My Epic Take Back the Night Public Service Announcement

*Note: I use swear words in this post.  Given the subject matter, I would find it more inappropriate not to.

And so, in an effort to continue my recent streak of writing about events at least two weeks after the fact (a trend which I hope will not continue indefinitely), today I shall regale y'all with the my epic tale of deceit, laughter, treachery, and ultimately, redemption.  I call it: Street Fight! (Subtitled: How Two Greasy Dudes Lost Their Street Cred Forever).

Not long after the departure of my siblings-in-law, AH and I were delighted to be able to show a good buddy of ours (the same buddy whose wedding we went to in NY back in October) around Paris for the weekend.  Crepes were consumed, photos were taken, and alcohol was consumed on the street (because hey, when you're in Paris, you've got to take advantage of the anti-brown bag policy).  After our Crepe-consuming, we decided to head over to the Marais (you know, home of the gays, Jews, and insanely over-priced boutiques) to meet said friend's boss for a drink.  As consuming alcohol in public is no longer novel for me, I had chosen to abstain.  Thus, when we arrived at our intended destination, I offered to walk to the corner trash can to toss out the empties.  And that's when things got...interesting.

Two greasy dudes (let's call them Tweedle Asshat and Tweedle Dickface), 12 pack of Heineken in tow, were loitering on the corner.  As is the wont of this particular breed of crunchy-headed miscreant, they began cat-calling.  Despite being a relatively sheltered Midwestern girl, I have, in my recent adult life, become fairly desensitized to this level of ass-hatery.  I proceeded with my typical policy of ignoring the dumb jerks and going about my business.  Dumb jerks proceeded to step up the cat-calling into some fairly crass insults.

Now, in hindsight, it's hard to tell if I would have reacted the same way in America, which was to give them the rudest hand gesture that I could think of (which is probably not what you're thinking; a French friend once made the mistake of revealing the real bazooka in the arsenal of rude French hand gestures, and I put it to good use).  In France, when I'm in situations where I'm not inclined/able to carefully think before I act, I tend to use facial expressions and gestures to make my point (thus did I prevent rude beyotch from cutting me in line at the boulangerie yesterday.  Turns out the American disapproving glare, while perhaps not quite as effective as French version, gets the job done just fine).  If I had full command of the language, would I have asked them, firmly but politely to stop?  Yeeeah, probably not.  My mother and father instilled in me a healthy appreciation for manners, but they somehow failed to instill the skills necessary to suffer fools who were persisting in foolery of such magnitude.

And this is where the exchange took a turn.  As I turned to walk away, Tweedle Asshat sidled up to me, whispered something incomprehensible in my ear, and grabbed my butt.  And then everything slowed down.  Because for one split second, with his hand where it was, I felt like a small, scared little girl.  And I will hate this man forever for making me feel that way, brief though it was.  I say "brief" because, while I did not magically transform into Xena: Warrior Princess (kind of like I had always hoped I would in a scenario like that), I did transform into a version of myself completely devoid of reason, without any goal but to tear Tweedle Asshat a new asshole.  I flew into a complete blind rage, elbowing him in the chest, turning around, and unleashing a shrieking spew of obscenities that would have made Quentin Tarrentino blush.  He was still close, so I shoved him again.  And then Tweedle Asshat stepped his Asshatery even further by punching me in the face, breaking my glasses in two.

I swear, when he punched me, this is the next thought that went through my head: "If I'm going to punch him back (and I really, really wanted to), I'm going to need to put down my purse to get a good swing in, in which case I run the risk of Tweedle Dickface coming over and running off with my bag, and I really don't want to go through the hassle and expense of replacing my passport." And then- fight or flight, it's real thing, man- I was suddenly terrified of what would happen next, and I ran back to the bar to grab my would-be knights in shining armor.  Of course, by the time AH and my friend had reached the corner, Tweedle Asshat and Tweedle Dickface had taken their beer and run.

Whilst AH ran off to do his manly duties, I stood dumbstruck, the two halves of my glasses in my hands, sobbing while a total (well-meaning) stranger was lecturing me on the affects of PTSD, and telling me that if I was having flashbacks or nightmares in 6-9 months, that I really needed to see a therapist.  What I could not seem to tell Earnest Stranger was that I had been punched in the face less than two minutes ago; I wasn't really in a place to be thinking about 6-9 months from now.  After AH and our friend returned, disappointed that long dreamed-of but never appropriate ass-kicking moves were unable to be satisfyingly deployed, we decided to head into the bar for a drink.  If it had been any other night, I would've gone home.  But my friend was in town only for the night.  Tweedle Asshat and Tweedle Dickface had already broken my glasses.  I wasn't letting them ruin my night.

And so that's the epic tale, and here's the Take Back the Night PSA portion of this post.  While I sometimes get slightly personal in my musings on this blog, I generally try to stick to pretty light-hearted material (art mockery, etc.).  So I hemed and hawed about whether or not this was an appropriate post to make, especially since it doesn't meet my criteria of being specifically related to my experience as an American living in France.  Because here's the truth: every girl you know, no matter where she lives, has gone through shit like this.  She might not have had the misfortune to encounter that special breed of idiot who wants to raise it to the physical level, but she has been cat-called, sexually objectified by strangers.  And, like me, a lot of women accept that this behavior simply comes with the territory of owning a vagina, and we become desensitized to it.  But we shouldn't be.

Thinking back to that night, there's a good chance that had I not responded with a rude hand gesture, Tweedle Asshat would not have followed me, and it would have just been one more incident of men yelling lewd things at me that I thankfully (the only time I'm thankful for my poor French comprehension, actually) only partially understand.  But I'm not sorry that I did.  I'm not sorry that I walked to the corner- 20 feet from the bar where my husband was- alone.  And I wouldn't be sorry if I had been spending the whole evening alone, in a rougher part of town.  And, even though I was bundled up in a wool coat, I would not be sorry if I was in a short dress and plastic stripper heels.  Because it's not my job to be sorry; it's theirs.  If leading Take Back the Night marches during my university years taught me anything, it's that there needs to be less jaw-flapping about women behaving in ways to protect themselves and their precious virtue and more about how we need to take a hard look at why there are still men who treat women as targets and not as people.

And so I've decided to tell this story for two reasons:

1) These stories don't get told often enough.  And I know why: they're unpleasant to tell.  But when these experiences get swept under a rug, it feeds into the myth that they're a normal part of life for a woman, like death and taxes.  But these things should not be inevitable.

2) I may have gotten punched in the face, but I at least have a story to tell.  Tweedle Asshat and Tweedle Dickface have a story to tell now, too, except it's about the time they punched an unarmed, unaccompanied woman and broke her glasses.  In that respect, I think I got the better end of the deal.

Some Midwinter Cheer

The weather here continues to remain as un-Bing Crosby Christmas Special as can be, but I hear rumors that Old Man Winter is beginning to take his annual months-long crap over the Midwest.  I have to say, I do not miss the Midwestern fate of seeing green as far as the eye can see in December, when a good snow-fall would be appropriate and appreciated, but then being forced to drive on iced-over roads from mid-January until April, when it is suddenly 95 degrees with 100% humidity.  Snow at Christmas stirs nostalgia in us for a fictitious era that never really existed (do you know anyone that's actually roasted chestnuts on an open fire?), whereas snow in January and beyond is just inconvenient.

And so my belated Yuletide gift to you, my friends, is a bit of Christmas to brighten those miserable winter nights (that begin around 4:30).  Also, I just haven't gotten around to posting these yet, and I took too damn many pictures not to put them to good use.  A few days before Christmas, AH and I were lucky enough to spend a few days in Strasbourg, France after a train strike foiled our plans to head to Cologne, Germany.  But I have to say, things turned out quite splendidly despite Europe's best attempts to slowly mold me into a Republican (grumble grumble, strikes, grumble grumble).  So may I present:  How Christmas Threw Up All Over Strasbourg!

Strasbourg: the Capital of Christmas.  They're not kidding, man.  They have turned Christmas into an industry.  Seven Christmas markets, all within town limits. There was nary a hall, alley, or bathroom that was not thoroughly decked.

AH's espresso even came with a little Santa chocolate.  That's commitment, friends.

Giant Christmas tree, in the Peace and Unity (?) Christmas market.

Pretty blue tree in the Swedish (?!?) Christmas market.

FOOD.  So much food.  Those pots are cooking a wonderful concoction of potato, cheese, sausage, onion, and ham.  Add in bread, salt, and hot wine, and you've got the major food groups of our visit.

The largest Christmas market was in the main square in front of the Cathedral.  Speaking of which...

Damn.  Absolutely breath-taking.  It made Notre Dame de Paris look like it 

had all the visual interest of that mega-church they just built out on the freeway.

And while there was a nativity on display inside the Cathedral, the delightful crassness 

of Christmas, Inc., still managed to make its way inside.

Ice skaters next to the Cathedral.  I tried to convince AH that it would be incredibly romantic of us to strap on some ice-skates and glide hand in hand.  He flatly informed me that Wheelers don't skate (Papa and Mama Wheeler, what did you do?!).  I did manage to convince him to watch the skaters for a bit with me while we drank our upteenth cup of vin chaud.

         Fun fact:  storks are A Thing in Alsace.  I cannot TELL you how much I coveted that hat.  However, I have been lured into the "kitschy vacation thing that's hilarious now but will eventually fester on a shelf in my in-laws basement" trap before, and so I wisely restrained myself; last time I fell into that trap I paid $20 for a hat in the shape of a giant crab (did I think I was going to shoot an STD-awareness PSA?).  

        I did spy a family of five that apparently had either A) never fallen into this trap before and were deluding themselves that they could totally wear these back home or B) recently formed a family singing group, Sotto Storko.

More food porn.  Because you know you want it.

Seriously.  If there's a way to describe this apart from "Christmas Vomit," then it seems 

that I am at a loss for words.

Visitor's Survey: Part III

BONUS ROUND!

And then a Certain Young Man wandered into the apartment and wanted to put his two cents in as well.  So here it is: CYM's perspective on Paris by night:

Let's start with the basics.  What was your favorite thing that you did this week?

CYM: Maybe I don’t want to do this...Oh, not person? Thing?  Sitting in cafes talking to random people.

Would you have done anything differently?  What do you wish you knew before you came?

CYM: I guess my sleep routines were really bizarre, and so I wish I could’ve enjoyed Paris in the daylight.  Also, I would want to get a travel phone.

CYM taking a disco nap.

Was there a moment where you said to yourself, "Wow, I'm really in Paris"?

CYM:  Yes. *silence.*  There were several moments.  Ironically, it was late at night, when the streets were completely bare and empty, and it was just me, the pigeons, and some random homeless people.

HWTSP: That’s different from Columbus how?

 CYM preparing for a night of jewel-thieving.  A wrinkled thief is a thief just asking to be caught.

Best meal? Any restaurants that you would recommend to future sojourners?

CYM: I have a feeling that tomorrow’s will be my best [CYM was going out on a fancy date].  Procope.  But otherwise, I really just enjoyed the Open Cafe.  It’s the center of the gay community, so it’s a good place to meet people.

What will you miss the most about France (besides us)?

CYM: The global community [aka sexy boys].  And no work.

What was your favorite thing that I said after consuming most of the box of wine?

CYM: Oh my gosh.  It would have been more the gesture...it was when I was sitting there drinking a diet soda and you started lying on me. 

CYM has just told me that I am his hero, the wind beneath his wings.  I am moved to tears.  

This is my story, and I am sticking to it.

Worst thing about Paris?

CYM:  The smell.  The conversion rate.  The coins, I hate the little coins.The coffee; I want American coffee.

The Wheeler siblings having their daily Starbucks fix.  This was, apparently, not enough for CYM.

Last question.  What would you have to do next New Year’s Eve to top this one?

Jack:  Ooooh....Munich?  And not be single?  Make it five butts instead of four [referring to our bare-bottomed friends in front of the Pantheon].

Bonus question from AH: How long do you think you could live in our apartment?

CYM:  Question: am I allowed to clean it out?

Me: Sure.

CYM:  By myself?  I could do it.  With a partner?  Maybe two months until I hear them bitching at me so much that I have to get out?

Visitor's Survey: Part II

AH and I were lucky enough to recently host his younger sister (the Chicken Whisperer) and brother (a Certain Young Man), as well as his sister's husband (He Who Takes Silly Photos).  They arrived on December 26th, and the five of us almost immediately got onto a train out to Dijon.  We spent a day and a half exploring wine country and learning about the significance of the terroir in the quality of the wine (hint: it's very significant).  Then back to Paris for a week of museuming, sight-seeing and eating (oh, yes, there was eating) with my SIL and her husband.  AH's younger brother, a Certain Young Man, got caught up with a ring of international jewel thieves that operates only at night in Paris.  I assume this happened because he would leave every evening around 10 and return the next morning sometime around 7.  I mean, what else would keep a young, single guy out in Paris at those hours?

Before they left, after our final meal of McDonald's (HWTSP wanted to drink a beer in a fast food establishment), I was able to wrangle some answers out of them over a nice bottle of our burgundy spoils, as well as the remainder of the boxed wine (which I will hopefully never tangle with again).

Let's start with the basics.  What was your favorite thing that you did this week?
He Who Takes Silly Photos:  Stock answer: burgundy wine tour, secondary answer: ride the TGV, real answer: I ate a lot of good food this week.
Chicken Whisperer: I’m gonna say one things, not three things like Adam did.  So I’ll say the TGV train ride for now; if I think of something better, I’ll let you know.  Public transportation in general.

Snacks in the train station. AH is not amused.

Would you have done anything differently?  What do you wish you knew before you came?
HWTSP: I wish I had known more French food vocabulary.
CW:  I would’ve bought Eiffel Tower tickets sooner.

See, no worries; we made it up the Eiffel Tower even without as much forethought as we could have used. AH and HWTSP attempt to point out the sights of Paris.

Was there a moment where you said to yourself, "Wow, I'm really in Paris"?
CW: The nudists on New Year’s Eve. [Four gentlemen dropped trou in front of the Pantheon, had a friend snap photos of their bare bottoms, re-robed and scampered off to what we can only assume was their next full-moon photo-op].
HWTSP:  Drinking hard cidre on the subway.

Ah, drinking in public. In the square in front of the Pantheon at midnight, New Year's Eve

Best meal? Any restaurants that you would recommend to future sojourners?
HWTSP:  Now that you have made a list of every meal that we have eaten in France, the best meal was the chicken in the Ile-St.-Louis.  Good ambiance, good food.  The guy that said hello was the guy that cooked your food- you could see it all out there.  Also, those sandwiches [from their local boulangerie] were fan-f-ingtastic.
CW: I really liked the eggs benedict [at Cafe Central, on Rue Cler].  I didn’t enjoy the overall dining experience, but my meal was really good.  Also, that Mexican place [La Perla, in the Marais] was really good.
HWTSP: Yeah, I would’ve never guessed that tuna steak would be so good.
CW: Yeah, that almond thing, too [almond pastry]!  Write that down!  And nougat ice cream [at Chartier].
HWTSP:  I’ve never heard her get that excited about one item of food.  As for something I’d recommend: Chez Hanna [on Rue Rosiers], the little place on the island, Crepe d’Arts [in the Latin Quarter].  As for L’Ebouillante: the hot chocolate was fantastic, but the food wasn’t worth the expense.
AH (chiming in!): I’d say La Perla and Crepe d’Arts had by far the best value.

The hot chocolate at L'Eboulliante. Excellent, says HWTSP. The food, eh, not so much.

What will you miss the most about France (besides us)?
CW: Not working.  And cheap wine.  All you can eat bread.
HWTSP: Cider and boulangeries.
CW: And public transportation.  Beautiful buildings everywhere you look.  Something to look at every second of the day.

Yule logs at the boulangerie by their apartment

The Hotel de Ville sparkling for the holidays

What was your favorite thing that I said after consuming most of that box of wine?
HWTSP:  “I can only get drunk three more times in my life!”
CW:  “I just love your brother so much...he’s such a good person!” Also: “I’m not scared that my girls will be ugly because you’re so pretty.” Also: “Your lease is on the name!” [CW had pointed out several times, "my name is on the lease" when things ran the risk of getting a bit messy. I think I might have gotten it a bit mixed up...]

Was it everything Rick Steves [host of PBS' "Rick Steves' Europe" and author of many guidebooks] promised it would be?
HWTSP: Yes!  We had a good Rick Steves experience.
CW: Would Rick be proud of us?
HWTSP: I think he would.
CW: I didn’t eat the beef tartar.  I didn’t eat everything that Rick Steves would have wanted me to.
HWTSP: But you ate things I wouldn’t have expected you to.  Also, how did we start talking about food again?
CW: I don’t think even Rick Steves can prepare you for the crowdedness and dirtiness.  

Worst thing about Paris?
CW: Dog sh-t!  Dog sh-t everywhere!  Parisians and their dogs are nasty!
HWSTP:  Small bathrooms and menu confusion.
CW: I think every single one of your answers is “food.” 

HWTSP really did enjoy his food. Here he is demonstrating his feelings for a chocolate Pere Noel that 

AH impulsively bought because it was 50% off.

Last question.  What would you have to do next New Year’s Eve to top this one?
HWTSP: Grand canyon.
CW: Win the lottery.

Bonus question from AH: How long do you think you could live in our apartment?
HWTSP: By myself? Indefinitely.  With my spouse?  As long as she could stand it [well played, sir].
CW: Till we got bored of it.  There wouldn’t be enough to do in your place.  There would be no place to put the chickens.

Bonne Anniversaire!

So today, Jonathan and I celebrate a very important anniversary (nope, not that one- that one is November 29th).  On January 7, 2011, at about 11 AM France time, we got off a plane at Charles de Gaulle airport.  I was tired and cranky, and, due to making the mistake of watching Taken as my in-flight movie, slightly paranoid about being snatched and sold into slavery.  We piled our luggage onto the RER B and rode for what seemed like forever down to Orsay, and carried our belongings through the pouring rain to our little suburban B&B.  More than the weight of the luggage, more than the graffiti-ed walls that were my first glimpse of the City of Lights, what I remember about the day that I came to this country is the moment that I was finally able to pause and sit on the edge of the bed in our room.  I sat down and watched as AH started arranging the suitcases as the enormity of what I had just done- moved to a half of the world where there wasn't a soul apart from AH that knew or cared what happened to me- settled in, and I started to cry.  (This is much less dramatic when you know that I cry at, oh, just about everything).

Flash forward to today.  We have an apartment.  We have friends.  We both enjoy the things that we do to make money.  Our French sucks considerably less.  This last year has had it's fair share of ups and downs, but it's sure been one hell of an adventure.

Today is also another important anniversary: yours and mine.  That's right, dear reader, it was also this day one year ago that I wrote my first "What the France?!" blog post.  I've greatly enjoyed having the chance to chronicle my adventures, and I know that someday, when I'm old, lame(er), and driving a mini-van I'll treasure the ability to re-read my reflections on artistic nudity, public urination, and the joys of crusty bread.  This blog paid an especially important role in my early days here, before I found a community; it made me feel less alone to know that people back home knew what I was up to.  So thank you for reading.  Because there's no way in hell I would have been self-motivated enough to keep this up all this time without you.

AND NOW: We have a lot of catching up to do, friends.  So stay tuned for belated Christmas fun-times in Strasbourg, as well as my interview with my hilarious and witty siblings-in-law...