Beach Holiday on the Right Bank

Guess when this picture was taken.  Go on, I dare you:

June.  JUNE.  It was hailing here in June.  We've only been consistently breaking 70 here for about a week now; I've spent more time in a rain coat and (much bedraggled) jeans this summer than anyone south of Alaska should be forced to.  But the weather has decided to make amends by skipping straight from low 60's and rainy to mid-high 80's and perfectly sunny.  And so, in honor of summer FINALLY deciding to make an appearance, I think it only appropriate to muse upon that strangest and most unique of Parisian summer traditions, the Paris Plage.  Luckily for those of us who find ourselves Ile-de-France-bound, I have not misspelled "plague;" "plage" is the French word for beach.  (That would be a pretty terrible summer tradition: punish all those in Paris too poor to leave the city for holiday by releasing some form of deadly biological agent via rats.  That would not be nearly as fun).  

"But Allison!," you cry in protest.  "Paris is not on a coast!  What beach could you possibly mean?".  To which I answer, "This one that they invented, bitches":

City officials shut down the busy road that runs along the right bank of the Seine, import a bunch of sand from Normandy, and turn the highway into a beach complete with ice cream vendors, street performers,  palm trees, beach umbrellas, and of course, several miles of tightly packed locals and tourists sizzling like rotisserie chickens, offering up their bodies to the sun gods.  

To be clear: this is not something that I enjoy on a personal level in any way.  For me, the Paris Plage is essentially everything that I hate about the beach (hot, crowded, and sandy with overpriced snacks) without the one thing that made me crazy enough to book a holiday to the south of France for mid-August: the chance to swim in the ocean. (Oddly enough, there are no signs posted warning people away from swimming in the Seine.  I think the assumption is that if you are bonkers enough to try it, then your subsequent absence from the human race might not be such bad thing).  And yet I returned this year (with an equally sun-allergic friend; we were quite the sight, him in long sleeves and khakis, me in a sun hat and carrying a parasol) out of a heavy sense of obligation.  As the wise philosopher Carrie Bradshaw once said, "if you see a sign that says 'two-headed snake,' you pull over." And when you live in a city where they shut down a major highway to set up an elaborate fake beach along the banks of their filthy, filthy river, you pull over.  

Seriously, the whole thing is just so stinkin' French.  One of the things that I adore about life in France is that July/August holidays are expected and are practically sacrosanct.  Whole businesses shut down for months at a time; we have been provided with a schedule from the city hall of which boulangeries and other businesses will be open in our area so that we are not left breadless (quel horreur!).  AH is feeling elated and a bit indulgent to be taking 2 days off for our excursion to Marseilles (on top of the week that he is forced to take in August because they shut down his place of work because everyone is expected to be on holiday), while his French co-workers are blithely talking about the five or six week vacations that they have planned.  Contrast this to my time working my first out-of-college big girl job at a telecommunications company where I was a glorified robot monkey, verifying and sending through paper work.  During the whole winter holiday season, I was given exactly two days off: Christmas day and New Year's day.  When we encountered level 2 snow emergencies, I was required to risk life and limb and drive into work because I was considered "essential personnel"  (again, see: glorified robot monkey).  And my experience at Unnamed Telecommunications Company does not seem to be atypical for an American worker, especially in "These Trying Economic Times" when the general expectation seems to be that you should be licking boots and be grateful if it means that you receive a steady paycheck.  So needless to say, the attitude that it's not just acceptable for workers to take it easy in the summer, it's actually expected, has been a marvelous adjustment to make (other than the times that my favorite bakery is closed and I'm forced to make do with sub-par baguettes).  

Furthermore, it's not only the rich that are expected to take time to flee to their villas in Provence; this expectation of a leisurely summer is an attitude that hangs like an especially shady beach umbrella over the whole city.  And so for me, the Paris Plage is not only a strange carnival spectacle in its own right but also a physical embodiment of the importance of leisure and enjoyment in France: everyone is entitled to be on a beach somewhere, whether it's along the Mediterranean, the Atlantic or, in a pinch for the cash-strapped, the Seine.  

Still not convinced that the Paris Plage is an apt symbol of ultimate Frenchness?  Then let me leave you with a mental picture of what I saw yesterday in the sand: a man in his early-mid sixties, heavily tanned, hairy as a graying gorilla, wearing nothing but a pair of speedos, sandals, and a beret.  I wanted to nominate this man to be France's mascot.  

So even if you're stuck in an office this summer with no vacance in sight, at least take a tip from the French and turn wherever you live into its own holiday destination: beach chairs, a sunny backyard, a cold tasty beverage and some sweet tunes should do the trick.  And if you do it in a speedo, please send pictures.

Soldes: A Retrospective of My Life In France as Told Through Retail

Alas, I doubt Karl Lagerbear here ever went on sale, otherwise he might have been mine.

              Many moons ago (well, a year and a half ago.  I'm still having trouble with metric conversions, let alone time-to-moon conversions), not long after my arrival in France, I discovered the first of many clues that France and Ohio are not, in fact, the same thing at all.  Having been forewarned that one does not enter a store simply to browse, I was alerted to the exception to that rule: you are more than free to enter a store without explicit intent to buy during the soldes, or sales.  The Sales, I asked?  I come from a land where, yes, there is a slight rhythm to the retail cycle (there is a definite "off season" to certain items, thus how I managed to get almost all of my fancy high school dance dresses for less than $20), but there was always a sale rack somewhere in the store, it's just a matter of heading straight for the back and ignoring everything hung up in an orderly fashion on hangers.  But not so in France: there is an actual law regulating when retailers can offer items at a discount.  Thus, a whole  year's worth of bargain shopping must be cut down into two 5-week segments, one in January, and one in July.  

            Back in the day (so, more moons than the moons that have happened since I've been in France), I used to classify certain periods of my life based on what play was happening roughly around that time (for example, the beginning of my junior year of college, when my romance with AH was just coming into full bloom, will always have the soundtrack of the big Cole Porter musical I was in at the time).  Monday, coming home with my arms full of (still outrageously expensive) baby clothes, I had a startling revelation: I could do something similar with my life in France by looking back on the four soldes I've experience since I've been here.  So according to this theory, my expat life could be divided thusly:

January 2011

           Fresh off the boat (plane) and even more clueless than I am now (if that can be believed).  We were nomadic for most of that sale season, but had managed to find our first apartment at Cite Universitaire toward the end of the month.  With AH off battling the Hobbit Hill and playing with lasers during the day, I was forcing myself to get out and about and explore the city.  And what better motivator to do that than shopping?  The problem was that I had absolutely no idea where to go: this was the days before my sister directed me to all the wonders of BHV and the Marais (yes, embarassingly enough, it took a New Yorker to point out Paris' great shopping district), and Paris isn't really known for it's malls (except Les Halles, which...*shudder*).  But hey, I was in Europe! H&M is Dutch (or Swedish or Norwegian, or somewhere cold and full of blondes)!  So I googled the nearest H&M, and hopped onto a metro.  Friends, this is how fresh off the plane I was: this was my first time ever using a metro (I had only used the RER up until that point), because I remember being so proud of myself for doing it all by myself without AH.  Seriously, you'd think I had mastered hang-gliding or something.  But anyway, off to the H&M on Rue de Rennes I went.  

             The trip was mostly uneventful with the exception of two discoveries.  The first was that, while it is typically annoying to be possessed of more junk in the proverbial trunk than the average Parisian, it means that I (and others of my size-ilk) make out like bandits during the sales: all of the 0-6 clothes are gone the first week, whereas size 12 ladies get their leisurely pick of the good stuff right up until the end (by which time the discounts have usually increased, thus ensuring maximum cheapness).  Bomb diggity.  The other discovery was that apparently putting a skirt on over your jeans in the aisles when the line for the cabines is really unreasonably long will earn you one patented French Disapproving Glare, as well as a tongue-lashing.  At the time I was mortified and defensive.  Now, I think fondly back on that bitchy salesman, as he was really just doing his part to break me into the peculiarities of French culture.

Erin and I at Thanksgiving dinner at church, long after our shopping spree, obvi.

July 2011 

                     Starting to get the hang of things (sort of).  This was a time in my life when I learned the lesson that has been crucial to my survival during my time abroad: the trick isn't necessarily knowing what's going on, but knowing who to ask what the heck is going on.By this time I'd begun working teaching theater camps with Erin, the woman who was fast becoming a very good friend.  In addition to all other ways that she is wonderful, she also knows where a girl with a serious sundress fetish and limited income can go to get her fix.  Thus one day after class, she opened my eyes to the delightful world of C&A, the only store in Paris even kind of resembling a Kohl's.  I don't know that AH was ever allowed to see those receipts.


January 2012
          Erin and I continue our tradition of hitting the soldes, but alas a slight wrench has been thrown into our plans: I am about 4 weeks pregnant, and only AH and I are any the wiser about the occupied state of my womb.  I kick around the idea telling Erin, but as we haven't even yet had the chance to tell our parents that we'll soon have a Fellow Traveler, I decide to keep mum.  Which, if you know me, is EXCRUCIATING.  Seriously, I am the world's worst secret keeper of my own secrets; that's probably why I don't really have any.  And so we go through Monoprix, Erin modelling all sorts of adorable sundresses, me trying only trying on muumuu-like pieces.  I can see the good friend dilemma going through Erin's head: do I tell her that shapeless sack is doing nothing for her, or do I merely try to direct her towards garments that actually have a waist?  I mumble some lame excuse about, "well, maybe I'll be pregnant by the summer," but this is still clearly not excuse enough for the tents I am dragging into the dressing room with me.  I decide to forgo dress shopping all together and settle on a roomy green coat.
           I'm being wildly restrained (by my usual standards) until we get to BHV.  And this is when I make a decision that still slightly baffles me.  Not long before I discovered I was pregnant, I took a good hard look at my wardrobe and realized that, in the few short years since college, it had become so  darn practical (by which I mean, it was full of things that I would be able to wear to work or to church without anyone calling child services on me).  This was unacceptable: I was 25, goshdarnit, surely I would have occasion to wear an impractically low-cut dress sometime in the near future!  I kept an eye out, but when would such a dress finally decide to appear?  That's right, friend.  4 weeks into my pregnancy.  

I kept the dress just long enough to take pictures of myself in it.  Anyway, AH didn't much care for it; 

he said it made me look like I have the chest of a 12-year-old boy.

And so, did I maturely say to myself, "not only will you not be able to zip yourself into this much longer, you're about to be someone's mother; now really is the time to start PUTTING IT AWAY."  Clearly not.  Thus that particular soldes (as well as that dress, which eventually was given a happy home by Erin) will always remind me of that time in my early pregnancy when I was still delusional and telling myself, "hey, I'll be a hip young mom who can totally leave baby at home and go out till the wee hours of the morning wearing what is essentially a sequined gynecological smock!".  Oh, silly, silly Allison.


July 2012
            Yeah, I've given up that ghost.  And it's ok: I've made the marvelous discovery that the pregnancy wardrobe is much more comfy that the mid-20's clubbing wardrobe (seriously, maternity jeans: all the comfort of sweat pants while still getting to look like you actually care.  Why do normal jeans have zippers?  I am not looking forward to making the transition back).  And so the past few weeks I've been happily hitting up the big baby store, Aubert, in Paris with soon-to-be Auntie Erin, as well as another expecting mama friend (with twins!  I do not envy her stroller decision).  I've also been trolling the Carrefour and Monoprix out near my new digs, looking for a suitable shoe-rack (I know, life in the suburbs is KRAZEE!).  But while introducing expecting mama friend to the wonders of C&A (look, the circle is complete!), I did wander over to the accessories department while she was in the dressing room.  I may not have any more illusions about sexy dresses, but I could treat myself to a flashy ring or a new necklace, right?  Except that, first of all, I need more jewelry like I need a hole in the head.  Secondly, little FT has tainted even my love of shiny things: I couldn't look at the earrings without thinking about how much it will hurt when she decides to yank on them, nor could I look at the necklaces without imagining her yanking on the chain and breaking it (apparently, in all my paranoid fantasies my baby is the Hulk).  So sigh, no new goodies for mom.  But on the plus side, hey:

Um, these come with matching bloomers.  Who can say that about their Sexy Dress?
               

Expat Survey: The Oregonian

Along with appearing to understand what is happening when I have absolutely no idea what anyone is saying, another unpleasant but necessary survival skill that I've picked up during my time abroad is the ability to say goodbye to my nearest and dearest without completely losing it and going into a Ben and Jerry's coma of self-pity.  Alas, the latest dear friend to leave these fair shores is the irreplaceable Oregonian.  After two years working and studying in France, she has returned to her native land to take on the noble cause of looking after teenage girls in the foster care system.  I will miss too many things about her to name, but towards the top of the "Awesome Things About Oregonian" list is her unique perspective and wicked sense of humor.  Happily for me (and for you), she indulged me by agreeing to take a modified version of my Visitor's Survey (2 years is really too long to qualify as a visit) for your reading pleasure.  So without further adieu,  here are her responses to my nosy questions:

Me: So Oregonian, important things first.  What was your favorite thing to get at the boulangerie?

Oregonian: This raspberry nutella croissant that I only ever found at one boulangerie in the suburbs (L'Hay Les Roses) (I'm convinced that's what God did on the seventh day).

Me: Other than learning the language, what was the hardest thing about Paris to adjust to?

O: Ha. Resisting the urge to smile at everyone I pass on the street.  I love to talk and get to know people, so I had to learn not to say my name right away when I met someone (the French don't do that), and had to censor what I said.  For example, "Je dois faire pipi" (I have to pee) is not appropriate; it's better to say, "Je vais au toilette" (I'm going to the toilet).  I also had to learn to resist the urge to ask personal questions.  To me, personal questions is just part of conversating.  And I love to conversate and get to know people so that was a big adjustment.  Instead of talking about life stories, I had to learn to be content with speaking of the weather and politics.

Me: Do you anticipate any reverse culture shock returning to the States?
O: When I bump into people here in Oregon, I still say, "pardon" or "merci" when they move out of the way. Driving is something I've had to get used to again. Also, now I have to stop saying "noir" (black) when asked how I'd like my meat prepared. I can smile at boys now without them reading anything into it, and I don't have to fake my way through the "bisous." In fact, now I have to awkwardly turn what I thought was gonna be a bisous greeting into a side hug. And probably the biggest culture shock, the CHOCOLATE! After Cote d'or, milka, galler, and lindt, I just don't know that I can go back to Hershey's. (Well s'mores are the only exception to that)

Me:What was your favorite way to spend a Saturday in Paris?

O: Relaxing on the shore of the Seine River, while eating kebabs, and talking with a good friend.

Me: What will you not miss about Paris, not one little bit?
O: I realize I may upset every French person I know by saying this, but the cheese! I will not miss the cheese. I'd take Tillamook cheddar over any of the fancy, stinky french cheeses any day.

Me: Any French habits or phrases that you picked up that you anticipate becoming all the rage in Grant's Pass?

Me: "C'est chouette!" I've already started to make it cool, it's only just a matter of time before it goes state-wide. I've got my brother saying, "Mince!" and he's a pretty popular guy around these parts, so I'm sure it won't be too much longer till it also has taken over. Habits? hmm...any french habits that I'd like to take on myself...yea let me think about that one...no, so don't think they'll be spreading to Oregon anytime soon.  

Me: How close was your time in Paris to the plot of the film "Moulin Rouge"?
O: Not even close! So glad my life is not that depressing! (Though, great music!)

Me: Wasn't French men talking to you on the metro just the best?
O: You know if I were still in Paris sitting on a crowded metro with my personal bubble being invaded by an all too cocky Frenchman who smells of body odor and cologne, I think I might have some negative things to say. But after being back in the land of pot-bellied, cart-hart-wearing, gun-toting, country men who the only communication they enjoy having with the opposite sex is, "Woman, get me a beer," or "Hand me the remote," I think I would have to say that I prefer the french charm over being valued for my abilities to open a beer can and cook chicken. (Disclaimer, a bit of an exaggeration, not all American guys are like that) 

Me: Any lasting life lessons from your time abroad that you feel compelled to share with us?

O: This quote sums it up: "Il faut aller loin pour comprendre ce qui est proche." Paulo Coelho "You must go far away to understand what is close." (rough translation)

Me: Your time in Paris in three words.  Go.
O: "A Movable Feast" (Ernest Hemingway was right).

Here We Are!

Y'all: guess where I am right now, right this second.  If you said "France," good for you, Sherlock, since that is in the title of the blog.  I shall give you a hint: it's where the heart (and a plethora of unpacked boxes) is.  That's right, dears, I'm in my new apartment.  BOO-YAH.

AH and I actually managed to find this place back in mid-June, but France has taught me a thing or two about how easily crushable all my dreams are, and so I didn't want to jinx it by announcing anything until papers were signed, my clothes were hanging in the closet, and I had done a #2 in the toilet (that means they can't take it back now, right?).  But now here we are, out in the lovely suburb of Sceaux (because I finally managed to convince AH that a 40m studio in the city was not going to cut it; you can't keep babies in drawers indefinitely), and I'm hoping we can put our things into drawers, hang some art on the walls, and put down some roots for a little while.

I am clearly still in the honeymooning stage.  Right now, I don't mind the fact that it's a third floor walk-up; that's just keeping me in shape for labor, right? (And don't worry: there is a storage room on the first floor for strollers.  Otherwise, walk-up would have been a deal-breaker).  I'm even willing to overlook the fact that, in a moment of victory, on moving day I came into the bedroom, sat on the bed...and ended up in a pile of mattress and blankets on the floor.  Easily fixable, says AH!  Hey, it's motivation for us to buy a basic toolkit, which is something we should have anyway.  No harm, no foul. We're just spending a few nights sleeping on the mattress on the floor.  But really, that just brings me back to my college days when I slept on a mattress on the floor of room, my dirty clothes piled higher than my sleeping body mere inches away.  It's like I'm 21 again! (Minus all the typical trappings of a 21-year-old, obviously).

But seriously, I live in an apartment with rooms.  Rooms that have DOORS.  So, like, when people come to visit, we can pile all of our crap in our bedroom and no one needs to be any the wiser.  There's a little balcony that I'm just itching to put a little basil plant on.  And a real kitchen with an oven (baked mac and cheese!), and a washing machine (cloth diapers!), and, maybe my favorite part: a freezer.  Because that means that I, over-heated, pregnant person that I am, can keep ice cream within my chubby, bloated grasp.  And the baby will have her own room (Madeleine-themed, all AH's idea, I swear) with a real crib and curtains and books and little tiny baby dresses...it's true, the nesting has begun in earnest.  AH swears that he can see me obsessively gathering and arranging little twigs.  Seriously, y'all, I joined mother-fing Pinterest.  It's bad.

And the nesting shall continue, just as soon as we manage to evict the mass gathering of flies that have taken up residence in the nursery.  But hey!  It's all good!  I'M NOT HOMELESS ANYMORE!  Even if I do have a few unwelcome roommates right now (which will die a horrible, painful death, mark my words), I know I have a place to rest my head tonight, and hopefully every night for the remainder of our stay in France.  And by the weekend, when we purchase our new tool kit and AH goes all Ty-what's-his-face-home-improvement on our bed, my head will hopefully even be a few feet off the ground.