friend was available to come with his small van and help me for a small fee. We set up the appointment a week ago but I hadn’t heard back from him as of early this morning, and I was on the verge of having to get a taxi when I realized I didn’t even know how to do that in French! How would I explain that I needed a larger taxi and a driver who would be willing to help me with the boxes? I had one hand on the Pages Jaune and the other on my French-English dictionary when the phone rang, and it was Sebastien asking for directions to come and pick me up. Saved by the bell!

I am well aware that my transition into Paris life has thus far been made easier by having had access to several Paris “veterans”: people who’ve been here for years, speak the language, know their way around, and are willing to extend themselves to the new kid on the block. When I envisioned moving to Paris, I knew it wouldn’t be easy and I also knew there were many obstacles I couldn’t foresee. And my first five weeks have been relatively problem-free other than the early technology issues I had with my Internet phone service.

But being in London was a reminder of how stressful the language barriers can be when living abroad. London was actually a very welcome and stress-free break from having to communicate in French (badly), and where the people I was visiting planned everything and all I had to do was follow the leader. As a single woman who is used to doing everything for herself, it was a refreshing change to sit back and let someone else take care of everything, and all I had to do was follow the leader and enjoy the view. (Note to self: must do more of this!) And being able to speak freely and know that I would understand others when spoken to made it all the more effortless. I did have a good laugh at my own expense though, when on two occasions I found myself responding automatically to waiters in French: “Oui, c’est tout!”

Now that I’m back in Paris and preparing to head home for the holidays, in the back of my mind I know that it won’t be so easy from here on in, this living-in-France thing. Sure, I’ll have people I can call upon for help if I get in a jam or need to do something I can’t seem to do on my own.

But I won’t be thinking short-term any more; I’m going to be here for a very long time. And with that comes a host of new challenges to be met, including:

• Figuring out how to get a cell phone and getting the cheapest plan possible. I wasn’t going to get one at all but it turns out so many people in France use cell phones as their ONLY phones and it costs them extra to call land-line numbers, so unless you also have a cell phone they are often unwilling to call you or be called by you because of the extra expense involved. And they look at you like you have two heads: “Quoi? You don’t have a cell phone?” Take note: most standard American cell phones do NOT work here because the technology is incompatible; check with your phone carrier to see if they can upgrade you to something that will work at home and abroad.
• Finding a new internist and see about transferring my prescription medication; do they even make the same drugs here that I take back home, and if not what is the impact of switching to another comparable medication? Prescription drugs are not universal so if you are taking something that you can ONLY get in your home country, consult with your physician about whether there are comparable foreign drugs you can take if you need to, and if not plan to stock up before you go and bring a new written prescription from your doctor for emergencies. Bear in mind that customs officials in all countries usually frown upon shipping prescription drugs across their borders and you may run into problems if you plan to have a family member send you additional medications through the mail.
• Opening a bank account. I have no idea how this works in France, but I do know that unlike in American you just don’t walk in and walk out 20 minutes later with your new check-book in hand. There’s a whole banking PROCESS in France that involves as much annoying paperwork as possible and you don’t necessarily get same-day service. Banking in France is a whole new area I need to study up on before I come back and I will probably end up taking someone along as a translator when I set up my local account. At least I have a lease with my name and the address so I can prove I have a residence. If you’re planning to live in France without a French bank account, while it is easy to use plastic to get cash (French ATM machines recognize our American banking network and codes) and to shop in stores, just know you are looking at a lot of international service fees from your own bank for using your card abroad. It all adds up.

These are just the scenarios that are coming to mind now; who knows what else is lurking out there that will have me wanting to tear my hair out, or get on the next plane out of here? It’s all one big question mark.

But at the end of THIS rabbit hole, there is more than a Mad Hatter and a smug Cheshire cat; there is more than me feeling like an anxious White Rabbit because I’m perpetually “late for a very important date”, unable to accurately plan my door-to-door travel time in a busy city.

The prize at the end of the free-fall into the unknown is the possibility of being able to look back at what I’ve accomplished (and survived) with complete satisfaction and a new level of confidence.

Because if I can do this and come out stronger – not to mention more fluent in French – then I will truly know I can do anything.

 

Chocolat 'til you drop!

Before I unplug for my trip back home, here's a quick link to my latest Bonjour Paris article, talking about my recent visit to Chocolaterie Girard. If you don't have a premium membership, don't despair; I also wrote a bit about it here.

And of course, an excerpt:

I made an interesting discovery recently, while on the hunt for new ways to experience more of Paris beyond the monuments and museums. I’m always on the lookout for things a woman can do alone in a big city and where I might meet some new friends. It was while visiting another ex-pat’s Paris blog that I learned about Meeting the French, a tourism company that provides very interesting snapshots into French life. Their offerings include: dinner invitations to dine in a French home, gastronomy walking tours of Paris, and a variety of short guided tours where you can observe artists and artisans at work.

I thought this sounded like a unique concept, so I decided to see what was on the schedule. What a selection! I could have gone to a cheese-making shop, a bakery, a pork butcher, a coffee-roasting shop and even a snail house. I could have visited any number of artists and craftsmen such as jewelers, cabinetmakers, art framers, fashion designers, furriers, porcelain makers, book binders and so much more. You can even go behind the scenes at several cultural or sporting sites. There is literally something for everyone and every interest, and the prices are quite reasonable starting as low as 5 Euros (the dinners are more, of course). If you don’t speak French, you will need to check to see if the tour you want is available with English translation, but many of them are. (Also, if you have mobility or dietary issues, I would advise that you call before you book a reservation to ensure that you can participate in the tour you want.)

I decided a chocolaterie was right up my alley for a first “Meeting the French” excursion. For just 9 euros (wow!) I was invited to come to Girard, just two short blocks from the Hotel de Ville in the 4th arrondissement. The tour, available with an English translator, was to last between 30-60 minutes, which meant a nice easy afternoon in an area where there were also lots of other things to do before or afterward. In fact, I arrived early enough that I had ample time to walk across the Seine and do a quick visit and photo shoot at Notre Dame, and afterward went shopping at BHV.

Arriving at Girard, it is NOT the usual pretty little chocolate shop, so don’t get your hopes dashed when you see it. They do the REAL work here in their basement “chocolate laboratory”; so while the store-front has a few glass cases where you can purchase from them (whether or not you take a tour), the space is dedicated to storing brown cardboard boxes of stock that are used to supply patisseries and confectioners all over Paris and beyond with delicious artisanal chocolates.

I was greeted by a very nice woman who handed me a few brochures and leaflets, including an order form, and where another woman was passing through the crowd with a tray of hot chocolate and samples of some of the chocolates Girard makes. The English translator found me, and informed me there were a few others English-speakers as well, and that we’d stick together on the tour.

When it was our turn, we descended into the basement work area and met a tall, youngish man who I assume was Girard or at least the current proprietaire (I was never quite sure about that). He started off by explaining where chocolate, as we know it, comes from, showing us the giant cacao beans and then the smaller beans that come from the larger one. Using some large photos, he showed how they are harvested and then shelled and broken down into little dark “shavings”, which we were allowed to taste – very bitter! Those shavings then go on to become the base material for chocolate. They also extract the cocoa butter which is used in chocolate-making as well as in other products like skin creams.

He then went on to tell us that his chocolaterie does not process the raw materials, but instead buys huge slabs and blocks of the different chocolates they need (dark, milk, white, and other flavors such as orange which is white with orange flavoring and color added) from suppliers in Belgium and elsewhere in France. He went on to tell us how they make the chocolate ganache (the liquid chocolate) that goes into forming the fillings or coverings of their selection of sweets.

Next, we were shown several of the machines they use to either make the fillings, such as a machine that squeezes out and cuts the praline centers, or to cover the centers with chocolate. There was one machine where they would place, by hand, the cream centers under a little chocolate “shower” where the ganache would be poured over the top and on the bottoms; the chocolates are then rolled along a short conveyor belt to the next station where they’re placed on a tray to set. I had visions of that “I Love Lucy” episode where Lucy and Ethel were working in the chocolate factory with the high-speed conveyor belt, and where they had to eat and hide all the candy! But the set-up at Girard was much slower and easily paced, nothing like a high-tech business here.

One thing to keep in mind, if you take this tour, is that this is an artisan’s workshop and NOT a sterile “clean room” like we might expect to see in an American business. I’m sure the shop meets all the local health standards, and they also have artisanal standards to live up to as well; but some of the equipment looks rather worn and dated, and the entire place is cluttered with boxes and tubs of ingredients. The workers do wear aprons and white coats but they’re often covered in chocolate smudges; chocolate-making is messy work!

Next, it was on to where they hand-decorate some of the chocolates with little painted designs, and where they create big gift baskets. Along the tour, we were given the opportunity to sample some of the finished products – delicious! – and when the tour was complete, we could sample some more and then buy our favorites (I got away with a bag of dark chocolate truffles and something else that has hazelnut bits all over it, both very yummy!)

This was a great (and let’s face it, decadent) way to spend a Tuesday afternoon in Paris. Now that I live here, it’s nice to take a break once in a while from my daily routine with an outing like this. I do plan to check out some of the other Meeting the French tours in the future: I have my eye on one that involves a visit to an auction sales room, the porcelain making tour, and of course the coffee-roasting shop. What better way to get out, learn something new and meet the French!

Check it out for yourself: http://www.meetingthefrench.com
Or visit Girard on your own: 5 rue de la Tacherie, 75004 Paris. Métro: Hotel de Ville.

Lost in Translation

While I was in London, my latest Bonjour Paris column hit the virtual newsstand, entitled "Lost in Translation", where I talk about some of my frustrations with the language barrier. After I submitted this article, I was talking with La Page Française about the language challenges and she described it perfectly as there being basically two ways or levels of speaking French: communicating which is what you do to survive; and then there is being able to express yourself, which is a whole other level. What I'm doing now is communicating, and overall doing a fair job at it. But it's going to be a long, long time until I'm really able to express myself well in French with any real flair.

How do you make a life for yourself in a country where you are not fluent in the language? That’s the challenge I’m facing more and more each day here in Paris.

I do speak French. Well, I speak SOME French, enough to deal with shopping and asking directions, and to observe the niceties of greeting people. I’ve had virtually no problems getting around through basic daily life with my current French skills. And I’ve been told my accent is excellent, which probably accounts for why so few French people have felt compelled to switch over to English after I say something in French.

But after a while, things happen that require better language skills than, “I’ll take some of THAT, please” (while gesturing to what you want) and “Is the Métro to the left or the right?”

Last week, I was invited to join my future landlords for their Thanksgiving dinner. She’s American, a New Yorker, and he’s French, and she asked me to come to dinner when she learned I was new in town and had no plans for the holiday. The other guests consisted of their friends and family, a mix of French and American. Everyone there spoke English but not all were fluent, so the conversation was very often in rapid-fire French. There was no way I could keep up with all of it, so instead I just decided to observe and see how much I could understand. Dinner was delicious and everyone was very nice, and I wasn’t totally left out of things because some of the talk was in English. But clearly, my dinner party conversation skills are going to need a lot of work if I end up spending time with many French people!

Then there’s television. If I didn’t have access to CNN International and the BBC, plus my internet news feeds from the New York Times, I wouldn’t know what was going on in the world, because when I watch French news I’m only able to pick up maybe every fifth word, and that’s on a good day. And watching reruns of “Will and Grace” just doesn’t feel the same when they’ve been dubbed over en français and pronounced “Weel et Grahs”. At least there is BBCPrime, which broadcasts a variety of British programs ranging from decorating and gardening shows to soaps, comedies and medical dramas, so I can get some entertainment in English.

But today, I got something in the mail that has me scratching my head. It’s from UPS and appears to be some sort of customs form or invoice related to the very costly box of stuff I shipped just before I came over to Paris. When the box arrived, there were additional customs charges payable on the spot at 26,50 Euros, and I thought that was the end of it. Until I got this form, which is all in French and a complete mystery to me, as it seems to be telling me there’s now a VAT tax charge of 11,00 Euros. I was able to make out one sentence that says it’s NOT an invoice, but is an invoice on its way? Do I have to call someone or go somewhere to pay it, or will it be charged to my credit card on file with UPS in America? I have absolutely no idea. On the back is an entire page of customs gibberish, but even with a French dictionary, no where can I really make out why I got this document or what I’m supposed to do with it.

I located a phone number on the bottom of the page, and called it. All I got was a message (in French) stating that the customer service number had changed (I understood THAT much) and giving the new number in super-fast French that I never did understand despite three additional calls to listen to the recording again.

Next, I decided to try the UPS website, and thank goodness their website for France is available in both French and English! I was able to locate the correct customer service number but also then realized it’s a toll number to the tune of 12 centimes per minute, so I decided to try emailing UPS with my question about the document, and I’m now awaiting a reply. I’m hoping I don’t have to call them, as I will then have to try to explain to them in French what I need and will have to hope there is an English-speaking customer service person that can help me.

I can see that fluency in French is going to be necessary for me to function well here. It’s also going to be a long time in coming. It’s sinking in: I am now an immigrant. This is but the tip of the proverbial iceberg for me, in terms of frustrations with living in a country where my language skills need work. Patience will never be more of a virtue than while I’m living in France; that is becoming abundantly clear. My American drive to get things done quickly and efficiently will be sorely tested, as the French have their own way of doing things that is often neither quick nor efficient, whether I like it or not.

But I’m in their country. I chose to just barge in here, unannounced and uninvited; therefore I have to play by their rules (provided I can even figure out the rules!)

And while I’m sometimes frustrated with not being able to communicate fully, I do love hearing the language spoken everywhere I go, and I love speaking it, the way it flows off the tongue so beautifully. Even after just these few short weeks, it is already beginning to sound odd to me to be walking down the street and suddenly hear some Americans or Brits chatting away together.

When I was a mere tourist on prior trips to Paris and heard some fellow Americans speaking, I might have been tempted to say hello or even join in the conversation. Now I just say nothing and let them think I’m French, and when I’m out and about I always start by trying to speak French first. After all, I don’t want to be mistaken for just another tourist anymore. I LIVE here now!

And I know I’ve succeeded in blending in with the locals when tourists attempt to ask me for directions in their own halting French… and when I actually start to respond to them IN FRENCH. Then I remember who I am, take pity on them and watch the relief on their faces when I revert back to English (“Oh, you’re American! Thank God!”) This happened to me several times yesterday while wandering around Père Lachaise cemetery on a rare sunny November day, where I encountered several people all searching for the same thing—Jim Morrison, of course—and all of us feeling totally lost.

Not just in the cemetery, but in the language barriers, too. Because let’s face it, nothing is more unnerving that not being able to communicate. N’est-ce pas?

Suffice to say, it was nice to be in London for two days where my biggest language problem was understanding that in England, chips are fries and crisps are chips, and it's best to know which you want with your burger before you order.

Making Amis

Get it while it's hot (and still free, at least momentarily) - the latest Bonjour Paris article has been posted, entitled "Making Amis".

When you’re on your own in Paris, it’s important to make the effort to get out of your shell (or at least get out of your apartment or hotel) and make some new friends. If you’ve relocated here with a spouse, partner or children, you’ve brought your most important relationships with you; you’ve got a social “security blanket”, someone familiar to ease the strangeness of your new life as an ex-pat.

But when you’re traveling solo, you have two choices. One, you can become a hermit and hole up indoors, rarely venturing out except to get supplies and maybe a cat or two for companionship, in which case you risk becoming the notorious “crazy cat person” of your neighborhood. Or two, you can go out into the world, open to meeting whomever happens to show up in your life. I’m opting for the latter, and not just because I’m not really a “cat person”.

My particular personality type is a cross between extrovert and introvert. I do need some time on my own, out of the hustle and bustle, where I can think, be creative and recharge my batteries. But when I’m out, I love good conversation and to be around fun and interesting people. I love finding out about people, and what makes them tick. In fact, to me, the world is just one big sociology experiment.

But I’m also new to city living and that creates some added anxiety for me. Before now, I’ve only ever lived in a more rural or suburban area where you had a car to get you safely from point A to point B. Now, I have to adapt to the rigors of public transportation and learn to be more aware of my surroundings, especially if I’m planning to ever leave the apartment after dark. It often feels easier to just stay in and content myself with watching Absolutely Fabulous on BBCPrime, so sometimes I have to force myself to go out and be around people.

Realizing that it might not be that easy to make friends with the French when I’m not fluent (yet) in the language, I decided that my best bet for making some new social connections quickly would be to look for where the English-speaking ex-pats were hanging out. Whether American, British, Australian, or Canadian, I knew they were “out there”, but where, oh where to find them?

Meetup.com to the rescue! This is a great networking resource no matter where you happen to be in the world. Meetup is a site where people with common interests can connect. You can locate Meetup groups near you by searching on your location, or you can search by topic. Register (it’s free), post your profile and sign up for as many groups as you like. When you sign up for a group, you are notified of scheduled events (often cocktails, lunches, picnics, or whatever the group’s leader organizes) as well as of any on-line discussions that might be happening. Most groups meet once a month provided there is sufficient interest from the members.

I started by checking out all the ex-pat Meetup groups in Paris, and found over twenty to choose from! Some are specific to a nationality but they’re usually more than happy to have “outsiders” join it, like the Paris Expat Aussie Meetup Group, with whom I’ll be attending a cocktail hour tonight.

There are also hybrid groups such as the International Events & Activities group, where I attended a fun little soirée for the launch of the Beaujolais Nouveau, held at a brasserie in the 6th near Métro Odéon. There, I met an American, a Hungarian, several Canadians, an Aussie (who invited me to the Aussie Meetup this week), and even a few French people. I even exchanged cards with some of them so we can make plans to “meet up” again in the near future.

I’ve got Meetup.com events blocked out on my calendar, at least one a week, from now through the holidays, and I can see this is going to be a great starting point for me to create a social life. But that’s not the only way to meet people in Paris, and here are some others that show promise:

•    Friends of friends. Chances are, someone you know knows someone else living in Paris. Ask for an introduction and when you get here, follow through with it.
•    Fellow bloggers. For over a year and a half before I came here, I’ve been writing and publishing my own blog (www.TheBoldSoul.com) about my desire to live in Paris. I’ve also been actively reading a number of the blogs written by others living in Paris and have even managed to start up some long-distance friendships with some of them. Now that I’m here, I’ll get to meet them in person!
•    On-line dating. For singles, eventually you’re going to want to meet someone who might be MORE than a friend, right? Well, you might want to give some of the on-line dating sites a try. A few I’ve been perusing include EHarmony.com and Meetic.fr.
•    Going to places you like and events that interest you. Paris is a cultural playground for adults. Whether your interests are sports, museums, movies or concerts, there is literally something for everyone here. Get out and do things you like, and you might run into some other singles doing the same thing.

It’s not always easy forcing yourself to go out alone, especially for some women. But again, consider the alternative: stuck in your apartment, bored out of your mind, rarely seeing the light of day in the City of Lights. The only way NOT to be alone in Paris is to go OUT in Paris.

So if you’re in Paris and on your own, make the effort and GO OUT. You might even see me at a Meetup drinks party or the Louvre. If you do, be sure and say “Bonjour!”

An étrangère in a strange land

Although it's Thanksgiving in the U.S., here in France it's just another working day. And it seems the editors at BonjourParis aren't taking time off for good behavior, because my latest article was posted right on time!

Yesterday, I was walking up the Champs Elysées where I saw an ad that showed a picture of a purple alien, with the following caption: “Seul dans l’Univers?” (Translation: “Alone in the Universe?”)

It was the perfect representation of what it feels like to move to a foreign country—even when you speak some of the language and know a little about the culture.

It’s very different—and I knew it would be—trying to be a resident here, rather than a tourist. When you’re a tourist, you don’t care much about assimilating. You know, and so do the locals, that you’re a tourist and therefore people will overlook your errors, your stupidity and even your unintentional rudeness. You go out and see the local sights, eat in restaurants, and shop a lot for things you don’t need but want.

But when you’re trying to ease your way into daily life, doing even the simplest things can take longer and be more crazy-making than you ever thought possible, no matter how well you may have prepared in advance. When you go out, it’s not so much about seeing the latest monument or famous painting. Your communications skills need to be good enough to buy appliances and find repairmen, rather than stopping at hello, thank you, excuse me and “Where is the nearest such and such?” Your shopping is more mundane: toilet paper instead of tapestries, trying to read foreign labels and preparation instructions to make your own dinner instead of reading the menu at Deux Magots, and looking to find the best bargain on grocery staples instead of looking for the perfect replica of the Eiffel Tower for Aunt Sophie back home.

It has been six days since I arrived in Paris, with my overweight luggage and exhausted from a somewhat bumpy flight. I’m still not sleeping all that well. I’ve had moments of sheer excitement, such as arriving at the apartment I’m renting until December and seeing the terrace view of the Eiffel Tower. When evening fell and the tower began to glitter at the top of the hour, I was mesmerized! Even now when I see it, I stop for a moment and just stare.

I’ve also had moments of complete frustration, as when I discovered that my Vonage (Internet phone) modem needed something called a step-down power converter because it uses a 3-prong grounded plug instead of the 2-prong plugs that the standard travel adaptors accept. (You’d think Vonage might have mentioned this to me when I called them to inquire about taking my Vonage service on the road with me. So much for customer service.) It’s taken me days, literally, to locate and install the right cables, plugs, and adaptors to get myself set up correctly.

Now on Day 6, my technology problems finally seem to be resolved. I can now communicate with friends, family and business clients around the world through both phone and email. I picked up an inexpensive all-in-one printer/scanner/copier today for just 69 Euros at FNAC in Forum Les Halles (it’s an HP PSC1510 if anyone’s wondering) because shipping my American one from home will not be worth the expense. When I try to re-establish a work routine next week, I’ll be pretty well set to go, and it will be business as usual.

So it’s been a rollercoaster, to say the least. I can’t seem to get my body on any kind of a schedule quite yet. I flip-flop between bursts of energy where I go out and explore my new surroundings, and times where I just want to curl up on the couch and watch “Pride and Prejudice” (I find Jane Austen has a very calming effect on me so I brought some of my favorite DVDs along). I’m enjoying the great food and the effortless exercise I’m getting simply by being forced to walk everywhere.

Good experiences this week:
•    Discovering that my apartment and neighborhood is both safe, and very comfortable.
•    Successfully shopping for food, equipment and accessories, and even managing to exchange something that didn’t work—while conducting all transactions in French without much trouble.
•    Getting the hang of the Métro, although I haven’t yet braved the buses.
•    Having the sun come out for most of the past two days, which made my walk from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe a real pleasure, and made doing some shopping today much easier.
•    Being told my French accent is “excellent” by several French people I’ve met.
•    Having my social calendar fill up, with invitations to two Thanksgiving dinners, a walk in the Bois de Vincennes, a networking soirée in a private home, a classical concert in Notre Dame (I sat next to the orchestra conductor on the plane), and a weekend trip to London in three weeks.

Challenges (to date):
•    Jet lag (I always get it, no matter what) and related headaches for the first three days I was here.
•    Dog “crottes” on the sidewalk. They’re everywhere, and you really have to watch where you step.
•    Resisting the temptation to smile automatically at everyone I see. Americans smile to show they mean no harm; the French consider it insincere and idiotic. When in Rome…
•    Learning to leave a LOT of time when getting from here to there. Between walking time, waiting for the next train, and trying to locate an address on the far end of the journey, public transportation has been anything but speedy. I come from a suburban car culture, after all!
•    Missing my daily dose of Oprah, Everybody Loves Raymond, and Will and Grace. There’s not much on TV here in English, although I am happy to have the BBC and CNN.
•    Getting used to the toilet being in a separate room. Don’t bother asking why; it just IS.

Getting myself here and getting settled in has taken an enormous amount of energy. In fact, on the drive in from the airport, I was so numb I couldn’t even muster up much excitement for the close-up view I had of the Eiffel Tower and all the other familiar sights of central Paris.

So I think that my favorite moment this week was on Sunday afternoon. I was strolling through the 6th where I stopped for a coffee and some onion soup gratinée at Café Flore (overpriced but still very delicious) and where I managed to snag a table outdoors right on the corner, perfect for people-watching. Then I wandered down rue Bonaparte (I stayed at a hotel there on my very first visit to Paris and love to look in the shop windows). At the Seine, I turned right and headed for the Pont des Arts—my favorite spot in Paris to just LOOK.

As I gazed around me, turning first in one direction and then another, I finally let it sink in for the first time: I have done it. I have really moved to Paris! It’s no longer a wish, but a reality. I know there will be many more challenges as I learn and discover and adapt. And I also know this is about to be the best year of my life.

Looking toward the Ile de la Cité and seeing the freshly-scrubbed and beautiful Pont Neuf, with Notre Dame and St. Chapelle in the background, my heart said a little silent “Thank You”.

The Firsts and Lasts of Moving Abroad

My recent BonjourParis.com column is now available. Although I wrote it before I actually got on the plane and I'm already in Paris, I hope it manages to convey the emotional pendulum that comes with the decision to move abroad.

By the time you read this, I will be living in Paris. Not just a tourist this time around, taking a week or two of precious vacation time to see the sights, but officially an ex-pat, I’m in it for the long haul, living life abroad. And it’s been an emotional roller-coaster, this last couple of weeks.

It’s a time of “lasts” all the way around: the last week before boarding the plane; the last get-together with dear friends; the last Halloween (not such a big deal in France); the last family dinner for a while (I’m missing Thanksgiving but consoling myself with the thought that I will be back for a few weeks at Christmas).

When I went to my last French class, intending to surprise my teacher and classmates with some French treats I got at a local patisserie (yes, there actually IS one in New Jersey), it turns out I was the one who was surprised! One classmate baked some French pastry cookies for me, and others, including my teacher and the directrice of the school, gave me some lovely parting gifts: a book on unusual things to do in Paris; a set of French immersion CDs to help me improve my admittedly weak listening comprehension skills; and a delightful book of Thomas Jefferson’s letters written during his three-month tour of the South of France in 1787. I was moved to tears by their thoughtfulness, support, genuine excitement for my plans, and display of friendship. Who knew when I first started taking classes there that I would not only learn to conjugate the subjunctive, but would also make some wonderful friends?

Last weekend, I was hanging out with my sister when her daughter came into the room. She’s 14 and in high school and this totally gorgeous and amazing kid; and she has an older brother in college whom I equally adore. I’ve been lucky enough to see them very frequently throughout their young lives, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, having no kids of my own. So I’m sitting there, looking at my niece, and before I knew it, I had a melt-down when I realized how much I’d be missing in her life by moving abroad. It hit me hard, all of a sudden, that choosing to move abroad does come at a price—leaving behind people and places you love in order to have the opportunity to experience NEW people and places.

But as hard as all the “lasts” have been, there are many “firsts” ahead of me, too. And THAT is what excites me most, thinking about those firsts.

The first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, welcoming me back to Paris.

The first time I can look around my Paris rental apartment and realize that I’m “home”.

My first time back on the Pont des Arts, my favorite place to people-watch and probably my favorite view of Paris.

The first time I finally get to visit the Louvre and see my namesake, the Mona Lisa.

The first time I have to go food shopping or do any number of normal, everyday things that people do when they live in a place versus “just passing through”, when it will sink in that I really LIVE here!

The first time I have to make a phone call in French (I’m dreading that one – at least when you have a face-to-face conversation you can use gestures to help make yourself understood).

The first time I go out on a date with some great guy in Paris… and my first great Parisian kiss.

I know there are more firsts ahead for me in Paris than I can count or even imagine. Not all of them will be happy firsts (I’m sure to be frustrated by my less-than-fluent French skills and by mastering public transportation after a lifetime of driving my own car), but most of them will be. And in the end, the firsts will no doubt far outweigh the lasts.

I’m getting so excited to be finally doing the one big thing I have dreamed of doing my entire life, I can hardly think straight sometimes. Each time I really think about it, about the significance of what this means for me, I can literally feel my heart swelling and expanding in my chest. My cup runneth over, and I’m so grateful.

Still, I think I’d better wear waterproof mascara on my last day when I have to say goodbye to my family and my best friend.

Because that one’s gonna hurt.

Paris: Reflections

My next column at Bonjour Paris is now available, entitled (by my editor) simply: "Paris".

As I write this, I have just days left before I get on the plane for Paris, with much, much, MUCH luggage in tow (including a jar of JIF peanut butter. Hey, I know what’s important!) In fact, it’s entirely possible that as you are reading this, I am trying to catch quarante winks while cruising high above the clouds over the Atlantic.

The getting-ready part of the past two months leading up to this move has been so all-consuming at times that I’ve barely been able to connect with how it FEELS to finally, after over 30 years, be on the verge of getting what I’ve waited for my entire life. There are mixed feelings: mainly there is excitement, anticipation and joy at what lies ahead, but also sadness at leaving people I care about and a tinge of anxiety at the many “unknowns” of it all. I am really going to be on my own this time.

So now, as I take a few moments between trying to decide what clothing to bring, and doing a last bit of cramming on the French subjunctive, I am trying to slow down long enough to REALLY let it sink in.

I am going. To live. In Paris. Really. Yes, PARIS. As in FRANCE!

Someone pinch me, ‘cause I must be dreaming!

When we’ve dreamed about something and hungered for it for so long, why is it so hard to get our minds around it when it actually happens? Is it because we’re so preconditioned to never get our hopes up too high for what we want, lest we be disappointed? Who taught us to dream so small? Who taught us to be afraid to want more out life and to raise our standards? Who decided it was a dumb idea to shoot for the moon?

I think in life, our biggest threat to our own happiness is not terrorism, or the government, or anything or anyone outside of us. Our biggest threat is our own fears. Fear keeps us low. Fear keeps us small. Fear keeps us from stretching our limits, and from going after our dreams. And for decades, fear kept me from doing this crazy thing that really isn’t so when you get right down to it: moving to Paris.

One of my favorite quotes about fear is from Marianne Williamson:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Moving to Paris, for me, is about much more than simply wanting to hang out in France, see French monuments, visit French museums, eat French food and do French things. It is my way of pushing myself NOT to play small in my life, anymore. It’s my way of raising the bar, upping the ante, and expecting more of my self. And that outweighs how much I will miss the people and things I’m forced to leave behind, and my fears of the unknown. This is just something I feel compelled to do for ME.

Some people like to say they came to Paris and found themselves. But I have already found myself by merely DECIDING to go to Paris. The CHOICE, and subsequent acting on that choice, has been the transforming experience for me. And I haven’t yet touched down on French soil.

So Paris, watch out. I’m on my way. I’m not sure what will happen to me once I get there, but whatever it is, I am so very ready for it. And so very, very grateful.

If I were Mary Tyler Moore, I’d be tossing my beret in the air right about now.

So many men, so little to talk about

This week's column in BonjourParis.com is up and running: "So Many Men, So Little to Talk About", referencing my recent experiments with French on-line dating websites.

Being single and 40-something, I have finally (and thankfully) moved beyond the stage of life where my relatives feel the need to ask when I’m going to meet someone nice, get married and start a family. Mostly because I think they’ve given me up as a lost cause in that department.

It’s true: I’m not interested in having a family at this time in my life. And because I’m not interested in doing that, marriage now feels optional. Don’t get me wrong, I think marriage could be wonderful with the right man, but given current divorce rates it doesn’t exactly guarantee a lifelong commitment.

That being said, I WOULD like to have a really good man in my life: a trusted partner, best friend and lover all rolled into one. And it’s been FAR too long since I had one of those.

I won’t bore you with the details of why it has been almost a decade since I’ve been involved in a relationship with anyone special, but suffice to say a bad breakup was the catalyst for the dating gap, followed by the decision to put all my energy into starting and growing a business. Being self-employed is stressful, and it gave me an excuse to put my love life on the back burner.

But going without romance for nearly 10 years, that’s insane. So as part of being in Paris, I’m making it a priority to focus on my personal life again. It’s time to put myself back “out there” in the dating pool. The good news is: I’m diving back into that pool in a country where men don’t necessarily view a maturing woman as the one they trade in for a younger model. In France, being “a woman of a certain age” might even work to my advantage. The bad news is: how do I meet people, date and fall in love when I don’t speak the language well?

I’ve done Internet dating before, and with some success. An early fan of online personal ads, getting to know someone online was fun and easy for me, and seemed a better alternative than hanging out in bars. In fact, I met my last boyfriend online, and it was love at first sight for both of us despite the fact that after a year or so it kind of fizzled out. I know several people who met their husbands or life partners through the ‘Net.

So, it seemed like a good idea to try web dating again, to see what was out there around Paris and possibly even find someone nice I could have lunch or a drink with once I got to town. I found two websites that I’d heard a lot about (the French Match.com, and Meetic.com), set up a profile on each and uploaded a couple of photos – including one of me standing in front of Notre Dame, taken on my last visit.

I started getting emails from men at Meetic almost immediately. But before you get too excited, the vast majority were from men older than my upper age limit, some from men living in places like Portugal and a few Middle Eastern countries (I specified that I wanted to meet local men), and ALL of them written in French.

For the first time I realized I might have some difficulty meeting men this way, because quite frankly my French skills are operating on a third-grade level. For someone who makes a living out of communicating, it’s beyond frustrating not to be able to converse with a man in sentences other than, “What is your name? Where do you live? Do you like movies?” After that, THEN what? The only other French dating lingo I know is what every American over the age of 35 knows, thanks to Labelle and Lady Marmalade: “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?” (But that could get a girl into trouble… especially on a first date.)

There was one Meetic guy, a Swiss man living near Paris, who seemed genuinely interested in meeting me. At least, he was pretty persistent in trying to communicate with me, en français, numerous times. For all I know, he could be a really sweet, decent guy. But I don’t think I’m going to have the chance to find out, because I just can’t communicate effortlessly – he apparently speaks no English, which kind of makes me wonder whether he was even able to read my profile. Was it just my photo he liked? Flattering, I suppose, but not a basis for a relationship. And it’s taking me too long to have to look up every word I want to say in the dictionary when I try to reply to his emails. Small talk can only take you so far when you’re trying to decide if someone is worth getting to know better. How will I be able to ask if he has any diseases, a criminal record, or likes to dress up in women’s clothing?

So clearly, I need a new strategy. For one thing, I updated my online profiles to be more specific about the men I’m looking for, and I’m now limiting my search to English-speaking ex-pats and French men who are more fluent in English. It’s not that I don’t want to meet French men, but trying to date and build a relationship is difficult under the best of circumstances, and why add fuel to that fire?

And maybe I’ll have to ditch the entire online dating thing altogether for a while, at least until my French improves. I’ll just have to meet people the old-fashioned way: getting up from the computer where I spend too much time anyway, and going out and doing things. Like attending some social functions through various Meetup.com groups in Paris – I’ve already hooked up with a few English-speaking but culturally mixed groups where I can make some platonic friends as well as be on the lookout for some nice men to date.

You know, I’d heard that expression: “You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince”, but if I’m ever to have ANY kissing in my life while in Paris, it looks like I may have to bypass at least some of the Frogs in order to find Monsieur Right.

After all, I don’t want the ONLY French I practice in Paris to be the language.

Packing Light

This week's Bonjour Paris article has been posted, (and it's a free one this time) entitled "Packing Light". Enjoy!

My move to Paris kicks off in just three more weeks. Three short weeks to pack my entire life into a few suitcases, boxes and a rented storage unit. My head hurts just thinking about it.

Moving abroad means making some tough decisions about what really matters to you in terms of your “stuff”, because taking it all with you is just not practical. When I first decided I wanted to live in Paris, I started out by scaling back my lifestyle right here in the good old U.S.A.

I knew that a Parisian apartment was likely to have very little closet space compared to what I’m used to. Paris being one of the most expensive cities in Europe, I also knew I’d have to rent a rather small apartment. And I knew that shipping everything I owned was likely to be both unnecessary and cost-prohibitive.

So scale back I did. I sold all the furniture I wasn’t completely in love with. I donated bags of clothing to charity. I gave things to friends and family members I thought they could use. Essentially, I reduced my worldly possessions by 50-60%. And you know what? I haven’t missed any of it.

In Paris, I’m going to be renting a furnished apartment, complete with linens and cookware. This will give me the opportunity to get to know the city and eventually – assuming I decide to stay indefinitely –
look around for an unfurnished apartment to call my own. If you’re thinking of moving to Paris, I highly recommend taking this “try before you buy (or rent)” approach so you can find the perfect neighborhood for your tastes and lifestyle. The Internet makes it simple to locate and look at short-term furnished apartments; I found a great rental site at VRBO.com (Vacation Rentals by Owner).

But let’s face it, while I have become more of a minimalist, there are some things a girl just needs to have with her. In my case, the necessities are clothes, my computer, my CD and DVD collection, and books – lots and lots of books.

Clothing isn’t as big a packing issue right now as it would have been, say, three months ago. I’ve been working hard to lose some excess weight and have already dropped several sizes (yippee!), which has forced me to clean out the closets. So I’ll be packing light as far as the wardrobe goes, and I’m looking forward to shopping in Paris as the need for smaller sizes arises.

For my CDs and DVDs, I got smart and bought a couple of storage folios with the little pockets. Keeping the disks but tossing their plastic cases will also save on shipping, and won’t present a storage issue in my new apartment. My laptop and related equipment are essential for my work. So that’s a no-brainer; heavy or not, it’s got to come along for the ride.

The books are another story. As a writer, my books feel like a part of my identity, and there are some I just can’t part with: writer’s resource books; all my French study books and English-tutoring materials (I’ll certainly be needing THOSE); and a selection of my favorite classics and fiction (yes, Harry Potter is coming with me). I’ve done a fair job of pairing them down, but the long and short of it is: I will be shipping at least five boxes from my personal library. And that will come dear, although I did some research and discovered it may be cheaper for me to check up to three boxes of books as additional luggage on the plane than to ship them via UPS or another carrier.

Sure, there are other things I’m going to bring: American measuring cups and spoons for cooking (it will take time to convert my brain to Metric); tax files for next year; some family photos; and even an American flag (hey, you never know). I’m also bringing my own pillows, comforter and blanket so the bed feels like “home”; I got a few of those “space bag” things to shrink them down in size, and a big duffel bag in which to tote them along with my extra shoes and handbags.

Right now, contemplating all of the packing still to be done and a hundred little decisions still to be made, it’s overwhelming. But I keep reminding myself that if I forget something I really need, I can either buy it or arrange to have someone here send it to me. In the meantime, I’ve already learned how to live with less “stuff” in my life, so I’m sure I’ll be fine no matter how petite the apartment or how minimal the armoire space. It’s very freeing, not being so attached to things.

Once I get to Paris and settle in, I can always bring more things over if I want to. Like my photo albums or a small decorative item or two; things to make my furnished rental feel more like ME.
   
And maybe a few more books. Maybe.

Safety in the City

My new article, Safety in the City, is posted over at BonjourParis.com. Alas, it's not about safe sex (or even unsafe sex). It's a Premium article (again) about the time I got the pockets picked out of me by some of Paris' light-fingered youth.

One thing smart travelers need to think about is safety, especially we solo travelers. Paris is actually a very safe city in most respects, but there is one way in which it stands out, criminally speaking: the Paris Pickpocket. Dickens’ Artful Dodger has nothing on these sticky-fingered guys. And I speak from experience.

I had read about the pickpocket problem in Paris before my first visit in 1998. I was there on my own, and as I was in unfamiliar territory, I did all the usual common-sense things to protect myself, like keeping my purse in plain sight at all times and not walking down any dark alleys. I had a delightful and very safe trip.

On my next visit in 2001, I was not quite so fortunate. Having been to Paris before, I committed the cardinal sin of experienced travelers: the arrogance that comes from having “been there, done that”. I thought I was too smart for the pickpockets. I thought I was too savvy to EVER be the victim of one of those slick little street-rats.

The trip was for a special occasion—my 40th birthday—and I brought my mother along with me. I’d always promised myself I would turn 40 in Paris, and I was keeping that promise.

The morning after our arrival, we set off for the Musée d’Orsay. While standing in line outside, my mother pointed out a series of signs—in flashing red neon and in four languages—which said “Beware of Pickpockets”. I told my mother about the pickpocket situation in Paris and how you just had to keep your wits about you and exercise good judgment, and you’d be fine. Those words were shortly to come back to haunt me.

After a delightful morning of Impressionist art, we crossed over the Seine. We enjoyed a picnic lunch of sandwiches eaten beside a fountain in the Tuileries; then headed up the Champs Elysées for a stroll. As we walked, I suddenly started to feel lightheaded and nauseous. Maybe it was just jet lag or maybe it was that sandwich I ate, but suddenly, all I wanted was to go back to the hotel.

So down into the Métro we went. We bought our tickets and I put my wallet into my backpack-style purse, and shrugged the whole thing onto my back. (Can you spot my safety faux pas here?)

Now, a word about this backpack. Weeks earlier, I’d bought it at a flea market because it was the perfect cheap travel accessory--except for the flimsy Velcro-only closure. Although I knew it would be “easy pickins” for some criminal, I rationalized away my concerns by reminding myself of what a worldly traveler I was; I “knew better”, so I bought the back-pack.

In retrospect, the only thing I really “knew” was how to justify a stupid choice.

The train arrived, packed with all of Friday-afternoon Paris, but we squeezed our way onto one of the cars. As we were doing that, two teenaged boys gently shoved us a bit farther into the car so they could get on board behind us. With the car packed like sardines, the doors closed, and off we went.

It happened so quickly, but I still see it in slow motion. You know something’s wrong, you know it’s happening, but it’s so fast there’s nothing you can do. One moment I heard that Velcro opening, and then at the next stop, the boys were gone—and so was my wallet.

When something like that happens, you have two choices: panic or productivity. I opted for the latter. I knew I needed to set aside my disbelief and anger, and do damage control. The stolen passport was the biggest problem, followed by the need to cancel my credit cards. My cash and driver’s license, I wrote off as a lost cause, and there was little point in wasting time at the police station. We left the Métro at Concorde and asked the nearest policeman for directions to the American Embassy.

Imagine my relief when he pointed to the building RIGHT next to us! Within an hour, I had my new passport, and the Embassy staff even helped me cancel my credit cards—luckily, before the thieves had time to use them. I even got to the American Express office a short time later, where there was a new card and cash advance all ready for me.

Though we took taxis for the rest of the trip (enough Métro for us!), we even managed to make it to a special birthday dinner that evening--a delightful cruise on the Seine with some French friends.

So what could have been a complete disaster turned out to be a minor inconvenience, and a good (albeit costly) lesson to learn: when it comes to safety, never brush off your own best instincts, and NEVER think you can outsmart a seasoned criminal. Do whatever you can to make it hard for them to target you; I did everything but personally hand the guy my wallet. Above all, don’t let your guard down and ignore who and what is around you when you’re in a crowded city.

The next day, I turned 40 in Paris. A little older, and a whole lot wiser.

When your Paris plans don't go according to plan

My latest article in BonjourParis.com is available, but it seems this article has been "upgraded" for Premium members only! (Now if I could only get so lucky as to be upgraded to First Class on my flight over to Paris!)

The article talks about how I found out that the apartment I was going to rent didn't quite work out the way I planned. If you've been reading the blog, then you already know the story.

Here's the article:

My decision to move to Paris in November was prompted by serendipity. Although I thought I’d be able to pull off a move sometime next year, I had no definite plans in mind, no definite move date set. All that changed with an unexpected email in late August.

A friend of a friend—let’s call her Monica—was looking to rent out her fully furnished Paris apartment for a year, while she took an interesting job elsewhere in France, a job she had always wanted. This apartment had everything I would really ever want or need (except air conditioning, which is hard to come by in Paris): Monica would leave all the essentials behind for my use. All I would need were my clothes, my computer, and a few books and personal items. It was affordable and in a good location. And—best of all—it had a terrace with a view of the Eiffel Tower. What more could a single girl want?

After much thought, I decided I would probably never get a better opportunity to move to Paris than this. Even people close to me, who had been a bit skeptical about whether I’d ever actually move, thought this apartment seemed perfect, like it was a “sign” it was finally the right time. So, I took the apartment, and sent Monica a deposit to cover the first six weeks. Then I booked my plane ticket to make sure it was really real.

Voila! I had an apartment, and a plane ticket. Un fait accompli, n’est-ce pas?

Yeah, well, not so fast.

About two weeks later, after I’d already put the wheels in motion and just two days after having applied for my Visa, everything changed. I got a very ominous-sounding call from Monica saying she had to speak with me immediately: “something had happened”.

My heart sank straight into my Skechers. The news was not good. Her wonderful dream job had fallen through, due to some tragic circumstances that had just happened in her future employer’s personal life. As a result of his personal tragedy, the new boss made a rather hasty decision to sell out and move away, and therefore there would be no dream job for Monica.

As I sat there listening to her story, with my head in my hands, I realized I was holding my breath, trying to let it all sink in: What does this mean for me? What is to be done? It had all seemed so perfect, and now… this.

Monica was clearly upset, for me as well as for herself. She had been dreading telling me the news, but after all, what could she really do about it? It wasn’t her fault, and although I was upset and disappointed, I knew immediately there was no one to blame.

But Monica did generously offer an alternative for me to consider: she was willing to clear out of the apartment for the six weeks I’d already paid for. She knew I’d already bought the plane ticket and that I’d started making all my relocation plans. So she thought I could still come over as planned, and use the time to look around for another apartment elsewhere in the city. Although Monica’s dream was derailed, MY dream didn’t have to be… it would only be a slight detour.

I exhaled.

I have to believe things like this do happen for a good reason, and that I will find an apartment just as nice, just as affordable, and perhaps in an even better location right within Paris. I may not get the great terrace view, but in the end, I am still moving to Paris, where the Eiffel Tower seems to magically appear around every cobblestoned corner.

When you are planning a major life transition, it’s important to have a plan. It’s like having a roadmap when you’re driving cross-country: with a map, you save time, energy, money and have a more pleasurable experience en route. Without one, you’ll definitely get somewhere, but probably not where you really wanted to go.

But the key to any successful transition is to build in some flexibility for those inevitable unforeseen detours or “flat tires” that sometimes appear on your Life journey. In the end, your dream may NOT look exactly the way you envisioned it. But though it may look different, it might be even better than you expected or could ever have imagined. And in hindsight, you’ll be glad things “didn’t go according to plan”.

As that great English philosopher, Mick Jaggar, once said: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find: you get what you need.”

To Visa or Not to Visa, That is the Question

My latest column at BonjourParis.com is now available: "To Visa or Not to Visa, That is the Question".

I’m learning that relocating to France, in many respects, is no more complicated than moving to another city or state in one’s own country. When you make the decision to relocate, there are certain challenges you can always expect: finding housing; packing, moving or shipping your belongings; familiarizing yourself with your new community and the amenities; dealing with new jobs or career choices; and of course making new friends and social contacts.

But there is one reality of living abroad that is enough to give any sane person a reason to go on anti-anxiety meds: The Immigration Process. No matter what country you’re moving to, it’s going to be complicated, and every country has its own unique rules and regulations. It’s like joining any exclusive club: play by the rules, you get in; try to bend, break or skip the rules, and you’re in trouble.

France, however, seems to take a particular delight in being a bit… um, shall we say, difficile about its immigration process. For one thing, the traveler will often get conflicting information from various “official” sources about how to apply for a visa to enter and stay in the country. When you’re moving to France on your own, without the benefit of corporate relocation experts, it’s hard to find a definitive source on what paperwork you need to produce in order to satisfy the bureaucrats, and hiring your own relocation specialist is very costly. Like most people on their own, I’m figuring it out the hard way and hoping I won’t make any mistakes I’ll regret later.

Just last week I had to clear the first big immigration hurdle in moving to France: applying for my Long Stay Visitor Visa at the French Consulate nearest my home. (Each French Consulate in the US covers specific states and has its own website with instructions.) The preparation for this in-person application process—for which, by the way, I could only schedule an appointment on-line between the hours of 12:00-12:30pm—took weeks of research and countless hours of work. Not to mention a lot of antacids and the destruction of untold numbers of trees for the many photocopies I had to make. I guess “paperless environment” doesn’t translate in French.

First, I had to try and make sense of the conflicting list of “required” documents posted on both the French Embassy and French Consulate websites: Do I really need an FBI/police background check, or don’t I? Why does one site say I need three copies of my passport and the other says to bring only one? I tried to be prepared for any eventuality, and arrived at the Consulate early, armed with a folio of every conceivable document I could think of (plus FIVE copies of everything, just to be safe).

Although I will wait for 1-2 months for a definitive answer on whether or not my visa is approved, my interview seemed to go well (though not so well for other people standing in line near me, who were sent away for reasons ranging from bad passport photos to “incorrect” paperwork or identification). The Consulate man who met with me even took the time to be quintessentially French, flirting with me by complimenting my perfume! (Why should that have surprised me?) And although he would not make a firm commitment about the outcome of my visa (never expect a fonctionnaire to be definite about anything), he did say they would be able to have it ready well before my scheduled departure in November. I’m taking that as a good sign.

Afterward, back outside the Consulate offices and breathing a big sigh of relief, I reflected that I may as well get used to it: this red-tape culture and love of insanely confusing paperwork and misinformation. From all accounts, it’s s