Soirée Parisienne à l'Opera Garnier

My Kombucha Copine has become the Artistic Social Coordinator for us expat dancers in Paris, and we love her for it.

Practically a month after meeting her, she had set up 6 months of dance performances for us to see. She pretty much rocks the planning ahead (which I am HORRIBLE at, so I appreciate her that much more for getting my boo-tay out of my teeny apartment and into a theatre).

When February rolled around, it was time to see the Paris Opera Ballet dancers perform Jiri Kylian's Kaguyahime. As I got off the metro and walked towards the opera house, I realized that it would be the very first performance I'd seen at Opera Garnier. Eight years in France, three years in Paris, and I'd never seen a performance here! What?????? I know. 

See why I especially need Kombucha Copine in my life?

KC, Dancer Friend and I all met at l'Entreacte for pre-show drink and all of a sudden I felt so, parisienne, as I sipped Champagne and looked out the window at this:

When it was time to go inside, I was blown away - the Opera is a show in and of itself (no offense, Jiri). 

We made our way through the Opera to our seats in the loges, and found tiny, burgundy velvet chairs waiting for us:

and then the show began...

We walked out on a little Parisian dance cloud of happiness and decided to treat ourselves to after-show dessert drinks too...because, you know, you only live once and this is Paris!

Lunettes for Cannes Cannes

After seven years in France and seven years of French health insurance, I finally threw in the towel and got some French prescription glasses.

Every year before 2011, I've gone to Costco during my trips home and gotten a brand new pair of lunettes for under 100 dollars (yes! only 100 dollars people!) - guess how much these new puppies were? Yeah, well, let's just say it used up my entire insurance coverage for glasses this year...

Good ol' Fabrice at Les Opticiens du Marais hooked me up with my new and improved specs! Check them out:

They are made by Cutler and Gross of London (ok, ok, I got English glasses...) and they look nothing like any prescription glasses I've had before...and also strangely a lot like the faux glasses I requested for Christmas '92 and then wore all Christmas morning while opening my presents.  hmmm

Fabrice, my opticien bff suggested them, and after about 10 minutes of pondering my face in the mirror, I went with it.  Copain was on board too. Voila - the new (non-Costco lunette-faced) me! 

I feel ever so Parisienne with my new specs...

Rockeuse Parisienne

I never paint my nails - because when I do, this is what happens:

Copain, who digs the painted nail look, told me, "Ce n'est pas grave, ça fait rock star."  No biggie, makes you look like a rock star.

That's me, mes amis, la rockeuse parisienne.

Sac de Parisienne

As you know I've been dreaming of un nouveau sac for awhile now...my very own sac de parisienne.  A sac that can brave the metro, the Velib (remember how I'm a Femme de Fer??) and the streets of Paris, all while keeping my back from breaking with my sad little disc problème.

While walking along the rue des Francs Bourgeois yesterday, I happened upon this lovely number at the store Biscotte:

Soft leather - and black bien sur...goes with everything right?

A long "bandolière" strap so that I can be hands free on my Velib

little pocket, perfect for a Navigo metro pass (plus I love the lining!)

A funky pocket in the flap - plus there is a zipper into the main part...pickpocket proof!

Eh oui, I bought it...a gift from my Maman for la rentrée! Maybe this time around I won't stick out as the unprepared Américaine amongst a sea of chic françaises...

My Very Parisian Friend Gets an Iphone

My Very Parisian Friend has recently been introduced to the Iphone world (elle était trop intello pour ce genre de choses!).  When she came running into my office to show me that the image could be viewed horizontally OR vertically, I knew that the Iphone capabilities would keep her amused for weeks if not months.

Her most recent discovery? The built-in camera...

A photo of Paris, courtesy of My Very Parisian Friend (and her new Iphone 4)

Il Faut Etre Parisienne Pour Savoir...

My Very Parisian Friend and I have been secretly passing by the Repetto store for months now, eyeing the beautiful ballerines that we would love to call our own.  She tells me how she wants the electric blue ones and I vary back and forth from practical, classic black and some fun shade of yellow or some boring shade of beige.

Le problème: they cost over 160 Euros a pop. mais oui mes amies, c'est vrai.


I sadly decided that a pair of Repetto flats was not in my future and started browsing the boots for winter,  but just last week my Very Parisian Friend came breezing into the office with a pair of ballerines très chic on her feet!


Behold mes amies:
Une paire de ballerines Hirica


Now, they are not exactly like the Repetto flats, but the leather is supple, the shoe looks great and the best part: they are made for comfort! (they even make Grandma shoes, just scroll down their catalogue). I'll admit that their branding needs a facelift and they have kind of snagged the Repetto dancer theme, but still, they are Made in France and I am getting some!

When I was trying to find information online, I came across this blog - Paris de Maman - who has sworn by Hirica flats throughout her pregnancy. Doesn't that seem promising for a daily Parisian walker with a herniated disc like me? Me thinks oui! (Scroll down the Paris de Maman page to see her wearing them...I can't link to the actual blog post for some reason :-( )


Here's the best part - they cost only 50 Euros (My Very Parisian Friend got them for 45!)

Chouette n'est pas?

The Best of Both Worlds

I have a friend who is so incredibly Parisian that you have to love her for it. My copine is the kind of Parisian who wears scarves when the weather dips below 80 so that she does not attraper froid. She buys only quality clothing such as wool sweaters and leather boots that she painstakingly shines on a monthly basis. My Parisian copine wears Coco Chanel lipstick and only the finest lingerie and attends art exhibitions at the Pompidou Centre and the Musée d'Orsay every weekend. She is an intellectual from the 6th arrondissement and frequents bookstores to search for her favorite authors.

But what I really love about her is this: despite her Parisian air, she also orders pints at the pub, rolls her own cigarettes and laughs ridiculously loud in public. Her hair is always half-done and she likes to make a mess of it and laugh at herself.  Her English is also impeccable.

She is the most Parisian and un-Parisian of them all.

Brownie Points for France

Let's do a recap:

• I officially turned in my request for French nationality on the 24th of May 2009.
• I then received a letter saying that I had an interview at the Prefecture de Nice in November 2009.
• On September 7th 2010 I called the Prefecture de Nice to see how my file was moving along.  It was then that I learned that I had been French since August 27th 2010.
• On September 9th 2010 I received a letter confirming what I had been told over the phone and informing me that within 6 months I would receive another letter with information about my official documents etc.
• On September 16th 2010 I tried to get a French ID card using the letter that I had been sent telling me that I was officially French.  It was then that I learned that I needed to wait for the "ceremonie".  Ahhhh - who knew!  

So I waited knowing very well that I could be waiting quite awhile before the famous ceremony information was sent my way.

France, I just want to say, wow - way to go.  Big pat on the back for you my friend.  Even though none of your worker minions knew what the hell was going on most of the time, you managed to pull through in the face of adversity.  Gold stars all around for France!

Just last week I got THE CEREMONIE LETTER telling me that I could do one of two things:

I could go to the Prefecture on October 26th to turn in my request for my French ID card and therefore receive it at the ceremony on November 10th OR I could just turn up at the ceremony and deal with my ID card later.

Never one to refuse the offer from France to show up at the Prefecture at a precise time instead of waiting in line for 8 hours like the rest of the population, I decided to go to the rendez-vous on October 26th.  They even warned us to prévoir une demi-journée - plan to stay half a day...how thoughtful.

I was nervous, I was running late and I was determined to re-do my ID photos so that my first French ID card would have a picture of how I looked at the time I learned I was French (I know, I know). The French gods were obviously looking down on me that day - there was a photo booth in the Cité metro stop and I got it on the first try - bam! Take that France!

This didn't prevent me from going to the wrong part of the Prefecture and having to take a long walk along the Seine to get to the right part but I finally made it to the Salle Marianne (the Marianne room) complete with Nicolas Sarkozy's photo, a French flag and Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité written on the wall. I felt French already.

The essence of France: bleu, blanc, rouge and lots of paperwork

I waited in line expecting to be standing there for at least two hours when I was surprisingly greeted  by two stoutly French women who took our photos and placed them on what can only be described as a serving tray.  Whatever works right?  We were instructed to take a seat and were then given a crash course in "Filling Out your ID Request Form 101". We were told that if we didn't know our height that they had a measuring stick there for our use - I was again so incredibly impressed with the planning that obviously went into this rendez-vous. I began to wonder if they hadn't they been secretly taking lessons from the Anglophones...

I looked around the room - people of all colors, all nationalities, all ages were there with me - and we all had something very special in common: we had worked hard to go through the system and to ultimately be French.  And we had made it. This was what we had been waiting for.

I wanted to reach out and congratulate each and every one of them but my new Frenchness told me not to -- only an American would do that right? Even still, I felt close to these people and just as happy for them as I was for myself.  We had all been through the gamut (some much more than others) to get to this very moment.

We all got copies of our French birth certificates to help us fill out our ID request forms.  I noticed that France had made a few small mistakes (mais bon, on est en France n'est pas?). My last name now had a space where before there was none AND my street name was completely wrong, but eh - those are just les détails right? I wasn't about to slow down the process by complaining about a little space or about my street name...so voila. Tant pis, c'est comme ça. The French FrenchCannesCannes will have a last name with a space.

I measured myself in meters, I turned in my documents (secretly took a photo- see above) and I left after only 2 hours of Prefecture galère. It was the least painful Prefecture experience I've had in 6 years.

Outside, I felt like Paris was congratulating me.  A man played the accordion on the bridge and the sun was shining in such a way that the Seine sparkled, creating a glow around the buildings on the banks.

Due to my running late I hadn't had time to eat and the pangs of hunger were starting to get stronger. I decided to bypass the bran biscuits in my purse and treat myself to a very French breakfast.  And that's just what I did at Chatelet, in a warm café where the Parisians bustle by the café windows. Just me, the Française, and my French petit-déjeuner. 

Ze French Attitude, AKA: Ze Art of Being Faux Cul

I like to think I'm a nice person. I say hello, I say goodbye, I say please and thank you.  I used to smile at people for no reason in the street until I realized that the French think that's creepy at which point I stopped.  I move (most of the time) for old ladies in the metro and I always give up my seat for a mother with her child.  Even when I'm in a Pepto Bismol Head mood I am friendly to people I don't know.

Some people may call this being nice even when I'm irritated as being faux cul - quite literally, a fake ass.  Faux culs have been around since the time of  Louis XIV when the women tacked on a fake booty as a means to seduce.  Since hypocrisy was the name of the game back in Louis' day, the term has now come to designate someone as a hyprocrite - a faux cul - a fake ass.

To the French, Americans are the worst faux culs in the world - they go to a restaurant in the states and are greeted with HimynameisCindyandIamgoingtobeyourservertoday! And it takes all of their strength to keep down their burger and fries.  They think of themselves as being more honest - more expressive of what they are truly feeling.  A typical French waiter does not tell you his or her name, they may not even say hello. You come in, you sit down, you eat, and aurevoir.  If they are nice they may ask you how the food tasted - but really they don't give a flying cuss.

I have mixed feelings about the faux cul - after six years in France, I beg to differ with the consensus that the Americans are the worst.  The way the French faux cul is expressed may be different - but the essence, the hypocrisy, is still alive and well. Most French people (and I notice this primarily in bakeries for some reason) have a strong hold on the concept and have mastered the overly-polite tone that when paired up with just the right condescending phrase creates the ultimate faux cul in all of it's glory.  The real masters can even mix one truly asshole sentence into the exchange, hitting you with a double whammy faux cul! You don't even see it coming! They serve you the faux cul on a platter and wrap it up in a sing-songy Merci Madame, Aurevoir! bow at the end of the conversation.

What it comes down to is that the French faux cul is just more complex than the American one.  They manage to use a certain tone all while saying words that mean just the opposite - it's almost a wonder to watch them in action. Despite my complete and total irritation with the French faux culs, somehow I wish there were more of them in Paris.  For some reason the Parisians don't even have the energy for faux cul-ness - they just get straight to the ugly point:

You want to have a drink? Well sit over there because that table in the nice area is for 4 people and there are only 2 of you! Vous comprenez Madame! C'est comme ça - je ne peux pas faire autrement. You understand Madame, that's how it is and I can't do it any other way. 

Where I would like to be able to smile and say something equally as cutting as any well-trained Frenchman, I find myself letting out a big sigh and then an irritated oh la la! mais n'importe quoi! fly out of my mouth instead.  This reaction is certainly not American and only borderline French.  My friends, I think it might just be Parisian.

The Parisians cut in line, they push each other and they yell at you to open the metro door when you wait 2 seconds too long.  They just don't have time to be faux cul.

And so mes amis, I am torn. As an American, I seek out the smiling face.  I want to offer to help someone lug their suitcase up the metro stairs. I lend my cell phone to the poor foreigner whose credit card gets eaten by the ATM. I take a moment to savor every random act of kindness that I observe here because they are so rare. And so, in this city where being kind is such a rarity, I appreciate a little faux cul every once in a while - at least pretending to be nice is better than not pretending at all - right?

And yet, there is a Parisian in me just aching to get out! I want the grandma pushing 80 to WALK FASTER through the metro corridor! I want to be the next person served! I don't want the table by the bathroom door at the restaurant!
oh la la! mais n'importe quoi!

Journée de Merde = Pepto Bismol Head

Out of nowhere, Paris can make me feel like the luckiest person in the world.  I'll be sitting in a café having a glass of white with a friend when magic starts to happen. It might be a great song, it might be the French chatter around me, it might be the café ambiance with little candles on each table and old wooden floors that creak as the servers bustle their way to the kitchen. Whatever it is, I love it.  There is no way to describe the feeling - I am where I am supposed to be.

Which is why yesterday was such a pisser. Quelle journée de merde!

Seriously, I'm not sure if yesterday could have been worse - but if it had been I may have done more than just be a pill for the majority of the afternoon. My morning started with a stomachache, followed by an email from my French copain.  We will be spending Christmas with his parents this year (a first - more on that later) and his maman offered to purchase our tickets. Very sweet of her if I do say so myself.  I gave Copain very straightforward instructions on which tickets to buy - I specified that I wanted to fly at NORMAL times and in and out of Orly airport. No Charles de Gaulle! And what my friends was in that email? "Bonjour Mme FrenchCannesCannes, we are happy to confirm your flight into CDG airport at 10:30pm! Aurevoir, your friends at Air France."  

That little tidbit put a damper on my morning and coupled with the stomachache, I was already feeling like a crab.  Right away I could start to feel the beginning of what I like to call a Pepto Bismol head. It's an image that I have of the anger taking over my brain just like it coats an aching stomach in that horrible old commercial. I used to warn my college friends and roomies when I could feel one coming on and they would all dissipate in anticipation of my angry meltdown. If any day was a Pepto day, it was certainly today.

I arrived at work to bustling people preparing for a large meeting. I couldn't complain about the yummy pastries and coffee that were readily available upon my arrival, but I could complain about the fact that my day was pretty much effed right from the start.  Any projects that I thought I may have gotten done on Friday went right down the toilette. The meeting ruled the day and in all of my anger I decided to eat a mini pain au chocolat, a mini chausson au pomme, and 6, yes SIX chocolate/mint cookies that tasted so much like Girl Scount Thin Mints I couldn't stop myself.  Did I mention I've been feeling fat lately?  So as you can imagine, this didn't help.  The deeeeep spiral of irritation just kept spiraling down down down - so far down that my American colleague even offered to hug it out.  I accepted the hug and then went on to eat 3 apericubes (these kind of amazing cubes of flavored cheese that the French like to serve at parties - it's the closest they get to American cheese in a can).  Then, when I went to pop the fourth one in my mouth, I accidentally ate a disgusting walnut flavored cube and had to spit it out. Pepto head a-go-go.

Due to the lack of time for actual working, I stayed late yesterday - a FRIDAY- to get the job done.  This furthered my irritation and I may or may not have had some taffy and chocolate followed by gum that only furthered my stomach problem.  When it was finally time to go home I was still miffed about my flight to CDG (talk about holding onto things), so when I walked outside into the courtyard and it was raining I pretty much felt enraged at the entire Universe. &?/§@&!! YOU TOO UNIVERSE !!!!!!!!  And I could feel the Pepto Bismol head creeping up on me at an alarming rate...

I could have probably walked home had I been wearing my boots that I just recently waterproofed but due to the fancy meeting with fancy people, I had decided to wear a fancy outfit that only went with my ballerina flats.  So much for walking home...and so the metro was the only other option.  I squeezed myself into the only spot left inside next to a man with extremely dirty fingernails. One stop...two stops...I could feel my grimace permeating the wagon....third stop...OUVRIR! The old dirty fingernail man had decided to yell in my ear for the girls in front of me to open the door and I shot him my most hateful look as he exited the metro.  Who do people think they are anyways?!  AHHHHHHH!!!!!  I wanted to warn everyone that the Pepto was about to hit the roof, but here, in this metro car, no one would understand what the eff I was talking about. How does one describe a Pepto Bismol head to a Frenchie? Vous voyez Monsieur, je vais avoir une tête de Pepto Bismol bientôt...méfiez-vous!!  I took all of my strength not to say something snotty à la française about manners to the gross old man. (I may be more French than I think...)

Thankfully, my apartment is an "havre de paix" (a peaceful sanctuary) and despite the fact that I couldn't watch the full episode of Glee due to a faux IP address while I ate my strange-I-have-nothing-in-the-fridge-so-this-is-all-I-could-come-up-with dinner, I could feel the Pepto subside.  

Paris just does that to you - one day you love it and one day you have a Pepto Bismol head.  What can I say? C'est la vie (Parisienne) I guess.

Get Fit Fast with the Frenchies

Get Fit Fast with the Frenchies - Parisian Pound-Dropping Master Plan


So simple with guaranteed results!

Our motto - it pays to run late!


Step 1: Set alarm for 7am.

Step 2: Snooze until 7:45am

Step 3: Check Facebook and emails on your Iphone until 8am.

Step 4: Get out of bed.

Step 5: Make coffee and read blogs while drinking coffee.

Step 6: Look at clock.  (??!!!!"'"'(&"à'ç!&"ç'&!!!)

Step 7: takeashower, doyourhairandmakeup, getdressed, grabyourstuff, runoutthedoor - wait - didyoulockthedoor??!!! runbackupstairstocheckthedoor!! runtothemetro, swweeeaaaaat ALOT. getoffthemetroandruntothenextmetro, sweeaaaaaat A LOT MORE. getoffthemetroandruntoyouroffice, arriveattheoffice, sayhellotoeveryone, wipeoffyoursweatmustache, breathbreathbreath, sweatalot, wipeoffthesweatandairoutyourpits, openthewindow, sitatyourdesk, sweatsomemore. Go get more coffee in the staff corner. Start your day.

Step 8: Watch the pounds disappear....VOILA!! The new way to drop those unwanted pounds fast! Start running late today!!

Serves Me Right....

After all of my rushing through the Parisian negative space I got what was coming to me.  The leather on my new gold Tropezienne sandals is nice and stretched out after cutting off a grandma who was walking like a snail on downers in the metro:  as I jet out in front of her she stepped on the back of my shoe.  I, on the other hand,  just kept power walking all the way to my line 8 connection, my sandal still caught under Grandmère's orthopedic kicks.

I now have a floppy right sandal and a snuggly fitting left one.

Sheesh.

Negative Space

In college, my choreography professor used to talk about negative space.  He would make a shape with his body and have us "fill in the negative space." We would squish into each other armpits and the space between your ear and your shoulder...we would curve into an arched back or sit in each others' laps. The negative space was no longer - the gaps were filled.

Paris is a mish mash of negative space just waiting to be filled in.  And after just two month here I have learned to view space in a completely different way.  It's valuable, I seek it, I yearn for it.

Space is so rare in Paris that any leftovers are quickly snatched at then sold at exorbitant prices.  For 604 euros a month I could live in 56 meters squared in Cannes...and in Paris for 800 I get a measly 28.85 meters squared - enough to live, but you won't see me doing downward dog yoga moves in my living room.

My day is now punctuated by moments of searching for negative space - I run down the stairs to the metro, I skim through the turn stiles and wait on the platform for line 9 to arrive.  I squeeze into the leftover pigeonhole at 8:32 in-between Madame ChicTillTheEnd and Monsieur CouldUseAShower. I breath through my mouth as the bell rings and the metro doors close in the space - only tiny gaps leftover for things like purses, scrunched newspapers and briefcases. We all glare at the stroller taking up three spots...République stop!  I follow the crowd off the metro, the space widening between us and my eyes glaze over as I scan the tunnel for the negative space.  Ah ha! Squeeeeeeze, cut off, zip, slooooope, yeeeepes, slide, curse! Currents of people push from one tunnel to the next and I plop plop plop down the stairs careful to avoid the slow waves...the grandmas and tourists taking their sweet time.  I need to GO.  The negative space becomes my friend - my escape plan onto line 3....and 15 minutes later, I am behind my computer, typing emails at warp speed, filling the negative space of a white screen.

That'sParis...Thenegativespaceallfilledup, justlikethat.

A Way With Words and Other Musings on Swamp Ass

Some say French is a beautiful language - not quite as beautiful as Italian but still, nicer sounding than English and far nicer sounding than German.  And I tend to agree.  Not only is French gentle on the ear with the sing-songy Bonjour! and Aurevoir! but I have come to discover that the French can make even the most hideous thing sound lovely.

For instance, don't pieds de veau sound nice?  Pieds de veau with a side of purée maison? But if I told you you were actually eating calve's feet with mashed potatoes, you may reconsider. Perhaps a more subtle example: you're running late for a meeting because you slept in.  You call your colleagues to tell them you'll be late.  But instead of telling them the detailed truth, all you have to do is tell them that you had an empechement -  you were detained for reasons you will never have to explain.  An empechement! so simple! So clear and yet so wonderfully vague! No one will ever have to know that you drank too much Bordeaux last night and ooops - completely missed the alarme at 7am.

All of this was clarified on Thursday as I popped in to visit a group of Americans who were visiting Paris.  It was hotter than hell on Thursday.  The kind of hot where you just give up on looking decent.  Your dress sticks to your back, the sweat rolls down the back of your legs and your mascara gathers in black streaks under your eyes. I think in the states they are using the term "hot mess," which actually happens to be very appropriate.

My fellow Ricaines invited me into their apartment and we sat down in the living room for a good ol' American chat.  The subjects went from Spain to teaching English in France to French living standards to their plans for coming back for another trip abroad.  It was nice to talk to other Americans and encourage them to come back.  I decided that at 9pm it was time to go and as I got up from my chair I glanced behind me fearful of the sweat that had surely gathered on the back of my dress.  The most talkative of them didn't miss a beat: "Oh don't worry," she said, "I had swamp ass yesterday too."

Yes ladies and gentlemen, Swamp Ass.

If you are wondering what Swamp Ass entails, perhaps you have heard of Swalls? Swoobs? Sweaty balls? Sweaty boobs?  Elegant, I know.  Swamp Ass, I now know, means a sweaty ass.  And I had one, and so had she - yesterday apparently.

Now the French have a Swamp all their own.  Perhaps you've heard of the Marais? Initially the place where the Seine could flood the city thus creating a "swamp," it is now one of the chicest (and gayest) parts of Paris where rents soar and gay bars abound.  Fancy boutiques line the streets with names like rue des Francs Bourgeois and beautiful courtyards are sneakily hidden inside the historically preserved buildings.  And there the French have done it again!  They have turned a nasty, dirty word associated with flooding, mud and mosquitoes into the posh, Parsian hot spot for the super branché.  If they called the Topanga Plaza "The Swamp" I highly doubt Chanel stores would come flocking for a top notch placement.  But call it the Marais and voila! Instant amazingness!

So, in honor of the French and their beautiful way with words, let's just say that Thursday included a magnifique Cul de Marais.  You know, Swamp Ass for you Americans.

My Feet Are American, obviously

What's the Frenchwoman's secret to feet without blisters, legs without shin splints and backs and hips without shooting pains? I need to know before my excessive Paris walking gets the better of me! I've given up heels altogether after two unfortunate experiences (you'd think I would have learned the first time, but no, I was sure I could handle it).

I was wrong.

Is it Mephisto shoes? Is it Birkenstocks? Is it Repetto ballerinas? Do they have differently shaped feet? Is it all the cheese? WHAT IS THE SECRET?!

Please advise.

This is Paris

Every June 21st the entire country of France welcomes in the summer months with the Fête de la Musique - a huge music festival that begins at 8.30 and lasts until 2am.  In Paris, musicians young and old, professional and amateur fill the streets, squares and banks of the Seine with their drums, pianos, DJ sets and voices...

Parisians finish their evening aperitifs and join in the party...swaying to the sax at Voltaire, bouncing to the percussion beats by the Pont de l'Archevêché and pushing their way through the techno clubber-filled streets of the Marais.

But sometimes, in sleepy neighborhoods, the streets are quiet and you wonder where the Fête may have gone....until you find it again at a tiny bar du quartier, two fiddle players begin their tune, and the couples break out into a two by two jig right there on the sidewalk.

And then you remember ....this is Paris.

The Plan

Part of my Be Happy in Paris Plan includes regular outings in the city, preferably with friends (and food). This is highly important in order to avoid: A. Wasting away in a humid mini-apartment, B. Watching too many Sex and the City episodes in pjs, C. Eating anything and everything whilst watching afore-mentioned episodes.

Therefore, I have been very proactive to prévoir....pre-plan said outings.  It's of the highest importance (according to...me) in order be contente with my new life in this new city.

So on Sunday, C and I made Paris our oyster and discovered some amazing things including but not limited to:

We now highly recommend the millefeuille and chibouste at Le Valentin, 30/32 Passage Jouffroy 75009 Paris. Trop bon!

2 more points for Paris.

Brownie Points for Paris

After a very rude welcome to Paris including but not limited to: water damage repair, 10 days of painting, plaster, dust, a plumber, white paint flicks on just about everything, a weird man lingering in my stairwell asking for money for his "asthma medication" and the news that there is a new leak upstairs due to a shower that isn't water-tight therefore resulting in 2 to 3 months of wall-drying time for our apartment, Paris is finally winning back some brownie points. It's hard to believe I know, but it's true.

Just being able to put my things in their place instead of crammed in my bedroom has already made my life happier.  Starting my morning barefoot in my own house with a cup of coffee on my couch (not covered in a painting sheet) has also increased my happy factor.  And yesterday, walking through the Marais at dusk, watching the Parisians picnic at the Place des Vosges, a bass player plucking along while aperitifs began on the café terraces, I began to remember why I moved to Paris.  This is what I was hoping for...this is why I was pulled here.

Today began with reinforcing my points de repère... yoga was taught by a hilarious Japanese teacher who should really consider a career in coaching - not yoga. But I loved it anyways and was happy to even be able to take the class.  Then a frothy iced coffee and almond biscuit with Clauds near Le Printemps...just what I needed to feel normal again! I wore something other than the jeans, converse and tank top uniform I have been sporting every since we arrived here as I could not previously access my wardrobe because EVERYTHING was blocking it due to the above-mentioned painting disaster. Ah the joy of rings, makeup and ballerina shoes!  Who knew!

I have done laundry, organized bookshelves, made fresh salads and watched countless Sex and the City episodes - and I love it. All of these simple things that make me feel at home.... Tomorrow, lunch in the city with C and ...who knows! Keep up the good work Paris - I'm counting on you my friend..

Points de Repair

After having four big "moves" under my belt (Santa Barbara, Toulouse, Cannes and now Paris), I know what I have to do to make a place feel like home: I create a cozy space in my apartment, I find a yoga or dance class and I find the nearest Monoprix or Target.  Pretty soon I'm a happy person having found theses points de repère as the French say -  these "landmarks" of my new life.  Little did I know however, that my life in Paris would be more about points of repair than repère.

Please observe:

Staying Positive in Paris Sous La Pluie

Oooofff. We did it.  We found an apartment in the labyrinth that is Paris nestled snuggly in the 11th arrondissement right near the Voltaire metro stop.  After going through a rollar coaster ride of mixed emotions completed by a less-than-amazing exchange with the agency who treated me like American doggy merde, I am ready to think positively. 

So let me tell you about our new Parisian apartment in a politically correct (read: positive) way.

Our teeny tiny cosy flat is located on rue P, a calm street that is less than a three minute walk to the line 9 metro.  It is 35 28.85 meters squared with an American kitchen (that means an open plan kitchen in Frenchie speak) and is located on the fourth floor with no lift has a built in exercise system called "stairs" - four flights of them! I doubt we'll ever have to pay for a gym membership again!

The ridiculously small quaint living room has a badly isolated unique authentic window from when the building was originally constructed as does the bedroom.  Both are on the street side, but fortunately for us it is a calm street with very little traffic. We are however, very close to the main boulevards which I am happy to report have my favorite store Monoprix (French Target!) at just a hop, skip and jump across the four lanes of traffic Place Leon Blum.  We can walk to the famous Bastille in just 15 minutes and I will be able to walk to work in about 30 minutes if the French SNCF train workers decide to go on strike as they so love to do on multiple occasions throughout the year fight for their employment rights as they should. There are also two Starbucks at walking distance from our house - and I plan to frequent them on weekends and rough mornings when a big coffee is just what the American doctor ordered.

Our HUGE A-HOLE perfectly nice agency contact Monsieur Don'tLikeHimOneBit Duval will schedule a walk through with us only in the morning and when his schedule allows it but certainly not on a Friday afternoon or Saturday when we move at the end of May. He told us that if anything goes wrong with the building we should remember that this is not America and they are not open 24 hours a day the French pompiers (firemen) are also on hand should an emergency arise.

The apartment is very clean and we will have an actual bathtub for the very first time in over 5 years. There is also a window in the bathroom and another one in the WC which will help keep any unpleasant odors out of the living room when someone decides to drop the kids off at the pool are conveniently located right off of the living room for easy access in the middle of a soccer match or Friends episode - it's every man's dream as you can literally watch TV and do your business at the same time.

We have decided to adopt the Chinese principal of Fung Shui and get rid of all of our crap any negative energy that may affect our ability to live in such a small space full of junk happy moving in vibes.

We would be thankful for any suckers volunteers to help us haul our junk come up with deco ideas on move-in day! Speaking of deco, I am currently at my friend C's house nursing a sore throat and insomnia inflicted by yesterday's stress looking at deco websites for inspiration   - how do you feel about stripes?

I take the train home tomorrow after changing my ticket three times and incurring fifty extra euros in ticket fees spending a glorious, adventure-filled 11 days in the City of Non-stop Rain Lights. Soon I will be packing up Cannes, saying goodbye to La Mer and embarking on my Parisian adventure with Copain.

May La Vie Parisienne commence!