Picnicking french style

Salut friends. Here I am again, ready to write. I'm going to try to regulate my blogging schedule; you can expect a new entry (providing there are no natural disasters or swine flu outbreaks) each Thursday. Speaking of Grippe A--H1N1's french name--the masks are out in full force in Paris. And not just among Asian tourists. I've seen several older french women walking along the Champs-Elysées sporting the mask like it was an Hermès scarf. Not sure about the rest of the world, but here the maladie porcine is getting serious. "Guard yo' grillz" ladies and gentlemen. And wash your hands!

Last friday I had the honor of actually exploring Paris with another human! It was so nice to have contact with someone my age. I was giddy. After I saw the kiddies off to school I went in to Paris to explore. As luck would have it, an old high school friend is also in Paris going to medical school (I know, impressive). He called and asked me to go to an art exhibition with him. Jumping at the opportunity to catch up and SPEAK ENGLISH! I said yes. I met him near the gallery and we took a look. The art was definitely interesting. It was by an artist named Takashi Murakami (http://www.takashimurakami.com/). He has worked with Louis Vuitton and Kanye West...ew, Kanye West. Even in France I saw him diss Taylor Swift and I am SO not down with that. Good thing the gallery was free. I have to say my favorite part was the video installation. Several french people were gathered around watching an anime cartoon about the environment ( I think). It was in Japanese and subtitled in English. The little characters were jumping around with a giant watermelon and screaming about poop. Yes, poop. I think it must have been something about composting but I got there too late to be sure. All I know is that I was trying to stifle laughter in an absolutely silent..and small..gallery (imagine, very artsy french people pretending to understand and appreciate this wonderfully artistic video that is in fact about poop).

He also showed me around Le Marais, the Jewish/gay section of Paris. Needless to say, there was great food and great shopping. We ate at the most delicious falafel restaurant and I got to indulge in a delicious beer. Wine is great, but being from Indiana, I appreciate beer just as much as the next redneck! Then we walked to this chocolaterie where I had the most decadent chocolate concoction ever created. Taking Neil's advice I ordered a hot chocolate. This was no Swiss Miss, let me tell you. This was hot cream mixed with the most luxurious melted chocolate in the world. I kid you not. Delicious. Definitely a highlight in my day. And they gave away free samples of chocolate! You say free, I'm there.

On Sunday, I signed myself up to go hiking with Zoe. The rest of the family had to go to Scouts ("scoots" as they call it) so I agreed to tag along with her so she could go. A little perspective is necessary for this story, as with so many of my other tales. This hike was a family hike, organized by the PTA association of Zoe's school. It was meant to be a nice way to bring together parents and kids on a sunny Sunday. Despite knowing all this, I was still surprised to see that I was the only american au pair waiting at the meeting point. I felt like a kid at a new school; everyone knew each other and I was standing in the corner nervously twisting my hands.

The first hour of the hike, Zoe (fortunately) hung with me. We chatted and actually enjoyed the beautiful weather and scenery. Somewhere along the path, we ran into two of her classmates, Elisa and Julie. Because I seemed to be the only adult this far ahead in the hike, they stuck with me. Here I was making friends with seven year olds. Sad. Somehow the conversation moved away from farts and butts to the fact that I was from the U.S. (I kid you not, these kids did not notice my american-french accent). "So that means you can speak English?" one of the girls asked. Yes, yes I can. The rest was history. A wildfire had spread through the crowd; within moments, the entire group knew I was american. A dad approached me. "Zo you are from ze United Ztatez?". Gee sir, how'dya know? We chatted in English and before I knew it, we had arrived at the picnic area. I had made a real french friend! Nevermind that he is a middle-aged dad with two small children.

At the picnic, in typical french tradition, there were apperitifs before the meal. This means that everyone passed around a huge bottle of Sangria and ate some stale crackers. That wasn't all though. Before I could even break out my sandwich, my new friend approached me with three bottles of wine. "Wheech one do you like?"...I started with a nice rosé. The moment I finished my last drop, the guy next to me was there with a white wine. He offered me a glass and before I had the chance to protest, he poured. Christophe was his name. He even shared his scrumptious rice salad a la provencale with me. So this is the way to make french friends, huh? Drinking.

I started on my sandwich and Olivier, the guy I met on the hike, comes over with his friends and introduces me. One of them asked if I was a redneck when I told him I was from Indiana. I wasn't sure whether to be impressed that he knew that word or offended that he was accusing me of being a redneck. They, of course, all had bottles of wine. Despite my attempts to say no, they were hell-bent on having me try all of the wines at the picnic. Tasting the regions of France was their weak excuse for getting me tanked on a Sunday. Two reds and two whites later, I was feeling pretty good, chatting with the guys about archaelogy. Or something. Luckily, the French like to lounge for extended periods of time after a meal and I had a good hour and a half to work off my buzz before walking back to the house (it was on the hike route).

Thanks to the hike, I made several new friends! Okay, so they are all older couples with children, but who says we can't be friends? They invited me to join their running group, and although I am not quite up to their speed (11 km per run..yikes) I think I will go. At least once, before I realize my body is not made for running 11km.

So that's it here. A la semaine prochaine.

....and then I walked to the Opéra

There is an Indiana Cafe! In Paris! It's Tex-Mex food..I don't see the connection.

No matter where I go in Paris, I always end up at the Opera House. I could be on the opposite side of town, opposite side of the river, and still manage to wander back to this monument. I can't decide whether it's a curse or a blessing that I find my way back to the same tourist spot...every day. Is this some sort of cosmic message? I can only hope that maybe one day I will meet my future husband--or at least a good-looking frenchman--in front of the Opera. Dream on, right?

Well let me resume the events of my week. Sunday the kids and I went in to Paris to see Caroline run La Parisienne, a 6k all-women race in the city. Of course Zoe had to help buy the tickets to get there---the kiosk for train tickets conveniently didn't accept my debit card or the 20 the parents gave me and all I had was 4 euros in coins--but other than that things went smoothly. They had tons of cool live music and I even had a Weeds moment (see video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lp8xxDARwN4). There were 17, 000 women plus a few guys with skirts and makeup on. I can't imagine being a man and running six kilometers in just a skirt....

Zoé and Éliott on the train

While on the train subject, I must warn everyone that is ever considering visiting Paris to never try to find the Magenta station. This nebulous Metro/RER train stop is like the Bermuda Triangle. On the map it is perfectly visible, but try to walk there and you're screwed. After three hours of touring, ALL I wanted to do was get on my train at Magenta and go home. I followed my little map to the appropriate point and was very, very disappointed. Let me transport you to the scene. It's five pm, raining, I have a foot blister the size of a fist. I'm somewhere in between the North and East train station. I've made the block, oh, five times, and the people at the corner café are starting to think I'm a pickpocket thanks to my darting eyes and lingering manner. Finally, I give in and ask some worker at the train station. I know what you're thinking..."why didn't you do that in the first place??". Well, you come to France and ask a french worker for directions and see for yourself. I don't enjoy large doses of condescension and belittlement.

Two escalators, three winding ramps and again two sets of stairs later, I find Magenta. Never, ever again will I use that station. NEVER.

And tonight's (or today's) final train story. Today I visited Père Lachaise Cemetery. Boarding the Metro, I was very happy that for once there were a ton of open seats in my car. As I went to sit down, I noticed that the train was very packed...every section except mine. The second I settled in, I realized why. Something, maybe even someone, had rolled in garbage and rotting meat and then died under my Metro seat. Four years ago. I wretched. When I looked up to discern the origin of the scent, I noticed the other side of my car looking at me with schadenfreud-like anticipation. Unlike me, they saw the unfortunate origin of the smell and chose their seats wisely. I was the stupid american in the stink zone.

The ONLY redeeming part of this stench-fest (I had to ride in it for four stops) was seeing other unfortunate souls get in my car. Each one would step in the car--on his phone, talking with a friend, listening to an iPod--and then it would hit. That stench would have knocked a smile off the face of Satan himself.

In serious tourist news, Alain gave me a great little route to follow. There were tons of cool alleys with shops and restaurants and well, if I hadn't ended up at the Opera, I might have stayed to shop a little. For anyone hoping to glean some actual advice on traveling in Paris, take the Metro to Place Monge and walk around.

Some closing notes:

1. French kids have WAY better hand-clap songs than us. Forget "Ci-ci My Playmate" and come learn "Boom, Boom, Boom Ca Fait Elastique".

2. I tought the family how to roast pumpkin seeds tonight. Christmas come early I tell ya. Dad, you would have been proud.

3. My driving has significantly improved. I average 1.5 stalls per day.

4. You know how as a little kid you always tried to make adults (or even just your friends) say bad words...stuff like PEN15 and the like..? Well the French have that, too. The kids asked me to say the initials of Grand-Pere Tortue. So I said GPT (which in french sounds like jay-pet-ay). They burst out laughing, leaving me clueless. Finally, it registered. GPT sounds exactly like j'ai peté. I farted.

Going native

Monday was my first day in Paris. Yippee! Fortunately, I don't have (yet) any disastrous stories about getting lost in the Paris ghetto. Alain went with me on Monday to purchase my train/metro/bus card and was kind enough to show me around. His office is right next to the Galleries Lafayette, the Opera and several other tourist destinations...not that I'm a tourist or anything. I am so native.

So native, of course, that everytime I approach a counter to order a sandwich or café the worker automatically speaks english before I have the chance to utter a word of french. Granted, I get how some people just LOOK american. For example: the college-aged girl wearing a t-shirt that said OKLAHOMA with Nike running shorts; the old man with an american flag pin; the girl with a Tiffany's bracelet (so Vandy, I spotted her from a mile away and muttered "american"); or finally, the middle-aged woman with her tourist purse..you know the one I am talking about. Leather, five million pockets, theft-proof, slung across the shoulder. The only reason I even notice the tourist purse is because I notice the death grip of the owner. White knuckles, sweaty palms; it's as if she is going to be mugged any minute.

Anyways, there are those who are so american it hurts, and then there are those who blend. I like to think I blend. I wore jeans and a sweater. How does that peg me as american? Can they tell that my leg and arm hair isn't long? Do they detect that I don't have that tinge of B.O. that too many europeans possess? Is it because I don't have some greasy, asymmetrical haircut? (Disclaimer: I don't believe these mean, unfair stereotypes. I'm merely speculating for the purpose of this blog.) Whatever it is, I'm targeted as a tourist 50% of the time (better than 100% I guess...)

Speaking of tourists. As I walked through Paris on Monday, hitting all of the big tourist spots, I couldn't help but notice some really obnoxious tourist habits.

1. Videotaping monuments/museums/scenic views/etc.. Are you going to return home and subject your friends and family to five hours of the Mona Lisa and Monet paintings?! I really think a photo captures the moment in a much more succinct manner.

2. Americans speak at least ten times louder than any other nationality. It's a fact. I don't exclude myself. As I was walking past some building, I heard a woman practically scream, "IS THAT THE LOUVRE?!". No mam, that, in fact, is not the Louvre. The Louvre would be that enormous building with the huge, clear pyramid-like structure in front. And also, the large banner that says "Le Louvre".

So back to my Parisian adventure. I walked from Alain's office to the Louvre and sat down on a bench near le Jardin des Tuileries. The moment I sit down, a french gentleman in a suit with a paper sits down next to me. Bonjour he says. Bonjour I say back. He chats me up. Pierre, I come to find out, is his name. He is either a financial consultant or an information technology consultant somewhere in Paris (my french isn't perfect and why in the heck would I understand words about finance and information technology anyways?). He is WAY older than me and immediately I decide "thanks but no thanks"; he, however, keeps talking. As I finally find a way to exit the conversation, he asks for my number. HOW IN THE HECK DO I SAY THANKS BUT NO THANKS IN FRENCH!? I give it to him.

Yesterday he texted me to see if I wanted to boire un verre, or have a drink, with him.

I said yes.

Now I have to find a way to kindly back out. Ugh. I will take all suggestions with great appreciation and gratitude.

So that was about it for Day One of my Paris adventure. I got to eat lunch with Alain and his friend. They made lots of inappropriate yet funny jokes..well, that's what I interpreted from their sly chuckling and coups d'oeil--glances--in my direction. I didn't understand most of it.

I got to go to Paris Tuesday and Thursday also. Tuesday was fun; Alain gave me great little maps of things to see. I walked so much that I think I may have done permanent damage to my calves and feet. But it's just so FUN! A girl from Floyds Knobs in Paris... and managing to survive on top of it all! Not too shabby.

In food news (because eating is my second favorite hobby next to sightseeing): I made two delicious meals this week. Monday was saucisses à la Catalanes--delicious sausages in a white wine-tomato-garlic sauce. Tuesday was my eggcellent quiche à la Danielle, or a quiche with spinach, mushrooms, gruyere and lardons. Wednesday I made what I thought was a DELICIOUS chicken and vegetable stew. I was the only one who thought so.

Finally, some of my artistic, beautiful Paris photos.

A bientôt.

Maladroite

Bonsoir friends. I'm finally sitting down to compose my franco-english thoughts into a (hopefully) coherent blog entry. This is the eighth time--at least--that I have written this exact same paragraph thanks to some error with font and alignment and I might throw my computer through the window before this entry is ever published. Anyways, I have some photos for you. Photography, unfortunately, is not one of my many talents (ha), so you'll have to bear with me if some of these photos make the house look more like an abandoned shack than a beautiful french country home. Naturally, two days after I took these photos--which were a pain in the butt to take thanks to these bizarre bugs (mutant tick-bee things) that live in the garden--Alain cut back all the weeds so that things look a little more tame.

You might be wondering why I entitled this entry maladroite....or maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel appreciated by nonexistent readers. Either way, I'm going to let you in on the events of the past week which led me to said title which in english means clumsy.

On Thursday, thanks to the massive rain that prevented me from going anywhere but the post office, I did laundry. Well, I didn't have much of a choice...someone a fait peepee in his bed, and I had five loads of sheets, mattress covers, and even pillows to wash. I watched Erin Brockovich in french and happily did my chores. Now for you to understand this story I have to give a little background. The house I live in is newly renovated. Everything is brand new except for the door to the laundry room which is at least eighty years old. Honestly. The washing machine sounds like a machine gun when it's in spin cycle so you have to make sure the door is tightly shut so that you don't lose hearing in one or both ears. And, thanks to the eighty year old door knob, shutting the door takes about five minutes and at least twenty attempts before it's actually closed.

So I'm on my third load of laundry and the door starts shaking like crazy and the dad goes down to firmly close it. He tells me something about how I have to really close it hard for it to stay shut. Whatever. Twenty minutes later I go down to put stuff in the dryer and as I'm leaving I remember his advice. So I really shut the door hard. I jiggle the knob to make sure it's shut and...well, the doorknob falls out of the door. After stifling a four letter word, I gently (or not so gently) shove the door to see if it will still open. Doesn't budge an inch.

Here's the part in the story where I confess something to you. This is not the first thing in the house that I have broken. A few days before, I cracked a glass when I hit a spoon against it just a little too hard. I told Alain and he was like, "oh no big deal we have lots of glasses. Just make sure you don't break a plate, those were expensive". Fine, I'll just stick to glasses and doors.

Back to the laundry room. I finally get the courage to tell Alain that I broke the door. He doesn't seem too bothered and I stop sweating, at least for a moment. He's down in the laundry room area with his tools, Mr. french handyman. After a few minutes, however, there is still no sign of the door opening, and Alain is getting a little peeved. Zoe is laughing and joking about how funny it is that we're locked out of the laundry room when Alain says "ce n'est plus drôle ça"or in english, this isn't funny anymore. More time passes and I must say, the stress level in the room has increased exponentially. Alain is making jokes...well, not jokes exactly. You know when someone is like "hey, you're an asshole" and then laughs to make it seem like he was joking? Well, that's what it was like in the room. Finally, he karate kicks the door, it opens, and I all but run to my room to take a breather from the stress.

Oh, did I forget to mention this little piece of information? At possibly the most stressful moment in this doorknob situation, Alain comes into the kitchen for something and Zoe demands that he give her a kiss. Right as he leans in to kiss her cheek she screams, " DADDY!! TU PUE COMME LES CIGARETTES!!!" I don't even think I need to translate.

The next day, while serving Zoe her snack, I broke a plate.

Ten minutes later, I was online buying another one. Twenty euros. One fourth of my weekly salary.

In other news, I must say I'm learning very rapidly how to scream in french the following phrases:

"If you don't get in the shower now, I will call your mother!"

"Stop punching your sister or I will ground you from the internet!"

"If you tell me to be quiet one more time, I will beat your ass like a red-headed stepchild!"

Okay, maybe not the last one. But I'm working on it. And in case you're wondering, counting to three is a universal way to get children to do exactly what you want. Un, deux, trois....

Last night for dinner, Alain was very excited to make this great chinese noodle soup that he found while they were vacationing in Australia. I, food lover that I am--especially asian cuisine--was psyched for this exotic meal that was in store for me. I sit down at the table and what do you think he sets down in front of me???? RAMEN NOODLES.

I kid you not. Ramen, the national food of college students. You can buy 100 packs for a quarter or something and here he is talking them up like they're some sort of exquisite delicacy. So we had ramen..and cheese..for dinner. I think I actually ate more cheese than noodles. Comté, Roquefort, Vache qui rit (or laughing cow as you probably know it), a little Brie. I countered that digestive nightmare with a little Activia.

And finally, today. Caroline's sister and her family came for lunch. It was an absolutely beautiful day and we had a delicious meal--goat cheese and tomato tart, chicken with a mushroom cream sauce, eggplant and haricots verts, chocolate cake and strawberry tart--outside. The sister brought Zoe some learn-to-read books. I was thumbing through them and found one called Lili va chez le psy. Translation: Lili goes to the psychiatrist. American kids read stuff like "Hop on Pop" and "Dick and Jane", while the sophisticated french teach their young children about psychotherapy.