Initiation

I've moved to 3 different countries and each time figuring out where to buy a hairdryer, setting up a bank account, how to rent an apartment, how bills work, and how to go about finding a job can be overwhelming. Living abroad as a student generally comes with some orientation, and always a few other foreigners who are stuck figuring everything out too, so if nothing else you have someone to make mistakes with, tear your hair out in frustration and feel dumb, lonely and lost with. Sylvain went to Chile early and showed me most of the ropes when I got there, but although he's French, he's not a Parisian and he's not an American without papers. So when I needed a hairdryer after mine blew up, he was dumbstruck- until we asked a female friend who said FNAC and a light bulb went on in his head and he seemed to remember he was French, oh, yeah, FNAC a major french electronics store...

I had a lot of help from Smithie's who had done JYA here or have just been here, and the internet always helps too. Still I feel like it would be nice if everything you ever wanted to know was sort of compiled for easy access. Most people don't leave their jobs and lives to move to Paris while their boyfriend finishes school, so in all likelihood it's not a one size fits all kind of post, but I bet it kills at least two birds with one fly for most.

Finding a yoga place has proved to be an uphill challenge, so far I have gone to three classes in three different centers all which didn't exist, couldn't be found, or were canceled. Still one thing that helped me find a class that did at least exist but was canceled- rather than just googling something like YOGA PARIS was going to the 18ieme arrondissement's Marie's web page- the local mayor's office. Here was a great resource of less expensive and of course less posh yoga classes in my neighborhood. Still the class I went to had nice people, wasn't over-crowded and was quite a clean and comfortable space- sort of dance room at the YMCA. I tend to like my classes a little more hippy dippy incense and OM, but since it's local and not overpriced I have no real complaints- except the class was canceled so who knows if the teacher was any good.

I found a pool right away, but as usual when moving to a new place it took me a while to feel settled before I just went. I was glad when I did, I love swimming, and it's become my saturday morning routine. That's the thing about new places, you have to jump right into what would have been your old routine, the longer you wait the more you feel like a stranger in a strange land who doesn't fit in.

It also helped to join the Smith Alum club here which I've frequently written about. I read today in the NYT that joining one club or activity that meets once a month makes people more happy than extra income. I'm referring to David Brooks piece about Sandra Bullock and her current state of happiness having just won and Oscar that will increase her salary, but having lost her husband to extra marital affairs...

Initiation part deux tomorrow...

Tennis season

Last week S came with me to watch his daughter at gymnastics, we were talking about missing the states and I said I was eager to return to get my tennis racquets, later that day he got his out of his storage space and said I could borrow his and his wife's. I took them despite his 4 year old daughter's protests that she didn't want me taking anything of theirs. Yesterday we ended up meeting a friend at Chatelet where the metro exists into some god awful mall. I've lived in cities so long mall's haven't really been a problem, but malls exist in Paris which on a Saturday are like suburban malls at Christmas, both mine and Sylvain's idea of hell. We did however run into Go Sport and grab a tube of balls for 10 overpriced dollars. Its been rainy sort of on and off so I didn't think we'd have a chance to play but today Sylvain wanted to go to the track and run and I wanted to go with and hit balls against the wall which he said would annoy him and all the other people on the track running, but as an American who wants to play tennis, I wasn't really bothered about annoying anyone running around in circles. We brought both racquets and 7.50e just in case we could get one of the three courts and because of the dampness and early rain this morning we got one.

A taste of the new season was a spring delight, but I still can't wait to go home and get my own racquet.

French Fashion

For almost all of my life all I've ever cared about are clothes. Not in the snobby horrible way, but I loved fashion as sort of a artist statement of mixing and matching colors and textures. When other girls were buying YM and Cosmo, I was spending 5 bucks of my babysitting money on Vogue so I could rip out all the haute couture adverts and wallpaper my bedroom with them. I never bought video counsels or CD's or anything but nice clothes and shoes. So in a lot of ways Paris should be a dream. The fashion here - and you wonder why in this age of internet and globe trotting- it's just better.

They have the most stylish garments here, especially the kids- who by far dress better than anyone else- I'm talking 5/7 year olds. The thing I appreciate about Paris fashion is you see very little sects of people dressing a certain way, for the most part you don't see hipsters cutting up curtains and wearing them or non-stop skinny jean from mid-town to park slope. The french women seem to always be wearing high heels, which I no longer want any part of, and more often than anywhere else I've ever seen Black is about the only color you can wear.

The thing is, 6 months ago when I packed up my apartment and had three garbage bags of clothes (to keep) I decided I wouldn't buy anything until I'd worn out all I had. It was pretty easy to do in Chile, there wasnt anything I wanted to buy or wear from there, but a major shift in my thinking happened, and now as much as I appreciate the gorgeous coats that all the woman wear here, I no longer desire. Next time I need a coat I'm going to buy a beautiful one I love- but that desire to shop and try-on and have, it has somehow shriveled up and died. I also have yet to discover where you can buy all these beautiful things- the Parisians have a plethora of clothing stores but all the same ones as in America.

Until then, I'm hooked on Habitat. A better version of Crate and Barrel.

Fear Factor

The little girl I babysit for is full of fear. Everyday there is something new she finds to be afraid and she looks around at the world seeing it through the lens of fear. This of course is very sad but its also very interesting because although I've met a lot of people like her as adults- I assumed they lived in fear because their parents instilled fear in them being over-protective or whatnot- her parents are pretty average as far as I can tell- careful, but not nutty. So she seems to have been born with this fear because her sister will do or try anything without thinking twice. If the little girl falls - even the big falls- she stands up and goes "I'm okay" the older sister cries over even the smallest tumbles, ones that couldn't hurt even the most fragile of bodies.

The other day we saw a blind person using one of those blind person canes- she asked about the girl and I told her she was blind and like most 3/4 year olds she followed up with "why" (I could write a whole post based on how frequently she asks "why") I answered that either she was born that way or she had had an accident that caused the young woman to lose her eyesight. I did not dramatize the issue but the little girl was immediately driven to a heightened state of anxiety over potentially losing her own eyesight. I guess in a way she personalizes everything: on a daily basis either picking her up from school or on our way to and from the park we see children on their own- usually it's because they have run ahead to the end of the block while their nanny follows some distance behind with the baby carriage, or two sisters are together, or a boy is playing around on his own- the kids can be up to 9 years old but she is stricken with anxiety and says "where is that little boys mom or dad he's too young to be on his own". She is worried for their safety it seems but I think it has more to do with her own fear of being abandoned - although these kids are usually running around carefree or in fits of giggles, her assessment of the situation is fearful. Food is no exception, she is so fearful to try anything new, even if it's a food she likes i.e. chicken nuggets versus broiled chicken breast. I hope she grows out of this fear, but I think it is something she will end up tackling as an adult, because as of now it's really a lens through which she views the world and much work will have to be done before she feels confident enough to step out of the safety that she finds in fear.

French Kids

I've been a nounou for about two weeks now. Before landing a job with an American family from Boston I was offered a job by a French family whom I did a trial day with. The hours for the French job were 7:30-7:30 and the pay, although good, was a bit less (and taxed), but I've never been too bothered by money- the fact was, the hours were unmanageable. On the trial day I went with the old nanny to pick the two older boys up from school, the nanny brought along a snack of milka chocolate bar (the best!) inside baguette. What a snack! But it's pretty much the cultural norm- every kid was noshing on chocolate bar or nutella and baguette. In Neuilly where I'm working now the playground we go to only belabors the point, the French are crazy skinny and call an afternoon snack bread with a big chunk chocolate bar inside. What were they thinking during the American low-carb craze not so long ago, I imagine they were laughing while they stuffed their faces with warm baguette with chocolate melting inside (the best and original version of this snack)...

But the family I work for, like most upper middle class American families want their kids to eat a balanced diet full of vegetables and fruit. The kids arent really jiving with this, but the dad seems particularly keyed into their diet and exercise regime. The concierge of their building is a bit mad and whenever the kids are coming or going she makes a big deal about them and started the routine of giving them chocolate. This has thrown a real wrench in dad's food pyramid - the kids don't actually have sweets except for yoghurt but this mini sized candy bar leaves dad pulling his hair out. I plan to be the type of hippy dippy mom that gives my kids raisins and granola along with nuts and berries so by no means am I judging him- it's just slightly amusing to be a witness, because he obviously doesn't want to offend Yo-Yo (thats the concierge's name) by telling her no more candy bars- when they first moved to Paris a few months ago, she was a big help in getting them settled as they don't know French.

Still as an American in Paris there it's hard to miss the irony- even the little ones are chicken legs and boney arms against our chunky American baby fat version.

Smith Book Club

We read The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears, not my favorite book; I found the main character pathetic, depressing and difficult to relate to although the book seemed to emulate real life more so than most books that so often wind up culminating in some happy ending or at least where "everything works out for the best". It's about an Ethiopian immigrant who fled to D.C., the book could have also been called failure to launch. I didn't find the writing style very compelling either and I think if the author had developed some of the reasons (survivors guilt?) the main character wasn't able to make a good life for himself, we as readers could have perhaps felt something for him. I didn't like the book but I respected that the author wrote a book that didn't romanticize life- people who get lemons in life, often don't make lemonade, let's face it- as a teacher from the Bronx I see it more than most, but even when we get a fair shake a lot of us waste it.

Anyway we met at Marjorie's house, I talked to Marjorie at the first Smith party and she emailed me to help me find nanny work, she is simply put, a really lovely woman. She obviously has a very nice life in Paris judging by her sweet husband and fancy apartment, but she doesn't seem like many of the Smith alum who are cut off from contact from "real" people like the woman who told me only immigrants ride the subway anymore. She may have naturalized herself as a French citizen, but girlfriend, you're still an immigrant.

There are about 10 people in the Smith Book Club 4 who graduated from Smith in the early 50's and promptly moved to Paris to marry some Frenchman, 3 or 4 who are in their 40's one who went to the olympics for crew and another who got into SciencePo (one of the most distinguished universities in the world) and several who worked as journalists here, then there are the two of us from '02. Everyone wanted to see my Kindle and discover how it worked but in showing it around I promptly spilt red wine all over it, but seemed to have saved it from death. We ate a lovely dinner of chicken potpie and apple crumble with vanilla haagen daaz (for having spent most of their lives in Paris what an American meal!) and had a lively discussion about the book. Next month we are having at Eda's who when I mentioned I didn't have an oven but loved to cook invited me to come over and make the meal at hers because she doesn't cook, fine by me, but boy I better hit a home run- these old girls are tough!

Paris Commuting

I set two Ipod alarms one at 7:45 and one at 8:14, I wake up at 7:45 and leave the house at 8:15. If Sylvain wakes up with me we take the train together, or he sleeps in and gets up just before I leave. Then in the cold morning we walk to the 12 and with the rest of the commuters wait for the train and either fight for a seat if we get lucky or fight for a space if it's already full. I can't say I've done much train commuting but I've done enough to know that it's awful in Paris. At Concorde I change for the 1 and without fail one must shove themselves on the train leaving everyone except those with seats breathing down each other's necks and poking each other in with elbows and bulk- it's a nightmare, and to start your day like this- struggling to breath and stand (holding on is neither necessary or possible- as one simply surrenders one's dignity to live like a sardine and is thus supported by the masses). The worst part is that each stop the train stays twice as long at the platform because people who don't fit insist on trying to fit thus delaying the train as it's doors cannot shut- this extra wait time can make you up to 20 minutes late. At least once a day there is a shouting match due to the pushing, shoving and tripping that happens.

Going home is worse- if that is even possible. I've had to wait for four trains just to squeeze myself in a car. Normally I find pushing your way on a train when you hardly fit poor form, but then you realize if you don't you'll be here waiting 30 minutes.

I've whined about missing teaching before, but this week of working has made me miss teachers hours- in January I worked at Hyde and used public transportation and found that, unlike driving it was stress free and surprisingly timely- of course I was reverse commuting from Manhattan to the Bronx. But leaving by 7am you miss most of the morning commute and finishing at 4 gives you time to go to the gym or the park or run errands after work without feeling knackered.

Finding your Sport

I first got into swimming when my suitemate at DePaul invited me to go with her. I said yes and we went every tuesday and thursday to this basement pool from the 60's or 70's with tan and brown tile on the walls. It was the underbelly of something. I tried to pick it up again at Smith but the pool hours were finicky (unlike at DePaul where the pool was open all the time) and this made it crowded and I've never enjoyed sharing lanes with more than another person. Eventually I gave it up and then when I moved to London I started going to the Peckham pool - in London you couldn't buy a monthly pass you had to pay for a membership and then pay again each time you used the facilities, moreover you paid more if you went on peak hours. The peak versus off peak hour thing drives me crazy but its common practice even at Yoga classes to pay more for peak hours.

After London I gave it up again until NYU where the swimming facilities were pretty great, music played in the background although it was a bit difficult to hear but it was something to tune into, and while it was a busy pool it never felt too crowded- although maybe I tended to frequent it on "Off-Peak" hours... It was a great respite in the summer when Manhattan turns into a concrete oven and relief is hard to come by. So after refusing on moral grounds to pay 20 dollars an hour for yoga, and bored by laps at our local track I decided to find a pool. It's 3 euro to go to any public pool in Paris and there were 3 in the 18e where we live, the first one Sylvain found for me online was located in a historical building used in the filming of Amelie. I decided against it after reading the reviews by other swimmers. The second I decided to give a go. It's really gray here these days, it looks more like London than some parts of London and the area this pool is in- about an 10 minute walk from our apartment reminds me of where I lived in Whitechapel.

I handed my 3 euro to the guy at reception and then in an anti-room with benches one removed their shoes. There was one door which inevitably led to the locker room- but only one? Did a second door lead to separate male and female locker rooms? I asked- no, there was just one. Bathrooms at Starbucks and restaurants were often unisex in France (or at least Paris) but sharing a locker room seemed a little strange to me. The locker room perimeter was all changing cubicles and the middle area were four rows of lockers, so actually it wasn't weird at all, it just took out the leisurely naked aspect of locker rooms. So I changed and headed to the shower area where on one side were toilets which I'm guessing no one ever used. It was all sort of wet in this room because of the showers and there were neither toilet seats or toilet paper. So I took my shower and headed to the pool- between the shower room and the pool room was a cesspool of sorts where the floor dipped about 8 inches for about 3 feet now collected with nasty water. The pool was sort of 80's looking but generally nice, 4 or 5 lanes for swimming and I shared with two men; one wall was all window which looked out to a blue sky and a track and soccer fields. In France speedos are required for health and sanitary reasons- I've been told because the kind of men's trunks Americans often wear may also be used in everyday life as shorts and someone may have worn them riding on the bus and picked up some germs. I figure, whatever, who cares, thats why public pools are laden with chemicals, but apparently the French do.

I went back on Friday and when I entered the building I was hit forcefully with the unmistakable smell of pot smoke. It wasn't like when you faintly smell beer on some closet alcoholic at work, it was like the basement from that 70's show. The man at reception seemed not to notice his working space had become a weed den, and while I don't necessarily have a problem with marijuana smoking, it did seem odd to be present at a sort of YMCA space.

Raclette

Friday evening we set out for Lyon, it was Sylvain's birthday and it was time to meet the parents. On the two hour train trip down we watched the Hangover on our laptop and then a short little man in red, Sylvain's father picked us up for the ten minute ride home. Sylvain asked for a raclette for his birthday dinner, he had been talking about raclette since I met him because apparently his brother ate it everyday. Raclette is a delicious way to put on some weight, a degustation delight. I imagined something similar to fondue but its a little different, although both involved 70's looking appliances that melt cheese. Plates of huge slices of cheese and sliced meats were passed around and bowls of gerkins, pearl onions and potatoes too.

There are these circular warming plates with little cave openings to put your little plate of cheese to melt. Then you dump the melted cheese on your plate and eat with sliced meat, potato and gerkin- or whatever combination your personal palette prefers.

I did indeed put on a cheese belly at Sylvain's parents. Being part of their family dinners was a pleasant departure from the 7 minute meals I so often shared with my parents. It isn't that my family is lame, it's just that there are only 3 of us and one course. We had at least 12 at Sylvain's, his parents his oldest sister her husband and Millie their daughter, his younger sister and her fiance, his brother and his parents including us. They ate in what I imagine is a particularly French style, but it suited me just fine. Starters were a cooked vegetable- then a meat- which I always passed on, but it hardly mattered because after the meat course there was a cheese or yogurt course, followed by a fruit course, and then finally coffee. Meals took at least an hour but every minute was a pleasure.

I had a great time eating at Sylvain's parents house but there was one thing that made me a little uncomfortable. Meals were made far more lively with 12 people around the table, but their house was on the small side for so many inhabitants. I feel more comfortable in my parents largely open plan house with 3 bathrooms and without kids around (Sylvain's parents babysit Millie) no toys to clog up hallways and corners. Moreover without any of us being National Champions for sports or music we needn't find endless shelving space for the dozens of cups, trophies and medals. After the birthday raclette and a chocolate and lemon tart we finished our wine and toasted with champagne so I guess it was no surprise when the next morning Sylvain's 64 year old father finished only 4th in his half marathon- too much partying the night before...