When I first decided to blog, I never imagined I would be writing an epilogue. Like most of my friends and family, I was expecting the blogging to start strong and slowly die out as I became busier and lost interest. However, I was surprised to find how much I enjoyed sitting down to write these blogs. And I was even more surprised to learn that people other than my parents were reading and enjoying my blogs.
Now, that I've returned to the United States, an epilogue feels appropriate to wrap up my blog and my journey. The last few weeks have been a whirlwind. Alasdair and I left early Sunday morning for Italy (almost missing our flight after staying at the Piano Bar too late Saturday night...), then we traveled to Scotland and England, and finally back to Paris for one night. We were only in Paris long enough to pick up my extra baggage from Rachel, eat a final crepe, and have a quick night's sleep before our flights in the morning.
I arrived back in the U.S. feeling exhausted from four and a half months of living. That's the only word to describe it. I spent four months living each and every day to the fullest. Although the exploration of myself and Europe was hectic and exhausting, I felt more confident and at peace than ever before. Coming back, I felt like I was coming down from a high. The withdrawal was more powerful than expected, and I spent almost a week feeling depressed, avoiding phone calls and emails, and hiding away at my parent's house binging on American comfort food. It didn't help that I had acquired a nasty case of vertigo during my voyage.
I needed something to lift my spirits. I knew I would have to return to work eventually and start living my D.C./Virginia life again, but I didn't think it was possible to feel so free and alive in a place without the immense history and beauty of an old European city. In a place where people generally obsess over work, often neglecting the joys of life I deem more important - family, friends, culture, and personal happiness. The French (and the Italians) seem to understand that living without passion and love for life and all it brings, is no life at all.
Fortunately, I had an important realization while I was contemplating booking a one-way ticket back to Paris. That attitude and mentality didn't have to stay in Europe. Having the life you want is not about your geographic location. Sure, the Seine River and fresh baguettes don't hurt...but those things are not the reason I felt different in Paris. I was the reason. Moving to a foreign city, not knowing anyone, choosing to make a life for myself and make the most of it has made me a different person. I've learned to go with the flow and not sweat the small stuff. I've learned to appreciate what's really important in life. And I've learned that pleasing myself and making sure my life is going in the right direction so I enjoy every day is of utmost importance. I've adopted a new attitude on life, and that will come with me wherever life takes me.
I heard a quote the other day from British poet, William Ernest Henley: ''I am the Master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul.''
That's how I feel. I am now in charge of my life. I am the master of my fate, and the captain of my soul. And I know whatever happens, I'll be ok.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
My Last Fête
Saturday night, I had planned to throw myself a going away party/birthday celebration at none other than the Piano Bar. After a little more flâneur and a stop into a Scottish pub to watch the Champions League Football Final (soccer for you Americans), which Alasdair could not go without seeing, we headed back to my apartment to shower and change for the soiree.
Alasdair had not yet seen the Latin Quarter all lit up at night. Though it's touristy, it's still one of my favorite sights. It's so alive and filled with people and interesting things to do. What's not to like? So we headed down Rue de la Huchette to the Piano Bar. Takis, the bartender, had already promised me a table. Unfortunately, Chris the Pianoman would not be in attendance because he was out of town. When I found that out, I almost canceled my party, I was so upset. However, Takis promised me that the backup pianoman was fantastic. And, to his credit, he was.
So Alasdair and I settled into a table and waited for my Parisien friends to arrive. One by one, the cast of characters from my blogs and my Parisien life streamed through the door: Brittany, Anne, Anne-Sophie, Andrew, Rachel, Sebastien, and the Finn. Unfortunately, Suzanne and Stephanie had already returned to the States, and Mirko and Alessandro were in Italy, so the cast wasn't quite complete. But I didn't let it bother me as I was reveling in the life I had made for myself in the short time I lived abroad. I met these amazing people, who had become a part of my life, as if they had always been there. Sure the city played its part in my journey of living in Paris, but it was the people I met along the way, the friendships I acquired, that made the experience a positive, memorable one. Without Brittany and Suzanne, I would have never seen the wonders of Istanbul or spent the night roaming Prague. Without Rachel, I would have left Paris thinking Parisien men had no redeeming qualities; but she and La Palette showed me otherwise. Each of those people added to my experience in a way that the Seine River or the Eiffel Tower could not match. And for that, I will be forever grateful.
So, we drank our Kir, opened presents (I have to say, the French give fabulous, thoughtful presents that come from the heart), sang along with the pianoman, and I said a final goodbye to my Paris friends. The tears, surprisingly, didn't come at that time. The occasion was too joyous, and I felt full and complete surrounded by smiles, laughter and, most of all, love.
Alasdair had not yet seen the Latin Quarter all lit up at night. Though it's touristy, it's still one of my favorite sights. It's so alive and filled with people and interesting things to do. What's not to like? So we headed down Rue de la Huchette to the Piano Bar. Takis, the bartender, had already promised me a table. Unfortunately, Chris the Pianoman would not be in attendance because he was out of town. When I found that out, I almost canceled my party, I was so upset. However, Takis promised me that the backup pianoman was fantastic. And, to his credit, he was.
So Alasdair and I settled into a table and waited for my Parisien friends to arrive. One by one, the cast of characters from my blogs and my Parisien life streamed through the door: Brittany, Anne, Anne-Sophie, Andrew, Rachel, Sebastien, and the Finn. Unfortunately, Suzanne and Stephanie had already returned to the States, and Mirko and Alessandro were in Italy, so the cast wasn't quite complete. But I didn't let it bother me as I was reveling in the life I had made for myself in the short time I lived abroad. I met these amazing people, who had become a part of my life, as if they had always been there. Sure the city played its part in my journey of living in Paris, but it was the people I met along the way, the friendships I acquired, that made the experience a positive, memorable one. Without Brittany and Suzanne, I would have never seen the wonders of Istanbul or spent the night roaming Prague. Without Rachel, I would have left Paris thinking Parisien men had no redeeming qualities; but she and La Palette showed me otherwise. Each of those people added to my experience in a way that the Seine River or the Eiffel Tower could not match. And for that, I will be forever grateful.
So, we drank our Kir, opened presents (I have to say, the French give fabulous, thoughtful presents that come from the heart), sang along with the pianoman, and I said a final goodbye to my Paris friends. The tears, surprisingly, didn't come at that time. The occasion was too joyous, and I felt full and complete surrounded by smiles, laughter and, most of all, love.
The Final Cookie
Saturday was my last official day in Paris. I had to deal with the practicalities and the emotions - both of which I had been trying to avoid. The first practicality was my apartment - my chic Parisien apartment that had come to feel like home. I was (almost) all packed, and my landlord, Paolo came by in the morning to do the move-out inspection. Fortunately, I passed, and I promised to leave the keys in the apartment upon my extremely early Sunday morning departure.
The next practicality to deal with was the packing. I packed as much as I could, but try as I might, I could not fit all my belongings into the one suitcase and one carry-on I was allowed for our European voyage. The plight of flying Ryan Air! I thought I would be alright since I had pawned off various items on each of my visitors, and I had unloaded an entire suitcase and duffel bag on my parents when they left my apartment Tuesday night. But, no. Not even close. So I packed a few more smaller bags, and dropped them off at Rachel's apartment to hold until I returned June 8 to spend my final night in Paris. (My flight home was the morning of June 9.)
Once those practicalities were out of the way, Alasdair asked how I would like to spend my final day in Paris. There were so many things I wanted to do, but, unfortunately, there was not enough time. So I decided, I would choose to have a final flâneur, and I needed to visit Snack Time one final time with Brittany. So, from Rachel's apartment, Alasdair and I set off on a flâneur, enjoying the nice weather and the history of the St. Germain area. Then we met Brittany and her mom (who was still visiting) at Snack Time for my final quiche and cookie meal.
I don't think anyone quite understands the pull of Snack Time. The food isn't that great. There is no interesting decor. The cookies are fantastic and the display case is mesmerizing, but that's not it. I can't explain it; but for Brit, Suzanne and me, it was like a refuge. It was the first place we discovered together, and we discovered that not only did they have gooey American cookies, but all the people who worked there spoke English (not always the best English), and, most importantly, no one looked at us crossly if we sat at the back table talking about god knows what as loud as we wanted and laughing hysterically for hours. Perhaps it could have been any cafe or snack joint, and we would have had the same feelings, the same reaction. But, it wasn't. It was Snack Time. So we had our final cookie, and sadly, bid Snack Time adieu.
The next practicality to deal with was the packing. I packed as much as I could, but try as I might, I could not fit all my belongings into the one suitcase and one carry-on I was allowed for our European voyage. The plight of flying Ryan Air! I thought I would be alright since I had pawned off various items on each of my visitors, and I had unloaded an entire suitcase and duffel bag on my parents when they left my apartment Tuesday night. But, no. Not even close. So I packed a few more smaller bags, and dropped them off at Rachel's apartment to hold until I returned June 8 to spend my final night in Paris. (My flight home was the morning of June 9.)
Once those practicalities were out of the way, Alasdair asked how I would like to spend my final day in Paris. There were so many things I wanted to do, but, unfortunately, there was not enough time. So I decided, I would choose to have a final flâneur, and I needed to visit Snack Time one final time with Brittany. So, from Rachel's apartment, Alasdair and I set off on a flâneur, enjoying the nice weather and the history of the St. Germain area. Then we met Brittany and her mom (who was still visiting) at Snack Time for my final quiche and cookie meal.
I don't think anyone quite understands the pull of Snack Time. The food isn't that great. There is no interesting decor. The cookies are fantastic and the display case is mesmerizing, but that's not it. I can't explain it; but for Brit, Suzanne and me, it was like a refuge. It was the first place we discovered together, and we discovered that not only did they have gooey American cookies, but all the people who worked there spoke English (not always the best English), and, most importantly, no one looked at us crossly if we sat at the back table talking about god knows what as loud as we wanted and laughing hysterically for hours. Perhaps it could have been any cafe or snack joint, and we would have had the same feelings, the same reaction. But, it wasn't. It was Snack Time. So we had our final cookie, and sadly, bid Snack Time adieu.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Je Ne Sais Quoi
I had a reason for ending my work assignment at IEA mid-day on Thursday. I was expecting my last Paris visitor, my friend from the transit industry, Alasdair Cain. Alasdair's plane had been delayed from its original morning arrival time, and he was expected to arrive at my apartment mid-afternoon.
Alasdair and I had planned a two-week voyage around Europe. But before our adventure began, we had to endure my last few days in Paris. And I say endure because my aforementioned emotional denial was slowly evolving into an overwhelming sadness. Combined with the stress of moving and the back-breaking task of packing all I had acquired over the last four months into luggage suitable to airline regulations, it was not the easiest last few days. Fortunately, I was able to keep my breakdowns to a minimum so I could show Alasdair the amazing sights of the city I've come to love.
After dinner at a cafe on my street Thursday, we decided to ''flâneur.'' Flâneur is a French word meaning ''to stroll'' or to walk the streets of a city in order to experience it. Alasdair and I are experts at the art of flâneur. We started down by the Seine River and walked up to Ile Saint-Louis and Ile de la Cite. Crossing the bridge onto Ile Saint-Louis, we stopped to listen to a street band playing old jazz tunes. They weren't Parisiens, but a group of older American men. With the sun setting in the background and the music drifting out over the Seine, it was the perfect example of all that Paris embodies - music, arts, love, beauty, and that indescribable ''je ne sais quoi.''
We walked through the Ile, and stopped for some chocolat chaud in a cute side street restaurant. Warm and cozy from our thick, delicious drink, we sauntered back in the direction of my apartment, walking along the Seine. It was dark now, and the moon was reflecting off the water in a way that made the city glow. There are always people sitting by the river, playing music, talking and drinking. But tonight, there were also people dancing -- waltzing, tangoing, or just rocking from side to side. I'm not sure if it was planned or just a coincidence, but it was one of those moments that makes you stop and take stock of your life. It makes you want to throw caution wind and enjoy all life's pleasures. So, we decided to do just that, and joined in the dancing.
Friday was not any less interesting. It started innocently enough, meeting some of my IEA coworkers for lunch followed by relaxing in the sun on the Champs de Mars. After we realized the sun had actually been shining all day in Paris (a rare occasion), and we were quite sunburned, Alasdair and I decided to make our way up to Montmartre. We bought a crepe to snack on and went to sit on the steps leading up to the Sacre Coeur. Once again, we found ourselves in the presence of buskers - this time a man playing guitar and a woman singing. They were asking the audience for requests, so Alasdair requested ''Hey Jude.'' Unfortunately, the duo didn't know all the lyrics to the Beatles song. But, they had been adventuresome in their song choices and song knowledge (or lack there of) all night, and they weren't about to throw in the towel. So, they asked Alasdair and I to join them at the microphones. Alasdair was hesitant (rightly so as we didn't know all the lyrics either), but I made the executive decision that singing with buskers in front of hundreds of people sitting on the steps of the Sacre Coeur was an experience we could not live without. And though the four of us struggled a bit, the memory of people singing along and waving their arms in the air is something that will always be emblazoned in my mind.
ALASDAIR'S PERSPECTIVE: LE CHOCOLAT CHAUD
‘Pardon monsieur, on peut avoir le chocolat chaud?’ (Can we have hot chocolate?)
The restaurateur appraised us with that look of disdainful contempt that the French have been perfecting for centuries. ‘Je suis désolé madamoiselle, ce n’est pas possible, si vous restez ici vous devez manger quelque chose’. (I'm sorry, it's not possible, you must eat something here.)
But the young American fille was not to be deterred. She had spent the last few months dealing with this form of laissez-faire rejection, and was not about to let the small issue of a foreign language stand in the way of her uncanny ability to get what she wants. Quick as a flash, she responded ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ (But what if we eat the hot chocolate?)
Wandering through the narrow streets of the Ile de la Cite, we had been craving hot chocolate for about the last hour or so. The mid-summer sun had finally disappeared, and it had suddenly gotten cold. Our initial attempts had proven unsuccessful, it was late and many of the street-side cafes had closed for the night, including one that sold, according to the American fille, ‘the thickest hot chocolate in Paris’. But now it had become a mission we had chosen to accept, both way too stubborn to ever give up once a strategic goal had been defined.
And so we approached what looked like a rather fancy restaurant, tasteful mahogany exterior and crisp white tablecloths. The odds didn’t look great, but our options were diminishing fast and make or break time was upon us. We entered, trying to act euro-chic in the vain hope that this would distract from the fact we were way too casually dressed for such an establishment. The restaurateur’s opening statement had perfectly matched his demeanor, and he fully expected this to be an end to the matter. Her instantaneous reply had shocked him and time stood still while he processed what she had said. She was joking, right? But as he formulated his response, her gaze conveyed an air of complete seriousness that seemed to be demanding a completely serious reply. And, he had to admit, she had logic on her side. And you know how the French love logic. And it was funny. This was undeniable given the fact that the diners at a nearby table were already cracking up with laughter, as was the waitress standing next to them. A broad smile slowly blossomed across his face ‘ha! Madamoiselle, vous êtes très drôle! Oui, vous pouvez manger le chocolat chaud ici!’
The American fille gave a triumphant wink to me as we were shown to our table. I smiled back, though I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. But I knew it was something good, and I demanded a full report ASAP. For the next few minutes I struggled to get my head around the fact that she had pulled off a witty one-liner in a foreign language. One that had made a whole bunch of Parisians laugh enough to let us stay. I was impressed and told her that she deserved to be commended. As we sipped our non-stimulating beverage, I practiced the now famous phrase over and over again, ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ I knew it would make a good story at the very least, maybe even a song, a play, or the opening scene of a full Broadway spectacular starring Barbra Streisand and Hugh Jackman.
Given that I had only been in France a few hours, with four plane flights, three countries, two timezones, and one wedding ahead of us, I knew we were in for an interesting couple of weeks.
Alasdair and I had planned a two-week voyage around Europe. But before our adventure began, we had to endure my last few days in Paris. And I say endure because my aforementioned emotional denial was slowly evolving into an overwhelming sadness. Combined with the stress of moving and the back-breaking task of packing all I had acquired over the last four months into luggage suitable to airline regulations, it was not the easiest last few days. Fortunately, I was able to keep my breakdowns to a minimum so I could show Alasdair the amazing sights of the city I've come to love.
After dinner at a cafe on my street Thursday, we decided to ''flâneur.'' Flâneur is a French word meaning ''to stroll'' or to walk the streets of a city in order to experience it. Alasdair and I are experts at the art of flâneur. We started down by the Seine River and walked up to Ile Saint-Louis and Ile de la Cite. Crossing the bridge onto Ile Saint-Louis, we stopped to listen to a street band playing old jazz tunes. They weren't Parisiens, but a group of older American men. With the sun setting in the background and the music drifting out over the Seine, it was the perfect example of all that Paris embodies - music, arts, love, beauty, and that indescribable ''je ne sais quoi.''
We walked through the Ile, and stopped for some chocolat chaud in a cute side street restaurant. Warm and cozy from our thick, delicious drink, we sauntered back in the direction of my apartment, walking along the Seine. It was dark now, and the moon was reflecting off the water in a way that made the city glow. There are always people sitting by the river, playing music, talking and drinking. But tonight, there were also people dancing -- waltzing, tangoing, or just rocking from side to side. I'm not sure if it was planned or just a coincidence, but it was one of those moments that makes you stop and take stock of your life. It makes you want to throw caution wind and enjoy all life's pleasures. So, we decided to do just that, and joined in the dancing.
Friday was not any less interesting. It started innocently enough, meeting some of my IEA coworkers for lunch followed by relaxing in the sun on the Champs de Mars. After we realized the sun had actually been shining all day in Paris (a rare occasion), and we were quite sunburned, Alasdair and I decided to make our way up to Montmartre. We bought a crepe to snack on and went to sit on the steps leading up to the Sacre Coeur. Once again, we found ourselves in the presence of buskers - this time a man playing guitar and a woman singing. They were asking the audience for requests, so Alasdair requested ''Hey Jude.'' Unfortunately, the duo didn't know all the lyrics to the Beatles song. But, they had been adventuresome in their song choices and song knowledge (or lack there of) all night, and they weren't about to throw in the towel. So, they asked Alasdair and I to join them at the microphones. Alasdair was hesitant (rightly so as we didn't know all the lyrics either), but I made the executive decision that singing with buskers in front of hundreds of people sitting on the steps of the Sacre Coeur was an experience we could not live without. And though the four of us struggled a bit, the memory of people singing along and waving their arms in the air is something that will always be emblazoned in my mind.
ALASDAIR'S PERSPECTIVE: LE CHOCOLAT CHAUD
‘Pardon monsieur, on peut avoir le chocolat chaud?’ (Can we have hot chocolate?)
The restaurateur appraised us with that look of disdainful contempt that the French have been perfecting for centuries. ‘Je suis désolé madamoiselle, ce n’est pas possible, si vous restez ici vous devez manger quelque chose’. (I'm sorry, it's not possible, you must eat something here.)
But the young American fille was not to be deterred. She had spent the last few months dealing with this form of laissez-faire rejection, and was not about to let the small issue of a foreign language stand in the way of her uncanny ability to get what she wants. Quick as a flash, she responded ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ (But what if we eat the hot chocolate?)
Wandering through the narrow streets of the Ile de la Cite, we had been craving hot chocolate for about the last hour or so. The mid-summer sun had finally disappeared, and it had suddenly gotten cold. Our initial attempts had proven unsuccessful, it was late and many of the street-side cafes had closed for the night, including one that sold, according to the American fille, ‘the thickest hot chocolate in Paris’. But now it had become a mission we had chosen to accept, both way too stubborn to ever give up once a strategic goal had been defined.
And so we approached what looked like a rather fancy restaurant, tasteful mahogany exterior and crisp white tablecloths. The odds didn’t look great, but our options were diminishing fast and make or break time was upon us. We entered, trying to act euro-chic in the vain hope that this would distract from the fact we were way too casually dressed for such an establishment. The restaurateur’s opening statement had perfectly matched his demeanor, and he fully expected this to be an end to the matter. Her instantaneous reply had shocked him and time stood still while he processed what she had said. She was joking, right? But as he formulated his response, her gaze conveyed an air of complete seriousness that seemed to be demanding a completely serious reply. And, he had to admit, she had logic on her side. And you know how the French love logic. And it was funny. This was undeniable given the fact that the diners at a nearby table were already cracking up with laughter, as was the waitress standing next to them. A broad smile slowly blossomed across his face ‘ha! Madamoiselle, vous êtes très drôle! Oui, vous pouvez manger le chocolat chaud ici!’
The American fille gave a triumphant wink to me as we were shown to our table. I smiled back, though I had absolutely no idea what had just happened. But I knew it was something good, and I demanded a full report ASAP. For the next few minutes I struggled to get my head around the fact that she had pulled off a witty one-liner in a foreign language. One that had made a whole bunch of Parisians laugh enough to let us stay. I was impressed and told her that she deserved to be commended. As we sipped our non-stimulating beverage, I practiced the now famous phrase over and over again, ‘mais si on mange le chocolat chaud?’ I knew it would make a good story at the very least, maybe even a song, a play, or the opening scene of a full Broadway spectacular starring Barbra Streisand and Hugh Jackman.
Given that I had only been in France a few hours, with four plane flights, three countries, two timezones, and one wedding ahead of us, I knew we were in for an interesting couple of weeks.
So long....and thanks for all the wine.
Thursday was my last day working at the IEA, and I use the word working very loosely since I only spent 2 hours in the office, and I didn't actually do any ''work.'' I tried my hardest to finish up everything work-related on Tuesday and Wednesday, so when I arrived at IEA Thursday morning (at the leisurely hour of 10 a.m.), I just had to clean up my desk, send some emails and say my goodbyes. And, of course, squeeze in a final 45-minute coffee break with Rachel. I had already said goodbye to my boss, Tom, on Monday. He left for a business trip to Norway Tuesday and was out for the rest of the week. Oh the glamour of working at the IEA!
I knew I would be sad when the goodbyes started, but I was surprised at how choked up I became on Monday while saying goodbye to Tom -- I guess I could feel the end approaching. By the end of the week, I figured I would be a blubbering mess. However, Thursday, when the end actually arrived, I didn't feel the overwhelming sadness I had anticipated. Instead, I felt denial... I was overcome with a feeling of surreality. I spent four months anticipating the day I would leave IEA, and when the day finally came, it didn't feel real that I was leaving. I said goodbye to my office and to the people I spent four months working with and getting to know, but I felt as if I was just leaving for a long weekend. I wasn't in tears because I felt that I would be back -- I would see them again. And for some of them, that's true - I had lunch plans with Mirko and Annette the next day. And Mirko has promised to come visit D.C. But the expected feelings of sadness were (and in these scenarios usually are) stuck behind this thick wall of disbelief.
Oh, the tears came later, of course. But at the time, a composed demeanor was probably for the best. This way, my coworkers' last memory was not of my tear-stained face, but of my smile. And who knows, maybe one day I will return. But in the meantime, I would like to say to all my IEA coworkers, for the work experience of a lifetime and friendships I will never forget, so long...and thanks for all the wine.
Mon Anniversaire
My 27th birthday fell on Tuesday of my last week in Paris. Unfortunately, Sunday night, after four months of life in the European fast lane, sickness finally took over my body. Horrible timing, but isn't it always? Because this was my last week of work, my parents were still in town, and I was moving out of my apartment that weekend, I couldn't stay home and rest -- I had to keep going. So, just like on Monday, I dragged myself to work on Tuesday. I managed to get through the day, including an impromptu birthday lunch with some of my colleagues. Why I thought I could handle sushi is beyond me...
By the end of the day, all my body wanted was my bed. But I had made birthday dinner reservations at Mouff'tot Mouff'tard - a cute restaurant on Rue Mouffetard that I had been wanting to try for months. I actually wrote about the restaurant in an earlier blog. It was my first time on Rue Mouffetard, and I had met a friend for coffee. As we were walking back up the street, we passed by the restaurant and saw an accordian player and people dancing inside. It was adorable, encompassing that French ''joie de vivre,'' and the menu looked great (and not too expensive).
Despite la grippe (the flu... or whatever illness I had), I managed to make it to the restaurant and meet my parents, Brittany and her mom, Mirko and Alessandro for dinner. Fortunately, they all got along well and were able to entertain themselves since the birthday girl was under the weather and didn't have the energy to be the life of the party. I was determined, however, to eat my entire meal as I knew it would be one of my last real ''French'' restaurant meals. I ordered warm goat cheese salad, duck confit, potatoes dauphinoise, and chocolat mousse. The food was just as good as I expected, so I ate it ALL much to my sick body's horror.
During dinner, the owner of the restaurant came over to the table and asked me to walk to the other side of the tiny restaurant with him. He said that because it was my birthday (and I was American), he would like to share ''something'' with me. That ''something'' was that one of his best friends is Jodie Foster. He was very proud to show me pictures on the restaurant wall of him and Jodie, and pictures of Jodie eating at the restaurant. If that wasn't sweet enough, the waitress then brought me a special chocolat fondant dessert (my second dessert of the night) and sang happy birthday to me. Then, the restaurant played an American happy birthday song on the loudspeaker. The French really know how to do birthdays!
Although I felt horrible and could not drink more than two sips of my champagne, dinner was a lot of fun, and I enjoyed spending my birthday with some of my Paris favorites.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Four Food Groups of Life
It was time for the Last Supper. Perhaps that's a little over-dramatic, but Sunday night I had my last dinner party at my chic Parisien apartment. It was also my last trip to the market, my last trip to the Marais, my last Sunday in Paris...
My dad was interested in seeing the Jewish section of the Marais. I may have explained before that the Marais is known for its Jewish community, particularly Rue de Rosiers. Over the last couple decades the Marais has also seen an increase in the gay community. Now when you walk through the Marais, you can see it's unofficially split into two sections - one filled with synagogues and kosher delis and the other filled with gay bars and interesting shops. I love it all, but we only had time for breakfast on Rue de Rosiers. I took my dad and my stepmom, Brenda, to a place that is half deli/restaurant and half patisserie - a great combination of goodies! We dined on quiche, potato latkes and pastries. I asked Brenda what she thought of her first French (Jewish) pastry, and she said, matter-of-factly, ''light, buttery, sugary, and flaky.'' The four food groups of life, I asked? Maybe in France...
After the Marais, we headed to Rue Mouffetard to buy ingredients for dinner at the market. I showed my dad and Brenda what it means to shop for dinner in France. They summed it up in one word: long. If you're going to do it right, you can't just do a one-stop shop at Giant (or Franprix). You must go to the market for fresh local vegetables, then to the boucherie for meats, then to the boulangerie for fresh baguettes. It's time consuming, yes, but in France, it's a lifestyle necessity. It's also a source of enjoyment and entertainment, especially for a market lover like myself!
BRENDA'S PERSPECTIVE: The Role Reversal
As I sit down to write my blog about our visit to Paris at Michelle’s request, I find it difficult to sum up 14 days in Europe into a few brief paragraphs. But I will do my best. The sites, the smells, the sounds, oh yes and the flavors, the delectable flavors are still swirling in my mind weeks later.
But before we get to that, let me just say my husband Dave and I were definitely looking forward to our European trip that we had been hoping to take for the past 20 years. But I know equally we were looking forward to setting our eyes upon our daughter who we had not seen in many months. She having accepted a position abroad, sublet her apt, found a place to live in Paris on Craig’s list no less, packed up and hit the road with about two weeks notice. Needless to say we were slightly apprehensive. We avidly followed her blog at first just to be close to her in some small way and to be sure she was adapting and happy. And then as she slowly became familiar, then comfortable, then happy with her surroundings we relaxed and let the pride wash over us that we had been slightly holding inside. I know that even though I had been adventuresome in my own way in my youth, I would NEVER have had the chutzpah at her age, or my current age for that matter, to leave home and hearth and plunk down in a foreign country with nary a friend or relative in sight, where I did not have full command of the language, did not know the banking system nor even how to shop for groceries! So to say we were proud of her is such an understatement. We admired and envied her as well.
So we get off the plane bleary-eyed in Paris, grab a cab for our hotel, check in and call her to meet us for breakfast. From then on our roles were reversed and she became like the parent. She ushered us around Paris like little ducklings and translated for us with ease in her beautifully-acquired French accent and Parisian attitude. She took us to many of her favorite haunts. We ate at her favorite creperies (we became total addicts, scouring the streets for a jambon et fromage and Nutella crepes for days like junkies needing a fix), drank and enjoyed music at her favorite piano bar, did the touristy things she had avoided while establishing her Parisian lifestyle, celebrated her birthday with the most delectable magret de canard rôti (roast duck), and met her Parisian friends (who were all divine). She taught us to use the metro and the RER (we got off to a rocky start on our own). And we spent an afternoon shopping at a French market. This is an experience like no other as the tasty fruits and vegetables are all beautifully ripe, colorful and flavorful. There are so many sights, smells and things you want to taste it is an overload to the senses. There are vendors offering scarves, and jewelry and wallets, and many eye-catching trinkets to ooh and ahh over. I must have been a crow in a former life as anything shiny catches my eye! Then we strolled to Michelle’s darling Parisian apartment, and she effortlessly prepared a smorgasbord of delectables from our market visit.
We took 1600 photos and walked our feet to nubs exploring as much of the city as we could in just a few short days. Even buying oil paintings by the Seine. I know it sounds cliché, but we really did! Just like an ''I Love Lucy'' episode.
Then the day came when we were on our own. We were like baby birds testing our wings. Qu’est-ce que c’est? (What’s this?) We have to speak on our own behalf and order food and beverages and get directions? How will we manage on our own??? By the way, the Parisian’s are not the snobs everyone says they are, but that is another story. Needless to say, we managed, and Dave and I had a wonderful, romantic time in Paris and came home with a renewed attitude to walk more places, eat more crepes and let the ''joie de vivre'' carry us away.
THE DAD PERSPECTIVE - PART 1: Up, Up and Away!
After reading Brenda’s blog, she described many of our feelings so well regarding what I will now call “Michelle’s Excellent Adventure.” I will not elaborate so you have to read it again. Let me add one other feeling. From the time she said, I might go (which in Michellean terms means, I am going come Hell or high water), to leaving at the last moment, to the creation of a new world, I have to admit that I have forgotten what it is like to be young.
I remember leaving for Upstate New York for the summer the year of Woodstock when I was in high school. Please do not count backwards as I was a prodigy and was seven at the time. My friend who was on the wrestling team with me two years before had spent a year in some private school. He came into school to visit the last week and said, my uncle is looking for lifeguards at a hotel in the Catskills for the summer. Do you want to go? After pointing out that I barely knew how to swim, I said sure. I got “permission” from my parents and off we went. Car trip. No cell phones. No blogs. No email. Of course, we wound up working at several hotels, and I forgot to keep in touch with my parents, and they had to come looking for me one weekend. But that is another story. Now we can’t make a trip to Europe without making reservations two months in advance, researching every Marriott in town, packing for a week, talking with doctors and more. Michelle goes on the Internet and leaves. Ah, to be young again.
Of course, even when you plan things go wrong. I ate some bad seafood before I left and was sick as a “dog” (wonder where that expression comes from) on the trip and for the first day or two. Imagine flying business class and eating nothing. Imagine picking at your first crepe. In bad news there is always good news. For the days after that—I did not have the old Hershman appetite but felt fine. You wonder where Michelle gets her love of food and adventure? More than partially from her Grandma Arline, a Rosenblatt. It was absolutely nice to eat like a normal person for most of the rest of the trip instead of gorging. It made me appreciate the food I ate even more.
THE DAD PERSPECTIVE - PART 2: Food, Walking, Pictures and People
Group one: FOOD. Michelle described the four food groups. Well, these are the groups that describe an adventure to Paris (and these things followed to Rome). It really amazed me how busy the McDonalds was down the block from our hotel. I had to walk in and it was wall-to-wall with tourists. We wanted crepes and crepes and crepes. Also some quiche, duck, Nutella and everything Michelle blogged about. There was no room for American food. And ever since we got back we have been eating French bread and cheese and crepes. Why stop now?
Group number two: WALKING. Parisians walk everywhere. If they are not walking, they are taking the metro, buses, motorbikes (not huge Harleys) and bicycles. Even if they drive it is a vehicle not much bigger than a bicycle. It was so interesting to see men in beautiful suits and women in silk dresses riding bicycles. Brenda and I now walk in the mornings to breakfast. Today we walked to McDonalds. Americans will wait in the drive-thru for 15 minutes instead of getting out of their cars and going inside and ordering—with no line. Walking for six hours a day in Paris gave us more time just to be together. Now we hope we can continue this lifestyle, bring a little bit of Europe back home.
Group number three: PICTURES. For those who get the pleasure, you can probably go on Facebook and see lots of pictures that Brenda took on the trip. She took so many pictures that we had a tragedy. She lost 600 of them. And still had almost 900 left. I guess we will have to go back. My job? Carry the camera case (and lens and video camera) and point out pretty flowers, buildings and doors. I became the photography assistant and photo opp spotter. That is why we walked for so long and never went that far. But we are going to have some great pictures and that will keep the memories going.
Group number four: PEOPLE. You can’t go to Paris and not watch the people. Some say that Parisians don’t like Americans and are snobs. Actually, I am partial to anyone who is bringing me food. They were not particularly cheerful. But they were helpful, patient and we could sit down and order food and eat for three hours and no-one tried to rush us so that they could make some money. As a matter of fact, tips were not very important. The people are very stoic. If you want to understand Parisians, look at their dogs. The dogs walk through the crowds with their heads down, never wagging their tail and never smiling. They are reflection of their owners. They even speak French (not only the poodles). If you said hello, to the humans that is, (Bon Jour)—they responded. If you said thank you (Merci), they responded. They expect you to be polite. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were more polite? And by the way, I butchered every one of these words. New York accent speaking French? Does not work.
My dad was interested in seeing the Jewish section of the Marais. I may have explained before that the Marais is known for its Jewish community, particularly Rue de Rosiers. Over the last couple decades the Marais has also seen an increase in the gay community. Now when you walk through the Marais, you can see it's unofficially split into two sections - one filled with synagogues and kosher delis and the other filled with gay bars and interesting shops. I love it all, but we only had time for breakfast on Rue de Rosiers. I took my dad and my stepmom, Brenda, to a place that is half deli/restaurant and half patisserie - a great combination of goodies! We dined on quiche, potato latkes and pastries. I asked Brenda what she thought of her first French (Jewish) pastry, and she said, matter-of-factly, ''light, buttery, sugary, and flaky.'' The four food groups of life, I asked? Maybe in France...
After the Marais, we headed to Rue Mouffetard to buy ingredients for dinner at the market. I showed my dad and Brenda what it means to shop for dinner in France. They summed it up in one word: long. If you're going to do it right, you can't just do a one-stop shop at Giant (or Franprix). You must go to the market for fresh local vegetables, then to the boucherie for meats, then to the boulangerie for fresh baguettes. It's time consuming, yes, but in France, it's a lifestyle necessity. It's also a source of enjoyment and entertainment, especially for a market lover like myself!
BRENDA'S PERSPECTIVE: The Role Reversal
As I sit down to write my blog about our visit to Paris at Michelle’s request, I find it difficult to sum up 14 days in Europe into a few brief paragraphs. But I will do my best. The sites, the smells, the sounds, oh yes and the flavors, the delectable flavors are still swirling in my mind weeks later.
But before we get to that, let me just say my husband Dave and I were definitely looking forward to our European trip that we had been hoping to take for the past 20 years. But I know equally we were looking forward to setting our eyes upon our daughter who we had not seen in many months. She having accepted a position abroad, sublet her apt, found a place to live in Paris on Craig’s list no less, packed up and hit the road with about two weeks notice. Needless to say we were slightly apprehensive. We avidly followed her blog at first just to be close to her in some small way and to be sure she was adapting and happy. And then as she slowly became familiar, then comfortable, then happy with her surroundings we relaxed and let the pride wash over us that we had been slightly holding inside. I know that even though I had been adventuresome in my own way in my youth, I would NEVER have had the chutzpah at her age, or my current age for that matter, to leave home and hearth and plunk down in a foreign country with nary a friend or relative in sight, where I did not have full command of the language, did not know the banking system nor even how to shop for groceries! So to say we were proud of her is such an understatement. We admired and envied her as well.
So we get off the plane bleary-eyed in Paris, grab a cab for our hotel, check in and call her to meet us for breakfast. From then on our roles were reversed and she became like the parent. She ushered us around Paris like little ducklings and translated for us with ease in her beautifully-acquired French accent and Parisian attitude. She took us to many of her favorite haunts. We ate at her favorite creperies (we became total addicts, scouring the streets for a jambon et fromage and Nutella crepes for days like junkies needing a fix), drank and enjoyed music at her favorite piano bar, did the touristy things she had avoided while establishing her Parisian lifestyle, celebrated her birthday with the most delectable magret de canard rôti (roast duck), and met her Parisian friends (who were all divine). She taught us to use the metro and the RER (we got off to a rocky start on our own). And we spent an afternoon shopping at a French market. This is an experience like no other as the tasty fruits and vegetables are all beautifully ripe, colorful and flavorful. There are so many sights, smells and things you want to taste it is an overload to the senses. There are vendors offering scarves, and jewelry and wallets, and many eye-catching trinkets to ooh and ahh over. I must have been a crow in a former life as anything shiny catches my eye! Then we strolled to Michelle’s darling Parisian apartment, and she effortlessly prepared a smorgasbord of delectables from our market visit.
We took 1600 photos and walked our feet to nubs exploring as much of the city as we could in just a few short days. Even buying oil paintings by the Seine. I know it sounds cliché, but we really did! Just like an ''I Love Lucy'' episode.
Then the day came when we were on our own. We were like baby birds testing our wings. Qu’est-ce que c’est? (What’s this?) We have to speak on our own behalf and order food and beverages and get directions? How will we manage on our own??? By the way, the Parisian’s are not the snobs everyone says they are, but that is another story. Needless to say, we managed, and Dave and I had a wonderful, romantic time in Paris and came home with a renewed attitude to walk more places, eat more crepes and let the ''joie de vivre'' carry us away.
THE DAD PERSPECTIVE - PART 1: Up, Up and Away!
After reading Brenda’s blog, she described many of our feelings so well regarding what I will now call “Michelle’s Excellent Adventure.” I will not elaborate so you have to read it again. Let me add one other feeling. From the time she said, I might go (which in Michellean terms means, I am going come Hell or high water), to leaving at the last moment, to the creation of a new world, I have to admit that I have forgotten what it is like to be young.
I remember leaving for Upstate New York for the summer the year of Woodstock when I was in high school. Please do not count backwards as I was a prodigy and was seven at the time. My friend who was on the wrestling team with me two years before had spent a year in some private school. He came into school to visit the last week and said, my uncle is looking for lifeguards at a hotel in the Catskills for the summer. Do you want to go? After pointing out that I barely knew how to swim, I said sure. I got “permission” from my parents and off we went. Car trip. No cell phones. No blogs. No email. Of course, we wound up working at several hotels, and I forgot to keep in touch with my parents, and they had to come looking for me one weekend. But that is another story. Now we can’t make a trip to Europe without making reservations two months in advance, researching every Marriott in town, packing for a week, talking with doctors and more. Michelle goes on the Internet and leaves. Ah, to be young again.
Of course, even when you plan things go wrong. I ate some bad seafood before I left and was sick as a “dog” (wonder where that expression comes from) on the trip and for the first day or two. Imagine flying business class and eating nothing. Imagine picking at your first crepe. In bad news there is always good news. For the days after that—I did not have the old Hershman appetite but felt fine. You wonder where Michelle gets her love of food and adventure? More than partially from her Grandma Arline, a Rosenblatt. It was absolutely nice to eat like a normal person for most of the rest of the trip instead of gorging. It made me appreciate the food I ate even more.
THE DAD PERSPECTIVE - PART 2: Food, Walking, Pictures and People
Group one: FOOD. Michelle described the four food groups. Well, these are the groups that describe an adventure to Paris (and these things followed to Rome). It really amazed me how busy the McDonalds was down the block from our hotel. I had to walk in and it was wall-to-wall with tourists. We wanted crepes and crepes and crepes. Also some quiche, duck, Nutella and everything Michelle blogged about. There was no room for American food. And ever since we got back we have been eating French bread and cheese and crepes. Why stop now?
Group number two: WALKING. Parisians walk everywhere. If they are not walking, they are taking the metro, buses, motorbikes (not huge Harleys) and bicycles. Even if they drive it is a vehicle not much bigger than a bicycle. It was so interesting to see men in beautiful suits and women in silk dresses riding bicycles. Brenda and I now walk in the mornings to breakfast. Today we walked to McDonalds. Americans will wait in the drive-thru for 15 minutes instead of getting out of their cars and going inside and ordering—with no line. Walking for six hours a day in Paris gave us more time just to be together. Now we hope we can continue this lifestyle, bring a little bit of Europe back home.
Group number three: PICTURES. For those who get the pleasure, you can probably go on Facebook and see lots of pictures that Brenda took on the trip. She took so many pictures that we had a tragedy. She lost 600 of them. And still had almost 900 left. I guess we will have to go back. My job? Carry the camera case (and lens and video camera) and point out pretty flowers, buildings and doors. I became the photography assistant and photo opp spotter. That is why we walked for so long and never went that far. But we are going to have some great pictures and that will keep the memories going.
Group number four: PEOPLE. You can’t go to Paris and not watch the people. Some say that Parisians don’t like Americans and are snobs. Actually, I am partial to anyone who is bringing me food. They were not particularly cheerful. But they were helpful, patient and we could sit down and order food and eat for three hours and no-one tried to rush us so that they could make some money. As a matter of fact, tips were not very important. The people are very stoic. If you want to understand Parisians, look at their dogs. The dogs walk through the crowds with their heads down, never wagging their tail and never smiling. They are reflection of their owners. They even speak French (not only the poodles). If you said hello, to the humans that is, (Bon Jour)—they responded. If you said thank you (Merci), they responded. They expect you to be polite. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were more polite? And by the way, I butchered every one of these words. New York accent speaking French? Does not work.
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