Nous Allons au les Etats-Unis!

Bon soir, my lovely friends.  And so I must take another brief absence from you, as AH and I are returning to the States for a short period to witness the nuptials of two dear friends.  You might hear from me if I feel compelled to be opinionated in a more public forum, and I may or may not decide to do an entry under the influence of sweet, sweet bourbon.  Or I may choose to just spend the time with friends and family.  So if you don't hear from me, I am in a hot dog/nacho cheese coma, spending time with my favorite people, and I will be back to (FrenchyFrench) business as usual on June 7th.  Until then, stay safe, and if I don't write about it soon, remind me to tell you about the time a little French boy peed on me.

My Week in Pictures

Every once in a while, when I find myself kvetching about certain aspects of living in Paris (see last post), I find myself needing a visual reminder that all is far from lost.  In fact, Paris is amazing, and I'm damn lucky to be living here.  Observe, a visual account of my past week:

Saturday: 

I was here at the Musee Rodin with the Adoring Husband.  One euro for entrance to the garden for each of us; definitely worth using up our coinage and only being able to do one load of laundry this week.

Sunday:

I spent Sunday at the American Church in Paris, home to the nicest expats and smartest (and sometimes most insanity-inducing) teenagers in Paris.

Monday:

Ok, Monday I slept in my bed.  A lot.  And did some Rosetta Stone, went running in MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris, and got groceries.  But mostly slept.  

But Tuesday:

This is a little, understated (like everything in Paris) church called Saint Chapelle.  It is overwhelmingly beautiful and awe-inspiring, and makes me wish I believed in relics.

Wednesday at my favorite haunt:

Sorry, no new pictures to mock.  I went with the explicit purpose of seeing the Rembrandt's Faces of Christ exhibit, and alas, no photography in the temporary exhibitions.  But next time, oh, it's on, Louvre.

Thursday:

I went to the Pinacoteque (Hermitage Museum) with my friend Nicole.  Alas, another museum with no photography allowed, but hopefully there is someone out there who will derive equal amusement from the close proximity to a place show-casing the art collection of the Romanov Dynasty to a sex shop.

And finally, today, Friday:

I babysat for two children who speak no English, one of whom threw such a mighty tantrum that he peed himself.  So I'm a little spent, and am forced to resort to a lazy Rebecca Black reference.

But hey, you know what?  In toto, this week was pretty fabulous, and at the end of all of it, I've got the best incentive for living in Paris dans ma cuisine:

Oh carbs, you saucy temptress, you...

Lost in (No) Space

As an American living abroad, I am often asked what I miss most about home.  Having been here for several months, I think I've got a pretty solid top five:

1.  My People.  You know who you are.

2.  Being understood when I speak (and understanding others)

3.  Space

4.  Bourbon

5.  Dirty Frank's Hot Dog Palace

I think numbers 1, 2, 4 and 5 are pretty self explanatory, but number three might need a little context.  Let me pose a question to you: when you go through a supermarket, how wide are the aisles?  The answer is about as wide as my kitchen, probably a little wider.  Which is something I completely took for granted back in my Midwestern days.  Alas, no more:  here, the aisles are about as wide as my recycling bin.  And while I used to smirk at the Americans who earned us our stereotype (hummer drivers, Super Walmart patrons and super-sized fast food meal eaters), I've come to accept that I'm an American (an extremely clumsy one, at that), and I need my space.

This is another example of culture shock where I'm not sure if the root cause is that I'm in a different country or if this is just how things are in more urban settings.  Either way, I dislike it.  For as much as I enjoy the freedom of not having a car, I dislike being so packed onto a metro at rush hour that my face is forcibly smooshed into the (I strongly suspect unwashed) armpit of the tall man next to me.  And I severely dislike getting off said crowded train only to have to go into a supermarket where I have to throw elbows just to get through the dairy aisle.  

My eyes now glaze over with nostalgia as I think back on the time when I could take a few moments to read the labels on the different kinds of olive oil without being smacked in the back by the handbag of a  cranky old lady or having my toes run over by a stroller.  Grocery shopping used to be my favorite household duty, a sort of zen field trip through an alternate universe filled with gourmet cheeses and beers from microbrews I hadn't tried.  Now I'm like a Navy Seal on a recon mission:  get in, get out, don't ask questions.  The problem is that I seem to be the only one with this mentality.  No one else seems to mind being whacked with handbags or run over by strollers (or maybe they're just more adept at avoiding that fate in the first place).  I once witnessed a woman who, dissatisfied with the arrangement of the items in her basket, stopped in the middle of a crowded aisle, set said basket down, and proceeded to begin rearranging things more to her liking.  A line of people waiting to get around her built up on either side of her.  She appeared completely unfazed.  And, as my blood started boiling hard enough to cook a chicken in, I realized that nobody else seemed fazed either.  As AH would later explain to me, they accepted that while, yes, this woman was being an asshole, at some point they will have their turn to be an asshole.  And they won't feel a shred of guilt when a line of people who JUST WANT THEIR FREAKIN' CHOCOLATE build up behind them.

And so today, my head smelling of ripe armpit,  I made my way through the Monoprix to gather dinner supplies.  Just as I begin to see the light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel (aka the cash register), the cashier at the next register over addresses me:

Cashier:  FrenchyFrenchFrench.

Me:  Lentemente, sil vous plait?

Cashier:  FrenchyFrench.

Me: Je ne comprends pas...

Cashier:  Move.  You take up too much space.

Art According to Allison, Part the Third: The Da Wheeler Code*

After re-reading The Da Vinci Code (did I mention I don't have a television?), I reached several conclusions about author Dan Brown.  The first is that he is clearly a genius who totally showed me that hating on the womens is not just a nasty historical side effect of Christianity (and most major religions, but hey), but is, in fact, the reason for its existence.  I have since mended my church going ways and as I speak I'm running through a field in long white cotton dresses wearing a daisy wreath and celebrating the power of my chalice (since my "sacred feminine" is actually just a fancy way of talking about my ripe, fertile ladyparts.  Thanks, Dan, I feel so empowered!).  

The second is that poor Dan Brown must not have had much time in the Louvre.  I mean, I've only been here since January, and I've already discovered another shocking layer to the true nature of Christ just by wandering the Grand Gallery with my camera phone:

Small though it may appear to you, let's start with this offering by Pietro Vannucci.  The two paintings on the end depict scenes from the life of St. Jerome; the middle panel depicts the resurrection.  But do you notice anything odd about the panel on the right?  Let's take a closer look:

  Saint Jerome's invisibility cloak is slipping off!!!!  Don't you know what this means?!  If you need more examples to lead you to the extremely obvious conclusion that I'm eventually going to draw, let's take a look at Luca Signorelli's saint Jerome penitant en extase:

Christ is depicted FLYING on a WOODEN CROSS.  Does this remind you of any other story where a martyr figure flies around on a long wooden object, like, I don't know, A BROOMSTICK? Nope, not there yet? Let's take a look at this naked statue of Mary Magdalene:

Doesn't her hair have a lovely red quality?  Doesn't she look sad, like maybe her boyfriend is off locked in a deadly confrontation with the forces of darkness?  Doesn't she totally look awesome in the way that only women who were raised around lots and lots of brothers can possibly be (since she's all pretty and girly but can totally talk sports and take the mickey out you as well)?  Hmm?  Still not convinced?  Well let me offer my last piece of 100% COMPLETELY FACTUAL EVIDENCE THAT WILL ENSURE THAT YOU CANNOT DENY THE VALIDITY OF MY CONCLUSIONS:

Pietro Giovanni d'Ambrogio's La Vierge et l'Enfant entoures d'anges.  Notice anything about the figure at the top?  Let's do a God-hance:

Big God, Tiny Head.  Remind you of a scene from a book you might have read where they're all in the Department of Mysteries and a bad guy that might be called a Death Eater messes with Time and his head turns into a baby's head on a grown-up bad guy's body?  Doesn't it?  DOESN'T IT?!  So in my EXPLOSIVE conclusion...

Christ wasn't divine, He was a WIZARD!  And Mary Magdalene (which is some obscure language eventually translates to "Ginny Weasley") was his WITCHY BABY MAMA!  Three months of Louvre-going and I have solved history.  You're welcome.  Ron Howard:  call me.

*Yes, I'm aware that I'm about eight years late in jumping on the Dan Brown mockery train, but it seems that train might have enough steam to keep going indefinitely.  And now I can't go to the Louvre without seeing the inverted pyramid and thinking about how Dan Brown is trying to convince everyone that's a big ol' vag, so I had to go ahead and do him a solid in response.