B-b-b-bali

After lots of yelling and French bad words, Copain hit "acheter" and bought us two tickets to Bali via Hong Kong. It's happening people, we are going on a real vacation!

I know that makes me sound like a spoiled brat - I go home to visit my family in California every year and take little weekend trips in Europe for birthdays and getaways, but Copain and I have never, in the almost-9 years we've been together, taken a trip of this magnitude together.

Going to California does cost about the same and is almost just a long in terms of travel time, but it's going home for me, not on vacation. I love, love, love it, but I never discover anything new.  After such a long time in France, and countless summer and Christmas trips to So-Cal, I realized that if I kept using all of my vacation time to go home, I would never see anything other than France and California. 

It's one of those expat things that you realize when you hear about your friends' exotic vacations and you start to wonder what you're doing wrong...

Of course there are certainly worse places to see your whole life, BUT, now is our time to do crazy things like go to Bali, right?!  If we decide to make France our home in the future, going back to Cali will be even more important when we have kiddos - so we have to do these kinds of things now. 

I'm trying not to think about the trip budget (usually I just have to think about the flight since I stay with family and friends in the states). For this trip, I have to consider food, hotels, fun money etc. Our next challenge will be finding hotels that feel clean, fun and relaxing without breaking the bank! Thankfully, we have two sets of friends who are also going to Bali this year (one of them is there as I type!), so we'll be able to learn from their experiences (and maybe steal an itinerary or two).

Last week, when I told my dad that we may be going to Bali, he said, "Now where is Bali, again?"...

Here you go, Dad.

In my Dad's defense, we were more of a Mexico and Catalina Island family when I was growing up (perfect family vacations with beaches and a low stress factor for kids and parents!). Even more of a reason to see these cool places while I can! (I see similar family vacays in my future...).

So voila mes amies! Some major R&R (and flight anxiety!) in my future!

à suivre...

Cannes Cannes and the Cups

After finishing work early yesterday, I was flat out exhausted. I think I may be coming down with something - bleh. But before going home to lie on my couch in PJs and convince Copain to watch a chick flick with me, I took a detour to Hema, an amazing Ikea-esque store near Châtelet les Halles. 

Remember my Hema-tights???

I'm not sure why I thought that going to Hema was a good idea - it just makes me want things. And you know how I feel about things.

Bref, I pretty much tortured myself for an hour. All I could think about was how I don't have one water glass that matches another, that I only have one wine glass because all the others are broken, that my bowls are cracked and crappy and that oh my god I hate my apartment and I need all new stuff but I can't have all new stuff until I get a bigger apartment and crap this sucks and I want everything in this store! ... But oh no! What if I buy everything in this store and then I decide not to live in France and then what will I do with it ahhhhh????????

It was enough to send me into an existential tailspin.

I came home with 5 new bath towels, a bag of my favorite spicy rice crackers for food therapy, and some door hook hanger thingys to hang the towels on. Then I washed all the towels and overloaded my teeny apartment with wet towels to dry. 

Thank god Copain was up for a chick flick, otherwise I may have had a complete breakdown.

This morning I woke up with a stuffy nose and ridiculous depression. The girl who has a roof over her head, food to eat, a good job, wonderful friends and family - the girl who has no reason to be depressed, is sad because her cups don't match. And if she does buy cups, it somehow means something about her life here. Wow. Way to be awesome Cannes Cannes.

As I explained my frustration to Copain, the ridiculous tears welling up, he started to sing a little song:

Doo doo doo dooooo

Chin up!

And get the dust off of you!

Isn't that how it goes? The song your mom used to sing to you?

Doo doo doo dooooo

Chin up!

And get the dust off of you!

How can you be sad when your Copain starts to sing the song that your mom sang to you when you fell down as a child? 

Pick yourself up,

Dust yourself off,

and start all over again!

Even though he got the words all wrong, he got the meaning behind it right. And even though as adults we don't fall down on playgrounds and scrape our knees in the sand, sometimes we do have to pick ourselves up, dust off the silly sadness, and start over again - remembering that our futures are shiny. Right?

And then, just to make me feel better, Copain took out all our cups, lined them up and laughed at the off-the-wall collection that has overtaken our miniature cupboards:

Then he promised me a trip to Ikea. Baby steps, baby steps.

Kombucha

My dancer friend and I were sitting at a table at Les P'tites Indécices on rue Jean Timbaud, when our newest expat friend arrived, bursting with energy. She had just finished a very busy day and was equal amounts exhausted and energetic - if that makes any sense.

We skipped the bises since it was just us Ricaines, and jumped right into the how are yous and what have you been up tos and what should we eat ohmygoshI'mstarving!

Then, in response to her day of crazy, our friend said, "Today I just really needed some Kombucha! Where can I get some in Paris???"

Back it up. Some Kom-whatta?? 

Dancer friend and I squinted at each other - ummm.... huh?

And that's when I learned about the wonderful world of Kombucha and told myself that I absolutely had to try some when I went back to the states for Thanksgiving.

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A few days after Turkey day, I find myself sitting around a table of college friends in Long Beach, drinking wine and talking about life, when I bring up the story of the Kombucha.

"That's so five years ago", one of them says. "You mean, you've never tried it?"

I reminded them that I had been out of the country for the past 8 years, which I guess is equivalent to having lived under a rock, and that no, I had no idea what the heck this strange drink was.

They gave me the low down on where to buy it, what flavors were do-able and which tasted like apple-cider vinegar, and also informed me that I could now buy it with chia seeds. Oooo-kay.

hmm. I was getting quite a Kombucha education.

On my way back to my parents' house, I stopped in at Whole foods and narrowed it down to two flavors out of about 40, one with chia seeds and one without, and proceeded to drink waaaay too much Kombucha for one person in one sitting. Oh tummy. No bueno. Fortunately for me, they have bathrooms at Kohls. And every other American shopping center for that matter. 

Then I made my mom try it (in moderation this time) when we went shopping the very next day.  I may have been turning into a Kombucha convert...

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Back in Paris, on my way back home from work, I made a quick stop at my local Naturalia to stock up on my corn and quinoa flours. And because I strangely like to peruse the organic food store aisles for fun, I checked out the juice section... and what did I see??? 

Kombucha!!

I immediately emailed my new expat friend - obviously.  I felt like I had hit the Kombucha jack pot for her until I realized that this couldn't be the real deal because it wasn't refrigerated. Booo.

Mild deception.

But France has pulled through people! We may have only just come out with coconut water (now available at Monop' and organic food stores!), but dagnabit, we have Kombucha - the real, refrigerated kind, found in the Naturalia cold drinks section... check this out:

Of course I bought one to try - unfortunately, it wasn't as flavorful as the Americana versions - but I'm assuming that means it's probably better for you. Less added stuff for flavor and all that jazz. (That's just a guess, but I find that lots of American products have a high sugar content, or at least flavor, most of the time. Example: yogurts).

So there you have it. France is up on the Kombucha curve and I'm sure chia seeds will get here in about 5 to 10 more years. Right about the same time as public restrooms in shopping centers. 

You can't push the Frenchies too hard in the new generation direction - petit à petit. petit à petit.

Update - Just saw that mamapundit is talking about Kombucha too!

My Relationship With Things

For Christmas, my mom gave me a beautiful wine bottle stopper from Pottery Barn.  It looks vintage-y and fun and when I opened it...I cringed.

Another thing. What am I going to do with another thing?

The bottle stopper stayed in it's cardboard packaging for months after it bringing it back to Paris. I looked at it, I admired it, but I would not, could not, take it out of it's wrapping. 

Flash forward four months later, I was invited to a 100% expat dinner. All of the women there were at some stage of being an American expat abroad - one guest was married with two kids, 20 years into her life in France; two others were between 3 and 8 years along, married to Frenchmen ; another was awaiting French nationality, single; another had arrived only a year ago, in a relationship; and then there was me: 7.5 years in France, Franco-American, domestic partners (PACSed) with Copain.

We spoke Franglais all evening, bonded over common complaints, drank lots of wine and ate a dinner in a way that only expats could: potluck style - we each brought a dish to share.

After our aperitif (we do live in France after all), we sat down to the dinner table (a commodity that I have not had in years due to my tiny Parisian apartment). Immediately, I was taken with how homey the apartment felt - there was a rug, a comfy couch, picture frames, vases, and the table was set with beautiful plates, glasses and cutlery. All I could think was, wow - this girl is 100% here. She is committed to this place and she's (as far as I can tell), okay with it.

And I can't even take a bottle stopper out of its packaging.

You see, I'm deathly afraid of committing 100% to this place, and I guess I feel like the accumulation of things makes it that much harder to leave. What if one day, I want to leave and I have all these things. What will I do then?

As a child, I was a collector of things. I collected shoes (just to put on display!), lovely miniature perfume bottles, interesting photos from magazines that would decorate my wall, coins, rings, old ID cards, pointe shoes...and made a room that was 100% me. (It drove my dad nuts, but he still loves me).

I miss that me.

To be completely honest, I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of not committing. I'm tired of this horrible limbo of being an expat. When do I throw in the towel and be 100% here? When do I stop being afraid of making here my home - with all of the things that I love around me? 

At the dinner party, we all talked about "going home" - home being the US. The guest who had been in France the longest said that it doesn't feel like home anymore; when she takes her family there, they visit like tourists. It felt sad to hear that - how could home ever be anything but just that? But that is the expats lament, I guess...the never-ending feeling that you are never 100% home.

Crazy American

I took a look at the scale last week and it was NOT GOOD. Like Oh-dear-god-how-did-that-happen NOT GOOD.

Was it an apero en trop? A bit too many peanut M&Ms from the work vending machine? Are my healthy muffins not really healthy? dude.

I went back to Mireille Guiliano's advice and decided to "faire attention" to what I was eating (easier said than done when your colleague offers you an almond financier! - and then I decided that I needed to put a little American fire under my derrière and actually exercise. At 10:30 on Saturday morning I was up and at 'em, gulped down my magic sève de bouleau, put on some stretchy pants and power-walked to my neighborhood park.  

The park was buzzing with parents, children, ping-pong players and the standard homeless guys sipping their mid-morning beers. Then there was me - the crazy American, doing laps, stopping at the one bird-poop free park bench for push-ups and squats, jammin' to my hip hop mix circa 2003. Don't worry, I wore sunglasses and kept my head down.

I could hardly get up (or down) the stairs of our apartment building on Sunday - my thighs hadn't made any effort besides my daily Velib ride to work in months, and I could feel the burn BIG TIME. I *may* have taken a Doliprane to ease the pain. Despite the crippling effects of my park session, it did feel good to exercise and to feel my muscles again. I wish I could just be 100% française and therefore, immune to calories and the salle de sport, but alas, I am American, rien à faire. 

I could hardly bike to work today, but that just means it's working right?

American Freak Flag - Starbucks Style

I couldn't help myself. On Sunday, I totally flew my American freak flag and not only purchased Starbucks Christmas Blend coffee beans (happiness in a bag!), but also bought a tall latte and proceeded to walk around Paris drinking it. outside. in a to-go cup.  La honte!  

For you Americans this doesn't seem weird at all. But let me tell you how many Frenchies walk around with Starbucks to-go cups in hand: ZERO.  Carrying a Starbucks cup is like wearing a neon sign that says, "Why hello there! I'm a foreigner!". Perhaps I should have just worn an American flag cape with sparkles on it, you know, to blend in a bit better.

Paris Eats - Un Diner Presque Français

Copain and I were invited to a Franco-Américain dinner party last weekend entre amis.  It was a dinner of the potluck variety, which was hard for Copain to understand, but once we got there I think he got the idea.  We were asked to bring the apéritif, the hostess was in charge of the main course, another friend brought the accompagnement, another the dessert and so on. Everyone brought une bouteille de vin.  The theme for this particular repas was français or presque français since we Americanized the organization of it all! (potlucks are fun!). Check out our fabuleux French dinner...

Boeuf bourguignon, gratin dauphinois and vin rouge - Julia Child style!

Fromage!

Fromage that got too close to the stove...

Homemade éclair au chocolat (isn't this impressive of my copine??)

Un gateau fondant au chocolat... with perfect nappage chocolat

Close up on the éclairs

My very own slice of fondant -and no, I did not share, even when Copain asked me to.

Un petit café to complete a perfect meal (made in a French press no less! ha!)

The Expat's Lament

Every time I visit home - aka California, USA - I wonder why I have made the choice to emotionally torture myself by living in and loving two different countries.

As I pack my bags in Paris, anticipating the long-awaited reunion with my famille, I am uneasy, stressed, sad to leave Copain and nostalgic for anything and everything French. As much as I love my family to death, I don't want to leave my home.

Then I arrive in the states and everything is familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time. I am a foreigner in my own homeland but I still get the privilege of going through the US citizens line at customs. I speak the language, I know the culture, yet it all seems a bit strange, off, contrived. Everyone is friendly - and it's weird. Why are people smiling at me...I don't know them.

Then I'm hugging my Mom and Dad, suddenly the sadness and stress of leaving Paris is gone and I am driving on a traffic-filled freeway to the house that I grew up in, Suburbia, USA.  My family and I learn to live together again (not without some adjustments), my Dad makes us breakfast, my Mom has made me a cozy bed with a bedside lamp for reading - just how I like it.  My sister and I stay up late watching Friends, my Dad and I take walks and talk about my future - he tells me he wishes I lived closer.  My Mom, knowing I can't handle any planning while on vacation, becomes my social event manager and makes things happen - dinner with my cousins, a trip to Santa Barbara, reminders of the things I wanted to get or do or see while at home.

My sister and I revel in the amazingness that is Target and we treat ourselves to iced coffees at Starbucks - she asks me if I know about their new oatmeal but of course, I don't. Just like I don't know about Justin Bieber when my six-year-old cousin asks to watch "the JB movie" once we're out of the pool.  I learn about the new pretzel M&Ms and notice all of the antibacterial hand-wipe stations near the shopping carts at almost every major grocery store.  I barely sweat at all since there is air-conditioning everywhere and I make a mental note to eat less since I am definitely cutting down on my daily walking quota.

We all prepare for my little brother's wedding and I get to see my extended family for the first time in a very long time.  I have roots here. Love is all around us. We laugh when my brother wipes the lipstick off his mouth after you may kiss the bride and we cry as we watch him and his new wife sway to their first dance. The ceremony is American - the reception is American - the food is American.  Copain doesn't believe me when I tell him that dinner lasted only 45 minutes - max.  In France it would have taken on massive proportions...2 hours at the very least.

We fill the dance floor and sing along to American songs until our voices are hoarse and our feet are sore. Then we head to a family restaurant in the middle of the teeny tiny town for our own after-party complete with fried chicken and the best fries of my life. Back at our hotel, our family stays up late talking about my Dad's tearful speech, the fun night, our dancing aunts and uncles, the fact that my brother is now a married man.

After a groggy morning we go to Flapjacks for a much-needed greasy spoon.  Bottomless coffee, water, pancakes and butter, butter, butter.  My Belle-Mère would just die here. My brother gets the biscuits and gravy with a plate of bacon on the side. My new sister-in-law gets a breakfast quesadilla that takes up her entire plate.  We talk about my cousin who may have had way too much to drink and I quietly appreciate this shared weekend that we will all look back on one day.  Remember when Aunt D did the fist pump? Remember when the littlest cousin stole the show with her breakdancing? Remember when...

Then it's time to say goodbye. My eyes well up with tears as I give my brother a hug and wish him a wonderful honeymoon.  The drive back to Suburbia is long.  I pack my bags, save all the photos of my time here - precious memories that I will share back in Paris. I tell myself that this is my last night at home and I am uneasy, stressed, sad to leave my family and nostalgic for anything and everything American. As much as I love Copain to death, I don't want to leave my family.

I tell my family that we shouldn't cry at the airport, but I am the first one to let the tears fall.  I try to remember my expat friends who have also chosen to live this torn life, consoling myself - I am not alone.  We tell each other that we'll see each other soon and remind ourselves how quickly time flies.  One final hug, one final kiss, one final hand squeeze and I force myself away and into the security line.  We send air kisses, waves and I love you signs until I hand my passport over and we can no longer see each other.  I say a silent prayer that I will see them again.  See you soon, I whisper, sending my cosmic wish into the universe.

Waiting to board is long.  I'm physically here but mentally I try to travel all the way back to Paris lest I abandon my French life completely, unable to manage the pain of leaving everyone I love. I send them texts, reminding them that I will see them soon, of how much I love them.  I know the texts are mostly for me, but their responses help ease the down-in-my-guts feeling that this is not right.


The air in Paris is thick with humidity, people push to the front of the baggage line making it hard to see the orange bow I have purposefully tied to my suitcase. No one is smiling, everyone is tired.  Despite my nausea, I experience a tiny moment of joy when I get in the line for French citizens and use my French passport for the very first time.  Bonjour, I say, and I walk right on through into my other life.

Copain is happy to see me and I feel instantly better to feel his hug and a welcome-home bisou.


Paris takes me back with open arms.  The boucher sells his roasted chickens, the buttery croissant smell wafts from my favorite bakery and as I walk to work, I remember all of the reasons why I love it here.

I confide in my friend and colleague, another American expat who has made a full life for himself here.  He puts it perfectly when he says, the longer I make Paris my home, the less I feel at home anywhere.

The Question

It's bound to happen when you live abroad because it's the easiest way to make a connection with both Frenchies and foreigners.

The basic question: where are you from?

It's an easy enough question that is simple to answer but it's the aftermath that is harder to deal with - especially if you are in the company of another foreigner.

Example:

My English friend K and I were waiting in the hall for our dance class to start when we struck up a conversation with one of the Frenchies also waiting for class.  Then came the question: "Where are you from?"  K answered first - "I'm from the Lake District in the north of England."  The Frenchie politely smiled and probably said something along the lines of "how nice."  Then it was my turn to answer - "California," I said, "near Los Angeles."  And then the embarassing outburst began - "Wow Los Angeles! Trop bien! J'aaaaddooorrre les Etats-Unis!  And then the clincher: the Frenchie generally lists all of the American television shows that he or she watches that involve Hollywood and Beverly Hills.  It's really embarassing, especially when "The Lake District" (which I'm told is one of the most beautiful areas in England) get's the "how nice" response.

Thankfully, K takes it in stride - we now give each other knowing eyes when "The Question" is asked. It's pretty much guaranteed if the question asker is French. I think I understand why this happens - I guess I could compare it to meeting a European in America versus meeting a Canadian...it's just cooler, more exotic, different.  England is an Easy Jet flight away and due to the amazingness of the European Union, Frenchies can fly in and out without limits, they can work there without any paperwork - it's too accessible. The USA however, is far, a visa is required for entry and even then, the border control could send you home if they wanted!  TV shows are filmed there and then diffused all over the world.  My French friends watch Desperate Housewives and Dexter more than I do.  They feel like they know LA because they see it on TV all the time.

Even though I understand why it happens, it's still embarassing.  I try to tone it down by expressing my love for San Francisco, pointing out the traffic on LA freeways and lack of culture, but it never works.  Los Angeles is like the unattainable dream for the Frenchies who have never traveled there, never sat on the 5 freeway for three hours trying to get home from the airport.  I give them a month in LA...I bet they'll be crying for the fresh air of the Lakes, begging for some greenery in no time flat.