Strangely enough, we celebrated Thanksgiving -- and ate a traditional meal -- twice in one week!
I have already blogged about the Unitarian Fellowship dinner, but we were fortunate enough to have plans for the actual holiday, as well.
Because nearly all of the students at NYU in France are Americans, the program offers them a Thanksgiving dinner. I RSVPed early so that Bill, Meredith, and my mother (who spent 5 days with us) could all attend. The restaurant where the dinner is held, Sud-Ouest (or Southwest in English), has done so for the past 4 years or so. It's situated a charming old building near the Panthéon, and about 100 of us had dinner together. Well 90 of them had dinner together and about 10 of us were in another room, near the entrance. It worked out fine, actually, since we had room to move around and took Meredith on a couple of tours of the downstairs between courses.
After enjoying a kir (now that's a first for Thanksgiving!), we were served a first course, creamy pumpkin soup that all of us, Meredith included, enjoyed tremendously. Mom and I also chuckled over the retelling of my uncle's infamous pumpkin soup from a Thanksgiving long ago. The short version: it was inedible, and there was enough to choke a horse. We're talking 25 or so years ago now, and it's still part of the family lore.
Following the soup, the main course came out -- turkey with the stuffing rolled inside, doused in gravy, with mashed potatoes and haricots verts (the tiny French green beans).
It was really great! They even brought out little dishes of warm lingonberry sauce, as close to cranberry sauce as they could muster, and a fine substitute at that.
During the obligatory French break between courses (extended due the fact that so many people were being served at once), my acting teacher, Cécile, came up and stole Meredith away for a while. They both seemed to get a kick out of that. Then came dessert -- ice cream! An unconventional end to the Thanksgiving meal, but a light and delicious one all the same. I had never had this type of ice cream before; it was served in oblong slices and had what looked to be candied fruit mixed into it, but all I could taste were some ground nuts and a raspberry sauce that accompanied the ice cream. Very tasty.
By that time is was at least 10:30 p.m. (the dinner was called for 8 o'clock, after all the university classes had ended), so we scurried home to get Meredith to bed, missing the coffee that would have been served last, after dessert. Some things the French just can't compromise on!
On a slightly more serious note, I have been filled with gratitude of late. I feel extraordinarily fortunate to be here in Paris with my family, to have the opportunity to teach a literature course on the University level, to enjoy good health and good times. My life is very rich, and I am trying hard not to take it for granted! May it always be so...
Sunday, December 7, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
A Unitarian (or several) in Paris
[Hmmm.. why is it an American but a Unitarian?]
The Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship of Paris is a hardy group. Boasting a core membership of permanent residents (or close to it), the Fellowship welcomes those who, like us, find themselves here for a shorter stay, or one of indeterminate length.
Virtually everyone is an expat. There are some French spouses of American expats, to be sure, but from undergraduates studying abroad to faculty families and others here on business of one kind or another, it’s mostly a question of “Where are you from?” with the answer of “Somewhere in the States.” A nice geographical mix, however – there are people from the Northeast, the South, the Midwest, the Pacific Northwest, California, really all over. Just all over America.
As a Fellowship, this group relies on its membership to stay afloat and do practically everything. A guest speaker delivers the sermon at each of the monthly services, which are held in a lovely (protestant) church building not far from the Bastille. The UUs take over after the “others” have finished worshipping. There are the paid staff – the organist and the baby sitter. Everything else – flower arranging, photocopying, newsletter, book group, moving of chairs and tables, etc. – is done by the congregation. There’s a charming informality about this kind of group, and the dedication of the ongoing membership is noteworthy.
The services include a chalice lighting (the Fellowship chalice, designed by one of the members, looks a bit like the Eiffel Tower), group singing of hymns, the sharing of joys and concerns, a children’s story, offering, sermon, announcements… the whole bit. There’s a bit less time for personal reflection or prayer than there might be, but the spirit of this fellowship speaks to my old UU soul. It’s good to sing together, to be invited to share a sacred time together, to associate with others who choose to associate in a faith community like this one. I’m sorry we’re only called to worship once a month!
We’ve been to all three services this fall, and have felt welcome and welcomed each time. I contributed some banana bread to the October fellowship hour (the snacks are rather substantial, since everyone is hungry at 1:30 when the service wraps up!). Sunday’s service was followed by a lovely and delicious Thanksgiving dinner – we all chipped in for the turkeys, and had a pot luck for the rest of the meal. It’s the first Thanksgiving at which I’ve enjoyed a cheese course! And of course, the wine was delicious. One diner was bemoaning the lack of gravy available, since the turkeys were cooked on a rotisserie, but that was the only complaint I heard. We had both pumpkin and pecan pie -- miam! miam! (That's French for yum! yum!)
Meredith (surprise!) loves going to church, where she can play with some different kids and do some arts and crafts, or just scribble. There are a couple of other young children, a few school-age kids, and a nice size youth group that has attracted some French teenagers as well as the aforementioned expat community.
The Paris fellowship is well connected in the UU European Union, and a good number of “us” attended the fall UUEU retreat in Germany. The reviews were uniformly positive, leading us to consider attending the spring retreat, which will be held in Belgium at the end of April.
Next month, after the service, the fellowship will sponsor a Holiday Bazaar. Perhaps we’ll do a bit of Christmas shopping there! In the mean time, we’ll reflect on the November gathering and make room in our busy calendar for the December service.
The Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship of Paris is a hardy group. Boasting a core membership of permanent residents (or close to it), the Fellowship welcomes those who, like us, find themselves here for a shorter stay, or one of indeterminate length.
Virtually everyone is an expat. There are some French spouses of American expats, to be sure, but from undergraduates studying abroad to faculty families and others here on business of one kind or another, it’s mostly a question of “Where are you from?” with the answer of “Somewhere in the States.” A nice geographical mix, however – there are people from the Northeast, the South, the Midwest, the Pacific Northwest, California, really all over. Just all over America.
As a Fellowship, this group relies on its membership to stay afloat and do practically everything. A guest speaker delivers the sermon at each of the monthly services, which are held in a lovely (protestant) church building not far from the Bastille. The UUs take over after the “others” have finished worshipping. There are the paid staff – the organist and the baby sitter. Everything else – flower arranging, photocopying, newsletter, book group, moving of chairs and tables, etc. – is done by the congregation. There’s a charming informality about this kind of group, and the dedication of the ongoing membership is noteworthy.
The services include a chalice lighting (the Fellowship chalice, designed by one of the members, looks a bit like the Eiffel Tower), group singing of hymns, the sharing of joys and concerns, a children’s story, offering, sermon, announcements… the whole bit. There’s a bit less time for personal reflection or prayer than there might be, but the spirit of this fellowship speaks to my old UU soul. It’s good to sing together, to be invited to share a sacred time together, to associate with others who choose to associate in a faith community like this one. I’m sorry we’re only called to worship once a month!
We’ve been to all three services this fall, and have felt welcome and welcomed each time. I contributed some banana bread to the October fellowship hour (the snacks are rather substantial, since everyone is hungry at 1:30 when the service wraps up!). Sunday’s service was followed by a lovely and delicious Thanksgiving dinner – we all chipped in for the turkeys, and had a pot luck for the rest of the meal. It’s the first Thanksgiving at which I’ve enjoyed a cheese course! And of course, the wine was delicious. One diner was bemoaning the lack of gravy available, since the turkeys were cooked on a rotisserie, but that was the only complaint I heard. We had both pumpkin and pecan pie -- miam! miam! (That's French for yum! yum!)
Meredith (surprise!) loves going to church, where she can play with some different kids and do some arts and crafts, or just scribble. There are a couple of other young children, a few school-age kids, and a nice size youth group that has attracted some French teenagers as well as the aforementioned expat community.
The Paris fellowship is well connected in the UU European Union, and a good number of “us” attended the fall UUEU retreat in Germany. The reviews were uniformly positive, leading us to consider attending the spring retreat, which will be held in Belgium at the end of April.
Next month, after the service, the fellowship will sponsor a Holiday Bazaar. Perhaps we’ll do a bit of Christmas shopping there! In the mean time, we’ll reflect on the November gathering and make room in our busy calendar for the December service.
Something else I like about Paris...
25 cent Chocolate Mousse from the grocery store. Mmm, mmm, good!!
Friday, November 21, 2003
Something Nouveau
Yesterday, the 20th, was a big day in France, nearing an unofficial national holiday. It has spread internationally to a certain degree, and it has become more popular in the U.S. I speak of the annual wine harvest, harbingered by the coordinated and orchestrated rollout of the Beaujolais Nouveau, or New Wine. (There are actually new wines coming from a number of grape-growing regions of France, but Beaujolais is by far the most prominent.) Now, connoisseurs and many other French people turn up their noses at the new wine celebration, insisting that they would never touch the stuff. To them, it's pretend wine, not fit for drinking, and they will wait for the more aged and full-bodied wines that will be available in the coming months. But for those of us with a less sophisticated palate, or a natural affinity for light-tasting red wine, this is a good time. In the States, one name is synonymous with the Beaujolais Nouveau. Yep, good ole Georges Debuœf. This has more to do with pure marketing skill and power than anything else. However, I've yet to see a bottle from his vineyards here in Paris. A quick trip to the supermarket turns up 10 different brands from little vineyards you've never heard of but have been in business since the 18th century. The prices, from the supermarket to the specialty wine shops, are remarkably consistent. Nothing lower than 4€ and nothing higher than 5€.
Whatever your feelings are about young wines, this year portends to be extraordinary across the winemaking spectrum. The late-summer heatwave here in France that resulted in more than 15,000 deaths (and that mercifully ended about 2 weeks before we arrived) was torturous according to our friends who have been living here. This is a Country Without Air-Conditioning, and is just not far enough south for the people to be accustomed to the heat. It wrecked whole crops of fruits and vegetables. But for the vintners, it was a godsend. Unlike other fruit crops, the winemakers hope for a lot of rain early on in the summer, and then hot and dry for an extended period later on. And that is exactly what they got. The heat and lack of rain late in the summer means a lower yield in terms of quantity. But the grapes that made it through will have more intense flavor and character, and will become some truly spectacular wines. They are already predicting that this will be the best year for wines in the last 50 years. So it's likely that even those maligned Nouveaus are going to be exceptionally good. Salud!
Whatever your feelings are about young wines, this year portends to be extraordinary across the winemaking spectrum. The late-summer heatwave here in France that resulted in more than 15,000 deaths (and that mercifully ended about 2 weeks before we arrived) was torturous according to our friends who have been living here. This is a Country Without Air-Conditioning, and is just not far enough south for the people to be accustomed to the heat. It wrecked whole crops of fruits and vegetables. But for the vintners, it was a godsend. Unlike other fruit crops, the winemakers hope for a lot of rain early on in the summer, and then hot and dry for an extended period later on. And that is exactly what they got. The heat and lack of rain late in the summer means a lower yield in terms of quantity. But the grapes that made it through will have more intense flavor and character, and will become some truly spectacular wines. They are already predicting that this will be the best year for wines in the last 50 years. So it's likely that even those maligned Nouveaus are going to be exceptionally good. Salud!
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
A Personal Ad
I have to admit it, Personal Shopping is a marvelous thing. Bill set me up with an appointment as a birthday present, so I showed up yesterday afternoon at the Galéries Lafayette (one of Paris’ famous grands magasins) to find out what it was all about, and hopefully find some pants that fit me in this country!
After waiting for maybe three minutes, Isabelle came over and introduced herself, then showed me to a private, heavily mirrored dressing room with lots of bars on the walls to hang clothes on. Two bright pink chairs amounted to all the furniture in the room, in which we sat, and she asked me a few questions. What colors do I like or dislike? What size am I, approximately (ugh, at a 40/42, I am at the top of “regular” women’s clothing in this country. The French really are smaller than they may appear on tv!) How am I looking to enhance my wardrobe? What is my goal? (That answer could have gone on for a while, then I realized she meant my goal for the afternoon.) And, what kind of budget are we working within? This was a key question, actually, because one item from Louis Vuitton or Chanel could have cleaned me out. So, I told her how I really like green, with pink and purple coming in after that, how I haven’t been able to find a decent pair of jeans in 2 ½ months, and that I have a lot of neutral colors and solids in my wardrobe and would really like to expand into some florals or other patterns. Living in New York, black on black on black seems to be the most common and easiest way to go. I remember being glad to have a brown winter coat that I could wear with a brown and black scarf and brown gloves, just to be a little bit creative. There’s certainly room for growth in that area!
Here in Paris, women tend to wear more colorful clothing on the whole, and they are much more interested in expressing femininity in their wardrobes. So, after bringing me a coffee, Isabelle left me alone in my dressing room for maybe 15 minutes, probably less. She returned with an armload of clothes – some separates, a bunch of blouses and tops, two jackets, and several pairs of blue jeans and black pants. I tried on the separates with a button-down – everything was gorgeous. That’s when Isabelle told me I should make an appointment with one of their beauty consultants, because I have nice skin, a beautiful mouth, and a lovely smile, but my eyebrows are much too heavy and I have to have a better haircut and to cover the grey hairs. No pussy-footing around here!!! Well, okay then, the separates were great, and I loved the scarf she selected to go with them (grey with a darker grey paisley print and small sequins on the ends).
I looked at one price tag, for a jacket, and gasped. “Vous n’êtes pas obligée du tout (You are not at all obliged),” said Isabelle. A lambswool and angora sweater coat was a much better deal, and part of the Galéries Lafayette exclusive line. Cool!
Then I tried several pairs of black pants that for a variety of reasons were no good. One pair that Isabelle really liked on me left me cold. “Non, non,” she said, watching my face, “ça ne vous plait pas (You don't like it)” and she whisked it right out of the room. Similar story with the jeans, that she thought were great but I thought seemed way out of style, between the high waist, the extended yoke, and the pegged shape.
Around this time, Bill called. “Faîtes-le vous voir (Make him come see you)!” insisted Isabelle. “You are a new Catherine!” Isabelle disappeared for another 10 minutes, instructing me to try on some more tops in the mean time. I liked practically all of them – a sheer floral, a green and black t-shirt with scalloped sleeves, a pink, grey, and white button down with ¾ length sleeves, a turtleneck with a patented (!) design, a patchwork-type button-down with sheer fabric offset by red and blue striped trim, a black v-neck t-shirt with lace on the neck and sleeves, just a terrific variety of items.
After Bill arrived, Isabelle returned with more jeans and more black pants, saying “I think we are almost done here, Catherine.” She got me a Perrier and Bill a pot of tea, and I kept on trying things on. A pair of low-rise Calvin Kleins in a dark blue denim with a hint of stretch looked great (“look in the mirror at your bottom – it is beautiful!”), and then there were a couple of pairs of black pants that were nice, but didn’t flatter as much as Isabelle wanted them to. After I narrowed down my choices, Isabelle called in the alteration girl, who agreed with me that the sleeves on everything were just fine, I just needed some length taken off the pants. This adjustment indicates that a French woman who wears my size (about a US 8) would normally be about an inch taller than me (and I was wearing heels). See what I mean about the sizing? Anyway, one pair of pants needed to be nipped a little, too. Isabelle wanted to make sure I was very happy with the items, of course, and reminded me that I’d be happier wearing them if they fit properly.
By this time, she had already told me what a nice bosom I had, and how I should never wear jeans and sneakers, and that I needed to get some high, pointy, very feminine shoes. I’m not sure I’ll be following her advice on that, but I will admit I unbuttoned one more button than I normally would when I put on that ¾ sleeve oxford shirt this morning…
After waiting for maybe three minutes, Isabelle came over and introduced herself, then showed me to a private, heavily mirrored dressing room with lots of bars on the walls to hang clothes on. Two bright pink chairs amounted to all the furniture in the room, in which we sat, and she asked me a few questions. What colors do I like or dislike? What size am I, approximately (ugh, at a 40/42, I am at the top of “regular” women’s clothing in this country. The French really are smaller than they may appear on tv!) How am I looking to enhance my wardrobe? What is my goal? (That answer could have gone on for a while, then I realized she meant my goal for the afternoon.) And, what kind of budget are we working within? This was a key question, actually, because one item from Louis Vuitton or Chanel could have cleaned me out. So, I told her how I really like green, with pink and purple coming in after that, how I haven’t been able to find a decent pair of jeans in 2 ½ months, and that I have a lot of neutral colors and solids in my wardrobe and would really like to expand into some florals or other patterns. Living in New York, black on black on black seems to be the most common and easiest way to go. I remember being glad to have a brown winter coat that I could wear with a brown and black scarf and brown gloves, just to be a little bit creative. There’s certainly room for growth in that area!
Here in Paris, women tend to wear more colorful clothing on the whole, and they are much more interested in expressing femininity in their wardrobes. So, after bringing me a coffee, Isabelle left me alone in my dressing room for maybe 15 minutes, probably less. She returned with an armload of clothes – some separates, a bunch of blouses and tops, two jackets, and several pairs of blue jeans and black pants. I tried on the separates with a button-down – everything was gorgeous. That’s when Isabelle told me I should make an appointment with one of their beauty consultants, because I have nice skin, a beautiful mouth, and a lovely smile, but my eyebrows are much too heavy and I have to have a better haircut and to cover the grey hairs. No pussy-footing around here!!! Well, okay then, the separates were great, and I loved the scarf she selected to go with them (grey with a darker grey paisley print and small sequins on the ends).
I looked at one price tag, for a jacket, and gasped. “Vous n’êtes pas obligée du tout (You are not at all obliged),” said Isabelle. A lambswool and angora sweater coat was a much better deal, and part of the Galéries Lafayette exclusive line. Cool!
Then I tried several pairs of black pants that for a variety of reasons were no good. One pair that Isabelle really liked on me left me cold. “Non, non,” she said, watching my face, “ça ne vous plait pas (You don't like it)” and she whisked it right out of the room. Similar story with the jeans, that she thought were great but I thought seemed way out of style, between the high waist, the extended yoke, and the pegged shape.
Around this time, Bill called. “Faîtes-le vous voir (Make him come see you)!” insisted Isabelle. “You are a new Catherine!” Isabelle disappeared for another 10 minutes, instructing me to try on some more tops in the mean time. I liked practically all of them – a sheer floral, a green and black t-shirt with scalloped sleeves, a pink, grey, and white button down with ¾ length sleeves, a turtleneck with a patented (!) design, a patchwork-type button-down with sheer fabric offset by red and blue striped trim, a black v-neck t-shirt with lace on the neck and sleeves, just a terrific variety of items.
After Bill arrived, Isabelle returned with more jeans and more black pants, saying “I think we are almost done here, Catherine.” She got me a Perrier and Bill a pot of tea, and I kept on trying things on. A pair of low-rise Calvin Kleins in a dark blue denim with a hint of stretch looked great (“look in the mirror at your bottom – it is beautiful!”), and then there were a couple of pairs of black pants that were nice, but didn’t flatter as much as Isabelle wanted them to. After I narrowed down my choices, Isabelle called in the alteration girl, who agreed with me that the sleeves on everything were just fine, I just needed some length taken off the pants. This adjustment indicates that a French woman who wears my size (about a US 8) would normally be about an inch taller than me (and I was wearing heels). See what I mean about the sizing? Anyway, one pair of pants needed to be nipped a little, too. Isabelle wanted to make sure I was very happy with the items, of course, and reminded me that I’d be happier wearing them if they fit properly.
By this time, she had already told me what a nice bosom I had, and how I should never wear jeans and sneakers, and that I needed to get some high, pointy, very feminine shoes. I’m not sure I’ll be following her advice on that, but I will admit I unbuttoned one more button than I normally would when I put on that ¾ sleeve oxford shirt this morning…
Sunday, November 9, 2003
The London Blog (Part II)
London, Day 2 -- Sarah’s Birthday!
Well, to say we slept well would be a big understatement! There’s not much morning left as we arrive at the London Zoo, which proved to be a great way to spend the day with Meredith. She’s a big fan of the Bronx Zoo, but didn’t voice any displeasure at the “old school” structure of this much older model. We spent a good amount of time with the monkeys, chimps, and an enormous gorilla, then headed to see the tigers (one of Meredith’s requests) and a new exhibit called The Web of Life that endeavours to explain the concept of an ecosystem to young and old alike. Meredith loved this, especially when we got to see some clown fish (Nemo and his dad, Marlin) and a blue tang (Dory).
She taught us a song with hand motions:
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent nagent nagent nagent
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent comme les gros*
Les gros et les petits
Il nagent bien aussi!
(*since we returned, Meredith has corrected us on this. The lyric is actually
Nagent si bien que les gros)
The Zoo was sponsoring some Halloween-oriented activities, including a make-your-own spider project that Meredith dove right into. After a wild goose chase to find the baby pandas (would that be a wild panda chase?), which did get us to the lion’s den and to see the sloth bears in their big habitat, we enjoyed some marvelous, freshly-made donuts. Delicious!
I have to say that I never heard a lion roar in person before, and something inspired one of these English lions to unleash in full voice. Truly blood-curdling!
We said hello to the flamingoes, three giraffes, and some gorgeous owls before getting back on a bus to get some lunch and a nap, and to get ready for the big soirée!
A group of Sarah’s pals arrived to help celebrate her birthday. Most of them are grad students in counseling psych, as is she. We enjoyed several hours of conversation and snacking and even managed to get Meredith to bed at fairly reasonable hour. Sarah’s former roommate, Silvia, stayed until the wee hours of the morning. She’s from Spain, but speaks excellent English, and is clearly a dear friend and a convivial personality. I’m very glad to have met her, and Sarah’s other friends, too. Can’t remember the last time we stayed up that late!
London, Day Three
Poor Sarah, she had to get up and go to work at 10 in the morning! We had the luxury of sleeping in, fatigue compounded by the dreary weather – our dose of London rain for the visit. Slowly, slowly, we got ourselves ready, stopped in to see Sarah, who was very busy at the optician’s where she works, got some breakfast at Starbucks (a US phenom that has not yet made it to France, and given the café culture here, probably never will), and took the underground to Baker Street, where we embarked on a ½ day double-decker bus tour of the city. Our guide for the majority of the trip was both knowledgeable and witty, making priceless remarks about the Morris dancers in Trafalgar Square, London bobbies, and the ongoing unofficial postal strike (“When in residence at Buckingham Palace, the Queen receives her mail by horse-drawn carriage. The rest of us, on the other hand, don’t receive our mail at all.”).
A bizarre occurrence prevented us from crossing the famous Tower Bridge. Apparently, a single man dressed in a Spiderman outfit selected this particular day to climb up on a crane at one end of the bridge so that he could unfurl a banner in support of fathers’ participation in joint custody cases. Why Spiderman? Why climb up a crane? Why today? Oh well.
We got off the bus and boarded a boat (cruise included in our bus tour ticket price), for an hour-long ride along the Thames. As the sun set, we got a better look at Big Ben, the Tower of London, and assorted other sights. After the tour, we got back to our original location, Picadilly Circus to pick up some souvenirs before heading back to Golder’s Green.
Tired and hungry, we were thrilled to get back to Sarah’s and find that she had made a big pot of delicious lentil soup. We ate well, packed up our stuff, and spent the evening just hanging out. Getting to bed early was a welcome treat, especially since we had to get up early to catch our 7:40 Eurostar back to Paris…
A brief visit, but filled with pleasant activities, lots of buses, and many views of Big Ben!
We sincerely hope that Sarah will come spend a weekend with us in Paris in the spring so that we can return the favor!
Well, to say we slept well would be a big understatement! There’s not much morning left as we arrive at the London Zoo, which proved to be a great way to spend the day with Meredith. She’s a big fan of the Bronx Zoo, but didn’t voice any displeasure at the “old school” structure of this much older model. We spent a good amount of time with the monkeys, chimps, and an enormous gorilla, then headed to see the tigers (one of Meredith’s requests) and a new exhibit called The Web of Life that endeavours to explain the concept of an ecosystem to young and old alike. Meredith loved this, especially when we got to see some clown fish (Nemo and his dad, Marlin) and a blue tang (Dory).
She taught us a song with hand motions:
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent nagent nagent nagent
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent comme les gros*
Les gros et les petits
Il nagent bien aussi!
(*since we returned, Meredith has corrected us on this. The lyric is actually
Nagent si bien que les gros)
The Zoo was sponsoring some Halloween-oriented activities, including a make-your-own spider project that Meredith dove right into. After a wild goose chase to find the baby pandas (would that be a wild panda chase?), which did get us to the lion’s den and to see the sloth bears in their big habitat, we enjoyed some marvelous, freshly-made donuts. Delicious!
I have to say that I never heard a lion roar in person before, and something inspired one of these English lions to unleash in full voice. Truly blood-curdling!
We said hello to the flamingoes, three giraffes, and some gorgeous owls before getting back on a bus to get some lunch and a nap, and to get ready for the big soirée!
A group of Sarah’s pals arrived to help celebrate her birthday. Most of them are grad students in counseling psych, as is she. We enjoyed several hours of conversation and snacking and even managed to get Meredith to bed at fairly reasonable hour. Sarah’s former roommate, Silvia, stayed until the wee hours of the morning. She’s from Spain, but speaks excellent English, and is clearly a dear friend and a convivial personality. I’m very glad to have met her, and Sarah’s other friends, too. Can’t remember the last time we stayed up that late!
London, Day Three
Poor Sarah, she had to get up and go to work at 10 in the morning! We had the luxury of sleeping in, fatigue compounded by the dreary weather – our dose of London rain for the visit. Slowly, slowly, we got ourselves ready, stopped in to see Sarah, who was very busy at the optician’s where she works, got some breakfast at Starbucks (a US phenom that has not yet made it to France, and given the café culture here, probably never will), and took the underground to Baker Street, where we embarked on a ½ day double-decker bus tour of the city. Our guide for the majority of the trip was both knowledgeable and witty, making priceless remarks about the Morris dancers in Trafalgar Square, London bobbies, and the ongoing unofficial postal strike (“When in residence at Buckingham Palace, the Queen receives her mail by horse-drawn carriage. The rest of us, on the other hand, don’t receive our mail at all.”).
A bizarre occurrence prevented us from crossing the famous Tower Bridge. Apparently, a single man dressed in a Spiderman outfit selected this particular day to climb up on a crane at one end of the bridge so that he could unfurl a banner in support of fathers’ participation in joint custody cases. Why Spiderman? Why climb up a crane? Why today? Oh well.
We got off the bus and boarded a boat (cruise included in our bus tour ticket price), for an hour-long ride along the Thames. As the sun set, we got a better look at Big Ben, the Tower of London, and assorted other sights. After the tour, we got back to our original location, Picadilly Circus to pick up some souvenirs before heading back to Golder’s Green.
Tired and hungry, we were thrilled to get back to Sarah’s and find that she had made a big pot of delicious lentil soup. We ate well, packed up our stuff, and spent the evening just hanging out. Getting to bed early was a welcome treat, especially since we had to get up early to catch our 7:40 Eurostar back to Paris…
A brief visit, but filled with pleasant activities, lots of buses, and many views of Big Ben!
We sincerely hope that Sarah will come spend a weekend with us in Paris in the spring so that we can return the favor!
The London Blog (Part I)
Hallow-London Express
Friday 31 October: Wake up MUCH too early to numbly dress, get Meredith up and at ‘em and into the stroller, and make our way through pre-dawn Paris. It’s a 15-minute walk to the Gare du Nord, and we find our way to the Eurostar check-in. At 6 a.m., the place is mobbed – apparently, the Eurostar people aren’t checking anyone in yet. We dutifully find the end of the line, good Americans that we are, and before long we’re moving. Of course, just as we’re getting to the actual check-in point they allow a whole bunch of people to skip ahead of us. On the up side, a friendly staff member sees that we have a child with us and lets us move along quickly.
We’ve barely gotten settled into a group of facing seats in the center of one car when the “doors are closing” announcement is made. Meredith is a bit too excited to sleep, and especially once the sun comes up, we know a nap is out of the question. Fortunately, we had picked up some small games and toys for her at a variety store in our neighborhood, which serve as entertainment for much of the journey. Breakfast helps, too. Bill goes to the dining car and gets us croissants, yogurt, and beverages. Remarkably good croissants, actually!
One of the activities we got for Meredith is a puzzle map of France. She has a similar one of the USA that we left back home, but of course we are much less familiar with the outlines of the regions of France than we are of the 50 states, and there are no dividing lines underneath the pieces to guide us, so we all learned some more about our foster home en route to London. Actually, Bill and Meredith learned a good deal more; I got to doze a bit!
We arrive in London just about on time, make sure to get our passports stamped, and wend our way into the Underground (or Tube) here at Waterloo station. Rather ironic that the trains from France should come to Waterloo, but whatever. Convenient vending machines and good directions from Sarah, coupled with a friendly (English-speaking, of course!) London transit worker get us onto the Northern Line in the right direction. Due to track work (there was a derailment a few days prior), we are forced to change trains anyway, but we get to Golder’s Green with few problems.
The London Underground is clean and quiet. The train platforms themselves seem much smaller than those in NYC and Paris, and the trains themselves are shaped like tubes. Bill had to duck his head getting on and off the trains – they are quite curved! The seats are upholstered and they are divided by arm rests, very comfortable.
We follow Sarah’s walking directions from the bustling station (and bus depot) into a pleasant, leafy, residential neighborhood. She welcomes us warmly, of course – it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her, much more since Bill has – and helps us unload our stuff from the stroller, etc. Meredith about jumps into her arms, which makes all of us very happy. Sarah has to leave for school (she’s a grad student in counseling psych), but she gives us the lowdown on traveling and lunch options and entrusts us with the only set of keys to her place.
Sarah lives in a quite spacious studio apartment. A full bath, walk-in closet, and well-equipped kitchen are all adjacent to a comfortably-sized main room, which accommodates a desk and chair, futon, coffee table, 2 arm chairs, a dining table with three chairs, an armoir, bookcases, and other assorted stuff. The beauty part, we realize, is that Meredith is the perfect size to sleep in the walk-in closet, which even has a little window. In some respects, this layout is preferable to what we have in Paris. Who would have thought?
After Sarah’s departure, we spend some time deciding where to go. I suggest Picadilly Circus, since it’s central and always hopping, sort of like Times Square. We discuss the fact that there’s no such location in Paris. For all of its beautiful buildings, parks, theaters, and museums, there’s just no “downtown” Paris. Anyway, we get back on the tube and emerge into the crowds, drift around Leicester Square and are treated to a “performance” by the Swiss Bank glockenspiel, which is quite elaborate and plays such favorites as “In Dublin’s Fair City” and “Michelle, ma belle.” (I’m not kidding.) We decided we’re hungry and want to eat fish and chips. We find none. We buy a map. We wander around some more. We end up in Chinatown. There’s a place with a buffet that looks reasonable and good, but the seating is a flight up from the food, which seems like a bad configuration for a 3-year-old. No problem, they say, we have another restaurant.
Don’t know the address, says the proprietor, but it’s right by the Odeon. Can’t miss it.
Thirty minutes later, we finally come across the sister restaurant. We are cranky. There are no seats inside on the main level, says the host, but I can put you downstairs. Same shit, different restaurant. How about if we sit outside? I think, desperate to eat. “If you could just wipe off the chairs, they’re wet…” I say to the host. “Cool down,” he says. “We’ve been trying to find your restaurant for a half-hour,” I say. He waves me off. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. We eat at a tiny Chinese place next door where the staff is very friendly and lovely with Meredith. C’est la guerre, I suppose.
Meredith has been promised ice cream for dessert, and Sarah mentioned the Baskin-Robbins on the main strip near her house, so we tube it back to Golder’s Green for a cone (Mer) and two cups (Mom and Dad) at good ol’ BR. Then it’s back to Sarah’s for a nap. We are sound asleep when she gets back from work, but rise to the occasion, get dressed, put Meredith in her bear outfit, and get ready for Halloween in London!
We take a series of city buses all around town. Sarah knows the bus routes extremely well, and we have by that time purchased all-day transit passes that more than pay for themselves. We see the Thames, its banks alit. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye (a big ferris-wheel contraption that British Airways put in for the millennium), Picadilly Circus (again), and downtown shopping with the earliest signs of Christmas decoration (Wedgewood’s window features enormous ornaments made from dishes and cutlery – quite beautiful and cleverly done!). We walk across the Golden Jubilee bridge, where Meredith encounters another little girl in costume. This girl wriggles out of her coat to show us that not only is she dressed as a fairy, she also has wings! We are much appreciative. That’s about it as far as costumed people go, apart from the drunk collecting money for the homeless who had vampire teeth and ghost stickers on his cheeks. He approaches us as we’re waiting for one of the buses involved in our tour, and Meredith is initially afraid, but she’s all right once he takes the fake teeth out.
We return to Golder’s Green around 10 p.m., tired and hungry and ready to get those fish and chips. Bill stays to take them away (in London, you take away rather than take out), while Sarah, Meredith and I go home to get into our pyjamas, or to get Meredith into hers, anyway. The fish is extraordinarily good – very fresh, very crispy, very tasty. The chips – England’s answer to frites – are a pale comparison to the French version, but decent nonetheless. After dinner, we get Meredith’s teeth brushed and Aunt Sarah tells her a very long and entertaining bedtime story. We’re bushed, but it’s been a fun day.
Friday 31 October: Wake up MUCH too early to numbly dress, get Meredith up and at ‘em and into the stroller, and make our way through pre-dawn Paris. It’s a 15-minute walk to the Gare du Nord, and we find our way to the Eurostar check-in. At 6 a.m., the place is mobbed – apparently, the Eurostar people aren’t checking anyone in yet. We dutifully find the end of the line, good Americans that we are, and before long we’re moving. Of course, just as we’re getting to the actual check-in point they allow a whole bunch of people to skip ahead of us. On the up side, a friendly staff member sees that we have a child with us and lets us move along quickly.
We’ve barely gotten settled into a group of facing seats in the center of one car when the “doors are closing” announcement is made. Meredith is a bit too excited to sleep, and especially once the sun comes up, we know a nap is out of the question. Fortunately, we had picked up some small games and toys for her at a variety store in our neighborhood, which serve as entertainment for much of the journey. Breakfast helps, too. Bill goes to the dining car and gets us croissants, yogurt, and beverages. Remarkably good croissants, actually!
One of the activities we got for Meredith is a puzzle map of France. She has a similar one of the USA that we left back home, but of course we are much less familiar with the outlines of the regions of France than we are of the 50 states, and there are no dividing lines underneath the pieces to guide us, so we all learned some more about our foster home en route to London. Actually, Bill and Meredith learned a good deal more; I got to doze a bit!
We arrive in London just about on time, make sure to get our passports stamped, and wend our way into the Underground (or Tube) here at Waterloo station. Rather ironic that the trains from France should come to Waterloo, but whatever. Convenient vending machines and good directions from Sarah, coupled with a friendly (English-speaking, of course!) London transit worker get us onto the Northern Line in the right direction. Due to track work (there was a derailment a few days prior), we are forced to change trains anyway, but we get to Golder’s Green with few problems.
The London Underground is clean and quiet. The train platforms themselves seem much smaller than those in NYC and Paris, and the trains themselves are shaped like tubes. Bill had to duck his head getting on and off the trains – they are quite curved! The seats are upholstered and they are divided by arm rests, very comfortable.
We follow Sarah’s walking directions from the bustling station (and bus depot) into a pleasant, leafy, residential neighborhood. She welcomes us warmly, of course – it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her, much more since Bill has – and helps us unload our stuff from the stroller, etc. Meredith about jumps into her arms, which makes all of us very happy. Sarah has to leave for school (she’s a grad student in counseling psych), but she gives us the lowdown on traveling and lunch options and entrusts us with the only set of keys to her place.
Sarah lives in a quite spacious studio apartment. A full bath, walk-in closet, and well-equipped kitchen are all adjacent to a comfortably-sized main room, which accommodates a desk and chair, futon, coffee table, 2 arm chairs, a dining table with three chairs, an armoir, bookcases, and other assorted stuff. The beauty part, we realize, is that Meredith is the perfect size to sleep in the walk-in closet, which even has a little window. In some respects, this layout is preferable to what we have in Paris. Who would have thought?
After Sarah’s departure, we spend some time deciding where to go. I suggest Picadilly Circus, since it’s central and always hopping, sort of like Times Square. We discuss the fact that there’s no such location in Paris. For all of its beautiful buildings, parks, theaters, and museums, there’s just no “downtown” Paris. Anyway, we get back on the tube and emerge into the crowds, drift around Leicester Square and are treated to a “performance” by the Swiss Bank glockenspiel, which is quite elaborate and plays such favorites as “In Dublin’s Fair City” and “Michelle, ma belle.” (I’m not kidding.) We decided we’re hungry and want to eat fish and chips. We find none. We buy a map. We wander around some more. We end up in Chinatown. There’s a place with a buffet that looks reasonable and good, but the seating is a flight up from the food, which seems like a bad configuration for a 3-year-old. No problem, they say, we have another restaurant.
Don’t know the address, says the proprietor, but it’s right by the Odeon. Can’t miss it.
Thirty minutes later, we finally come across the sister restaurant. We are cranky. There are no seats inside on the main level, says the host, but I can put you downstairs. Same shit, different restaurant. How about if we sit outside? I think, desperate to eat. “If you could just wipe off the chairs, they’re wet…” I say to the host. “Cool down,” he says. “We’ve been trying to find your restaurant for a half-hour,” I say. He waves me off. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. We eat at a tiny Chinese place next door where the staff is very friendly and lovely with Meredith. C’est la guerre, I suppose.
Meredith has been promised ice cream for dessert, and Sarah mentioned the Baskin-Robbins on the main strip near her house, so we tube it back to Golder’s Green for a cone (Mer) and two cups (Mom and Dad) at good ol’ BR. Then it’s back to Sarah’s for a nap. We are sound asleep when she gets back from work, but rise to the occasion, get dressed, put Meredith in her bear outfit, and get ready for Halloween in London!
We take a series of city buses all around town. Sarah knows the bus routes extremely well, and we have by that time purchased all-day transit passes that more than pay for themselves. We see the Thames, its banks alit. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye (a big ferris-wheel contraption that British Airways put in for the millennium), Picadilly Circus (again), and downtown shopping with the earliest signs of Christmas decoration (Wedgewood’s window features enormous ornaments made from dishes and cutlery – quite beautiful and cleverly done!). We walk across the Golden Jubilee bridge, where Meredith encounters another little girl in costume. This girl wriggles out of her coat to show us that not only is she dressed as a fairy, she also has wings! We are much appreciative. That’s about it as far as costumed people go, apart from the drunk collecting money for the homeless who had vampire teeth and ghost stickers on his cheeks. He approaches us as we’re waiting for one of the buses involved in our tour, and Meredith is initially afraid, but she’s all right once he takes the fake teeth out.
We return to Golder’s Green around 10 p.m., tired and hungry and ready to get those fish and chips. Bill stays to take them away (in London, you take away rather than take out), while Sarah, Meredith and I go home to get into our pyjamas, or to get Meredith into hers, anyway. The fish is extraordinarily good – very fresh, very crispy, very tasty. The chips – England’s answer to frites – are a pale comparison to the French version, but decent nonetheless. After dinner, we get Meredith’s teeth brushed and Aunt Sarah tells her a very long and entertaining bedtime story. We’re bushed, but it’s been a fun day.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
A bit of the Old World…
We really are in the Old World, aren’t we? I had kind of a time warp experience this morning. As the din slowly grew louder outside, I first thought that maybe a circus parade was making its way up our cobblestone street. But then I saw that it was an honest-to-goodness Organ Grinder. I had never seen an organ grinder in person before. The Grinder was walking along slowly, pushing his wheeled organ and turning the hand crank all the while. I was a tad disappointed that he was sans singe (no monkey). The surreal part was watching the modern Parisians bustle by the Grinder while talking and text messaging on their cell phones…
In the same vein, I was awoken by the cacophonous clanging of bells outside a few days ago (Cathy was kind enough to let me sleep in). I didn’t rouse quickly enough to see what it was, but Cathy said it was a guy pushing a cart. I’m betting it was the Sharpener (I’m sure there’s an actual name for this), the guy who goes through the neighborhood with a grindstone and sharpens knives and scissors and such. It’s too bad we missed him, because the knives in our apartment are really dull. Hopefully it won’t be too long before he comes around again.
In the same vein, I was awoken by the cacophonous clanging of bells outside a few days ago (Cathy was kind enough to let me sleep in). I didn’t rouse quickly enough to see what it was, but Cathy said it was a guy pushing a cart. I’m betting it was the Sharpener (I’m sure there’s an actual name for this), the guy who goes through the neighborhood with a grindstone and sharpens knives and scissors and such. It’s too bad we missed him, because the knives in our apartment are really dull. Hopefully it won’t be too long before he comes around again.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Yoga.Paris.Mat
Apart from the Tour de France, the French are not known for their love of sport or grueling physical exertion (although a Frenchman has not won the Tour in many, many years). The “classic” French sporting activities -- race-car driving at Le Mans, perhaps, or skiing the Alps – don’t evoke intense bodily engagement. Admittedly, soccer has become a national craze, especially after the 1998 World Cup and 1999 European Cup wins by the French National team, but your average Parisian does not engage in intentional physical exertion.
And yet, there seems to be an emerging interest in Yoga, at least here in Paris. Several studios advertise in the bi-weekly FUSAC (French-USA Connections), a compendium of French and Anglophone classified ads. Now that I have been to two of these yoga studios, I can say with confidence that they are overrun with Americans. Indeed, many of the teachers are American. While I find this slightly disturbing, I am glad to have found a studio close to home that offers a rigorous practice (In yoga terminology, you don’t take a class, you practice the discipline of yoga.).
I first attended a free trial class in the heart of Paris, up four flights of stairs that reminded me of the lofted dance studios my mother used to take classes at in New York City. An American woman greeted me in French and asked me to sign in. It was determined that I shouldn’t take the advertised free class, as it was meant for people who had never taken yoga before. Having logged about five years of fairly serious study back at home, I was pleased to be placed in the “normal” course. Strangely, all students were asked to wait together in the foyer until a bell was rung and the classroom assignments announced.
The normal course was assigned a room that turned out to be much too small, so we picked up our stuff and changed rooms. This was my first time taking yoga in a space specifically meant for that purpose. In addition to the inspirational (French) posters and photos of yogis decorating the walls, we were offered towels, blankets, and pillows to (literally) support our practice. Incense was burning and the lights were soft.
And then it began. Our instructor, a chubby, mature woman, did not participate in the class or demonstrate at all, but offered direction and a fair amount of individual attention, not all of which was welcome. In fact, she was rather harsh in her commentary to those who failed to execute the postures correctly. She reminded me of the stereotypical, chalk-throwing French teacher who sneers at her students for failing to speak the language perfectly. It was a bizarre combination.
During the 90-minute class, we did quite a few sun salutations and some breathing exercises, with long stretches of shavasana (the corpse pose, which is used for relaxation) in between postures. I was irritated by this, being used to working hard for almost the entire class and then ending with a final relaxation. On the up side, we did attempt head stands and the fish pose, which are both rather advanced. It was cozy to pull the blanket up around me for the last few minutes and really relax, and I enjoyed the chanting at the beginning and end of the class, but generally speaking I was underwhelmed.
So I sought out a second option, Bikram Yoga Paris. Bikram is this nutty yogi in Beverly Hills who developed a special practice (it’s probably trade-marked) that has become something of a phenomenon in New York. One of my yoga buddies from Forest Hills tried it out with positive reviews some time last spring. I decided to give it a whirl.
There are several components to the Bikram practice:
1) The room is heated to promote muscle warmth and toxin release (not to mention tons of sweat). Therefore, everyone must have his/her own mat and bath-size towel to soak up their own moisture.
2) No talking in the studio. Period. Unless the teacher speaks directly to you.
3) 26 specific poses are practiced in sequence, beginning and ending with breathing exercises. Standing postures are done first, including plenty of balancing and back-bending, followed by lots more back-bending and stretching in the sitting and prone postures.
4) A short break in mountain pose (tadasana) occurs at the completion of each set of standing postures, while a short break in shavasana takes place in between the floor exercises.
5) Each pose is performed twice and the goal is to hold for five breaths or so the first time, and somewhat less the second. For example, Rabbit Pose for 5 breaths, shavasansa, Rabbit Pose for 4 breaths.
6) Everyone is encouraged to drink water during the class, but only at specified times. The goal is to replenish some of the lost fluids and stay hydrated, but not to cool the body down.
Well! I have never, I mean never, perspired so much in my life! The poses are rigorous, and work smoothly together. I am soaked to the skin after each session, and my towel appears to have just come out of the washer. I am not kidding. The beauty part of this studio is that it’s just about 6 minutes from our house, so I don’t have to worry about commuting on top of the class commitment.
I’ve met two of the teachers so far. One is a tiny, very flexible French woman who verges on being a contortionist. She takes her job seriously, but doesn’t enforce the class regulations too strongly. She took the first class I attended and I remarked on her lovely expression of several of the postures (that’s yoga-speak for she was really good). The other teacher, Rob, is a young, freckly American guy who wears OP trunks. He’s surprisingly strict during class (no talking! Don’t drink yet!), but genuinely very nice on the outside (the instructors also act as receptionists and take money, etc.). His French, however, is remarkably bad, both in his pronunciation and in his grammar. I sometimes have trouble understanding his French because of this, or am not clear if he’s talking to the whole class or to one individual person. He does usually pepper what he’s saying with English, fortunately for us Anglophones!
After two classes, I signed on for a one month subscription, enabling me to attend as many classes as I care to for a single price. If I’m not bored silly by these 26 postures by the end of the month, perhaps I’ll continue…
And yet, there seems to be an emerging interest in Yoga, at least here in Paris. Several studios advertise in the bi-weekly FUSAC (French-USA Connections), a compendium of French and Anglophone classified ads. Now that I have been to two of these yoga studios, I can say with confidence that they are overrun with Americans. Indeed, many of the teachers are American. While I find this slightly disturbing, I am glad to have found a studio close to home that offers a rigorous practice (In yoga terminology, you don’t take a class, you practice the discipline of yoga.).
I first attended a free trial class in the heart of Paris, up four flights of stairs that reminded me of the lofted dance studios my mother used to take classes at in New York City. An American woman greeted me in French and asked me to sign in. It was determined that I shouldn’t take the advertised free class, as it was meant for people who had never taken yoga before. Having logged about five years of fairly serious study back at home, I was pleased to be placed in the “normal” course. Strangely, all students were asked to wait together in the foyer until a bell was rung and the classroom assignments announced.
The normal course was assigned a room that turned out to be much too small, so we picked up our stuff and changed rooms. This was my first time taking yoga in a space specifically meant for that purpose. In addition to the inspirational (French) posters and photos of yogis decorating the walls, we were offered towels, blankets, and pillows to (literally) support our practice. Incense was burning and the lights were soft.
And then it began. Our instructor, a chubby, mature woman, did not participate in the class or demonstrate at all, but offered direction and a fair amount of individual attention, not all of which was welcome. In fact, she was rather harsh in her commentary to those who failed to execute the postures correctly. She reminded me of the stereotypical, chalk-throwing French teacher who sneers at her students for failing to speak the language perfectly. It was a bizarre combination.
During the 90-minute class, we did quite a few sun salutations and some breathing exercises, with long stretches of shavasana (the corpse pose, which is used for relaxation) in between postures. I was irritated by this, being used to working hard for almost the entire class and then ending with a final relaxation. On the up side, we did attempt head stands and the fish pose, which are both rather advanced. It was cozy to pull the blanket up around me for the last few minutes and really relax, and I enjoyed the chanting at the beginning and end of the class, but generally speaking I was underwhelmed.
So I sought out a second option, Bikram Yoga Paris. Bikram is this nutty yogi in Beverly Hills who developed a special practice (it’s probably trade-marked) that has become something of a phenomenon in New York. One of my yoga buddies from Forest Hills tried it out with positive reviews some time last spring. I decided to give it a whirl.
There are several components to the Bikram practice:
1) The room is heated to promote muscle warmth and toxin release (not to mention tons of sweat). Therefore, everyone must have his/her own mat and bath-size towel to soak up their own moisture.
2) No talking in the studio. Period. Unless the teacher speaks directly to you.
3) 26 specific poses are practiced in sequence, beginning and ending with breathing exercises. Standing postures are done first, including plenty of balancing and back-bending, followed by lots more back-bending and stretching in the sitting and prone postures.
4) A short break in mountain pose (tadasana) occurs at the completion of each set of standing postures, while a short break in shavasana takes place in between the floor exercises.
5) Each pose is performed twice and the goal is to hold for five breaths or so the first time, and somewhat less the second. For example, Rabbit Pose for 5 breaths, shavasansa, Rabbit Pose for 4 breaths.
6) Everyone is encouraged to drink water during the class, but only at specified times. The goal is to replenish some of the lost fluids and stay hydrated, but not to cool the body down.
Well! I have never, I mean never, perspired so much in my life! The poses are rigorous, and work smoothly together. I am soaked to the skin after each session, and my towel appears to have just come out of the washer. I am not kidding. The beauty part of this studio is that it’s just about 6 minutes from our house, so I don’t have to worry about commuting on top of the class commitment.
I’ve met two of the teachers so far. One is a tiny, very flexible French woman who verges on being a contortionist. She takes her job seriously, but doesn’t enforce the class regulations too strongly. She took the first class I attended and I remarked on her lovely expression of several of the postures (that’s yoga-speak for she was really good). The other teacher, Rob, is a young, freckly American guy who wears OP trunks. He’s surprisingly strict during class (no talking! Don’t drink yet!), but genuinely very nice on the outside (the instructors also act as receptionists and take money, etc.). His French, however, is remarkably bad, both in his pronunciation and in his grammar. I sometimes have trouble understanding his French because of this, or am not clear if he’s talking to the whole class or to one individual person. He does usually pepper what he’s saying with English, fortunately for us Anglophones!
After two classes, I signed on for a one month subscription, enabling me to attend as many classes as I care to for a single price. If I’m not bored silly by these 26 postures by the end of the month, perhaps I’ll continue…
Saturday, October 4, 2003
Cell Phone Saga (Part II)
While you can use your credit card to buy practically anything in France, cell phone service is not one of them. They will only give you a wireless contract if you have a bank account. Well, having just moved to France a few days before, we didn't have a bank account. But we did have an appointment at the bank to set up an account a couple of days later, so we would have to wait a couple of days more to get our cell phones. Disappointed but not discouraged, we remained wireless-less. A couple of days later, we did manage to set up a checking account at the Credit Lyonnais, one of the many banks here. They are probably best known as the sponsor of the Maillot Jaune, the Yellow Jersey, which is worn by the race leader in bicycling's premiere event, the Tour de France. We only chose them because they have a special arrangement with NYU to make it slightly less impossible to open a checking account. Normally, you would provide every type of documentation you could think of, including a proof of address, which would generally be, and here's the Catch-22, a phone statement! However, the opening of the account went rather smoothly, as we were able to use our lease as our proof of address. The nice man at the bank explained that the bank does not issue starter checks, but printed up a form called a RIB (pronounced reeb) that is widely accepted as proof of banking account. Armed with our RIB, we marched off down the street to Bernard at Orange to get our cell phones. Bernard, however, informed us that while a RIB is one of the required documents to set up our cell phone accounts, they also require a physical check or ATM card. Skip ahead 2 more weeks, with multiple calls and drop-ins at the bank to see when and if we would ever get either a bank card or a checkbook. Every contact revealed a different arrival date for these elusive objects, but we did manage to find out in the process that it takes about a week before the account is validated because it has to be presented to and approved by the Central Bank of France. Only then can the local bank go ahead and order checks and bank cards.
Finally the day arrived when our daily call to the bank branch hit paydirt. Our ATM cards had arrived (the checkbook had yet to come)! We picked up our cards, but discovered that our PIN numbers would be sent to us in the mail and, of course, we had not received them yet. With some trepidation, we arrived at the Orange store near our apartment and to our relief confirmed that we did not need the PIN numbers for our cards to set up accounts. In our multiple previous visits to the Orange store, Cathy had picked out a simple but popular Nokia phone. I had found a small flip-phone that suited me. Of course, now that we were actually ready to buy the phones, the flip-phone had been sold out and discontinued. Crestfallen but determined, I chose another phone, only to be told that while they had it displayed, they no longer carried that model either. The rep tried to sell me on a much more expensive flip-phone, but by that point my intuition was tingling and I had the feeling we just needed to get out of there. So we left and walked two doors down and stumbled on a practically unmarked independent cellphone retailer. We went in to find a small crowd at the counter and one of the three Algerian fellows behind the counter yelling angrily into a (landline) phone. He would pause momentarily to answer somebody’s question and then would continue his tirade into the receiver. Looking around, it was immediately apparent that as opposed to the immaculate and structured Orange store next door (think any newer Verizon Wireless or SprintPCS store in the US), this place was a dump. It was dingy, there were no displays, and the whole place was badly in need of a paint job. We were standing there taking all of this in, when the guy stopped yelling suddenly, looked at Cathy and said (in French, of course) “If you’ll wait just two minutes, you’ll get the best deal in town!” Turns out he was right. After emphatically slamming down the phone he had been screaming into a few minutes later, he handed me a sleek Samsung flip-phone (without knowing I was looking for a flip-phone) with a hi-res color screen, infrared port, the works. He handed Cathy a more compact and nicer Nokia than she had chosen at Orange and informed us that it was tri-band, which meant that it would work in the States as well. We couldn’t believe it when he quoted us a price of 20€ each for our cool new phones. Soon we were getting into the details of setting up the same plans that we had selected at Orange, when it occurred to me to ask Cathy to ask if there were better plans available (all of the wireless companies have pretty much the same coverage area). Our guy's answer? "Bien sûr", "But of course". Could he have told us this 20 minutes ago when we brought up the Orange plans? Sure, but the French do not offer unsolicited information because they assume you already know it and do not want to risk offending you by telling you something you already knew. So you have to ask questions, a lot of very specific, detailed questions that you wouldn't normally think to ask. Doing so actually serves a beneficial, dual purpose: You get the information you need and you strengthen your relationship with the proprietor, which is also very important. You give the proprietor a chance to show off his expertise and solve a problem for you. The French LOVE to solve problems for others. Then they bend over backwards to help you. But I digress (again). Half an hour later we walked out of the place with great phones and the best subscriptions available and overall a memorable experience.
Finally the day arrived when our daily call to the bank branch hit paydirt. Our ATM cards had arrived (the checkbook had yet to come)! We picked up our cards, but discovered that our PIN numbers would be sent to us in the mail and, of course, we had not received them yet. With some trepidation, we arrived at the Orange store near our apartment and to our relief confirmed that we did not need the PIN numbers for our cards to set up accounts. In our multiple previous visits to the Orange store, Cathy had picked out a simple but popular Nokia phone. I had found a small flip-phone that suited me. Of course, now that we were actually ready to buy the phones, the flip-phone had been sold out and discontinued. Crestfallen but determined, I chose another phone, only to be told that while they had it displayed, they no longer carried that model either. The rep tried to sell me on a much more expensive flip-phone, but by that point my intuition was tingling and I had the feeling we just needed to get out of there. So we left and walked two doors down and stumbled on a practically unmarked independent cellphone retailer. We went in to find a small crowd at the counter and one of the three Algerian fellows behind the counter yelling angrily into a (landline) phone. He would pause momentarily to answer somebody’s question and then would continue his tirade into the receiver. Looking around, it was immediately apparent that as opposed to the immaculate and structured Orange store next door (think any newer Verizon Wireless or SprintPCS store in the US), this place was a dump. It was dingy, there were no displays, and the whole place was badly in need of a paint job. We were standing there taking all of this in, when the guy stopped yelling suddenly, looked at Cathy and said (in French, of course) “If you’ll wait just two minutes, you’ll get the best deal in town!” Turns out he was right. After emphatically slamming down the phone he had been screaming into a few minutes later, he handed me a sleek Samsung flip-phone (without knowing I was looking for a flip-phone) with a hi-res color screen, infrared port, the works. He handed Cathy a more compact and nicer Nokia than she had chosen at Orange and informed us that it was tri-band, which meant that it would work in the States as well. We couldn’t believe it when he quoted us a price of 20€ each for our cool new phones. Soon we were getting into the details of setting up the same plans that we had selected at Orange, when it occurred to me to ask Cathy to ask if there were better plans available (all of the wireless companies have pretty much the same coverage area). Our guy's answer? "Bien sûr", "But of course". Could he have told us this 20 minutes ago when we brought up the Orange plans? Sure, but the French do not offer unsolicited information because they assume you already know it and do not want to risk offending you by telling you something you already knew. So you have to ask questions, a lot of very specific, detailed questions that you wouldn't normally think to ask. Doing so actually serves a beneficial, dual purpose: You get the information you need and you strengthen your relationship with the proprietor, which is also very important. You give the proprietor a chance to show off his expertise and solve a problem for you. The French LOVE to solve problems for others. Then they bend over backwards to help you. But I digress (again). Half an hour later we walked out of the place with great phones and the best subscriptions available and overall a memorable experience.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
Cell Phone Saga (Part I)
Whaddya gotta do to get a cell phone in this town? Well, quite a lot, it turns out. But at least in our case, it turns out with a happy ending.
Soon after our arrival in Paris, we decided to go about obtaining cell phones for ourselves. We had already planned to do this, as we had become accustomed to our phones living in New York and knowing that "mobiles" were even more ubiquitous here in France. As it turns out, it was going to be a practical solution as well, since at that time we did not have a working land-line phone in our apartment (that's for another blog). So we went down the street from NYU's Paris digs to Orange, the mobile telephone company that is monopolistic France Telecom's wireless division. Why the company is called Orange, I have no idea. Now while France Telecom has a virtual stranglehold on land-line phone service in France, they do have some competition in the mobile market. Exactly two other companies, SFR and Bouygues Telecom, round out the Big Three. All three companies have their own storefronts, just like the ones you would see for Sprint PCS or Verizon Wireless in the U.S. And similar to the States, there are independent operators who sell phones and service for several of the different companies. One of them here in Paris is called "The Phone Store" (that's not a translation). Anyway, we went into the Orange store and spoke to a nice young man by the name of Bernard. He explained that we could get cell phones with or without a subscription. The phones without a subscription tend to be quite a bit more money, since you have to pay practically full price for the phone and the SIM chip that goes into the phone only has a certain number of minutes on it. On the upside, once you've used up a SIM chip you can go buy another one at practically any Tabac, which are like little convenience stores that sell cigarettes and among other things, phone cards. But since we were going to be here awhile, we wanted to get the less expensive and more convenient subscription. So we discussed a few of the different phones with Bernard. With a subscription, there are phones to be had (with color screens even!) for less than 10€ (~$10). I should mention here that wireless phone service is set up a little differently here (in France and the rest of Europe) than in the States. You don't get nearly the number of minutes for the same price, but all incoming calls are totally free. I seem to remember years ago that the fledgling cellular industry in the US tried a similar structure but quickly realized that it wouldn't work.
We chose a couple of phones and figured out what plan we wanted, and went with Bernard to set up our accounts. We had assumed that it worked the same way as in the US, where all we needed was a credit card. Well, no.
(to be continued)
Soon after our arrival in Paris, we decided to go about obtaining cell phones for ourselves. We had already planned to do this, as we had become accustomed to our phones living in New York and knowing that "mobiles" were even more ubiquitous here in France. As it turns out, it was going to be a practical solution as well, since at that time we did not have a working land-line phone in our apartment (that's for another blog). So we went down the street from NYU's Paris digs to Orange, the mobile telephone company that is monopolistic France Telecom's wireless division. Why the company is called Orange, I have no idea. Now while France Telecom has a virtual stranglehold on land-line phone service in France, they do have some competition in the mobile market. Exactly two other companies, SFR and Bouygues Telecom, round out the Big Three. All three companies have their own storefronts, just like the ones you would see for Sprint PCS or Verizon Wireless in the U.S. And similar to the States, there are independent operators who sell phones and service for several of the different companies. One of them here in Paris is called "The Phone Store" (that's not a translation). Anyway, we went into the Orange store and spoke to a nice young man by the name of Bernard. He explained that we could get cell phones with or without a subscription. The phones without a subscription tend to be quite a bit more money, since you have to pay practically full price for the phone and the SIM chip that goes into the phone only has a certain number of minutes on it. On the upside, once you've used up a SIM chip you can go buy another one at practically any Tabac, which are like little convenience stores that sell cigarettes and among other things, phone cards. But since we were going to be here awhile, we wanted to get the less expensive and more convenient subscription. So we discussed a few of the different phones with Bernard. With a subscription, there are phones to be had (with color screens even!) for less than 10€ (~$10). I should mention here that wireless phone service is set up a little differently here (in France and the rest of Europe) than in the States. You don't get nearly the number of minutes for the same price, but all incoming calls are totally free. I seem to remember years ago that the fledgling cellular industry in the US tried a similar structure but quickly realized that it wouldn't work.
We chose a couple of phones and figured out what plan we wanted, and went with Bernard to set up our accounts. We had assumed that it worked the same way as in the US, where all we needed was a credit card. Well, no.
(to be continued)
Wednesday, October 1, 2003
The Happiest Place in France (Part II)…
After the Space Mountain adventure, I picked up panini (a grilled flatbread sandwich, usually with cheese and ham) while Meredith and Bill attempted to ride the Orbitron, which unfortunately broke down and was taken off-line. So instead of eating in that line, we ate while waiting for the Disney railroad. Boy, did we wait! Finally got around to Frontierland and rode Thunder Mountain (using both the FastPass and the Baby Switch) then did Phantom Manor (Paris’ answer to the Haunted Mansion) and got some ice cream on the way to our FastPass appointment with Peter Pan. I must admit, it’s quite beautiful. After It’s a Small World (a perennial favorite!), it was nearly time for the Princess Parade, so I staked out a viewing spot while Bill and Meredith rode the carousel again. I had to fend off an imperialistic group of Italians, but managed to keep the stroller from getting squeezed out. Bill and Mer got back just in time.
Meredith loved the parade, as she saw Mickey and Minnie, Cinderella and her fairy godmother, Aladdin and Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, and Belle all in one compact parade. The music was the same repetitive inanity from the last time we visited Disney-Paris in 1999, but no matter. Following the parade, we hoofed it over to ride Dumbo, for perhaps the longest wait of the day, and then scrambled over to see the live show, Mickey’s Showtime, in Discoveryland (a.k.a. Tomorrowland). There wasn’t a seat in the house, but Bill found Meredith a spot on a staircase with a decent view of the action. Again, she loved it – Mickey and Minnie were joined by Poomba, the Alladin Genie, Baloo, Goofy, and Chip and Dale as well as some “human” friends. Numbers from Hercules, Hunchback, Jungle Book, Lion King, and Pocohantas were tightly performed with some high-energy dancing (need I mention that? Is anything at Disney low energy?).
By the time we left the Visionarium, it was nearly 6 o’clock and we were ready to sit down and eat. We looked over a couple of the in-park dining options, but decided to try something in Disney village (sort of like Paradise Island in Florida). We wound up at King Ludwig’s Castle, with a Medieval Germanic theme, which turned out to be a pretty nice meal for all of us. At some point during dinner, Bill realized that we never went to look at our Mickey pix in the Town Square. The park was due to close at 8 o’clock, and even with a push to get our check, it was probably 5 of 8 by the time we left the restaurant.
We booked it back toward the park, swimming upstream all the way (throngs of “guests” were leaving, of course), and frantically searching for the re-entry gates. They were basically all closed by the time we got there, but one had not been completely closed. Using our best powers of persuasion (an attitude that is loved and respected by the French), we explained that we had to get back in because we never got to see our pictures. I have to admit I was surprised to find that it worked, and we were readmitted to the park. The lights had been turned on by that time, giving both Main Street and the Castle at the end of the strip a lovely glow. A helpful cast member called up our Mickey pictures for us (everything is digitized) and we decided to spring for a print. Although that store was clearly closing for the night (we had to get assistance in order to exit the shop), many others were in full swing and there was no noticeable attempt by anyone to get people to leave the park. I guess the rides had stopped operating, but it was a beautiful evening to be out and at this point, having had a break from standing and a decent meal, Bill and I definitely had caught a second wind. We wound up doing a fair amount of shopping, both in the Park and, later, back in Disney Village. Meredith was incredibly well-behaved (in fact, she was great all day!) for such a late evening. We bought her a Minnie t-shirt and a little stuffed Thumper, and also found some great wardrobe items for ourselves. The evening return to the Park felt like a gift, a special addition to our visit.
Since we have these annual passes, we will of course be returning, but it’s hard not to feel that Meredith’s first trip to Disney won’t remain among our favorite memories of our time in Paris. Who needs the Louvre, anyway?
Meredith loved the parade, as she saw Mickey and Minnie, Cinderella and her fairy godmother, Aladdin and Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, and Belle all in one compact parade. The music was the same repetitive inanity from the last time we visited Disney-Paris in 1999, but no matter. Following the parade, we hoofed it over to ride Dumbo, for perhaps the longest wait of the day, and then scrambled over to see the live show, Mickey’s Showtime, in Discoveryland (a.k.a. Tomorrowland). There wasn’t a seat in the house, but Bill found Meredith a spot on a staircase with a decent view of the action. Again, she loved it – Mickey and Minnie were joined by Poomba, the Alladin Genie, Baloo, Goofy, and Chip and Dale as well as some “human” friends. Numbers from Hercules, Hunchback, Jungle Book, Lion King, and Pocohantas were tightly performed with some high-energy dancing (need I mention that? Is anything at Disney low energy?).
By the time we left the Visionarium, it was nearly 6 o’clock and we were ready to sit down and eat. We looked over a couple of the in-park dining options, but decided to try something in Disney village (sort of like Paradise Island in Florida). We wound up at King Ludwig’s Castle, with a Medieval Germanic theme, which turned out to be a pretty nice meal for all of us. At some point during dinner, Bill realized that we never went to look at our Mickey pix in the Town Square. The park was due to close at 8 o’clock, and even with a push to get our check, it was probably 5 of 8 by the time we left the restaurant.
We booked it back toward the park, swimming upstream all the way (throngs of “guests” were leaving, of course), and frantically searching for the re-entry gates. They were basically all closed by the time we got there, but one had not been completely closed. Using our best powers of persuasion (an attitude that is loved and respected by the French), we explained that we had to get back in because we never got to see our pictures. I have to admit I was surprised to find that it worked, and we were readmitted to the park. The lights had been turned on by that time, giving both Main Street and the Castle at the end of the strip a lovely glow. A helpful cast member called up our Mickey pictures for us (everything is digitized) and we decided to spring for a print. Although that store was clearly closing for the night (we had to get assistance in order to exit the shop), many others were in full swing and there was no noticeable attempt by anyone to get people to leave the park. I guess the rides had stopped operating, but it was a beautiful evening to be out and at this point, having had a break from standing and a decent meal, Bill and I definitely had caught a second wind. We wound up doing a fair amount of shopping, both in the Park and, later, back in Disney Village. Meredith was incredibly well-behaved (in fact, she was great all day!) for such a late evening. We bought her a Minnie t-shirt and a little stuffed Thumper, and also found some great wardrobe items for ourselves. The evening return to the Park felt like a gift, a special addition to our visit.
Since we have these annual passes, we will of course be returning, but it’s hard not to feel that Meredith’s first trip to Disney won’t remain among our favorite memories of our time in Paris. Who needs the Louvre, anyway?
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
The Happiest Place in France (Part I)…
Ah, Disneyland. Having enjoyed the Parisian version in our lives before Meredith, we were looking forward to introducing the girlie to the Disney esperience. As is true in the greater Orlando area, residents of the Paris region are eligible for annual passes to the Disneyland Resort (a.k.a. Eurodisney, a.k.a. Disneyland Paris). So, a couple of quick flashes of our lease (yet again!), and we’re good to go. We bought the passes in advance of our first trip to the park at the Disney Store on the Champs Elysees, saving us time at the gate.
We didn’t wake up super early, but got on the RER (that’s the metropolitan train line, in between the metro and the national railway system in terms of size and scope) for the 40-minute ride to Marne-la-vallée, which was once a sleepy outer suburb of Paris and now is home to a Disney multiplex. During the ride, we talked with Meredith about what she wanted to do at Disneyland. Her main response, “I want to hug Mickey,” followed by “I want to see Mickey and Minnie.”
Once through the gates, we picked up the day’s schedule at Town Hall and noted that Mickey was having an audience right then. Since we wanted to be sure to fulfill Meredith’s wishes, we headed straight up Main Street, USA to the designated spot. Alas, we were not alone. In fact, we waited for about an hour so that Meredith could, in her words, “jump to his [Mickey’s] arms.” Mickey took two breaks during our wait. Of course we had no idea if it was the same person in the same Mickey outfit with a bladder problem or if they switch off every 20 minutes or what. In any case, Mickey was great with all the kids and, unlike some visits with Santa we have witnessed, not a single child seemed scared of Mickey. He’d squat down to greet the smaller children, reach his arms out, and let them take the lead if they wanted to hug him or hold his hand or whatever. Plenty of adults squeezed him, kissed his nose, and got their pictures taken. Meredith and I posed with Mickey both for Bill and for the Disney photographer (more on that later).
From there, we crossed the park, met Stromboli and Honest John, and picked up “fastpasses” for Space Mountain. The Fastpass is a Disney innovation for extremely popular rides (aside from Space Mountain, they’re available in the Paris park for rollercoasters Thunder Mountain Railroad and Indiana Jones, as well as for Peter Pan’s Flight, which is the single most popular ride. If you slip your ticket into the Fastpass machine, it spits out a voucher for your “no waiting” time to enjoy the ride (many hours later, in most cases). You get a half-hour window to show up and show the Pass, which puts you way ahead of the boobs waiting an hour for Space Mountain. You can only repeat the process after you’ve taken your turn, which may be too late in the day to qualify for a second round. So if you want to ride these rides multiple times, you’re in for a lot of waiting around, but if once a visit will satisfy, this Fastpass business is marvelous.
Then we went over to Fantasyland and Meredith and I rode on Lancelot’s carousel (a beautiful one at that) while Bill picked us up fastpasses to some other rides. I should note here that the park is much more compact than DisneyWorld, and therefore quite manageable on foot for adults. The three of us rode “Les Voyages de Pinocchio,” which was rather dark and jerky, but Meredith loved it, especially the part where Stromboli put us in a cage. After that, we went to ride Space Mountain, making use of the “baby switch.” This is a second, far less-known, option for grown-ups who don’t want to miss out on rides simply because they are toting young children with them. Bill went to Fastpass his way into Space Mountain himself, while Meredith and I found the exit and “swam upstream” to the loading dock. The staff at the ride are familiar with this process, allowing Meredith and I to wait until Bill finished his turn, allowing me to hand Mer over to him and then take a ride myself. Not quite as much fun as riding together, but certainly better than foregoing one of my favorite roller coasters ever! Space Mountain in Paris has two full loops, one with a twist. It’s beautifully decorated, besides. A triumph of thrill and artistry. Okay, I’ll shut up now…
(to be continued)
We didn’t wake up super early, but got on the RER (that’s the metropolitan train line, in between the metro and the national railway system in terms of size and scope) for the 40-minute ride to Marne-la-vallée, which was once a sleepy outer suburb of Paris and now is home to a Disney multiplex. During the ride, we talked with Meredith about what she wanted to do at Disneyland. Her main response, “I want to hug Mickey,” followed by “I want to see Mickey and Minnie.”
Once through the gates, we picked up the day’s schedule at Town Hall and noted that Mickey was having an audience right then. Since we wanted to be sure to fulfill Meredith’s wishes, we headed straight up Main Street, USA to the designated spot. Alas, we were not alone. In fact, we waited for about an hour so that Meredith could, in her words, “jump to his [Mickey’s] arms.” Mickey took two breaks during our wait. Of course we had no idea if it was the same person in the same Mickey outfit with a bladder problem or if they switch off every 20 minutes or what. In any case, Mickey was great with all the kids and, unlike some visits with Santa we have witnessed, not a single child seemed scared of Mickey. He’d squat down to greet the smaller children, reach his arms out, and let them take the lead if they wanted to hug him or hold his hand or whatever. Plenty of adults squeezed him, kissed his nose, and got their pictures taken. Meredith and I posed with Mickey both for Bill and for the Disney photographer (more on that later).
From there, we crossed the park, met Stromboli and Honest John, and picked up “fastpasses” for Space Mountain. The Fastpass is a Disney innovation for extremely popular rides (aside from Space Mountain, they’re available in the Paris park for rollercoasters Thunder Mountain Railroad and Indiana Jones, as well as for Peter Pan’s Flight, which is the single most popular ride. If you slip your ticket into the Fastpass machine, it spits out a voucher for your “no waiting” time to enjoy the ride (many hours later, in most cases). You get a half-hour window to show up and show the Pass, which puts you way ahead of the boobs waiting an hour for Space Mountain. You can only repeat the process after you’ve taken your turn, which may be too late in the day to qualify for a second round. So if you want to ride these rides multiple times, you’re in for a lot of waiting around, but if once a visit will satisfy, this Fastpass business is marvelous.
Then we went over to Fantasyland and Meredith and I rode on Lancelot’s carousel (a beautiful one at that) while Bill picked us up fastpasses to some other rides. I should note here that the park is much more compact than DisneyWorld, and therefore quite manageable on foot for adults. The three of us rode “Les Voyages de Pinocchio,” which was rather dark and jerky, but Meredith loved it, especially the part where Stromboli put us in a cage. After that, we went to ride Space Mountain, making use of the “baby switch.” This is a second, far less-known, option for grown-ups who don’t want to miss out on rides simply because they are toting young children with them. Bill went to Fastpass his way into Space Mountain himself, while Meredith and I found the exit and “swam upstream” to the loading dock. The staff at the ride are familiar with this process, allowing Meredith and I to wait until Bill finished his turn, allowing me to hand Mer over to him and then take a ride myself. Not quite as much fun as riding together, but certainly better than foregoing one of my favorite roller coasters ever! Space Mountain in Paris has two full loops, one with a twist. It’s beautifully decorated, besides. A triumph of thrill and artistry. Okay, I’ll shut up now…
(to be continued)
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Paris Has Attitude
In order to find an apartment in Paris, we cast the net widely. We asked Paris-based friends for suggestions. We posted messages on various bulletin boards (physical and virtual). We scoured the internet. We looked in the Times.
My contacts at NYU in France mentioned an agency called Cosy Home. I exchanged a bunch of emails with various staff members there. We learned of a couple of ex-pat websites and got a few leads, including a potential apartment exchange with a French law professor who has an appointment at Cardozo (in Manhattan). We found quite a few "for rent by owner" postings on SabbaticalHomes.com and other on-line bulletin boards, but we just weren't finding the right thing. Many of these sites and agencies list lots of studios and one-bedroom apartments, but are not geared for a couple with a child. Apartments with two or more bedrooms are simply hard to come by.
Then we found a web-based apartment agency with several attractive options. To protect their anonymity, let's call them HouseFrance. At least one that we liked slipped through our fingers while we debated if it was worth the rent. [I should note here that the Paris market for furnished apartments is pretty similar to the Manhattan market: there's expensive but decent, and then there's cheap and crappy.] Bill came to the conclusion that we'd need to start calling the agency to get what we wanted, so I started using 10 10 987, a cheap way to call overseas from the US (39 cents to connect, then 3 cents a minute after that). I wound up speaking mainly to an affable voice connected to a person named Frank (not his real name). He was anxious to help out, and a couple of times we looked at the website together.
We negotiated about one place that looked good on the web, and found that Frank was able to get us a break on the monthly rent posted on the site since we wanted a place for 9 months. That apartment turned out to have some problems, however: for one, it would require that we walk through Meredith's bedroom to get to the staircase that led to what would be our bedroom. Several other 2-bedroom apartments had similar challenges -- lofts or other lay-outs that were inconvenient or dangerous or both for a family with a small child.
Although the rent was higher than we were hoping to spend, there was one place that seemed about right -- two bedrooms with a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two baths, on the ground floor of a building in the 9th arrondissement. We were determined not to be on a high floor of a walk-up, not only to spare Meredith's legs, but also knowing that we'd likely end up carrying her up some of the time. Frank contacted the owner. She was willing to come down on the rent by 75 euros a month. We decided to go for it.
Lots of money crossed the Atlantic -- a month's rent in the agency fee, then a big security deposit for the landlady. She called a couple of times to make sure the money was coming, since the overseas wire took several days to process. All seemed well. We were excited.
So, we arrived here and the apartment turns out to be a duplex that requires passing through Meredith's room not only to access our bedroom, but also to get to either of the bathrooms! We expressed our concerns to the landlady, who I have already mentioned is a gem, but we knew we were going to have to speak with Frank about this.
We called him the next day (from NYU -- as we had no operating phones to our name at this point). He didn't have much to say, although he did acknowledge that he had known the apartment was a duplex. I said that was the least of our worries, that the staircase was a danger to Meredith and that the layout was absolutely not what we had asked for or expected. We requested a reduction or refund of our agency fee. Long silence on the phone. He said he'd need to speak with his boss. We called again the following day (Thursday). He said he'd been in touch with the landlady about the non-functioning phone. No mention of a conversation with the boss. No progress of any kind.
So on Friday, with Meredith happily ensconced in school (there's a blog about that, fyi), we decided to drop in on the folks at HouseFrance. The street address, listed on their website, is on the Champs Elysees, a rather fashionable area of the city. We got to the address but could find neither hide nor hair of the agency, but we did find the building concierge, who told us to follow the rather insufferable-looking, chain-smoking young woman assigned to the task of mail delivery. Mailbag in one hand, cigarette in the other, she was surprisingly gracious as she led us to an unmarked office, where she announced to the receptionist that we were inquiring about HouseFrance. Then they both disappeared down a hallway for several minutes, leaving us to wonder what in the world was going on. The receptionist came back and handed us a post-it note with another address for us, not in the immediate vicinity.
We got back on the subway and headed for our new destination. Perhaps our fatigue had a positive effect on the staff, who knows. In any case, we got to meet Frank in person. Turns out, HouseFrance is a one-room operation on the garden level of a big building.
Frank's desk was about two armchairs' distance from his boss's desk, leaving me to wonder how long it really would have taken them to talk things over.
Frank actually took responsibility for the errors and came pretty close to apologizing for them. However, the boss, a young, wiry guy (we'll call him Lukas) sporting an F-train t-shirt, was somewhat less sympathetic and visibly irritated by the notion that "muh-neh" (that's money in English with a French accent) could solve our problems. No, we countered, it wouldn't, but it would go a long way to our feeling understood and appropriately compensated for our pain and suffering (so to speak). Meantime, Frank was on the phone trying to get us another apartment. This solution ("There MUST be a solution", said Lukas, several times) did not sound too agreeable to us, but we decided to at least be open to it.
Their proposal: they had an apartment in another part of the city that would be available in early November (that means, in two months from our arrival). We should immediately transfer Meredith to the nursery school in that quartier, so that she'd be settled there before our change of apartments. We of course were not going anywhere without seeing the apartment in advance, among other things. If we went for this plan, they'd be willing to give us back half of our agency fee.
And what if this wasn't feasible? What if, for example, Meredith could not be enrolled in that school (again, I refer you to the school enrollment caper for more on that front)? Well, they relented, if you must stay where you are in the end, then we'll refund your fee in total. Now this, THIS, was more than I for one had ever dreamed possible.
In all good faith, I took down the address of the apartment along with a neighborhood map that Frank printed out for us (and I highly recommend mappy.com for all your urban street map needs). And I went directly from the HouseFrance offices to the mairie of this other neighborhood, wended my way through several wedding parties (the French all have both civil and religious ceremonies, I think, and Friday afternoon is a common time for them), and found the bureau des écoles. With the small amount of information I had on me, the woman in the office thought there would be a place for Meredith, but we'd have to hurry.
On Monday, I called Frank and told him that I'd been fairly well received in the new quartier, but that we'd have to see the apartment before I took any other action. He said the owner of this apartment lived in England and was hard to reach, and that they would need to speak before he could contact the tenant to arrange a viewing. And then we didn't hear from him again. At all.
Not that we didn't try to contact him. Bill and I both left multiple messages, but to no avail. And so, nearly two weeks later, we finally got a hold of him on the phone. Frank claimed he had been waiting for me about something related to the school enrollment, but that was clearly an attempt to shift blame. Then he wanted a copy of the receipt for the gate we installed to keep Meredith from climbing the stairs. Bill started to really lose it then -- how many new delay tactics could they impose? I spoke to Frank in French for a while, explaining that the gate had nothing to do with the agreement we made about the refund. He put us on hold a couple of times, then asked me, quite abruptly, if we could come back to the office the following morning. "Why?" I asked. "To get your refund," he replied. Well, okay then!
I will admit to feeling very anxious and nervous beforehand, but the meeting went very smoothly. For one, Frank was alone in the office -- no boss or colleagues to eavesdrop on our conversation. He had the check ready for us, in an envelope, with only one request -- that we not deposit the check until Monday (we received it on a Friday). Fine, no problem there. And then it was done. We shook Frank's hand, wished him a good weekend, took the muh-neh, and ran.
P.S. The check cleared.
My contacts at NYU in France mentioned an agency called Cosy Home. I exchanged a bunch of emails with various staff members there. We learned of a couple of ex-pat websites and got a few leads, including a potential apartment exchange with a French law professor who has an appointment at Cardozo (in Manhattan). We found quite a few "for rent by owner" postings on SabbaticalHomes.com and other on-line bulletin boards, but we just weren't finding the right thing. Many of these sites and agencies list lots of studios and one-bedroom apartments, but are not geared for a couple with a child. Apartments with two or more bedrooms are simply hard to come by.
Then we found a web-based apartment agency with several attractive options. To protect their anonymity, let's call them HouseFrance. At least one that we liked slipped through our fingers while we debated if it was worth the rent. [I should note here that the Paris market for furnished apartments is pretty similar to the Manhattan market: there's expensive but decent, and then there's cheap and crappy.] Bill came to the conclusion that we'd need to start calling the agency to get what we wanted, so I started using 10 10 987, a cheap way to call overseas from the US (39 cents to connect, then 3 cents a minute after that). I wound up speaking mainly to an affable voice connected to a person named Frank (not his real name). He was anxious to help out, and a couple of times we looked at the website together.
We negotiated about one place that looked good on the web, and found that Frank was able to get us a break on the monthly rent posted on the site since we wanted a place for 9 months. That apartment turned out to have some problems, however: for one, it would require that we walk through Meredith's bedroom to get to the staircase that led to what would be our bedroom. Several other 2-bedroom apartments had similar challenges -- lofts or other lay-outs that were inconvenient or dangerous or both for a family with a small child.
Although the rent was higher than we were hoping to spend, there was one place that seemed about right -- two bedrooms with a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two baths, on the ground floor of a building in the 9th arrondissement. We were determined not to be on a high floor of a walk-up, not only to spare Meredith's legs, but also knowing that we'd likely end up carrying her up some of the time. Frank contacted the owner. She was willing to come down on the rent by 75 euros a month. We decided to go for it.
Lots of money crossed the Atlantic -- a month's rent in the agency fee, then a big security deposit for the landlady. She called a couple of times to make sure the money was coming, since the overseas wire took several days to process. All seemed well. We were excited.
So, we arrived here and the apartment turns out to be a duplex that requires passing through Meredith's room not only to access our bedroom, but also to get to either of the bathrooms! We expressed our concerns to the landlady, who I have already mentioned is a gem, but we knew we were going to have to speak with Frank about this.
We called him the next day (from NYU -- as we had no operating phones to our name at this point). He didn't have much to say, although he did acknowledge that he had known the apartment was a duplex. I said that was the least of our worries, that the staircase was a danger to Meredith and that the layout was absolutely not what we had asked for or expected. We requested a reduction or refund of our agency fee. Long silence on the phone. He said he'd need to speak with his boss. We called again the following day (Thursday). He said he'd been in touch with the landlady about the non-functioning phone. No mention of a conversation with the boss. No progress of any kind.
So on Friday, with Meredith happily ensconced in school (there's a blog about that, fyi), we decided to drop in on the folks at HouseFrance. The street address, listed on their website, is on the Champs Elysees, a rather fashionable area of the city. We got to the address but could find neither hide nor hair of the agency, but we did find the building concierge, who told us to follow the rather insufferable-looking, chain-smoking young woman assigned to the task of mail delivery. Mailbag in one hand, cigarette in the other, she was surprisingly gracious as she led us to an unmarked office, where she announced to the receptionist that we were inquiring about HouseFrance. Then they both disappeared down a hallway for several minutes, leaving us to wonder what in the world was going on. The receptionist came back and handed us a post-it note with another address for us, not in the immediate vicinity.
We got back on the subway and headed for our new destination. Perhaps our fatigue had a positive effect on the staff, who knows. In any case, we got to meet Frank in person. Turns out, HouseFrance is a one-room operation on the garden level of a big building.
Frank's desk was about two armchairs' distance from his boss's desk, leaving me to wonder how long it really would have taken them to talk things over.
Frank actually took responsibility for the errors and came pretty close to apologizing for them. However, the boss, a young, wiry guy (we'll call him Lukas) sporting an F-train t-shirt, was somewhat less sympathetic and visibly irritated by the notion that "muh-neh" (that's money in English with a French accent) could solve our problems. No, we countered, it wouldn't, but it would go a long way to our feeling understood and appropriately compensated for our pain and suffering (so to speak). Meantime, Frank was on the phone trying to get us another apartment. This solution ("There MUST be a solution", said Lukas, several times) did not sound too agreeable to us, but we decided to at least be open to it.
Their proposal: they had an apartment in another part of the city that would be available in early November (that means, in two months from our arrival). We should immediately transfer Meredith to the nursery school in that quartier, so that she'd be settled there before our change of apartments. We of course were not going anywhere without seeing the apartment in advance, among other things. If we went for this plan, they'd be willing to give us back half of our agency fee.
And what if this wasn't feasible? What if, for example, Meredith could not be enrolled in that school (again, I refer you to the school enrollment caper for more on that front)? Well, they relented, if you must stay where you are in the end, then we'll refund your fee in total. Now this, THIS, was more than I for one had ever dreamed possible.
In all good faith, I took down the address of the apartment along with a neighborhood map that Frank printed out for us (and I highly recommend mappy.com for all your urban street map needs). And I went directly from the HouseFrance offices to the mairie of this other neighborhood, wended my way through several wedding parties (the French all have both civil and religious ceremonies, I think, and Friday afternoon is a common time for them), and found the bureau des écoles. With the small amount of information I had on me, the woman in the office thought there would be a place for Meredith, but we'd have to hurry.
On Monday, I called Frank and told him that I'd been fairly well received in the new quartier, but that we'd have to see the apartment before I took any other action. He said the owner of this apartment lived in England and was hard to reach, and that they would need to speak before he could contact the tenant to arrange a viewing. And then we didn't hear from him again. At all.
Not that we didn't try to contact him. Bill and I both left multiple messages, but to no avail. And so, nearly two weeks later, we finally got a hold of him on the phone. Frank claimed he had been waiting for me about something related to the school enrollment, but that was clearly an attempt to shift blame. Then he wanted a copy of the receipt for the gate we installed to keep Meredith from climbing the stairs. Bill started to really lose it then -- how many new delay tactics could they impose? I spoke to Frank in French for a while, explaining that the gate had nothing to do with the agreement we made about the refund. He put us on hold a couple of times, then asked me, quite abruptly, if we could come back to the office the following morning. "Why?" I asked. "To get your refund," he replied. Well, okay then!
I will admit to feeling very anxious and nervous beforehand, but the meeting went very smoothly. For one, Frank was alone in the office -- no boss or colleagues to eavesdrop on our conversation. He had the check ready for us, in an envelope, with only one request -- that we not deposit the check until Monday (we received it on a Friday). Fine, no problem there. And then it was done. We shook Frank's hand, wished him a good weekend, took the muh-neh, and ran.
P.S. The check cleared.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Star Academy
I'll admit it, I (Cathy) am kind of addicted to this French reality show that's a cross between American Idol and Big Brother. Sixteen would-be singing sensations live together in a chateau outside Paris. Seven days a week they are subjected to a variety of instruction, physical, musical, dramatic and dance. Each Wednesday, the "nominees" for the week are announced -- one of them will be eliminated that Saturday night. Of the three, one is rescued by the viewers, who can call or text message their votes of support ("Pour sauver Icaro, tappez un."). After that contestant, or academycien, is saved, a second is saved by the other contestants, who have to choose on the spot. The odd one out, having already packed his/her bags that afternoon, never returns to the chateau.
Every day except Sunday, there's an hour-long peek at what's going on at the chateau, mostly taped from the day before, but always including some live footage (en direct, as they say). The taped stuff has pop-up video commentary to introduce what's going on. Sometimes we see them in session with various "profs" (who are also the judges), or rehearsing, or just hanging out. Then Saturday night, there's a 3-hour (you read that right) live show that includes a variety of performances by all concerned, and features appearances by major and not-so-major stars of today and yesterday. So far, they've been joined by Sting, Jean-Claude Van Damme and French idol Johnny Hallyday as well as T-3, a trio of Michael Jackson's nephews, and a few alumni from the two previous seasons of Star Ac'. The nominees do not participate in any of this stuff, they just have to sit and wait their fate until the last 30 minutes or so, when they each get to sing a snippet of the same song and (sometimes) give a beauty-contest pitch for why they should be saved.
In addition to the stress of the competition and the pressure of learning a lot of new material every week, there are some great soap opera-like subplots that have emerged. In particular, Sophia (the overall standout, a beautiful young woman with great talent) has been involved with Romain, perhaps the cutest male academycien who seems just a bit too laid back. In competition with this couple are Elodie (the blonde bombshell) and Edouard, who as I write this is in the nominee hotseat. I'm betting the fans will save him, to keep their fires burning if nothing else. Elodie arrived at the chateau 4 weeks ago with a boyfriend back home; last week, she officially broke up with him, but it was clear that she was getting down with Edouard for at least 10 days before that.
Other compelling members of the troupe are: Pierre, who in spite of a terrible piercing on his right eyebrow has penetrating blue eyes and a killer voice; Anne, who bears some resemblance to Helen Hunt and was transported this week to Las Vegas where she met Celine Dion; Stephanie, a bouncy blonde; Michal, who is of Polish extraction but speaks flawless French, plays the piano, and participated in a previous season of a similar show in Poland; and Paxti (sounds a bit like "Potsy") who appears to be the youngest participant and has recently won the hearts of the judges.
The big problem is that the daily show is on right when we need to get Meredith ready for bed. Bill is often game for getting her ready so I can watch, but it's just terrible.
Only three have left so far (Icaro, Michel, and Marjorie), and after tonight there will be 12 left, which means 11 more weeks of this. The suspense is killing me, I do hope it will continue!
Every day except Sunday, there's an hour-long peek at what's going on at the chateau, mostly taped from the day before, but always including some live footage (en direct, as they say). The taped stuff has pop-up video commentary to introduce what's going on. Sometimes we see them in session with various "profs" (who are also the judges), or rehearsing, or just hanging out. Then Saturday night, there's a 3-hour (you read that right) live show that includes a variety of performances by all concerned, and features appearances by major and not-so-major stars of today and yesterday. So far, they've been joined by Sting, Jean-Claude Van Damme and French idol Johnny Hallyday as well as T-3, a trio of Michael Jackson's nephews, and a few alumni from the two previous seasons of Star Ac'. The nominees do not participate in any of this stuff, they just have to sit and wait their fate until the last 30 minutes or so, when they each get to sing a snippet of the same song and (sometimes) give a beauty-contest pitch for why they should be saved.
In addition to the stress of the competition and the pressure of learning a lot of new material every week, there are some great soap opera-like subplots that have emerged. In particular, Sophia (the overall standout, a beautiful young woman with great talent) has been involved with Romain, perhaps the cutest male academycien who seems just a bit too laid back. In competition with this couple are Elodie (the blonde bombshell) and Edouard, who as I write this is in the nominee hotseat. I'm betting the fans will save him, to keep their fires burning if nothing else. Elodie arrived at the chateau 4 weeks ago with a boyfriend back home; last week, she officially broke up with him, but it was clear that she was getting down with Edouard for at least 10 days before that.
Other compelling members of the troupe are: Pierre, who in spite of a terrible piercing on his right eyebrow has penetrating blue eyes and a killer voice; Anne, who bears some resemblance to Helen Hunt and was transported this week to Las Vegas where she met Celine Dion; Stephanie, a bouncy blonde; Michal, who is of Polish extraction but speaks flawless French, plays the piano, and participated in a previous season of a similar show in Poland; and Paxti (sounds a bit like "Potsy") who appears to be the youngest participant and has recently won the hearts of the judges.
The big problem is that the daily show is on right when we need to get Meredith ready for bed. Bill is often game for getting her ready so I can watch, but it's just terrible.
Only three have left so far (Icaro, Michel, and Marjorie), and after tonight there will be 12 left, which means 11 more weeks of this. The suspense is killing me, I do hope it will continue!
Creative Parking 101
Today, I watched four men walk up to a car that was parked on the street, pick it up, and move it about five feet forward. I was sitting in our living room at the time and wasn't sure that I had seen what I thought I saw. I mean, cars are usually pretty heavy, a couple of tons or so. So I went over to the window to check it out. None of the men were particularly muscular, but sure enough they had carried this car forward a few feet to make room for their own car. How many times I've wanted to be able to do that in New York!
I should explain that on the whole, cars in Paris (and France) are a bit smaller than the cars in the U.S. In some cases, a LOT smaller. One particular brand named Le Smart Car is a two-seater that is not even 5 feet long (I'm not kidding). The new Austin Mini that has become popular in the States recently looks like a stretch limo next to the Smart Car. But the people who drive them do seem like geniuses when it comes to finding a parking space in this city. Recently, I saw 3 Smart Cars parked in a space that would have only fit one Ford Explorer. However, they are surely putting their lives in danger every time they pull out of one of those tiny parking spaces. Around the city, I think it would be okay because the traffic never seems to move too fast. But I've seen these cars zipping around on the Périphérique, the 8-lane highway belt that runs around Paris. I want them to have to put one of those triangular orange flags on a long pole like kids have on their bicycles to make them more visible.
Parisiens have other ways of creating parking space for themselves. Most of these are likely illegal. Like parking on the sidewalk. Or on the corner in an intersection. A few days ago, someone didn't have enough space to squeeze into a parallel parking spot on the street the regular way, so they backed into it, perpendicular to the sidewalk, and half the car was ON the sidewalk! These are the kinds of things that would get you towed in a New York minute in NYC. But here, I don't see many tickets being handed out. Our street here is metered, with Muni-meters that are almost identical to the ones around our old building in Forest Hills. The parking tickets here seem to get received with the same nonchalance that the French approach most things in life.
It's kind of nice not having to find a place to park every day.
I should explain that on the whole, cars in Paris (and France) are a bit smaller than the cars in the U.S. In some cases, a LOT smaller. One particular brand named Le Smart Car is a two-seater that is not even 5 feet long (I'm not kidding). The new Austin Mini that has become popular in the States recently looks like a stretch limo next to the Smart Car. But the people who drive them do seem like geniuses when it comes to finding a parking space in this city. Recently, I saw 3 Smart Cars parked in a space that would have only fit one Ford Explorer. However, they are surely putting their lives in danger every time they pull out of one of those tiny parking spaces. Around the city, I think it would be okay because the traffic never seems to move too fast. But I've seen these cars zipping around on the Périphérique, the 8-lane highway belt that runs around Paris. I want them to have to put one of those triangular orange flags on a long pole like kids have on their bicycles to make them more visible.
Parisiens have other ways of creating parking space for themselves. Most of these are likely illegal. Like parking on the sidewalk. Or on the corner in an intersection. A few days ago, someone didn't have enough space to squeeze into a parallel parking spot on the street the regular way, so they backed into it, perpendicular to the sidewalk, and half the car was ON the sidewalk! These are the kinds of things that would get you towed in a New York minute in NYC. But here, I don't see many tickets being handed out. Our street here is metered, with Muni-meters that are almost identical to the ones around our old building in Forest Hills. The parking tickets here seem to get received with the same nonchalance that the French approach most things in life.
It's kind of nice not having to find a place to park every day.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Meredith's diet (Part II)
It should come as no surprise that school lunch isn't free. What is surprising is that there is a fee structure associated with the lunch, including five different rates depending on the family's financial situation. After dropping Meredith off at school one morning, Bill came home and handed me a flier. [I should note that he seems to receive a disproportionate amount of school paperwork.] In order to qualify for a reduced price lunch, one must present oneself with all manner of documentation at the caisse d'école (not the same as the office that we had visited previously), including three months of pay stubs, a tax return, etc. Of the 6 documents required, we had zero. The sheet Bill received specifically stated that no reductions would be granted without all of this paperwork. Undaunted, and with the knowledge that such absolute statements on paper normally mean very little in person, I headed to the caisse with my passport, the letter informing me of my fellowship, and the lease. [It's astounding to me how many times I've needed to use the lease as an official proof of residence -- I never once needed to use it in New York!] The woman at the caisse finished her cigarette, then came to the window to hear me out. She examined my documents, filled out a form by hand, and asked a few questions. In particular, she was interested in knowing how we were covering the rent, since it was more than my monthly fellowship stipend. I said that my family in America was helping out, and thought that for sure this would do us in. She told me I'd hear by the end of the week. Yeah right, I thought. And yet, lo and behold, the letter arrived and informed us that we qualified for the "second tier"! So instead of paying 3 € (euros) 50 per day, we pay 2 € 80. When our checks finally arrived, I was able to pay the principal.
The snack (le goûter) however, is paid separately, and in cash only. An announcement went up on the bulletin board saying the snack should be paid this Friday. No where, in all the paperwork we have received from the school or in any of the postings in the foyer, has there been any mention of the cost of the snack. I waited my turn to see the principal with some cash in hand, she looked up Meredith's attendance at the goûter and announced that for the month of September, we owed 12 €, or less than 1 €/day. Pas mal, as they say around here, pas mal du tout (not bad at all), especially considering Meredith really does eat her snack every day!
The snack (le goûter) however, is paid separately, and in cash only. An announcement went up on the bulletin board saying the snack should be paid this Friday. No where, in all the paperwork we have received from the school or in any of the postings in the foyer, has there been any mention of the cost of the snack. I waited my turn to see the principal with some cash in hand, she looked up Meredith's attendance at the goûter and announced that for the month of September, we owed 12 €, or less than 1 €/day. Pas mal, as they say around here, pas mal du tout (not bad at all), especially considering Meredith really does eat her snack every day!
Monday, September 15, 2003
Meredith's diet (Part I)
So, since we've moved to France, Meredith has decided that she loves yogurt. I think she'd eat it at every meal, if we let her. She also loves opening our little fridge and choosing her flavor (we've taken to buying the variety pack with 4 different flavors, but she enjoys them all). In addition, she'll have some fruit (a pear or half a banana) and part of a croissant or some bread along with her standard beverage, diluted orange juice (we've managed to find the calcium-added Tropicana, bonus!). Alternatively, she still enjoys a bowl of cereal with raisins now and then.
In the evening, she'll sometimes have a yogurt or string cheese as soon as we get home from school. Dinner is usually a hamburger, a hot dog, or a fish patty, although she still likes her cold pasta and rice. We'll often wrap it up with a cookie -- she's been allowed to pick out a package that looks appealing to her and Bill and I have been pretty psyched about her choices!
The kicker, though, is that she eats better at school than at home. Her teachers have all mentioned that she eats well ("Elle mange très bien!") which is a major compliment around here. On the school lunch menu: veal scaloppini with roasted potatoes; beef bourguignon with pasta; rabbit (!); filet of sole and rice pilaf. Then, in the afternoon, she gets a snack, which is usually a pain au chocolat (what we'd call a chocolate croissant, what Meredith calls "bread with chocolate") or a tartine (french bread and butter with jam), or a chausson aux pommes (like an apple turnover, but better).
In the evening, she'll sometimes have a yogurt or string cheese as soon as we get home from school. Dinner is usually a hamburger, a hot dog, or a fish patty, although she still likes her cold pasta and rice. We'll often wrap it up with a cookie -- she's been allowed to pick out a package that looks appealing to her and Bill and I have been pretty psyched about her choices!
The kicker, though, is that she eats better at school than at home. Her teachers have all mentioned that she eats well ("Elle mange très bien!") which is a major compliment around here. On the school lunch menu: veal scaloppini with roasted potatoes; beef bourguignon with pasta; rabbit (!); filet of sole and rice pilaf. Then, in the afternoon, she gets a snack, which is usually a pain au chocolat (what we'd call a chocolate croissant, what Meredith calls "bread with chocolate") or a tartine (french bread and butter with jam), or a chausson aux pommes (like an apple turnover, but better).
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Meredith la petite écolière (the little schoolgirl)…
This chapter of our ex-pat life began well before we set foot on French soil. For those who might not know, public education in France begins at age 3, although it is not obligatory until age 5. If that sounds contradictory, it is. Welcome to France. What it means in practical terms is that students aren't guaranteed a spot in the first two years of "école maternelle" (maternal, or nursery, school); it's kind of a first-come, first-served set-up. In France, however, no doesn’t mean no, at least not right away.
A strange coincidence helped us out enormously in the early going. As the days of August passed quickly by, we were still unclear as to where we'd be living in Paris, and were exploring several different avenues simultaneously, some through agencies, some direct ads. One of the owner-advertised rentals that sounded interesting was a 2-bedroom in the 9th arrondissement (Paris has 20 of these divisions, kind of like the 5 boroughs of New York in terms of governance structure and municipal interests). The photos of this place on the internet made it clear that there was a young child living in the second bedroom. I spoke to the owners a couple of times as we were trying to negotiate a deal with them for a 9-month rental (they were asking 2200 euros/month!) that we ended up deciding against, but the landlords were very helpful in explaining that we should get in touch with the mairie (town hall) of the arrondissement in which we planned to live right away, and even provided us with the phone number of the 9th.
It turned out that we took a place in the 9th (through an agency, more on that in a different entry), so I called the mairie and spoke with the school office. NOTE: The French in general don't like to do business over the phone; they far prefer in-person communication. The office manager, Madame Level, directed me to fax several documents right away -- Meredith's birth certificate and vaccination record, proof of our address in Paris, and my passport. The only two vaccinations the French care about are DtaP and what they call BCG, which is for TB. As it happens, although Meredith has had dozens of shots, she doesn't have this. In fact, it's not available or recommended in the US at this time. So Meredith's pediatrician wrote a letter, which I translated into French, and I faxed that as well. Fortunately, we know a pediatrician in Paris who I planned to contact anyway, so we figured he could help us get Meredith this shot right away.
Ah, yes, the day we arrived in Paris was the first day of school! So, jet lagged, dazed, and confused, we made our way to the mairie and found the school office. I presented myself and our situation, and we were given three, that's three, copies of a letter along with the address of the école maternelle and the phone number of the school principal. We called right away (this was about 4:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday), and the principal, Madame Secondé, instructed us to arrive at the school at 8:30 on Thursday morning with our documents. We spent the time in between wondering if anyone was going to ask us about the shots and why we couldn't see the principal on Wednesday.
So, we dressed Meredith up for her first day of school and easily found the principal in the school lobby. She consulted her list and led us directly up to a classroom, Classe numéro 2 in the petite section with Mademoiselle Catherine as the maîtresse. Meredith's name was added to the class roster and we were handed a sheaf of paperwork to fill out. Meredith was happily making herself at home, but there was a lot of weeping and wailing all around, on the part of parent and child alike. Talk about your separation issues! Lots of kids clutching loveys (or doudous, as they're called here), sucking pacifiers (yes, these kids are 3-5 years old), and even drinking from baby bottles. We made it clear that Meredith would be staying for lunch (a good number of children go home to eat), and left her for the day.
As far as transitions go for Meredith, that was about it. She continues to speak English a good deal of the time, but she clearly makes herself understood. Her teachers and care-givers report that she is adorable and souriante (smiling) all the time. She seems to love the art projects and "gymnastics" (dancing? Exercising?) that they do everyday. And since she doesn't have one particular doudou that's the most special, she decides each morning which stuffed animal is that day's lucky winner. When we pick her up at 5:30, she's usually out on the playground, happily playing by herself or with some of the other kids, and generally filthy.
In time, some things have been revealed. For one, there's no school on Wednesdays. Ever. On the other hand, starting in first grade, there is a half-day of school on Saturdays. How this schedule works to anyone's benefit is beyond me, but that's how it is. Fortunately, there's a day care centre de loisirs at the school on Wednesdays, for which there is a charge, but at least Meredith can go to the same building every day.
It did take a bit of doing to get Meredith enrolled, but nothing worse than we experienced in other bureaucratic arenas (at least thus far). What is interesting to note is the reaction from Parisians, French and expat alike, to the news that we managed to get Meredith into school. Some are shocked, some are stunned, but all are surprised to some degree, and many share stories of their own difficulties getting their children into l'école maternelle. Perhaps ignorance was bliss in this case!
A strange coincidence helped us out enormously in the early going. As the days of August passed quickly by, we were still unclear as to where we'd be living in Paris, and were exploring several different avenues simultaneously, some through agencies, some direct ads. One of the owner-advertised rentals that sounded interesting was a 2-bedroom in the 9th arrondissement (Paris has 20 of these divisions, kind of like the 5 boroughs of New York in terms of governance structure and municipal interests). The photos of this place on the internet made it clear that there was a young child living in the second bedroom. I spoke to the owners a couple of times as we were trying to negotiate a deal with them for a 9-month rental (they were asking 2200 euros/month!) that we ended up deciding against, but the landlords were very helpful in explaining that we should get in touch with the mairie (town hall) of the arrondissement in which we planned to live right away, and even provided us with the phone number of the 9th.
It turned out that we took a place in the 9th (through an agency, more on that in a different entry), so I called the mairie and spoke with the school office. NOTE: The French in general don't like to do business over the phone; they far prefer in-person communication. The office manager, Madame Level, directed me to fax several documents right away -- Meredith's birth certificate and vaccination record, proof of our address in Paris, and my passport. The only two vaccinations the French care about are DtaP and what they call BCG, which is for TB. As it happens, although Meredith has had dozens of shots, she doesn't have this. In fact, it's not available or recommended in the US at this time. So Meredith's pediatrician wrote a letter, which I translated into French, and I faxed that as well. Fortunately, we know a pediatrician in Paris who I planned to contact anyway, so we figured he could help us get Meredith this shot right away.
Ah, yes, the day we arrived in Paris was the first day of school! So, jet lagged, dazed, and confused, we made our way to the mairie and found the school office. I presented myself and our situation, and we were given three, that's three, copies of a letter along with the address of the école maternelle and the phone number of the school principal. We called right away (this was about 4:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday), and the principal, Madame Secondé, instructed us to arrive at the school at 8:30 on Thursday morning with our documents. We spent the time in between wondering if anyone was going to ask us about the shots and why we couldn't see the principal on Wednesday.
So, we dressed Meredith up for her first day of school and easily found the principal in the school lobby. She consulted her list and led us directly up to a classroom, Classe numéro 2 in the petite section with Mademoiselle Catherine as the maîtresse. Meredith's name was added to the class roster and we were handed a sheaf of paperwork to fill out. Meredith was happily making herself at home, but there was a lot of weeping and wailing all around, on the part of parent and child alike. Talk about your separation issues! Lots of kids clutching loveys (or doudous, as they're called here), sucking pacifiers (yes, these kids are 3-5 years old), and even drinking from baby bottles. We made it clear that Meredith would be staying for lunch (a good number of children go home to eat), and left her for the day.
As far as transitions go for Meredith, that was about it. She continues to speak English a good deal of the time, but she clearly makes herself understood. Her teachers and care-givers report that she is adorable and souriante (smiling) all the time. She seems to love the art projects and "gymnastics" (dancing? Exercising?) that they do everyday. And since she doesn't have one particular doudou that's the most special, she decides each morning which stuffed animal is that day's lucky winner. When we pick her up at 5:30, she's usually out on the playground, happily playing by herself or with some of the other kids, and generally filthy.
In time, some things have been revealed. For one, there's no school on Wednesdays. Ever. On the other hand, starting in first grade, there is a half-day of school on Saturdays. How this schedule works to anyone's benefit is beyond me, but that's how it is. Fortunately, there's a day care centre de loisirs at the school on Wednesdays, for which there is a charge, but at least Meredith can go to the same building every day.
It did take a bit of doing to get Meredith enrolled, but nothing worse than we experienced in other bureaucratic arenas (at least thus far). What is interesting to note is the reaction from Parisians, French and expat alike, to the news that we managed to get Meredith into school. Some are shocked, some are stunned, but all are surprised to some degree, and many share stories of their own difficulties getting their children into l'école maternelle. Perhaps ignorance was bliss in this case!
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
I just called to say, “I have no phone service.”
Let’s be clear, phones have been available in France for about a century. However, for reasons unknown to me, possibly having to do with cost, many French people resisted having phones installed in their homes. This meant that prior to the advent of the cellular phone (see Bill’s ‘blog on that portion of our Adventure), the corner payphones got lots and lots of use. Even in my first solo trips to France in ’87 and ’88 I noticed a great deal of payphone usage, with people standing in line to use phones on the street.
Our apartment, however, came with a phone already installed; it was one of the features listed on the website and of course would be desirable, if not downright important, for us to have. When Mme Chevaillier (known to Meredith as “Madame” or “the dame”) informed us that the phone was cut off, she quickly explained that it was due to a miscommunication with France Telecom, the Ma Bell of France. Apparently, when she requested that the phone bill be forwarded to her in Nice, where she lives, they got the address wrong and the bills were returned as undeliverable, leading the nice people at France Telecom to disconnect the phone. She said she’d take care of it as soon as she returned to Nice, but she gave us the phone number attached to the line so that we’d be ready when the service was restored.
Days passed, still no phone. I called Madame from NYU to ask about the status, and she said it should be working. On Saturday, when getting help on our cell phones from Bernard in the France Telecom store (again, see Bill’s ‘blog on the portable issues), we asked for help with the land line as well (that’s la ligne fixe in French). Bernard wasn’t supposed to be taking such steps for us without our proper proof of address (a phone bill? Yeah right!), but since Meredith was with us, he made an exception – something the French do all the time, if they have a reason to do so – and checked in his system. After verifying our address and Madame’s full name, he indicated that there was indeed phone service in the apartment, but the phone number was different from the one Madame had given us (Bernard could also see that the old line had been shut off.).
Back at home, Bill did a thorough check of the apartment for phone jacks. He found one in Meredith’s room, which was dead, and one upstairs in our room, that had a dial tone!
Whoopee! In the mean time, I had called France Telecom directly on our gardienne’s phone (a gardienne is something between a superintendent and a busybody, more on that at some later point), and arranged to have a technician come to the house. Shockingly, our appointment was for Monday morning! Now that’s service!
And indeed, our friendly technicien arrived early during the designated time frame, verified that the downstairs lines were dead, followed all of the lines as far as he could from the apartment out to the central box, and determined that the downstairs line had been cut. He made sure to tell us that we could have France Telecom drop the working line downstairs, if we were willing to pay for it. When she heard of this, Madame justly said that the building fund (this is a co-op) or managing company (known as the syndic) would be footing that bill, since their workmen undoubtedly cut the line in error. This has little to do with us, of course, but it’s interesting to see how things work around here.
The dilemma that faced us had to do with the fact that the only phone in the house was corded and would not extend down the stairs and through Meredith’s room so that we might have access to it while she sleeps. So we went to the BHV (stands for Boutiques de l’Hôtel de Ville) and purchased a cordless phone, so we could plug the base in upstairs and use the phone downstairs. Madame kindly offered to split the cost of this phone with us. This arrangement quickly began to be a pain, so Bill bought some cable and dropped a line himself through the existing holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls, then rewired the jack downstairs with the new line. Works like a charm. We’ll uninstall it upon move-out, or in the event that Madame gets someone to pay for the official extension of the line. And so, the resolution of our ligne fixe issues becomes a loving tribute not only to my husband, but to his father, a career employee of the phone company, who taught Bill a thing or two about telephones.
Unfortunately, the phone is still in Madame’s name. This presents other problems that shall be written up on some other day. Yes, the saga continues…
Our apartment, however, came with a phone already installed; it was one of the features listed on the website and of course would be desirable, if not downright important, for us to have. When Mme Chevaillier (known to Meredith as “Madame” or “the dame”) informed us that the phone was cut off, she quickly explained that it was due to a miscommunication with France Telecom, the Ma Bell of France. Apparently, when she requested that the phone bill be forwarded to her in Nice, where she lives, they got the address wrong and the bills were returned as undeliverable, leading the nice people at France Telecom to disconnect the phone. She said she’d take care of it as soon as she returned to Nice, but she gave us the phone number attached to the line so that we’d be ready when the service was restored.
Days passed, still no phone. I called Madame from NYU to ask about the status, and she said it should be working. On Saturday, when getting help on our cell phones from Bernard in the France Telecom store (again, see Bill’s ‘blog on the portable issues), we asked for help with the land line as well (that’s la ligne fixe in French). Bernard wasn’t supposed to be taking such steps for us without our proper proof of address (a phone bill? Yeah right!), but since Meredith was with us, he made an exception – something the French do all the time, if they have a reason to do so – and checked in his system. After verifying our address and Madame’s full name, he indicated that there was indeed phone service in the apartment, but the phone number was different from the one Madame had given us (Bernard could also see that the old line had been shut off.).
Back at home, Bill did a thorough check of the apartment for phone jacks. He found one in Meredith’s room, which was dead, and one upstairs in our room, that had a dial tone!
Whoopee! In the mean time, I had called France Telecom directly on our gardienne’s phone (a gardienne is something between a superintendent and a busybody, more on that at some later point), and arranged to have a technician come to the house. Shockingly, our appointment was for Monday morning! Now that’s service!
And indeed, our friendly technicien arrived early during the designated time frame, verified that the downstairs lines were dead, followed all of the lines as far as he could from the apartment out to the central box, and determined that the downstairs line had been cut. He made sure to tell us that we could have France Telecom drop the working line downstairs, if we were willing to pay for it. When she heard of this, Madame justly said that the building fund (this is a co-op) or managing company (known as the syndic) would be footing that bill, since their workmen undoubtedly cut the line in error. This has little to do with us, of course, but it’s interesting to see how things work around here.
The dilemma that faced us had to do with the fact that the only phone in the house was corded and would not extend down the stairs and through Meredith’s room so that we might have access to it while she sleeps. So we went to the BHV (stands for Boutiques de l’Hôtel de Ville) and purchased a cordless phone, so we could plug the base in upstairs and use the phone downstairs. Madame kindly offered to split the cost of this phone with us. This arrangement quickly began to be a pain, so Bill bought some cable and dropped a line himself through the existing holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls, then rewired the jack downstairs with the new line. Works like a charm. We’ll uninstall it upon move-out, or in the event that Madame gets someone to pay for the official extension of the line. And so, the resolution of our ligne fixe issues becomes a loving tribute not only to my husband, but to his father, a career employee of the phone company, who taught Bill a thing or two about telephones.
Unfortunately, the phone is still in Madame’s name. This presents other problems that shall be written up on some other day. Yes, the saga continues…
Saturday, September 6, 2003
Domicile, Sweet Domicile
The shuttle service was ready and waiting for us when we blinked our way into the Paris sunshine on the 2nd. For a mere 10€ (euros) extra, the driver was willing to take our bags as well ourselves into the city from the Charles de Gaulle airport.
About 40 minutes later, we were unloading our baggage onto the sidewalk in front of our new home address in the diverse 9th arrondissement.
A bit of background: For administrative reasons, Napoleon divided Paris into districts, or arrondissements. There are 20 of them in all, starting with the 1st on the Ile de la Cité (the original city of Paris, where Notre-Dame is situated), and spiraling out from there. The closest American parallel I can make is a borough. [For New Yorkers and other city dwellers accustomed to an urban grid configuration, Paris is downright vexing. This snail-shell distribution of the arrondissements is only the beginning. There’s no grid at all, no uptown, no East Side. The Left Bank/Right Bank (rive gauche/rive droite) isn’t all that helpful, to me at least. Paris is a web, vaguely circular yet irregular and possessing a certain elegance in its layout. Without a detailed street map, however, most Parisians are lost in neighborhoods new to them; most Parisians carry such maps with them at all times, clever and practical folk that they are.] Our arrondissement is known for its significant landmark, the Opera House, which of course no longer has any opera performed in it (the new Opera House is in the Bastille and opened in the late 1980s; it’s an ugly, uncomfortable behemoth of a building, but I digress. The Opera House in the 9th is where Phantom of the Opera takes place, and there is a lake underneath and a huge chandelier up above just for literary accuracy’s sake. This section (or quartier) makes the 9th seem snooty and upscale, but north of the Grands Boulevards (a series of major roads that run east-west north of the Seine), where we live, is on the way to Montmartre, a more risqué and less affluent area. It looks like we are nicely situated in between these two well-known quartiers. Thank you for your attention. Now, back to our story.
So, here we are with our stuff, hunting around for some euros to pay the driver with, when I notice that – of course – there’s a numeric keypad just outside the building entrance that requires a code. This digicode system is in practice all over the city. Normally, there’s a button below the pad that allows you to open the door without a code during the day, so that deliveries and workers can easily enter the building. Our building has no such button, and I realized that we didn’t know the code. What to do? Well, knowing that our apartment was on the ground floor (that’s the rez-de-chaussée in French), we went ahead and knocked on the window to the left of the entryway. Fortunately, this worked.
A woman of a certain age, Madame Chevaillier, greeted us warmly. It was soon evident that she spoke not a word of English, meaning that I would need to take the lead on communicating with her. She thoughtfully offered us a beverage and a snack (cookies, marshmallows, and fruit), before letting us know that she had waited all day the previous day for us, since our lease began on the 1st. Just a little guilt-inducing statement, but oh well. So we begin to tour the apartment, and it becomes clear that it’s a duplex. Nothing against them, generally, but we had specified that we did not want to take a place that required our walking through one bedroom to access the other. Well, here we are on Day 1 of our Paris Adventure, and not only do we need to walk through Meredith’s room to get to ours, which is up a creaky, windy, narrow staircase, but we have to do this to get to a bathroom, as well! Nothing of the kind was mentioned in the on-line description and depiction of the apartment, but nothing could be done about it at the time and it certainly wasn’t our landlady’s fault that we didn’t know this in advance.
Apart from the layout challenges, the apartment is quite lovely and suits our needs well. The dining room is separated from the living room (salon-séjour) by an archway and the small but well-equipped kitchen is off the living room. The bathroom (salle d’eau) adjacent to Meredith’s cosy little room has (drumroll) an actual shower! Upstairs, we have a French bathroom (bathtub and sink) and a separate toilet (or WC, or water closet), and a comfortably appointed bedroom. The décor generally evokes the 18th century, with lots of drapery and curtains and hidden closets and doors. There’s an amazing amount of storage tucked behind folding doors along the staircase, for instance, and our washer and dryer (!!!!) can be found there as well.
In addition, the kitchen and dining room are well stocked with dishes, cutlery, pots and pans, etc, and there’s ample linen for the bedrooms and baths. That said, we found certain gaps in the inventory that we’ll be filling over time: wine glasses, a clock, bathmats, water pitcher, candle holders, large glasses (tough to find in France, the land of portion control), wooden spoons, and more will be on our shopping lists. Given our particular needs, we also will be stocking up on power adaptors and splitters.
Okay, back to our initial tour. Mme Chevaillier took me on a two-hour (two-hour!) detailed review of every fork, lamp, and napkin in the joint. She’s left us equipped with knick-knacks and books, records (LPs!) and doilies, a piano and lots of cleaning apparati, and we’ve signed off on every last item. [In the interest of toddler-proofing, certain objets d’art will be relegated to high shelves or closets to avoid having to pay for their possible replacement.] Once that was done, we sat down to sign the lease and fork over a few more euros (the balance between the three months’ rent due up front – two months of security plus the September rent – and what we had wired to her in advance), learn how to operate the two locks on the front door and the those on the shutters, and then she called a taxi and was gone to catch the TGV (the train de grande vitesse, or bullet train) back home to Nice. I have subsequently spoken to her a number of times, but those tales will wait for another ‘blog.
Did I mention the phone is dead?
About 40 minutes later, we were unloading our baggage onto the sidewalk in front of our new home address in the diverse 9th arrondissement.
A bit of background: For administrative reasons, Napoleon divided Paris into districts, or arrondissements. There are 20 of them in all, starting with the 1st on the Ile de la Cité (the original city of Paris, where Notre-Dame is situated), and spiraling out from there. The closest American parallel I can make is a borough. [For New Yorkers and other city dwellers accustomed to an urban grid configuration, Paris is downright vexing. This snail-shell distribution of the arrondissements is only the beginning. There’s no grid at all, no uptown, no East Side. The Left Bank/Right Bank (rive gauche/rive droite) isn’t all that helpful, to me at least. Paris is a web, vaguely circular yet irregular and possessing a certain elegance in its layout. Without a detailed street map, however, most Parisians are lost in neighborhoods new to them; most Parisians carry such maps with them at all times, clever and practical folk that they are.] Our arrondissement is known for its significant landmark, the Opera House, which of course no longer has any opera performed in it (the new Opera House is in the Bastille and opened in the late 1980s; it’s an ugly, uncomfortable behemoth of a building, but I digress. The Opera House in the 9th is where Phantom of the Opera takes place, and there is a lake underneath and a huge chandelier up above just for literary accuracy’s sake. This section (or quartier) makes the 9th seem snooty and upscale, but north of the Grands Boulevards (a series of major roads that run east-west north of the Seine), where we live, is on the way to Montmartre, a more risqué and less affluent area. It looks like we are nicely situated in between these two well-known quartiers. Thank you for your attention. Now, back to our story.
So, here we are with our stuff, hunting around for some euros to pay the driver with, when I notice that – of course – there’s a numeric keypad just outside the building entrance that requires a code. This digicode system is in practice all over the city. Normally, there’s a button below the pad that allows you to open the door without a code during the day, so that deliveries and workers can easily enter the building. Our building has no such button, and I realized that we didn’t know the code. What to do? Well, knowing that our apartment was on the ground floor (that’s the rez-de-chaussée in French), we went ahead and knocked on the window to the left of the entryway. Fortunately, this worked.
A woman of a certain age, Madame Chevaillier, greeted us warmly. It was soon evident that she spoke not a word of English, meaning that I would need to take the lead on communicating with her. She thoughtfully offered us a beverage and a snack (cookies, marshmallows, and fruit), before letting us know that she had waited all day the previous day for us, since our lease began on the 1st. Just a little guilt-inducing statement, but oh well. So we begin to tour the apartment, and it becomes clear that it’s a duplex. Nothing against them, generally, but we had specified that we did not want to take a place that required our walking through one bedroom to access the other. Well, here we are on Day 1 of our Paris Adventure, and not only do we need to walk through Meredith’s room to get to ours, which is up a creaky, windy, narrow staircase, but we have to do this to get to a bathroom, as well! Nothing of the kind was mentioned in the on-line description and depiction of the apartment, but nothing could be done about it at the time and it certainly wasn’t our landlady’s fault that we didn’t know this in advance.
Apart from the layout challenges, the apartment is quite lovely and suits our needs well. The dining room is separated from the living room (salon-séjour) by an archway and the small but well-equipped kitchen is off the living room. The bathroom (salle d’eau) adjacent to Meredith’s cosy little room has (drumroll) an actual shower! Upstairs, we have a French bathroom (bathtub and sink) and a separate toilet (or WC, or water closet), and a comfortably appointed bedroom. The décor generally evokes the 18th century, with lots of drapery and curtains and hidden closets and doors. There’s an amazing amount of storage tucked behind folding doors along the staircase, for instance, and our washer and dryer (!!!!) can be found there as well.
In addition, the kitchen and dining room are well stocked with dishes, cutlery, pots and pans, etc, and there’s ample linen for the bedrooms and baths. That said, we found certain gaps in the inventory that we’ll be filling over time: wine glasses, a clock, bathmats, water pitcher, candle holders, large glasses (tough to find in France, the land of portion control), wooden spoons, and more will be on our shopping lists. Given our particular needs, we also will be stocking up on power adaptors and splitters.
Okay, back to our initial tour. Mme Chevaillier took me on a two-hour (two-hour!) detailed review of every fork, lamp, and napkin in the joint. She’s left us equipped with knick-knacks and books, records (LPs!) and doilies, a piano and lots of cleaning apparati, and we’ve signed off on every last item. [In the interest of toddler-proofing, certain objets d’art will be relegated to high shelves or closets to avoid having to pay for their possible replacement.] Once that was done, we sat down to sign the lease and fork over a few more euros (the balance between the three months’ rent due up front – two months of security plus the September rent – and what we had wired to her in advance), learn how to operate the two locks on the front door and the those on the shutters, and then she called a taxi and was gone to catch the TGV (the train de grande vitesse, or bullet train) back home to Nice. I have subsequently spoken to her a number of times, but those tales will wait for another ‘blog.
Did I mention the phone is dead?
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