A Brief Au Revoir

So it's not like update this here bloggy-blog religiously, but I do try to make sure I relate at least one (mis)adventure per week.  But on the morrow, my parents and sister will be arriving, and I will be playing overly-enthusiastic tour guide for a week.  (Seriously, I put waaay too much effort into deciding who should get which pastries for their "Welcome to Paris!" breakfast).  And so don't worry, friends, I'm not permanently neglecting you, and I will in all likelihood have some awesome stories involving T-Dogs, Triple D and the Llama when I return next week.  Until then, stay safe, have fun, and eat some stinky cheese to get your France fix.

It's Not a Job Interview Till Someone Has to Go to the Hospital

I really have very little in the way of what one might call a history of "neutral luck." It can be astonishingly good, like the time my sister entered a contest twice, once in my name and once in hers, and I was the one who ended up winning the free birthday party at United Skates of America.  Or it can be astonishingly bad (see: any time I try to accomplish anything in France).  I did not know that this was a contagious phenomenon; apparently, it is.

So yesterday, I went to interview with a mother for a prospective part-time nanny position.  Due to her busy schedule, we decided that it would be best to meet at her petite chou's horse-back riding lesson.  Much to my delight, le petite chou is a charming child who, on the tram, told me all about the English animal noises that he is learning, and then demonstrating the proper way to make them (apparently, a walrus "bellows").  And when he stopped to pick a wild flower for his maman, he made sure to get an extra for me.  And he just lost his first tooth.  In short, he's a cacophony of adorable.

So the three of us enter the stables, and maman begins trying to wrestle a bit into the mouth a particularly stubborn pony (whose name apparently means "stupid thing"- how apt).  She sees me watching with apprehension, and assures me that I myself will not be responsible for preparing the horse when I bring le petite chou to riding lessons; I can leave that to the trainers.  I breathe an audible sigh of relief:  horse whisperer is not on my limited list of skills.

After maman finally wrestles a saddle onto the pony with the help of another rider, petite chou leads his mount out to the corral with the rest of his class, and maman and I are free to get a cafe.  We take our drinks back over to the corral to watch the lesson and conduct the interview.  Maman tells me that her son has been riding for several years (impressive, since he's only five), and in that whole time, he's only fallen once, and that was last week.  So now, my friends, you see where this is going.  In this course of our brief conversation, my terrible luck must have caught on the breeze and blown towards poor, unsuspecting petite chou.  It happened very quickly, and not at all what it looked like in Gone With the Wind: all of a sudden, he's on his horse, and then he's not.  And then maman is running, and I'm running, and petite chou is screaming hysterically.  And my mind goes into the crisis mode that keeps me from freaking out, and instead focuses on the fact that screaming is vastly preferably to silence, and him scrambling under the fence to hug his mother is much better than him lying flat and unmoving on his back.  While the damage is thankfully not on the inconceivably scary end of the spectrum, I see that petite chou's face is not that of a sweet little five-year old but of a five-year old who was on the losing end of a bar fight.  And so, after a heated and rapid argument in French between maman and the trainers, punctuated by petite chou's wails, an ambulance is called.  

I, of course, having satisfied myself that there's no way that I can be personally useful, hover at the periphery.  I would offer to go back, but at this point I realize that in all likelihood I wouldn't be able to find my way back through the park and through the winding streets to my tram stop.  It's a moot point, because sweet, kind maman, craddling her traumatized son, tells me we will talk in the ambulance, and she'll point me to the metro closest to the hospital.  

And so this is how I came to have my first (and hopefully only) job interview in an emergency vehicle.  Had it been conducted in a coffee shop, it really would have been quite pleasant and ordinary.  But the sirens and the sad little prize fighter face looking up at me from his mother's lap made the discussions of work history, hours and expectations somewhat jarring.

We arrive at the hospital, and true to her word, maman finds a piece of paper and a pen to write down directions to the nearest metro station.  I thank her and promise to be in touch soon.  Before I leave, I kneel down in front of petite chou, now in a wheelchair comically too big for him.  I tell him, "I am going to be with my mommy and daddy and sister for a week, but then you and I are going to play.  And when we play, there will be no smashing of heads.  That's a promise." He nods solemnly.

There are time I'd surely like to distill my bad luck by spreading little bits at a time to other people.  But in the future, I'd like to keep the kind of luck that lands you in an ambulance away from little gap-toothed cherubs and all to myself, thankyouverymuch.

Art According to Allison, Part the Second

Now in technicolor!

So here it is.  The Great Glass Pimple itself.  Now, let's look at what I found inside today, shall we?

Starting with Salle 32, Gainsborough:

Let's start with this offering by John Martin entitled "Le Pandemonium," shall we?  It's actually one of a series depicting scenes from Paradise Lost.  This is the palace of the demons.  But to be honest, when I first saw it, everything- from the castle to the fire to the snakes on the frame (the sequel to "Snakes On a Plane"), gave the impression of Voldemort preparing for the climactic Battle of Hogwarts.  Now that's a literary mash-up I'd like to see...

Next we have Henri Fusseli's "Lady MacBeth somnabule."  The picture does not give justice to the level of Crazy Eyes happening in this picture; the greenish tint to her skin is also harder to see now than it was in person.  But the overall effect of the painting raises the serious question: Why no Zombie MacBeth?  We've had Zombie Pride and Prejudice, surely MacBeth could benefit from the same treatment. Although I guess it might make all the killing a little anti-climactic, since everyone would already be undead.  Still, there's got to be a way.  Someone get on that.

From the Salle de Peintures espagnole et italienne:

Bartolome Esteban Murillo, "Portrait de Inigo Melchor Fernandez de Velasco."  This dude looks like John Galliano, except Spanish, and not a racist turd.

Francisco Goya, "Nature morte a la tete de mouton."  OK, full disclosure, I kind of went through a Goya phase as a teenager after I was assigned to do a project on him for Spanish class.  He started off doing royal family portraits, but after a series of personal tragedies his paintings began to get increasingly darker.  Rotting animal carcass isn't even the tip of his creepy iceburg: google "Saturn Devouring His Son," but only if you never plan on sleeping again.

Juan Carreno de Miranda, "La Messe de l'ordre de Trinitaires," 1666.  "Blessed are the po...no, blingiest.  Yes. And also, it is blasphemy to cover Jesus' nipples.  Even if every other part of him is covered, the holy nipples shall be visible and venerated, like twin, glowing orbs of salvation.  Yes.  We are full of good ideas.  It's a good thing we have these fancy capes so people know how full of good ideas we are."

Giuseppe Maria Crespi, "L'Immaculate Conception avec les saints Ansalme et Martin," 1738.  Ah, the time-honored tradition of burning heretics...

"Ladies and Gentleman, we apologize for your inconvenience, but tonight the role of King David will be played by little Sally Jones, who, incidentally, has not had time to change out of her Orphan Annie costume.  Thank you, and enjoy the performance."

The crowd around the Mona Lisa.

This is the hallway of Italian Renaissance Painting; what you can't see are all the rooms leading off it, with many, many more paintings.  Good thing I've got a while...

Photographic Evidence That I Really Live Here

Success!  Through the valiant efforts of AH, I finally have a phone, and by extension, a camera!  My first subject today was my beloved Montsouris Park and some other places of note in our neighborhood.  Please enjoy, and consider this a supplement to my earlier post on the subject.

Our view of the park from our window

Mila and Natalie!  The Black Swans!

Pastoral Sexy-times

My favorite view of the park

Our house, in the middle of the street...

Our favorite boulangerie.  Why, might you ask?

Because they make the kind of bread that most consistently induces what AH and I call an "Aunt Cheri moment," in honor of his Aunt Cheri, a woman who appreciates all the best things in life, especially great food.  An "Aunt Cheri moment" might more commonly be thought of as a "foodgasm." 

More pictures to come...

So That's...Different.

I cannot wait for visitors.  My mother, father and sister arrive in a few weeks, and some of my friends (you know who you are) have been making some noise about popping over for a spell.  I sincerely hope that you do because a) it means that the bumbling mistakes I make are made in the name of "research" for your benefit and b) ok, fine, I do actually like you.  And so for those of you who plan on coming to see MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris and The Great Glass Pimple for yourself, the following is for your edification and benefit.

Some of the differences between Paris and cities in the States are well-known and much talked-about (soccer=football, the French really love their wine), while other differences like to stick their foot out ever so slightly while you look the other way and knock you on your ass. 

For example:  if I told you I was visiting a department store, what would come to mind?  If you have the same cultural/consumerist context as me, then probably something along the line of Macy's.  And so being that my quest for a spring coat has so far been fruitless (sorry, GAP, but you don't get 100E of my husband's money for a coat that makes any woman with hips look like a lumpy bag of potato chips), I decided to look into the department stores, or grand magasins (literally "big stores"), of Paris.  A little internet research told me that the originals were Printemps and Galleries Lafayette, and that they were architecturally stunning enough to warrant a view whether or not one is interested in handbags.  And so, mentally prepared to spend up to 150E on a new coat, I trekked.

But as it turns out, the grand magasins, unlike Macy's or Dillard's, are not a place to find decently made if slightly uninspired clothes endorsed by B and C-list celebrities.  They are, apparently, where one goes to purchase goods designed by Karl Lagerfield or Marc Jacobs.  And they are large and labyrinth-like, so that even once one has discovered that there is no way one is leaving with a coat for under 600E, one cannot easily find one's way out.  (Of course, by "one"  I mean "me").  Lost among the Prada and Cleef Van Arpels, I secretly thanked the Heavens that it was still winter and that therefore my old shirt from the Jeffersonville, OH, GAP outlet remained hidden beneath my black wool coat.  I put on my best disinterested Parisian face while frantically looking for the exit and hoping that no salesperson would approach me and speak to me in French, thus shattering my poorly crafted illusion.   

My anxiety may seem unwarranted or silly, but it has its base in a very true fact of Parisian life: window-shopping (or leche-vitrines- literally, "licking windows") is encouraged here because if one enters a store, one is expected to buy.  If a salesperson asks if they can help you, you'd better be able to tell him or her what you are looking for- "I'm just looking" ain't going to cut it (ah, that would have been nice back in my days at that Lingerie Company Which Shall Not Be Named).   And there is no way in hell I can afford anything made by Kaiser Karl or any of his couture ilk.  Thus the panic.

Luckily, the grand magasins really are grand and crowded enough that, unlike in a small boutique, no one much bothers you unless you are more seriously investigating the merchandise.  And so I was able to eventually find my way through the couture without breaking or knocking anything over and find the doors.  And what should greet me immediately upon my exit?  H&M.  Ah, sweet, mass-manufactured bliss...

Today in "WTF?!"

....And by "WTF?!" I don't mean "What the France?".

Here is one guy I will not be discussing my opinions on pigeons with:

http://animal.discovery.com/videos/taking-on-tyson-coming-soon.html

Some Gentle Suggestions

So my recent culture shock has not been due only to the fact that I'm in a new country but that I, little Midwestern corn girl that I am, am now in a big city.  And perhaps the biggest adjustment of all is my total reliance on public transportation to get around.  Now don't get me wrong:  I LOOOOVE not having a car.  It is bliss not to have to worry about traffic, gas prices or fire hydrants that just jump out of nowhere (I swear, and it's my word against the fire hydrant's).  But that doesn't mean that I don't occasionally want to give my fellow metro (and occasionally tramway) riders a few, ahem, gentle corrections now and then.  At the top of my list:

.First, and foremost, you cannot continue to claim being a decent human being if you maintain your seat in the presence of someone without who is obviously pregnant, disabled, elderly, carrying heavy bags or besieged by small children.  Of course this does not apply to every sitter in every situation- some people have just been on their feet all day, some may have a disability or illness that isn't readily available to the eye.  But when a pregnant lady is making direct eye contact with you, Mr. Expensive Headphone Guy, you can no longer pretend that you don't see her, and you can't pretend that her need isn't greater than yours.  And thus you will no have excuse when the day of reckoning comes and I smack you about the face and head with said headphones.

.Psst.  Hey.  English isn't a secret language that only you and your twin understand; filter yourself accordingly.

.On a crowded metro, the face of the person standing next to you is not a suitable place to rest your newspaper/magazine/Dan Brown novel; stow it in your bag and go to your mental happy place like the rest of us (I suggest Ryan Reynolds if you need a bit of inspiration).

.If a woman is sitting/standing/existing in a public space by herself, that does not necessarily mean that she wants to talk to you.  I'm not saying that you can't strike up a conversation; by all means, give it a try, she might be looking for a little subterranean flirtation.  But if she gives monosyllabic answers and is giving you some serious bitchface, let it go, friend.  And if you happen to belong that particularly heinous breed of crunchy-headed miscreants that like to do this to women in packs more because you enjoy the power trip of making her uncomfortable than out of any desire to establish a connection, then please go jump off a cliff.  Or, you know, try to think of ladies as people and not as targets.

.If the music playing on your headphones is so loud that I can hear it across the aisle, please don't make it craptastic American hip-hop from 2007.  Either turn it down or put on some show tunes (although, in that case, while you would earn my respect and appreciation, I'm not sure how you'd fare with everyone else around you).

.Hey there, lost looking tourist.  Trust me, I feel you.  The metro can be confusing.  But what will not help you is staring vaguely up at the signage about you in the middle of a high traffic area like, say, the exit to an escalator or at the entrance to a platform where a train has just pulled up and there is a whole slew of people running like they're being chased by angry bulls to make it.  Just step out of the way and ask for help.  If you're lucky, you'll run into a nice, friendly, non-opinionated Midwestern girl like myself to help get you on your way.

AH, The Optimist

Me:  Wow.  There's a guy talking to himself and peeing on a tree.
AH:  Well, at least he's not peeing on you.

The Tally: Third Installment

As soon as AH and I would tell people of our plans to move to Paris, they would 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?


And so the tally currently stands at:


ASSHOLES: 1        NOT ASSHOLES: 3*


After spending two days hibernating, drinking tea, hacking up a lung and dazedly looking at Oscar red carpet photos, I decided to force myself out into the fresh air and sunshine of MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris.  But alas, not even the black swans (which I've mentally christened Natalie and Mila, natch) could convince me that  I wanted to be up and about more than I wanted to be curled up in bed squeezing honey into my mouth to sooth my burning throat.


Being that I haven't been able to undertake more physical stress than walking from the tram to the supermarket and back these last few days, I needed a little break halfway through the park, so I plopped myself down on a bench.  This is when two of the most delightful things about my time in Paris thus far came into my life:  Twisty, followed closely by Annette.  Twisty is a little white dog with a Snoopy sweater, and Annette is her fur turban-wearing, sweet-as-pain au chocolat owner.  Annette let me hold and coddle Twisty ("Twisty, like the dance") and was willing to strike up a conversation with me even though my French is demonstrably terrible.  She worried about me catching cold (too late) because I wasn't wearing socks; she asked if I liked the pastries here; she told me about her children and asked me when I would be having my own (an annoying question from some, it's an ok, even sweet, query from an elderly French woman).  She lamented that her English wasn't better; she has nieces and nephews in Australia, but only sees them a few days a year, so she's out of practice.  I told her not to apologize as her English was much better than my French; she assured me my French would get better with time and practice.  


All of sudden, Twisty stood perfectly at attention; he had spotted his chien amis walking with their owners, Annette's companions.  We bid a biento for now, but Annette assures me that she takes Twisty to the park every day that the weather is nice, so we are sure to meet again.  One more reason to look forward to spring.


*Twisty gets his own tally mark; he truly was, as Annette assured me, un chien gentil.