Le Sud

It's funny to hear the Parisians speak about le Sud (the south). There is an air of nostalgia, of longing,  their shoulders visibly relax as they remember running around barefoot as kids chez mamie et papi or drinking a Ricard with friends as ados. 

Everything is better in the south: the sun shines brighter, the food tastes better, the people are nicer. 

Then depression sets in: why the eff did I ever move to Paris?! I had it so good as a kid! 

And while I didn't live in the south of France as a kid, I did grow up in southern California, where I barely owned a pair of jeans and a jacket was just out of the question.  I was worried about being too hot. Can you imagine?

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Dancer friend is moving to Vietnam. I'm so excited for her, but it makes me sad to lose such a wonderful friend in Paris. Since she is essentially homeless until she moves to her new home across the world, she and her husband had the brilliant idea of renting a home in the south of France for a couple of weeks before their departure. Awesome right? Then, even more awesome, she invited me and another close friend to spend the weekend with them. Thankfully, I got over my commitment problems and got myself some train tickets stat. 

The minute we stepped off the train, we felt the heat of the sun, needed to put on our sunglasses and decided that sunscreen was in order. It was glorious.

After a quick stop in Aix-en-Provence to take in the Saturday marché (we got vintage plates and guacamole fixins!), we arrived at their little slice of heaven. 

Crisp rosé and bright-red tomato salads greeted us at the table, followed by BBQ chicken and fresh pain de campagne. Our feet were bare, our shorts were on and the air was exceptionally warm. It was divine. I kept asking myself why on earth I ever left Toulouse, why I ever left Cannes. What was I thinking?!

In-between pool time and playtime with their two little boys, we took a lazy walk into town and then a drive into one of the neighboring villages...

poppies!

quirky doors in the south

A beautiful place for a dip in the water when it gets too hot

In the evening, we cracked open a big bottle of red, prepared the veggies together and seared the steaks on the grill.  

In the morning, this awaited us on the terrace:

I had to remind myself, that life in the south is perfect because we were on vacation. But truthfully, I was dreading Monday, when we had to pack up and leave. I took a minute to lie on the grass and soak in the sun one last time (with sunscreen!). 

As the train pulled into the Gare de Lyon, my friend and I looked out the windows at the grey clouds and bundled Parisians. Even though I was sad to have left the slow-paced, sunny south, a wave of relief washed over me - home feels good. There is something about too slow that can depress me  - and Paris will always be in action, always buzzing. I love that.

That doesn't mean that I don't totally want a country home! But, Paris is still my homegirl.

Concessions - AKA My Big Plan

Copain and I continue our hope to one day be homeowners in the outrageously expensive city of Paris. We've done tours of the banlieue hoping for a place to jump out at us and say, "I'm just as awesome as Paris! Pick me!" but it hasn't happened yet.

Our friends recently bought a funky 19th century triplex apartment in Melun....I know, where the heck is that. Don't worry, I Googled it for you:

See the little "A" down there...now see Paris at the top? Um, it's far. 

I went to help my friend paint his new apartment when they first moved in; from the Gare de Lyon on a direct train, it was only about 25 to 30 minutes - not bad right? But first I had to GET to the Gare de Lyon, then I had to walk 15 minutes to my friend's house in the middle of town once I had arrived. So, lets call it a total of about an hour (because I live close to the Gare de Lyon!). That's when you take the direct train. If not, it's more like 45-50 minutes just for the train part of the trip.  I have to say though, the town is adorable and my friend's apartment overlooks the gargoyles on the central church - very Beauty and the Beast-ish. Despite all that, the dependency on public transportation just kills me - I couldn't Velib from Melun unless I wanted to train for the Tour de France!

So I've been thinking - what other concessions could I make so that an apartment would be affordable in Paris (my happy place)? When my parents bought their house in California, they chose a newly built, one-story in the middle of nowhere, hoping that the town would soon be developed. It was the smallest house on the block and they were surrounded by dirt. Yes, dirt. It was a big deal when they built "The Mall" in the town. (As an 8 year-old, I was particularly thrilled). Now the community continues to develop, stores continue to open and it is soccer-mom USA - SUVs A-Go-Go. The dirt has been replaced with a busy road, the mall is now The Place To Be, schools have popped up in every corner. 30 years ago, their concession was to buy a nice, new house, but with absolutely nothing around it.

I guess I feel just the opposite - I'd rather a great location, but a non-so-amazing apartment. What could I give up to get the cost down? Then I got an email alert from one of the many real estate websites I'm signed up for, and it basically said this:

• Apartment in the 20th arrondissement, near Nation metro stop (good, good!)
• 47 square meters (small, but do-able)
• 2 bedrooms (YES!)
• Price that is not yet affordable but close to it (and that's where negotiation comes in....)
• 5th floor walk-up - read: no elevator (ummm, concession?)

I emailed my people and asked them what they thought - could I deal with 5 flights everyday? For the past 8 years I've always lived on the 3rd or 4th floor without an elevator. So, yeah, it would probably be fine. I'd have toned thighs and buttocks! right? right?

But what about when strollers become a necessity? What will I do then? I guess I would just verify that there was a place to park it downstairs as many Parisian families do, right? 

I'm still grappling with the idea - even 5th floor walk ups are expensive. BUT, it may be the only way for Copain and I to own anything and maybe it's a concession we are willing to make. We may be huffing and puffing coming home each day, but we would have Paris at our finger tips - the joys of walking and biking and metros just downstairs.....

And that just might make up for it all.

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.

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.