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.