The Bold Soul: A Writer's Life in Paris

A way with words

The house is permeated with the silence of the early morning hours (and a still-sleeping boy), and the smell of brewing coffee. Two lovers of a certain age are standing in the kitchen, dressed for the day but not yet fully awake. She leans against him, still un peu fatigué, and they wrap their arms around one another, gazing into each other's eyes and smiling. He: "You are so shiny." She (giggling): "Shiny?" He: "You make the sun shine in my eyes when I look at you." Isn't it obvious why she loves him? His "sun-shine" makes her feel beautiful. Read more →

Bell Free

The other day I asked Georges what the family tradition is concerning Easter and buying special chocolates for the kids. OK, I admit it: I was really inspired to ask this question after passing a local chocolaterie that had a sinfully delicious display of holiday chocolates, and I wanted an excuse to go in and buy something for myself the kids. But it was still a valid question: does the Easter Bunny make a visit here? Well, yes and no. Turns out that egg hunts and chocolates are a part of the tradition here, but it's not the Easter Bunny that gets all the credit. It's the Easter Bells. The French tradition is that in the week before Paques (Easter), all the church bells leave their steeples, and fly off to Rome (presumably to visit His Holiness?) and then on Easter Sunday, the bells return and bring Easter eggs and treats for the children. So this week, the bells in our neighboring church have been silent because they are apparently taking a Roman holiday. Read more →

Adjustments

So, it's been three weeks since I've been at Georges' house full-time and just one week from the date we actually moved all my things in. It has gone incredibly well in every respect, much more smoothly than we could have hoped, really. And there is nothing better than being next to the one you love, every morning and every night. [contented sigh] Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't the only adjustment I'm having to make lately. (In the U.S. you've all flipped your clocks ahead but we aren't doing ours in France for two more weekends yet. Consequently with every meeting I have with clients in North America, I am having to figure out all over again what the time difference is THIS week.) I'm much more comfortable being in the house, and now having a few of my things scattered about here and there really helps me feel more at home. I know how to work the washing machine, and I know where things are located in the kitchen, pantry and bathroom. I finally figured out the trick to locking the front door. But there are still things I am learning about and adjusting to. Last week, with the... Read more →

Move over, June Cleaver

All is quiet. I'm temporarily alone in the house... well, except for the cat. I have just kissed my two men goodbye at the door: both the tall one with the Gregory Peck eyes, and the very short one who lost his second tooth hier. I wished them both a bonne journée and waved them off with a smile. OK, I stopped short of handing out lunch bags at the door. My hair and makeup wasn't done, and I was still in my pajamas -- no high heels and perfectly coiffed hair here. Both the nanny and the femme de ménage arrive soon, so it's not like I have an entire household to run; I don't even have to iron Georges' shirts myself. And I have a lot of work to do for my clients; also have to go across town to clean up the old apartment and make sure I didn't leave anything behind. But there is a grocery shopping list on the fridge, some things to be dropped off at the pressing and some laundry I could be folding. And I know that around 6 or 6:30 tonight, I will be eagerly waiting and watching for l'homme de... Read more →

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... Read more →

Confused by the Centimeter

Today, I simply couldn't stand it a moment longer. I had to do it, I just had to. Ditching what was supposed to be a working afternoon, I threw on my coat, wound a giant orange scarf around my neck comme une vrai parisienne, and headed for the metro. Destination? BHV, otherwise known as Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville. I was on a pilgrimage, in search of attractive yet reasonably affordable new bedding. I hated spending the extra money but I just felt compelled to create a fresh new look to go with the new bed we got on the weekend. I knew it would not be easy, shopping for this bedding solo... there would be decisions to make and obstacles to overcome (especially the high prices; quality bedding and towels are notoriously très cher here). And then, there are the measurements. Woe to any unsuspecting Américaine who lives here and wishes to redecorate her boudoir, but is naive enough to believe she can walk into a store and pick out the correct size of bedding based on the good ol' standards of Twin, Full/Double, Queen or King. Here in France, it's all about the centimeters. The first thing to... Read more →

Démenagé!

Well, we did it. We moved me across town, and into Georges' life. Or should I say, we've merged our lives together -- into one big pile of boxes and a lot of things to reorganize. Saturday was Moving Day. We picked up the small van at noon, and our first stop was to head out to Ikea where we made our first major purchase together: a new bed and mattress, and Georges insisted on a new desk chair for me (on which I am comfortably installed at this very moment!) Plus a small area rug for the office/guest room and assorted small household items, because when you're at Ikea it is impossible to resist all the great deals and cool designs. They can even make a wastebasket look interesting, those people at Ikea. Total time getting to and shopping at Ikea: approx. 3.5 hours, including lunch and the wait time to pick up our order. Then, we headed back into Paris and down to the 15th to my apartment, where Georges will now never let me hear the end of it for telling him, "Oh, it's really just a few little boxes, amour". Well, there were just a few... Read more →

Just call me Mrs. Fields

My bronchitis is down to a repetitive and annoying runny nose, sniffle, and occasional cough, and I'm feeling more human again. Several days of doing very little may sound good on paper, but in practice it really gets boring. Yesterday, finally, I was feeling well enough to venture out for the afternoon with Georges' daughter. We had a mission: she asked me to teach her to bake cookies! Apparently, cookies are not something the French "do". My first thought was: "Toll House chocolate chip cookies!" because the recipe is always on the bag, and they're a cookie everyone loves. And the French love anything with chocolate in it. Which of course meant I had to buy the ingredients. Where to find the chocolate chips, baking soda and dark brown sugar in Paris? Only one place I knew: the Thanksgiving Store. I had been seeking a reason to go shopping at this store for a while. Looking at their web site to see which American products they carried, I got very enthusiastic and made a long list of treats I wanted to buy... little things to remind me of home. Like Vlasic Bread-n-Butter Pickles. Aunt Jemima Pancake mix. And Kraft Macaroni... Read more →

Spud

So fatigued. Damn bronchitis really takes it out of you, doesn't it? I'm not that sick, just completely exhausted by the least little physical effort, which is not like me. Still, I shouldn't complain. It's giving me an excuse to catch up on episodes of Ugly Betty and Brothers & Sisters. Some good comes out of everything. Excuse me as I shuffle back to the comfort of the couch. How DOES one say "couch potato" in French? Patate de canapé? Read more →

Domestic bliss

It is Sunday evening. I have just had a relaxing and much-needed shower. I finally have a little energy to think about blogging something. I've been out of commission most of the past three days, laid out by a cold + bit of bronchitis... you know the kind of thing I'm talking about. Where when you're sitting still and not doing much, you think you're feeling OK and getting better, but the minute you get up and move around you start getting woozy and need to crawl under the covers with a box of Kleenex and a strong expectorant for company? Yeah, that's been me, all weekend... a lazy slug. We managed to make it out of the house for a few hours on Friday night (after I rested all day) for a small party to celebrate Petite's book; there was no way I was going to miss that! Had a lovely time with my friends there (and Alice, you looked so great -- pending motherhood really suits you! And HUGE kudos to Frog for his custom-designed Petite doll -- when I get published, I hope you'll make me one because it was TOO DAMN WONDERFUL) but the trip wore... Read more →