Sunday, January 30, 2011

Casanova

The scene: me, walking home from my first youth group meeting as an acting leader at my new church.  I am wondering whether I should pick up some salad on my way home when a group of teenage boys walks by.  One of them peels off from the group and approaches me.

French Boy: FrenchFrenchFrenchFrenchFrenchyFrenchFrenchFrench?
Oh no, someone else asking for directions.  Honestly, who would look at me and think, "boy, that girl sure looks directionally gifted"?
Me: Uh, desolee...
French Boy:  Oh, you speak English?
Me: Yes.
FB:  Oh, do you have the time?
Me: *Pulls out phone, shows FB the time.  Assumes interaction is over*
FB: Oh.  Do you have the facebook?
Me:  The facebook?
FB:  Yes.
Me: Um, yeah...
Wow, I just spent an hour talking about facebook and God with a bunch of teenagers, and here is one asking me about facebook on the street.  So this is oddly relevant...
FB:  Can I be your friend on the facebook?
Nope, this French child who is incapable of growing a mustache is not doing what I think he's doing.  He must want someone to practice his English with.  
Me: Um, sure.  My name is Allison Wheeler.
My facebook security is so airtight you will never find me.
FB:  So, why are you in Paris?
Me:  My husband is a researcher here, and I've come along with him.
Just in case you're doing what I sincerely hope you're not doing, I'll bring out the H card.  That will surely put a stop to this tomfoolery.
FB: *slighly crestfallen* You have a husband?
Me: Yes, yes I do.
He's twice as old as you and could destroy you with science.
FB:  So why were you in the U.S.?
Seriously, let this one go, kid.  
Me:  I lived there.  It's where I am from.
FB: Oh. *Pause*.  You are a very beautiful woman.
When I was single, never did a man in a bar send me a drink, but I am apparently the electric glow of sex to this French adolescent.  Whywhywhy?!
Me: Thanks.
FB: *Inclining his head toward me*  Can I have a kiss?
I have eye shadow older than you.
Me: Nope, *slaps FB on the shoulder*, but you have a great day!

Me: *Runs home to double and triple check privacy settings on facebook account*

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Paris + Allison = 4EVA

Trying to track my ever changing feelings about Paris would be like trying to track a 13-year-old girl's feelings about her boyfriend.  Luckily, today Paris is just like, ohmygosh, totally the BEST THING EVER, and we're never, ever, ever going to break up.  

I think this has much to do with having just eaten my very first home-cooked meal in my new apartment.  That's right, AH and I are no longer vagabonds!  Our lovely personal chateau is in Paris proper (the last stop on the metro, but it still counts) at Cite Universitaire.  Because of AH's affiliation with Ecole Polytechnique, we were able to get an apartment in the Masion des Etudiants Canadiennes.  We're right across the street from the RER B metro station (the one AH takes to get to  work), and we have a gorgeous view of the park.  As soon as I have a functioning camera (and after I've IKEA'd up the place), I'll upload pictures for all to see.

The other reason I'm totally going to let Paris get to second base tonight is that the people-watching here is incredible.  Riding the metro can be like getting a free ticket to the most bizarre, hilarious performance art you've ever seen.  Case in point: Louis Lady.  Coming back from church on Thursday, I'm waiting for the C when who should hobble past me but every stereotype that Americans have of upscale Parisiennes all on display on one woman.  This lady must be all of five feet tall even in her ridiculously high- and I'd wager expensive- heels, struggling with a gigantic suitcase and wearing the most spectacularly ostentatious ensemble I have ever seen.  

Now, before I describe this outfit, I should let you know that this woman is an anomaly here.  While, at least to my eye, Parisian women look slightly more put-together (no sweat pants in public so far), I mostly see clothes that are fairly conservative and would not look out of place in the states.  (I did see one pair of pink and purple argyle leggings tonight, but that also was an exception).  I feel compelled to clarify this point because before I came here, I had a recurring nightmare that I, wearing jeans and flat shoes, would be surrounded by a mob of be-heeled and be-Chaneled Parisiennes and ridiculed for my slobbish Anglo ways.  My fears proved totally unfounded because 1) I seem to have the Parisian uniform of black wool coat, jeans and flat black boots with a scarf down and 2) I doubt people could be torn from their smartphones and kindles long enough to care what some foreigner is wearing.  

So back to our Louis Lady.  In addition to her spectacular brown heels, she was wearing a red wool suit with bell sleeves with fur trim on the wrists.  Already into Eccentric Grand Dame territory.  But the kicker is the fur collar and matching fur turban that were somehow imprinted with the Louis Vitton logo.  And the joy of it all is that she was behaving exactly as one would expect a woman dressed thusly to behave: like an entitled, cranky old salope, pulling a suitcase that was bigger than her and snarling at anyone who dared to cross her path.  I would say that all she was missing was a little yappy dog, but this woman had a distinct Cruella de Ville aura to her, so maybe she'd finished her yorkie bacon and was on a mission for more (perhaps that's what the suitcase was for).  I couldn't take my eyes off her, but every time she looked my way, I quickly adverted my gaze lest I be turned into a sewer rat.

Why was a woman who had the money for a Louis Vitton fur-trimmed suit riding the metro with the rest of us poor people?  I have no idea.  But I do know that Paris is, like, the best because it TOTALLY knows what I like: spectacle in the every day.  Who knows?  If Paris keeps this up, we could go all the way.




Saturday, January 22, 2011

McShame

Dear friends, I hope that you will still love me after the confession I'm about to make.  Today, I committed a betrayal.  Sure, you judge others who stoop so low.  But as much as you don't want to think that you're capable of such a thing, in the back of your mind, you know that you might be.  That you might even want it.  And the day that you prove those doubtful thoughts correct is a day of deep shame, indeed.  Yes, friends.  Today I cheated on my new lover Brie with my old flame, Kraft Single.

I didn't plan it this way, it just sort of happened.  AH and I ventured into Antony to do some shopping before dinner, and realized that we would probably get hungry before 7 when all the restaurants open.  One of us, I don't remember who (maybe it's better not to point fingers), "jokingly" suggested that we could eat at the McDonald's near the train station.  The other laughed, as if to play along.  But deep down, we knew we wanted it.  That we couldn't stay away.

Oh sure, like so many, we rationalized it away.  Of course we were still getting out of our American comfort zone.
"Look, there's a little case with macaroons."
"Oh, you can get a beer with your meal!"
"The toilets are all the way up on the third floor!"
"We've been waiting in line for 20 minutes. Ah, French efficiency..."

But then came the kicker:
AH: You know, I've never had a Big Mac.
Me: You mean, since you've been a vegetarian?
AH: No, I mean ever.  I didn't like sauce on my burgers as a kid.

So momentarily, my guilt dissipates as I chalk this up to yet another novel experience that my husband gets to share with me.  But then I swirl my "Coke Light," and I hear something that I haven't heard in weeks.  It is the clinking of ice cubes, a whole plethora of cold, delicious ice cubes, watering down my coke and chilling my hand.  It's 3 degrees C outside, and yet I shudder with pleasure.  AH manages to decipher the nutritional content on the side of his Big Mac and realizes that he's now consumed 50% of his daily sodium intake.  The fries count for the other 36%.  Even though I can feel my face bloating, I want to lick the inside of the red carton.  Who am I kidding?  This is the longing that needed fulfilled, the itch that needed to be scratched.

For dinner I came back to my true lover, French cuisine.  I had grilled scallops and AH had a divine duck confit.  It was enough to reform me, and for now I have no intention of straying into saltier arms.  But I know that if I ever need another seedy, saucy rendevouz, I know just where to go....

Friday, January 21, 2011

Through the Eyes of AH (looking at his wife)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Qak3BHer1e0

An Acrostic Tribute

Fromage, you gastronomic wonder!  How my obsession for you must be fed (preferably with crusty bread).  I
Really need some d'argent to get my brie fix.  Down Hobbit Hill to the bank...
Oh, bloody hell; the only bank in Lozere does not give
Money.
Alas, back up Hobbit Hill empty-handed.
Guess my trip to Les Halles will have to wait; I'd rather
Eat than shop.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly- The Ugly

The Ugly
So, my friends, now you know what I have to contend with any time I want to leave the lovely hotel that looks like it belongs in some part of the former communist block.  Unlike Orsay, there is no going out for a quick jaunt (yes, I really like that word- deal) about town, no popping out for a croissant every time my tummy starts rumbling.  No, if I'm going down (and thus eventually coming back up) Hobbit Hill, whatever the reason, I'd better be COMMITTED.  And being that there is only a cafeteria with limited hours here and we aren't technically allowed food in our room, there is much planning involved if one does not want to eventually resort to eating the fishies in the aquarium, A Fish Called Wanda style.
          This brings me to today, circa 4:45 in the afternoon.  AH and I, having had our fill of a perfect Paris sunset over the Seine, decide we're ready to head back.  Still full from my divine goat cheese salad but unwilling to resign myself to a 9:00 rumbly tumbly, I suggest that we jump off a stop before Lozere, find a little boulangerie and bring home a loaf of bread for a little nuit snack.  So AH and I get off at Palaiseau-Villebonne to go in search of carbohydrates.  However, we're not in Paris anymore; we're back in the suburbs.  It would be like jumping out of a car in a residential neighborhood in Hilliard or Dublin and expecting to find a cafe: you'd probably find something eventually, but you'd better be wandering in the right direction and you'd better have on comfortable shoes.  And so, by the time we even find a boulangerie we are both exhausted and I have gone from"peckish" to "mind-numbingly ravenous." Croissants are no longer enough.  We need to sit down and be fed.
           And here is where the real problem begins.  AH and I wander down a little further, only to find that none of the restaurants are open until 7.  It is 6:15.  My hands are numb.  AH suggests that we take in the sights until they open.  Again, Imagine Hilliard.  Hilliard with lovely little stone houses and narrow cobblestone streets, but basically residences and pharmacies.  There are no sights.  My sense of humor has gone with last of the goat cheese from my stomach.  And to top it all off, I am wearing a dress with tights underneath, tights that aren't quite long enough to cover my legs all the way to the top.  This means that there are now angry welts forming on the tops of my thighs that threaten to burst open with every step that I take.  And so this is The Ugly:  me, waddling down the streets of a French suburb like a pregnant John Wayne, snarling English swear words and scaring the locals.  AH even tries to cheer me by pointing out the cute children playing in the park.  I tell him that unless the children are edible, I don't care.
          We sit on a bench and wait it out, and eventually descend upon some lasagna and ravioli at a mediocre Italian restaurant (hey, it's open and it's not Asian, which is about all there was in Orsay).  And so the grumpiness that comes with biological need vanishes.  But a bigger grumpiness remains, and that is being constantly at the whim of external forces.  Something so simple as feeding myself involves AH and I wandering around lost, unable to ask directions, hoping that we blindly stumble across a food-serving establishment, and that when we finally do that it will be open and that we don't need a reservation. And now I am planning my upcoming week based around the times of day that the cafeteria is open.  
           I miss having a kitchen.  I miss the weekly Giant Eagle trips that meant that feeding myself was never going to be a fraught or complicated question.  I miss drawers.  I've been living out of a suitcase since December 14th with no concrete end in sight.  I miss belonging somewhere.
           But for now, I have a roof over my head and adventures in a new country, and I have AH.  Most of all, I have him.  And if I have him, I know I cannot be without a home.  And when facing boredom, hunger and the Hobbit Hill, that's a great thing to know.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly- The Bad

The Bad
Ah, but not all is fresh and rosy in the land of well-priced cheese.  This week I met my new nemesis, that which has come to be known as The Hobbit Hill.  Do not let the cute name fool you, for it is a fearsome thing to behold.  If it were a person that made money, I'm sure many a chiropractor bill would be laid at it's smelly feet (because it would totally be the kind of person that never showers and then stands super close to you on the metro).
        Let me explain.  As the lovely proprietor of the B&B no longer had space for us, AH and I have had to relocate to a hotel on Ecole Polytechnique's campus.  Which would not be nearly as terrible if not for the Hobbit Hill.  You see, LOA is on a plateau.  AH had even mentioned to me that he has to walk up "a little flight of steps" to get to work (although he has admitted to feeling a bit more sore since he started working).  So Thursday, when I came in to do some banking at AH's work, I was imagining a quick jaunt up some stairs, certainly nothing more serious that Orsay.  But no.  If the hills of Orsay are January Jones, then the hill to LOA is Christina Hendricks.  The ascent begins by lulling you into a false sense of security, a gentle slope up along side some little shops.  Then you turn into an alley and are suddenly climbing uphill at a 45 degree angle, praying that it never ices over as there's nothing to hold on to.  And when you think you can go no further, the stairs begin.  Uneven, decrepit stairs.  Seriously, this crap is straight out of Lord of the Rings.  This looks like something Frodo should be battling Orcs on, not something people should climb just to get to work.  Someone call Peter Jackson and tell him about this, collect yourself a nice finders fee.  And when you go to see the next Tolkein installment, look for a blonde, gasping American laying in some undignified position right behind the fighting elves.  And then please call my husband to come and get me.
        I know, I kvetch, but it is important to know about the Hobbit Hill to understand The Ugly....

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Apologies for the brief absence, dear friends, but much has happened over the past few days that have kept me from updating this here bloggy-blog.  I know you're itching with curiosity, so I'll elaborate...



The Good
I am pleased to report that the last few days have brought some truly delightful pleasures to AH and I.  For example yesterday at the metro station, while AH was purchasing our tickets, he was approached by a young boy who, seeing that Jonathan had chosen the English language option on the ticket machine, asked, "parles vous anglais?" (do you speak english?).  AH replied, "Oui."  The little boy then proceeded to stay close by AH's side, watching him use the ticket machine, like he had never seen such a thing.  At the end, when the machine spit out our tickets, the little boy looked at us and said, "C'est magic!".  Endearing does not begin to cover it.
           Another favorite moment of the last few days happened last night in the Antony (a slightly hipper, more lively suburb of Paris that AH and I were checking out as a potential permanent neighborhood).  Our wanderings brought us to a Greek place where our accents prompted the men working there to ask where we're from.  We said, "America," and they told us they were happy to have us.  AH and I sit down to eat our meals, while the television in the restaurant blares headlines about the unrest in Tunisia.  In between shots of protesters and interviews, a McDonald's commercial comes on.  Oh, not just any McDonald's commercial, but one involving a farmer driving a tractor with a chicken on his shoulder.  Just as I'm beginning not to blame the French for ruing Anglo intrusion on their culture (McDonald's and tabloids about trashy American starlets seem to be our major presence here), the Greeks laugh and look at us, saying, "Eh, American!  American!".  AH and I shake our heads, and join the laughter- what else can you do?
          Perhaps the most glorious of all was today, which I will go ahead and declare my first true day in Paris.  Last week I was jet-lagged and ravenous, and therefore unable to appreciate what I beautiful city I'm now lucky enough to be merely a train ride away from.  But today brought AH and I to the American Church in Paris, which just happens to be mere blocks away from the Eiffel Tower.  It also happens to be near a wonderful cafe that serves the most heavenly fresh salad of greens and warm potatoes with fresh goat cheese sprinkled with rosemary and drizzled with honey.  And yes, it was a good as it sounds.  The weather was clear and warm, and AH and I got to wander around the Eiffel Tower holding hands.  I can't help but think that this is the Paris I've been waiting to experience.
          We even got the chance to witness a bit of that French spirit of civic resistance.  As we wandered through the park near the Eiffel Tower, we noticed a gathering of protesters near a rather modern looking peace monument.  Thinking that they surely must be bringing attention to the events in Tunisia, I came in closer to read their signs.  "Justice pour Michael."  Who is Michael, I wonder, a political prisoner?  A martyr to some cause?  No.  It is Michael Jackson.  This group of protesters wanted to make sure that Conrad Murray is held responsible for the death of a man who was self-destructing 20 years before his death.  Of all the injustices happening in the world, these people are defending a celebrity who's already dead.  I have to say, it's nice to go through life here knowing that the French, too, are saddled with their share of silly and delusional sops.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Supermarche, Part Deux

As most of you know, AH and I moved to France because he is doing his post-doctoral research at Ecole Polytechnique.  It follows, then, that eventually he would have to, you know, quit finding me crepes and go play with some lasers.

And so yesterday marked my first day on my own in France.  The sun was shining, it was crisp but not too cold; in other words, the perfect weather for exploring Orsay.  I set out for some pains au chocolat at the suggestion of a friend who says that it is her favorite breakfast. ( I didn't manage to control myself until morning, but they made a wonderful after dinner indulgence).  I then treated myself to a long walk through Orsay with its multiple boulangeries (bakeries), cobblestone streets and cute little boutiques; it actually quite reminds me of the Short North.  I even found a quiet little park to watch ducks and adorable French children (although not too conspicuously; I'm not sure that parents here appreciate strange American women ogling their children).

Alas, the good weather did not hold and today we were back to dreary, rainy and cold.  But my lack of fromage (I managed to procure some at a Tobac by the train station the other day; it, like the pains au chocolat, suffered an early death) compelled me to trek back into town to the Marche Franprix.  Driven by desire (with just a touch of spite), I snatch up the wedge of brie that AH discouraged me from the other day.  Just to be sure there was nothing else I needed, I decided to do a quick perusal of the aisles.  When I reached the wine section, I was overcome by melancholy at my inability to have cheap French wine at my constant disposal.  But aha, what do I see? Those horrid, plastic champagne flutes!  And now, almost completely out of spite (look, honey!  we're not drinking out of the bottle!), I pick them up along with a 2 E bottle of wine.  I jaunt back down the hill with the brie and cups in my purse and the wine bottle under my arm.  Oh yes, France. I'M KEEPING IT CLASSY.  I smile to myself, just imagining the look on AH's face when he gets home from work.

It is 7:07.  AH arrives, and I proudly show him my acquisition.  

"Um, how are you going to open that?"


Sunday, January 9, 2011

A Conversation With AH This Afternoon

Me: Boy, I could really go for a crepe right now.
AH: Ok, we'll stop just ahead.
Me: Where is "just ahead"?
AH: Um, the end of this building.
        *Several more blocks pass with nary a crepe in sight*
Me: Seriously, I'm hungry.  Where are my crepes?
AH: Right at the end of this building, you'll be fine.

My suspicions are aroused.
I am right to be suspicious; we are walking next to the Louvre.

I immediately replace my plans of going to the Louvre as soon as possible with a training plan consisting of working my way up through gradually larger museums.  Right now I don't think I'd make it through Greek sculpture.

Lest you fret, dear friends, my tenacity was rewarded with nutella-filled crepe eaten in the sculpture garden of the Louvre on an unseasonably warm, sunny January day.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The Tally: First Installment

As soon as the AH and I began telling people that we were moving to Paris, the first thing people would say would be "will you be having children over there?" (the answer at the time: no.  The answer now: HELL no).  They would then proceed to either tell us that A) the French are horrible, unforgivable snobs who will have you guillotined on sight or B) they are a heaven-sent people who poop creme brulee and will offer you their first-borns.  Ok, so I exaggerate, but there did not seem to be much middle ground on the topic.  And so, being that I have a gift for and a love of judgment, I have decided to do the world a favor and answer the question once and for all: are the French really assholes?

Right now the tally is at....
ASSHOLES: 0    NOT ASSHOLES: 1

Thanks to our waiter tonight who put up with our horrible French, switched to English, showed me where les toilletes were and gave us complimentary drinks at the end of the evening (I believe because we were obviously so embarrassed by our total cluelessness). 

Supermarche

After a total of twelve hours of sleep, I awoke today at 1 pm, four and a half hours too late for our B&B's complimentary mussilex.  AH did manage to scrounge up a little pre-packaged pastry and a clementine for me.  The gesture was appreciated but the food was insufficient.  Thus, we set out into Orsay to forage.

As I may have mentioned yesterday, Orsay is a hilly town.  This is great for two reasons: 1) you can always tell if you're going in the right direction (down towards the river or up towards downtown) and 2) going to buy groceries suddenly counts as exercise.  However, the unseasonably warm weather (about 50 degrees and humid) does turn the interior of my wool coat into my own personal sauna.  Thus, ripe and panting, AH and I arrive at our destination: Marche Franprix.

I feel only a twinge of guilt as I breeze through the produce section and march resolutely toward one of my primary incentives for coming to this country: the cheese section.  Camembert for 2 E! Whole wedges of brie for 1E!  Fromage de Chevre!  I am in heaven.  In a state of anticipated ecstasy, I reach for the brie. Just as my fingers are about to close around it, AH reminds me that a whole wedge of brie will not help us to our goal of trimming down.  I grumble, but accept the truth of his words.  I settle for a tiny wheel of fromage de chevre.

My primary objective acheived, AH and I wander the store deciding what else we might need in the week ahead.  Having only a microwave and a tiny fridge shared with the other guests at the B&B, our options are somewhat limited.  I pick up a few canned jars of pasta with sauce and microwavable macaroni au gratin, some olives, and some toast.  I suggest a bottle of wine, but AH reminds me that we have nothing to drink it out of.  I try to ignore the judgment in his eyes when I suggest we just drink it out of the bottle.

AH wanders off, and I slip back over to the cheese section.  Convincing myself that I deserve a bigger hunk of cheese, I put back my modest fromage de chevre and debate the merits of camembert v. brie.  But AH's gentle reminder, plus our limited time at the B&B (I have no desire to move leftover cheese to our next location) convince me to walk away.

AH and I reunite and continue to brainstorm how we will overcome our lack of any proper way to prepare food.  Mostly we decide to fall back on college methods of cooking.  As there are packets of microwavable rice, I suggest beans and rice with salsa.  Turns out they do have one little measly can of salsa, and we seize the opportunity, thoroughly pleased with ourselves.  Once we pick up a can of chocolate cookies, I am finished and ready to enjoy the spoils of our conquest.  AH wants to continue to wander.  "The Look" is given.  We check out and proceed back to our abode.

F my life.  I forgot the damn cheese.

Friday, January 7, 2011

France is better after a nap.

Hello, dear friends.

As you know, I am a simple creature.  This was true in America, and it is true here.  As long as some basic needs are met, I am a sunny, happy woman (although how "sunny and happy" translate here is, obviously, yet to be seen).

Flight over was fine.  There were movies.  There were no screaming children.  Food was served.  Thus, contentment.

But the downside of packing your life into five suitcases is that said suitcases need to be transported, and since there were no complimentary packmules available, this task fell to the Adoring Husband and I (ok, mostly to AH).  Making it through the futuristic yet run down tubes o;f Charles de Gaulle with Lord knows how many pounds of luggage (OK, less than 50- thanks, mom!) strapped to my back: grumpiness.  Lack of sleep on the airplane coupled with my body's utter confusion that is 3:00 in the morning and, as I am not filled up with whiskey, I should be asleep: increasing grumpiness.

Grumpiness briefly lifted when I hear woman on train actually utter the phrase "Ohh la la."

Grumpiness resumed while lugging obscene amounts of baggage uphill, in the rain towards our B&B.  Grumpiness peaks when told by proprietor that, having not been properly informed of our coming by her son (Jon's boss), we need to make other arrangements in less than a week.

There is, however, a reason that I relate to small children well: our needs are much the same (minus said whiskey).  And after a nap, AH and I are ready to explore our little suburb.  If I can get some pizza and wine in my belly, I'm optimistic that full happiness will return.