I Hate Goodbyes

I realized fairly recently that I am the only one out of my current group of Paris friends who is going to be here all summer. Eloise leaves in July, Astral and Bea in late spring, and Ellie and Jane have already left.

A couple weeks ago, Ellie told us she was thinking about leaving her au pair family due to, ahem, creative differences. Sometimes I don't think I appreciate enough how lucky I got with my situation. Even if V was completely nuts, I still have my own apartment to hide out in. No little kids wandering in, no getting woken up at 7:30 in the morning, no judgment if I don't get home until 4 am. But Ellie was not so lucky and soon after she told us she was thinking about leaving, suddenly she was gone.

At this moment right now, I imagine that Jane is starting her first day at her new job. I vaguely knew that Jane was leaving around this time but I didn't really expect it to happen so soon. We sent her off with a farewell lunch of onion soup and waffles and ice cream on her last day. And just like that, another one bites the dust.

Is this like camp? You form these intense and close friendships for a couple months and then when the summer's over you never hear from them again? Like Cindy at Interlochen. I loved Cindy. She made chocolate chip banana cookies and wore men's pants and her mom knew one of the guys from Fallout Boy. And we promised we'd email and write letters and call and visit, and I haven't spoken to Cindy since I left Interlochen eight years ago.

Well that is just not happening here. I'm more grown up than that, surely. I don't just let friendships drop just because we no longer see each other every day!

So I'm planning a Grand Tour of the UK this summer. I will get to visit all the friends I met in Paris who moved back home, plus I get to see England which is the nationality of my soul. Or at least my sense of humor.

The tentative schedule looks like this. Early/mid July I go to London and stay with Bea. From there I take a train (or bus or something) up to Leeds to see Jane. Then on to Scotland to see Astral and Eloise. I'll finish near Bristol where Ellie lives. And then I'll try to convince her to go to Dublin with me because I've never been and I'm really trying to suck the marrow out of this living in Europe thing.

So this goodbye thing is really only a goodbye-for-now, since I'm going to see them when I definitely for sure no question about it go to England this summer. And who knows, maybe I'll like it so much I'll move there next...

City of Love, huh?

Well, here's what I'm thinking about the "city of love." (Please keep in mind that the flash is outdated on my computer and so I have no idea whether this video is the right one or not.)

and We Goin' Gorillas

I know, I know. I suck. 

Anyway. 

So most nights, after eating whatever mess I made for dinner with V and Le Petit, I go home, download a movie I've already seen a hundred times (The Departed!) and settle in with a sleeve of Oreos. I'm usually up until about 2:00, at which time I turn off the light and attempt to sleep. 

It has been suggested that passing my evenings this way is perhaps not entirely conducive to experiencing as much of Paris as I can. Yeah well, I'm lame, what can I say. I think that part of the problem is that I just don't know where to start. I keep telling everyone about how in Chicago I was different. I knew about everything in Chicago. I could give you bar and restaurant recommendations for any situation. I know secret places. I know which not-so-secret places to avoid. I went to shows and clubs (okay fine I never went to clubs but only because I don't own anything sparkly or short enough and I never feel like paying a cover charge). The point is, I know Chicago. I was in a long term relationship with Chicago. We share a toothbrush and know about all of each other's gross habits. That alluring mystery is gone, but it's more comfortable now, and I have to admit I'm still in love. 

I guess that means Paris and I are having an affair. (Has this metaphor gone on long enough?) You see I don't know much about Paris's night life. There's so much, and I'm so poor, I wouldn't even know how to start having one of those nights out where I stay out so late I catch the first Metro home at 5:30.      So basically, I never have any ideas for where to go or what to do on the weekends, and instead tend to wait until somebody else makes a suggestion. Again, I know. I suck. 

So when Eloise suggested we all go to this Metro Party, I immediately agreed, despite not being entirely sure what a Metro party entailed. It's pretty simple as it turns out. Everyone meets up at a metro stop with their booze of choice, and then we all get on the metro and ride it for about 2 hours, ending at a bar. That's it.

Well, I'm up for anything, so I bought a six pack and met Eloise and two others at the Nation stop, where about 100 other people were already hanging around. Other than one guy who offered us a biscuit and another who asked us for pot, we didn't interact much with our fellow metro partiers. To be honest, they all looked a bit weird, and Eloise and I began to wonder what exactly we were doing there. Was it obvious we were totally uncomfortable? 

Eventually it looked like the crowd was moving so we followed everyone down into the metro and then we all just got on the train. The poor people just trying to get home from work or meet their friends for a quick drink suddenly found themselves swarmed by a loud, raucous and slightly intoxicated group of young internationals. I was packed between my friends, a group of English girls, and a few dudes with shaved heads who I'd seen doing acrobatics on the sidewalk before we boarded. The organizer had brought a sound system which he propped on a seat that blasted hip hop through the whole train. Clutching my warm Heineken and bobbing as gracefully as I could (not easy on the best of days, nevermind on a lurching train in close physical contact without about 11 strangers) I sang along to Outkast and tried not to completely crush Bea. Poor Bea is approximately half my size and was unfortunately positioned directly behind me, so whenever the train lunged to a stop Bea fell into the seat behind her and I fell onto her lap. Every now and then a stage-diver passed overhead. Or metro-seat-diver I guess. It was usually the same guy, dressed in a fuzzy blue Halloween costume. I think it was Sully from Monsters Inc, but I can't be sure since the best view I got of him was while I gingerly supported his warm, furry ankle as he floated above my head. 

The whole event was hot, uncomfortable, smelled strongly of body odor, and weirdly fun. So take that Kanye and Jay-Z. N****s in Paris indeed.

I Do Not Negotiate With Terrorists

I swear this is not posed. This is my life.

Yesterday was Wednesday. French kids don't have school on Wednesdays, which means that I spend all day on Wednesday trying to keep a small child from running into traffic or sticking his fingers in the stove. It's not as easy as it sounds.

I show up at V's at around 9 am on Wednesdays, and try to think of things for us to do. I asked V for some suggestions, because I was getting a bit tired of playing cars for ten hours straight, and she bought us tickets for some children's program at the Musée Quai Branly. Great! I thought. A museum sounds like fun. And so began the longest day of my life. Le Petit was certainly in fine form. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, and anyone who has ever spent any time with a three-year-old knows what that means. Everything from putting on his shoes, to getting in the elevator, to returning library books was an epic battle. 

"Tom, I'm putting your shoes on, we're going to the museum today."

Immediate tears.

"Regarder téléeeee!"

"No, Tom, come on. Here are your shoes."

"Ne veux paaaas!"

"Just give me your arm so I can put on your coat."

"Téléee!"

"Tom, it's time to go."

Wailing. Just wailing. It eventually stopped as I carried him into the elevator and got him into the stroller. I won't even go into the argument about putting up the stroller's roof thing so he wouldn't get rained on.

And then we got to the museum. And Le Petit was that kid. Why is my kid always that kid? I don't even have kids and my kid is always that kid. Just once I want to be one of those smug mothers or nannies with the perfectly behaved little munchkins who sit quietly and raise their hands to speak and don't put pipe cleaners in their mouths or steal the other kids' confetti. That would be so great.

But no. LP didn't stay in his seat. LP spoke out of turn. LP climbed things he wasn't supposed to climb. He shouted, he threw things, he tried to run away. To be fair, I think three is a bit young for a lecture on indigenous African art. But still, did he have to yell at the teacher? Finally exasperated, as LP is taking handfuls of the little shells everyone is supposed to get one of, I take him by the hands and ask him if he wants to leave. His little eyes light up.

"Oui!"

Okay great. Thank you madame, we'll be going now. And as we're retrieving our coats and the stroller from the cloak room, Le Petit takes off. Like starts running off into some dark corner never to be seen again. And when I capture him, he cries. And the coat check girls are just so sweet to him. 

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, cherie? Oh, why are you crying? It's okay. Poor little guy."

No! He's the bad guy here! Poor me! I am not mean! I am now one of those ladies you see at the grocery store, who's very nonchalantly dragging her bawling child down the cereal aisle. And you look at her and think, God what a horrible mother. I bet she beats that kid at home. But I just don't have time to reason with him right now! I have to get home because home means nap time!

Oh thank God for nap time. I fucking love nap time. I have time to clean up, take a little break, maybe eat something myself. I did the whole disgusting potty ritual, read him 2 stories, tucked him into bed, and went to make myself a cup of tea. But rather than the usual 3-4 hour naps he usually takes, little Damien only slept for about an hour and a half before he was crying to be let out again. And then we had to buy groceries and return the library books. And the whole screaming, crying, fit-having started again. My favorite part about the temper tantrums is when he hurls his pacifier in fury and then cries because he wants me to go pick it up. I think he seriously believes that if he just cries hard enough I'll let him watch TV all day. Well guess what, mister. I don't work that way. I am not intimidated by you. You can't just shriek a little and expect me to fold. No siree. I am an American, and we do not negotiate with terrorists. We are going to the goddamn library. 

We got to the library. And then to the grocery store. And he was adorable. I hate it when he's adorable when he's making me crazy. It's like when my dad and I would be fighting and then he'd make fun of me, but in a way that was legitimately so hilarious that I would start laughing. Meaning that I was laughing at myself when I was trying to be self-righteous. It's infuriating. So Le Petit was with me buying vegetables, and he wanted to help carry the basket. So he followed me around while dragging the basket behind me and helped me pick out potatoes for dinner. Ugh. It was really cute.

House Call

I had just settled Le Petit onto the couch, post-nap snack in hand, and was headed to the kitchen to get the Dustbuster ready, when the doorbell rang. At the door was a large, grinning French man who greeted me with a hearty "Bonjour!" I smiled, awkwardly, which is what I usually do when I'm expecting someone to begin speaking rapidly to me in French, which I will probably not understand.

"Habitez-vous ici?" he asked. Oh good, a short sentence.

"Well, um, I'm the au pair...."

"Yes, Madame asked me come here. I'm a doctor. I am ostéopathe. You know ostéopathe?"

"Oh, well..."

Meanwhile, Le Petit had come bounding over from the couch and was asking the doctor questions. Or rather, he asked the same question several times over. ("Monsieur? Monsieur? Monsieur? Pourquoi tu es ici? Pourquoi? Pourquoi? Monsieur?")

Monsieur was on the phone with V. "You want to talk to her?"

Yes please! It was indeed V on the other end.

"I'm sorry, Kate. I forgot to tell you. This is the doctor for your back. He is the best in France. You don't have to let him see you if you don't want. He will do Le Petit and me also. But he is the best and I think it is a good idea."

Sigh. Oh, what the hell. Sure, doc, why not? So I gave Le Petit another compote and turned on Disney Junior and went in for my first visit to a chiropractor. One I didn't exactly sign up for, by the way. You know how difficult it is to try to make small talk when you're at the dentist? Try keeping up a conversation when you're twisted into a pretzel in your bra on your boss's bed while a French chiropractor you've never met before and who doesn't speak a whole lot of English attempts to crack your back.

"Don't go to party tonight," he was telling me. "You can drink alcool? You know alcool?"

"Well, yeah."

"Don't drink too much tonight. If you are bourré it will be very bad. You know bourré?"

"Um..."

"Bourré is like--" He let his head hang to the side and stuck his tongue out to mime puking. "No, you would be more pompette."

"What's pompette?"

"Pompette is more, nice. Or cute. You are English?"

"Américaine."

"Bourré is like the English girls. I was in London and they all were wearing such short skirts, and all so bourré all the time. And in very high heels. It was very bad..."

The man has obviously never been to the intersection of Clark and Addison on a weekend, or he might think more kindly of English girls. By the way, I'm now thinking about changing the title of my blog to "La Jeune Fille Pompette." Thoughts?

Sleds in Paris

All right. I admit it. This is a lot of snow. 

And for a city not particularly used to snow, I can see why it has thrown everyone a bit. The streets are fairly quiet, traffic is light. And because some things are important, I still see French women stomping through six inches of snow and ice in heels. Yes, I know that technically they are "boots," but a four inch spike heel in this kind of weather is going to kill you. French people, or at least Parisians, do not really seem to take weather into account when dressing. For example, in the winter, one wears a winter coat and a scarf. Yes, it may be 60 degrees and sunny, but it's December after all. 

Because I did nothing yesterday, and because I'm from the American midwest and therefore hearty enough to withstand any blizzard, I went out to meet Ellie for a museum and some exploring. We met in the 16th, close to halfway between Boulogne, where she lives, and where I am in the 7th. Musee Marmottan Monet was once a 19th century hunting lodge, and is now the backdrop for all of my if-this-was-the-Victorian-period-and-I-was-a-European-heiress fantasies. Ellie and I agreed that the beautiful house was much more tastefully decorated than Versailles. No offense to Marie Antoinette and everything, but we can kind of see why they rebelled. Of course I'm a sucker for Impressionism and early 19th century miniature portraits. It may be one of my new favorite museums. 

After Monet we wandered into Bois du Boulogne. I'm sure it's beautiful in the spring, but it was positively Narnian blanketed in snow. (I guess I'm feeling a little fanciful today). 

A few stalwart souls were running. Big, fluffy dogs gleefully bounded in and out of snow banks. Little children were sledding down the sloping bank toward the frozen river. "That looks so much fun," I said a little wistfully. "I wish I could take Le Petit here, but there's no way V would allow that." 

I watched a Dad jog over to stop his kids from sliding onto the ice.

"On the other hand," I said, "What if a kid was going too fast and didn't stop in time and slid onto the ice and then fell through and got hypothermia?" As we started walking back toward the city for hot chocolate and pastries we saw a dad situating his child on a makeshift sled of what looked like an old laminated shopping bag. Hmm. Questionable.

Parenting judgments aside, the day could hardly have been more picturesque. Can I just say one more time how glad I am that I brought my rubber boots? Because let's face it, I am just not that Parisian.

Quoi Pour Tous?

I was going to write today about the lovely Christmas parade I went to in Spain, but I just stumbled upon 300,000 French homophobes hanging around outside my apartment building shouting "Un Papa! Une Maman!" and this needs to be addressed. 

Le sigh, where to begin? I feel like there's this idea in the states that all of Europe is this magical, liberated place, where sex is comprehensively discussed in schools, boobs aren't censored at magazine stands, and nobody is irrationally afraid of black people. Well folks, I have never in my life seen so many people assembled in solidarity to take a stand against human rights. 

So there I am, leaning against the pole on the Metro, with two more stops to go, when a voice over the speaker announces that the Ecole Militaire stop is closed. Not a big deal, Tour Maubourg isn't that much farther from my house. I get off and start walking. My, it's busy for a Sunday! I notice lots of families with small children, and the crowds appear to be getting thicker. A lot of them are carrying flags. "Manif Pour Tous." Something for all. Well, that sounds alright. Until I notice that the pictures on the flags are distinctly hetero families. A mom, a dad, and two little kids holding hands. As I approach my bakery, I seem to have reached the heart of the throng. "Un Papa! Une Maman!" A woman sports a sticker that reads "mariage/adoption homo NON!" Continuing home, I've suddenly fallen in with them. Now people on all sides of me are waving flags, singing, chanting, grinning, hearts uplifted by the magnitude of their numbers, the strength of their convictions, and overwhelming agreement from all sides. It reminded me of Spirit Week in high school. I was never much for school spirit, but even I was gleeful, buoyed along by a jubilant mob. 

And so there I was, suddenly part of a protest who's message I abhor and disdain, and no other route home. I was disheartened to see that the protest was not, in fact, just crotchety grannies with canes and white haired guys with pipes shouting incoherently about the end of civilization. No, there were young, trendy people there too. Families with their smiling kids, who'd painted pink and blue mamans and papas on their cheeks. My thought has always been that the world in general must outgrow this kind of discrimination. That the young and the fashionable will always correct the mistakes of previous generations and this too will go out of style. I assumed it was true that you can't stop progress. Maybe I was wrong.

God. I should have flashed them.