Home?

What a perfect night.

Cocktails chez moi went better than I ever could have imagined; I can’t explain how warm and comfortable my apartment felt with family gathered around the tiny blue table in my living room, eating saucison and olives and sipping red wine. I can’t explain how grateful I was to see all of them fighting so hard to put Julien’s night table into a place where I never thought it’d fit; and while they struggled, they wouldn’t let me help. They’re too good. With a little help from all of them—including their presence tonight—my apartment is complete.

We dined at a little Italian restaurant not far from the house. Julien, Laurence, Ludo, Sarah, Lucas and me. Perfect.

But I think Laurence is starting to catch on. To me, that is. We were talking about the differences between the French and American school systems and Laurence kept asking how I did what I did. Sarah simply said, “She’s her own case.” I couldn’t add much more.

Finally Laurence announced, “Yes, I’m beginning to see that when you want something, you find a way to get it.”

I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or criticism, but I fear it’s undeniable.

(And beforehand, as I walked down the stairs behind her, she turned to me and made a face: “Have you lost weight?”

“Thank you!” I responded. How typically American.

“What?” she asked, “You want to lose weight?”

“Well, yes.” Doesn’t every woman?

“But why? You’re beautiful!”

I just love her.)


Ludo parked his scooter outside my apartment, so while Julien walked home and Laurence drove Sarah and Lucas back to her place, Ludo and I walked back to mine. We kissed goodbye and he said, “I’ll see you very soon, and Bravo – you made a nice apartment.”

I’m really happy to call this home.


So what does this elusive apartment look like? Regardes...

This is my building:


After entering a super secret code, you walk into this hallway:


where you need a fancy buzzing key chain to unlock the door and enter our lobby. This is (obviously) where I get my mail:


Trash and such is behind the elevator; walk up one flight of stairs...


...and you arrive at my door:


Enter, and this is what you see:


(This is the door you enter... a "door" to my "closet" to the right of the fridge will come as soon as I acquire a pressure rod for the curtain...)


To the left is the bathroom...


To the right, my bedroom...



This is what you see if standing on my newly acquired night table:


And this is where my TV lives:


Et voila: Home!

re: Palin

I can't believe we're seriously counting city council of a town less than 8500 people as credible experience for the Vice President of the United States to a President who would surpass life expectancy in his first term.

Please tell me the American people see through this?!

In the mean time, read these funny and interesting links:

• "Sarah Palin arouses conservatives like no one since Jesus" (because the title alone is hilarious)
  
• Palin is a historical VP nominee--as the "least experienced, least credentialed person to join a major-party ticket in the modern era"
  
• What the pick says about McCain
• Remember, McCain does NOT believe in pandering to identity politics
• If you vote republican, this is what your future may hold
• "McCain's cynical PR strategy"... and how we all fell for it
• From a conservative view, "Can anyone say with a straight face that Palin would have gotten picked if she were a man?"
• Seriously just for laughs...

I mean, this is totally a joke, right? And people back home know it? Yes? Please?

School

I started orientation today.

Too early to tell.


Mostly I'm focused on prepping for drinks and dinner with the fam...

The P'tit Box

I live with a golden retriever. This means my life is covered in dog hair. That means I really, really NEED a vacuum.

Of course, when I pulled out the dusty old vacuum that came with the apartment, it didn’t work – and thus sprang a quest for an affordable replacement. Long story short, there isn’t one.

So I went to my favorite bazaar and, before telling the owner (with whom I practice French every day) which vacuum I wanted, I decided to shop around a bit. A new curtain for my kitchen, a new pillow for my bed, a new placemat for the dog. Then I saw it.

On the very top of a huge tower of boxes was the perfect box – the box I’ve been searching for to better organize my closet. I need two, but hell – one would be a start.

“How much for the box, the little box?”

“Not expensive,” the owner said.

“How much is ‘not expensive’?” I looked at him dryly. “I am a student, you know.”

“Where are you from?”

Ugh. The question that gets me every time. I used to lie, or mislead, or have people guess, but the truth is I’m American. C’est tout. And I said so… then followed quickly with: “But I live here now.”

“American?!” he laughed. “Americans have tons of money!”

A typical stereotype. “Not this one. So, how much is the box?”

He laughed gently and found the ladder. Slowly he climbed step by step to the top of the monsterous pile of boxes to grab the tiniest one, the only one that would fit in my closet.

By the time he was halfway down, I knew it wasn’t right for me. It had pink flowers on the top, and I didn’t like it. The whopping price of 3€ for a cardboard box didn’t help, either.

“Hmm. No, merci.”

He rolled his eyes.

As I paid for the vacuum and other small bits, I noticed he was smiling bigger than usual. “Look in the bag,” he instructed.

I did. There was the little box. “But–“

“A gift.” He winked and said goodbye.

And sure enough, it’s the perfect fit for my closet.

The DNC Abroad

I can’t keep mum any longer. I love politics, and I woke up early this morning to watch the speech I missed last night… as I have for Michelle Obama, for Hillary, for Bill.

Honestly, this man is incredible. Across the ocean the speech still gave me the chills, brought me to tears. He will be an amazing president. Watch this if you don’t think so:



Watching him is the only thing that makes me sad I’m not in America. Truly, a small piece of me wishes I was there just to be a part of this powerful and compelling movement. Luckily I’m not without activism here.

OBAMA/BIDEN ’08!!!

The Balcony

Honestly, I'm not sure who likes my balcony more: me or Tequila...

A Dream Routine’s Developing

If I could spend all my Mondays like this, I’d be a really happy person—kind of like I am right now.

I woke up and took Tequila for her morning walk. As always, we stopped at the boulangerie for a fresh demi-baguette. Tequila waited patiently outside.

As always, we meandered down the streets of Paris, stopping to window shop at the incredibly unique shops scattered between grocery stores and hair dressers, or to pick up dog shit (450€ fine if you don’t!).

Back at the apartment, I make toast in my newly purchased toaster and coffee in my newly gifted coffee maker. As always, over breakfast—which includes fresh fruit from the market—I read the Times, Huffington Post, SocialEdge, Chronicle of Philanthropy, and the many geeky RSS feeds I received while sleeping.

Then I worked, taking breaks to walk the dog around Paris. Sometime in the morning, one of the (few) people I know here called. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

Absolutely!

A little after eight, I wrapped up a fascinating work discussion for a wonderful evening of good food, great conversation and wonderful company.

Then Tequila and I take one last walk, and wish Paris goodnight. Tomorrow will be another day.

My Fight with the Washer/Dryer

When choosing my apartment, I was thrilled to find one with a washing and drying machine. Unfortunately my excitement was premature; only after arrival in this country did I realize that the French are really, really bad at building practical washers and dryers.

It first occurred to me in the south. There, laundry was an all day affair. The washing machine took several hours at minimum, and laundry must be dried on the line by six or seven (when the moisture of the evening sets in), so you were limited to two loads a day.

But in the south, it didn’t matter. In the south, everything’s used and old; the car is on its last legs and the washing machine’s even older. In the south, everything moves slower anyways so it’s ok if laundry takes too long. In the south, when your precious linens are finally ready to return to your closet, they smell of sea salt, lavender and eucalyptus. In the south, I loved doing laundry.

But Paris is different. I left my passion for slow, laundry-filled days with my white linen skirts in the hazy Riviera and was eager to return to civilizations, where things work and work well.

At first, I was optimistic. My machine in Paris is at least a decade newer than the one at Camarat. But it’s impossible.

A) It’s one machine. I had never previously seen a washer turn into a dryer as soon as the soap was all rinsed out.
B) It’s all in French. I’m learning, but I certainly don’t know the intricacies of electronics and laundry.
C) Once it starts, it never stops.

"C" I learned the hard way as I prepped to wash my newly purchased and immediately stained white sweatshirt. Panic ensued when I realized the heat of the dryer was shrinking the cotton and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I sat, eyes intently staring through the glass door to the tumbling clothes within, anxious for the end to come. Hours later, it did.

Would it still fit? Desperate to discover if I already ruined my newest article of clothing, I immediately put it on. It fit, but there was something more surprising than that – it hurt. A lot.

A moment too late I realized why: The zipper was f***in’ hot.

And now I have the mark to prove it:

Sometimes…

As I walk Tequila around these streets I stop and laugh with pure joy. I can’t believe I’m really here. This is home now. I live in Paris.

It’s like all my life, all my body and soul wanted to be here. And finally, finally I am.

I am so happy and relaxed and content and eager I don’t know what to do with myself.

Thanks, Laurence

I can’t even explain how grateful I am to have family here. Laurence has been especially fabulous.

The ride up was long and tedious. She said I was doing her a favor by coming with her; looking at the dog hair floating in the back, landing delicately on my mounds of luggage, I wasn’t so sure. We arrived, and she looked sheepishly at me: “There’s no food in my kitchen for dinner.”

I winked. “Merde, we must go out!”

I laughed all through dinner. She’s hilarious.

The next day, she took me to the apartment and refused to leave me until everything was settled in and we had done a big shop. She directed me to the best brands, the best savings, the best choices. She called the next morning to make sure I was ok. And today, she was my first guest.

I made something simple, but we were both in the mood for a light lunch. She was impressed at how much I did in just one day to improve the look and feel of this place. (I’m telling you, it’s the blanket that pulled it all together!) We talked of many things, and I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. She’s great.

She demanded to go through my paperwork with me. On the carte de sejour, she agreed: the school needs to help. On the cell phone, she argued that I should get a monthly plan instead of the mobicarte, which is apparently the most expensive service possible; she promised to help pick something better out when the time comes. On the internet, the broken pot, everything, she had counsel which I desperately needed but for which I refused to ask. (Gets back to the self-sufficiency thing.)

Then she insisted on helping me fill out my application for a monthly metro pass. When I say helping, I mean she did it all, handed it to me, and listed the things I need to get before mailing it. She even reached into her purse and put a stamp on the envelope.

I wanted to cry, or crawl over the table and hug her. I honestly don’t know how to express my gratitude.

But I have a few ideas cooking.

Laurence even contributed more to the help-furnish-Cat’s-apartment-fund with old sheets, towels, blankets, a hamper and a rug from her cellar and Ludo. Slowly, surely, this place is looking nice. Pictures to come when it’s complete—which means I really, really need to find a night table.

Big Bureaucracy; Big City

The French suck at bureaucracy. Here’s how I spent my first morning in Paris:

I woke up early to go to the Préfacture, the infamous bureau where I need to register as a foreigner to get my carted de sejour so I can get bank account so I can get the internet, cell phones, etc. It’s been a three month process to painful to recount now.

I walked in and already the wait was hours long. Quietly, I marched up to the information desk and asked, “I have all the documents required except my health certificate. Is that ok?”

The stern woman behind the desk looked down past her half glasses and over her pointed nose. She gave me the address to ANAEM.

I swallowed slowly. ‘At least,’ I told myself, ‘I don’t have to wait in this ridiculous long line.’

To no surprise, I walked into ANAEM across town to discover an equally long line. But I learned from past success. I found the information desk.

The woman was younger, fresher than the at the Préfacture. Of course, this means some want-to-be-immigrant was relentlessly hitting on her. Only after clearing my throat a couple times did they bother to look at me.

“Yes, hi,” I said in the best French I could possibly muster, “I’m going to be a student. I need my carte de sejour; today’s the last day that I can get it because I’ve been here two months. I tried to get it earlier, but I was in the south, and the Préfacture of Toulon wouldn’t give it to me because I’ll be living in Paris. In order to get it, I need the health certificate.”

“You’re a student?”

“Yes, I’ll start in September.”

“Go upstairs and ask the woman at the desk. Make sure you tell her you’re a student.”

I followed her instructions and told my story again. The woman behind the second desk gave me another address.

It was on this walk, from the ANAEM to the Préfacture for students, that I realized something. I love this place. Even if the bureaucracy sucks.


See, I hate New York. It grew on me, slightly, eventually, but I really hated it. I was constantly overwhelmed; I felt totally vulnerable; I couldn’t comprehend how it worked or why people loved it.

Paris isn’t really any more manageable than New York. With the language barrier, one would think it’s actually more difficult. But I feel perfectly at home here. Walking down these streets, I feel safer and happier than I ever did in New York. Maybe more so than Boston.


Anyways, the Préfacture for students couldn’t help me either. They need an original copy of my lease, which I don’t have because I signed it via fax. I called the real estate agency, who said “Stop by and pick it up.” Then they gave me an address, too.


Walking up to the real estate agency I thought my legs were going to fall off. That’s when Francis called.

“Are you safe and happy in Paris?” he asked.

“Yes and yes.” I found a small park with a bench and pressed the phone closer to my ear. “But I’m not sure if I’m legal or not.”

He laughed. “Of course your not!” I could picture him rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone as I recounted my morning. “Well, let me know if you need a good lawyer.”

Hah.


I walked into the real estate agency and immediately felt at ease. The walls were covered in pictures of the Voiles de St. Tropez. Of course, that doesn’t mean they could help me.

“Oh, you need an original lease with signatures?” Duh. A blank copy doesn’t do much for me. “Oh, well, then you’ll have to ask your landlord.”

My landlord’s on vacation until the end of September.

I’m turning this over to the school. They can fight the big bureaucracy; I just want to enjoy the big city.

Proof that nothing's impossible:

I move quickly to make a house feel like home.

That includes moving furniture to the way I like it, unpacking everything, reorganizing all the drawers, and finding decorations that reflect me.

Within the first few hours, I'd done all but the last--and I wasn't optimistic about it. I mean honestly, how am I going to find anything that matches these colors?


As I meandered through the bureaucratic hell of the morning, I stumbled upon a market. The very first stall sold Indian goods. And there it was--the one thing to tie my entire apartment together:


Tell me those aren't the PERFECT colors for my previously ugly color scheme?! Ok, so I'm not Indian (despite how exotic some sometimes perceive me to be), and suddenly my apartment will be scattered with elephant-themed decorations, but hey--at least it looks good covering my "closet"!

I've now pledged to visit every possible market in Paris... Wish me luck!

Elle arrive

My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I’m finally here. This is really my life.

Today I moved into a gorgeous (but modest) apartment in the 9th arrondissement of Paris. I had no idea what to expect; I’d only seen my home of the next 10 months through pictures on the internet. But now here it is, beneath my feet, above my head, all around. And it’s perfect.

I’m on the second floor (first floor French style), with two tall windows overlooking the busy Boulevard de Rochechouart. The neighborhood behind me is filled with vintage shops, bakeries, casual chic restaurants and Bobos (Bohemian Bourgeois); the neighborhood in front climbs Montmartre and is loaded with bars, discount goods and young people. Between the green trees growing in the park outside my window, you can catch a glimpse of the Sacré Coeur. It’s seriously perfect.


Today also happened to be the market, which is a five minute walk (or less) from my apartment (and directly in front of my cousin Julien’s apartment). Laurence took me. “You need food for the week.”

Along the way she warned me, “This isn’t Paris.” Looking at the glorious façades of the buildings lining the windy streets, I felt pretty sure it was—in fact—Paris. “This,” she explained, “is North Africa.” Arriving at the market, I saw what she meant.

I have never seen so much produce in my life. There are no goods—or very few—but the entire horizon is saturated with the miraculous colors and smells of fruits and vegetables. It’s more crowded than St. Tropez in August, but I couldn’t have cared less; this is where I shop now. I was comforted by the constant hollering of the competing vendors—all of whom are clearly North African.

We approached one half way down to buy some fruit. To my surprised, the vendor immediately seized my hand and showered me with kisses. Feeling as exhausted and make up less as I probably looked, I couldn’t imagine what he found attractive.

“You know,” Laurence said, “you could almost be North African with your skin like this.”

I smiled. I love the idea that I could be exotic, and this is the third time it’s been proposed.

“Well,” I said, “I’m not.” Then I smiled. “Now I’m almost French.”

Tomorrow’s the Big Day

Tomorrow I see my apartment. Tomorrow, I move in to Paris.

I’m nervous, even though the local family’s been incredibly supportive and helpful.

Someone recently told me I need to be more self sufficient and independent. I’ve thought about it a lot over the past two days can came to the following conclusion: I am self sufficient, in that I’ll also find a way to put food on the table and have a safe place to sleep. But I’m not independent in that I need people to love and trust, with whom I can share exciting adventures and boring conversations, from whom I can seek counsel and comfort. I need to belong. I’m not a loner at heart after all.

I had that in the south. I had people I really cared about and who, I think, really cared about me.

Now I’m confronting things without friends. Yet, whenever I have doubts, I think of the parting words of one of those truly amazing people I was lucky enough to call a friend this summer. She looked me in the eyes and simply said: "I'll say good luck, Cookie, but I'm not worried. You'll be fine; you'll be fine where ever you go.”

And then I realize: Yes, she’s right, I will be fine.

So tomorrow the adventure begins.