Paris Musings

Stupid Blog Meme I Couldn't Resist For Some Reason

2012-02-09T10:55:00.002Z

On my daily perusal of some of my favorite blogs, I came upon this meme, and for some reason, even though I have never done one before, I felt like doing this one.

So please indulge me. (All three of you.)

A. Age: 40 (Weep!)

B. Bed size: Queen, I think. It's the single most expensive purchase Handsome and I have made (well, besides the apartment itself, of course) but it is so, so worth it. I love that bed.

C. Chore that you hate: ironing, vacuuming, folding fitted sheets.

D. Dogs: No thank you.

E. Essential start to your day: fresh squeezed lemon juice. Ever since my osteopath recommended it, I can feel the difference when I don't do this in the morning, so I do it.

F. Favorite color: Red. Duh.

G. Gold or Silver: Silver, I guess, though I don't wear much of either. I do have a lovely Tiffany's charm bracelet that a dear friend gave me. Whenever I wear it, it makes me feel strong and lucky and loved.

H. Height: with or without high heels?

I. Instruments you play: Oh god, this is so pitiful. My poor mother made me take piano lessons until I was 13, as well as flute and piccolo, and I had a brief but ill-fated fascination with the guitar and the accordeon. All this to say that once I hit 13, I was through with that shit and all about being a teenager. And today, I cannot remember A SINGLE THING. I can no longer read music or play a single note on any instrument. Isn't that just, sad? My poor mother. She meant well! And, now, I wish I could play something! Life is weird.

J. Job title: who gives a shit? Okay, fine. Executive Assistant. Blah.

K. Kids: Hope springs eternal.

L. Live: Paris, France (It was a lifelong dream to be able to write that! Huzzah!)

M. Mother's name: Daphne. (Gorgeous. Both in name and person)

N. Nicknames: I have had oh so many. Current ones include Miss P and Cheetah, but my family calls me Neppie. NO ONE is EVER allowed to call me Penny. Ever. Some of my favorite past nicknames are Reiderstein / Reiderberg and P Lopez. Lopey Lopes was pretty good, too. These were all from waitressing days. You amuse yourself however you can in that highly stressful job, what can I say?

O. Overnight hospital stays: This is what they came up with for the letter 'O'? Whatever.

P. Pet peeves: Misspelling and non capitalisation. (Yes, I am an old fart.) Being interrupted. People who are eternal victims.

Q. Quote from a movie: "You talkin' to me?"

R. Right- or left-handed: Right

S. Siblings: One older sister who I don't see enough. Hi, Sis!

U. Underwear: Usually mismatched and old. I can't bear to pay the prices they ask for decent stuff over here. No way am I paying 50$ for a mediocre bra made in China that isn't even the right size.

V. Vegetable(s) you hate: Cooked endives. Blech.

W. What makes you run late: My nature.

X. X-Rays you've had: Teeth, knee, lungs, you name it. When you emigrate, you get thoroughly examined.

Y. Yummy food that you make: My signature dishes are steak au poivre and gratin dauphinois, but I absolutely love to cook, so I am constantly expanding my repertoire. I just recently mastered the tarte tatin. Old style. Yum!

Z. Zoo animal: Giraffes always amaze me, and the elephants make me all gooey. The big cats are awesome, too. Oh, hell, all of them but the snakes and spiders. Anaconda ---- aaaaaaaaa!!!!!!

The Goal Post

2012-01-20T11:28:00.008Z

It's January, 2012 is a new year, and it is time for The Goal Post. (Get it? I crack myself up!)

First off, a quick rundown of how I did on my list last year :

1. Get a French driver's license. - Um, no. I still could not find the money or the willpower to fork out over a thousand bucks to go through 20 hours of obligatory driving classes (!) and the tests. This is the year, though! Really. No, really. Seriously, finally Groupon and Living Social Deals are offering some really discounted packages, and the next one that pops up near my neighborhood, I am jumping on.

2. Stay with the recent motivation to do an exercise DVD twice on the weekend. - Um, ha? Twice on the weekend is no more feasible than twice during the week for me. I even signed up for yoga classes and went - twice. Ugh. But I will keep on trying.

3. Spruce up the apartment. - Ha! Book unit thingy not yet painted (but on the list of things to do in the coming week). Grey curtains for the bedroom and replacement curtain rod, ha! Recover sad Ikea chairs - um, not yet? But I am coveting the purple covers and as soon as I can justify the expense, I'm doing it! (Must add cat phereomone spray to list of items to order from the US. If Oscar even thinks about scratching the new covers once I get them, HE's being sent to the US!) However, people! We bought a good deal (on Groupon) on handyman labor, so we are going to schedule the remodeling of the kitchen and bathroom for February or March. I am very excited about this!

4. Keep some goddamn plants alive in the window boxes. - YES!! My first realised goal!! Plants still alive and thriving. Well, most of them. Let's just ignore the window box in the bedroom, shall we?

5. Continue with the positive internal monologue. - YES!! My daily mantra is pretty much fully integrated, and it has helped tremendously with absolutely everything.

6. Get my varicose veins fixed. - YES!!! Those fuckers are GONE. It cost me some dough, but I can at least break out the skirts without feeling self-concious. About my legs, that is.

7. Do one hard thing every day. - Well, I called the nurses, does that count? No, really, I do okay with this, but I can't in all honesty say I do this every day. But I have been better about consciously choosing to do one thing I am dreading and it helps a lot. Just yesterday I did one thing I was trying to avoid, and it felt so much better to just do it than it would have felt to avoid it. This is one of those lessons I have to constantly re-learn.

8. Do one kind thing every day. - Once again, I can't say I do this every day, but I have been better about choosing kindness. Just as a recent example, I helped an elderly lady who fell in the street; walked her home and bandaged her up, and called to check on her days and weeks after. She gave me a little trinket as a thank you that is sitting on my desk. This goal is definitely a keeper.

9. Finish fixing my acting resumé, send it in to the new casting director, get her to pick the best head shots and SEND THEM OUT. - No. Does it count that I joined an acting troupe, an amateur school, and am now the replacement instructor in a third class? No? Okay, I can see why not. But I'm not sure I care about this one this year.

10. Go on at least one casting call. God. - Ditto.

11. This is really shitty of me, but I'm keeping this one to myself for a while. - Some progress on this one, but still keeping it to myself. Still shitty of me!

I didn't do too badly, overall. Five out of eleven? Eh, I'm not sweating it. January is all about starting over, anyway.

So in addition to the goals I am keeping from last year, this year's list looks like this :

2012 Goals

1. Do one hard thing every day.

2. Do one kind thing every day.

3. Keep up positive internal monologue.

4. Exercise at least twice a week. Weekend, weekday, who cares. Twice.

5. Spruce up apartment.

6. Get a French driver's license.

7. Apply for French citizenship. - This calls for tons of official papers, (Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! You are forewarned!) ridiculous translation fees and a two-year wait to see if you are approved, but I would be really proud to be a dual citizen.

8. Keep plants alive. - Well, more plants.

9. Go home for a visit. - So far I can't afford the tickets, but I will make this happen in 2012.

10. Take a ride in a hot air balloon. - I really regret not doing this in Turkey, where it was much cheaper, but who knows where I will go in 2012? This one is probably more of a lifetime goal. I won't mind if I don't get to this before the year is up.

11. See a play at the Comédie Française. - I just found out they were on strike (no comment) and that the theatre is undergoing a renovation, so this might not be the best year to do this. Let's just call it a lifetime goal.

12. See an opera at the Palais Garnier. - A friend and I tried to get tickets for a performance in February, but the only tickets were 140€. No fucking way am I paying that to see an opera, Palais Garnier or no. Lifetime goal?

13. And the one I am keeping to myself is still on the plate. Huzzah!

Silly Santa

2011-12-27T13:31:00.006Z

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

May 2012 be full of

Good Health

Happiness

and

Dreams Come True

The Cutest Thing Ever

2011-11-10T17:06:00.001Z

I went over to my friend Bérengère's house last night. She has the most adorable little boy, Maxime, who is a bundle of toothy smiles and blond-haired charm. He's two and half, and smart as a whip.

The three of us played and sang songs while he took his bath, and afterwards she and I made truffle risotto while he ate his zucchini purée.

Then it was time for him to go to bed. Bérengère tucked him in while I continued to stir the risotto. When she came back in the kitchen, she reported their exchange, where Maxime had observed,

"Penelope is sick."

I wasn't. When she asked him what he meant, he said,

"Her eyes hurt."

She asked me what I thought he meant.

"I dunno, maybe my eyes are red?" I ventured. My eyes are often red. I work in front a computer all day and never wear my glasses like I'm supposed to. (Please don't fuss at me, Mom, they make my vision worse! I promise I put them on on the rare occasion I drive at night, okay?)

"No," she said, "they aren't."

Suddenly, I understood. I pointed to my trademark cat-eye liquid eyeliner.

"He totally didn't understand what this was about," I said, cracking up.

And come to think of it, maybe it does make it look like my eyes hurt, like I'm squinting them up in pain, or something?

Nothing like a 2.5 year old boy to make you reconsider everything you thought you knew about makeup in 3 seconds.

Well, he did say I was "gentille" right afterwards, so all is forgiven.

And my heart is officially melted.

Broken Heart Murmur

2011-10-18T16:38:00.003+01:00

Ok, so maybe the title is a bit dramatic.

My company sponsored a blood drive today, and I had signed up to donate, in honor of my adorable niece Meaghan. The last time I donated was in 2005.

I went down and filled out the questionnaire, had to run back to my office to find my donor card and some ID, had a chat with the nurse registering me about the fact I was born in the US (a question on the form), and went in to see the doctor.

"So," he said, in a way I thought a tad condescending, "anything you want to tell me?"

As if I was hiding something. I had filled out my form thoroughly, thank you very much, but he hadn't even looked at it.

"Well," I said, "I indicated on the form that I had surgery to correct a heart murmur in 2009."

"In 2009?" he said, surprised. I wasn't sure if the year surprised him, or the heart surgery.

I say 'heart surgery' all casually, when in fact my atrial septal defect was repaired in an hour by going through a vein in my groin. It was done in a private hospital very well respected for cardiac issues, I had a private room, was released the next day and paid not a cent for any of it. (Vive la France!) It's not like I had open heart surgery or anything.

"Yes," I replied politely but firmly, "in 2009 I had my atrial septal defect corrected."

"Well," he said, taking my form and stacking it, as if it was a pile of important papers,"I regret to inform you that you will never again be able to donate blood."

He didn't seem too regretful. He was downright thrilled to tell me this. I must have been his only refusal case for the morning.

"Really?" I said, incredulous. "Why is that?"

"Well, when they've gone and messed with your heart," he said dramatically, "and torn you open to get to it," at this, he gestured at my chest, miming ripping it open, "it's just too risky."

"I didn't have open heart surgery," I replied, "it was repaired through a vein in my groin."

"Well, all the same," he said, "it would be too dangerous for you."

At that, I just wanted out of there as fast as possible. I didn't want to ask what was so dangerous, I didn't want to point out that my cardiologist had already approved me to go scuba diving a year after the operation, I didn't want to say how alarmist and silly I thought he was being.

"That's too bad," I said, "I wanted to donate in honor of my niece who had leukemia and received many blood transfusions during her treatment."

"How old is she?" he asked. I don't know why he acted like he cared.

"She's almost five," I said.

"Sad stuff," he said, typing into his computer atrial septal defect 2009 with satisfaction.

I grabbed my purse, wished him a good day and got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.

I sort of felt like crying, but not really. I knew he was being alarmist. I suppose I felt unfairly rejected. I don't deal well with that.

Then, I looked it up on the Red Cross Website : Blood donation WITH a heart murmur defect is "...acceptable if you have a heart murmur as long as you have been medically evaluated and treated and have not had symptoms in the last 6 months, and have no restrictions on your normal activities."

I no longer have one.

Asshole.

But maybe I'm just mad because I didn't get to spend 30 minutes reading my book lying down. I missed my metro stop TWICE last night because I was so absorbed.

Or maybe I was mad because I was looking forward to that chocolate croissant.

The New Year

2011-10-14T14:00:00.001+01:00

Well. My apparent anger at silly French desserts has dissipated, and we can move on to other things.

In June I finished the second-year of my 3-year acting school and got accepted into the third year, but for various reasons, decided not to continue classes there. Mostly, I wanted to be home more often and feel less pulled in all different directions. With three four-hour classes a week, work, and rehearsals, I was rarely at home. Handsome got a little frustrated at this, and said so. I wanted some more free time, too, and frankly, the school's administration was pedantic and it tended to suck the joy out of the experience. Once, I was rushing to get to class from work (on opposite sides of the city, of course!) and when I arrived, two minutes late, the professor counted me as absent, per the administration's regulations. I nearly imploded with rage. My clown was on fire that evening, though, so always a silver lining and all that. I was also afraid that we would have a certain Russian professor as the director for the end of the year play, and I had really had enough of him and his style. I learned a lot from him, to be sure, but after a certain point, the novelty wore off, and I wanted something different. Something less invasive (when you were in his production, he owned you and your life - it was exhausting).

I had asked one of the professors I liked about his amateur school, had written him twice, but when he didn't respond, I set it aside, thinking it must not have been the right path. A classmate talked about starting a theatre troupe and asked if I was interested, which I was, but I thought it would be best not to count on it.

I went to a few workshops. I even signed up for one, not really understanding until almost too late that I had pretty much committed to it (I am so glad I got out of that one - it was definitely not the right option for me). I called a bunch of schools, I searched the web. There were very few schools that fit my requirements of real evening hours (I can't do anything before 7PM and expect to be consistently on time) and an advanced level. Most of the professional schools, understandably, only had daytime hours.

Basically, I had nothing lined up and figured maybe I'd just sign up for workshops from time to time. But suddenly, one after the other, things materialized.

My classmate got in touch, saying the troupe was ready to start, we just needed to find a rehearsal hall. She had managed to convince one of my favorite professors from the school be our troupe leader and guide.

The other professor got in touch to say, come to our informational meeting and see if you want to sign up. I did, and I did.

So now, I have two of my favorite professors from the school for a fraction of the price. Same quality of instruction, a third of the cost. That's what I call a really good deal.

The troupe has already started working on our February project : a stand-up routine (individually, of course) in a live comedy club. (Gulp.)

In the amateur school, we have already started working on a monologue. This week we did an exercise where one by one we had to imagine we were in a confined space and could not escape. We could make all the noise we wanted, just not use real words. Each time the professor felt the student was "acting" or "faking it", he'd stop them and say, "you're cheating." Brutal. But effective. I got out there, imagined I was stuck in a tunnel in a cave (drawing on some of the creepier ones we had explored in Cappadoccia recently) and just as I really began to believe I was really stuck, felt real fear and panic, at the exact same moment I felt the surge of real emotion, the professor says, "Yes, that's it, let it come." It was downright creepy that he saw it at the exact time I felt it - maybe even before I knew it myself. I screamed, I wept, out of real despair. It's a very odd sensation to be surprised at a real emotion coming from your imagination making something real. In that minute and half, I actually believed I was stuck in a tunnel in a cave. I felt real fear, panic and despair. And when the professor stopped me, I took a few seconds, wiped the tears away, stood up and went back to my seat. I had no problem "coming down".

At that point, I thought, I'm beginning to understand this acting thing...

Annoyingly trendy, cutesy desserts

2011-07-21T17:41:00.003+01:00

These are actual items seen on actual menus in actual Parisian restaurants. And actual sources of profound annoyance.

Mousse aux fraises Tagada - "Fraises Tagada" are a horrifying marshmellow like candy thing every French person in my generation grew up snacking on. They are vile. This caters to a recent trend in getting all nostalgic and misty eyed about your idyllic childhood.

Candy apple mousse - see above

Cotton candy mousse - see above, sweet jesus christ on a cracker

Ben & Jerry's oatmeal cookie ice cream - IN FRANCE!!! The French generally hate cinnamon and don't ever make sweets with oatmeal, good god. Just ask my mother how long and how loudly I went on about this in the restaurant where we saw this on the menu.

Oreo cookie cheesecake - if I were nostalgic for an item found in every chain restaurant in America from 1980 - 1998, I might order this. If I were not IN PARIS.

Smarties flavored ice cream - No. Comment.

Sheesh. Call me a snot, but I didn't think the originals were all that good by themselves, so I'm less than inclined to order their trendy, oh-so-originale spinoffs.

Not so long as I can get a simple plum tart or a mousse au chocolat that will make me swoon. Please, Paris, quit with the offerings for toddlers' palates. Be the grown lady you are.

Odd

2011-07-08T14:38:00.002+01:00

Don't ask why this particular observation has inspired me to take the five minutes necessary to connect to this rusty blog and update, but here you go.

I have come to the recent startling revelation that I have almost exactly the same signature as the CEO of my company.

I find that - given the cultural, generational and gender differences - very odd.

I don't know what it means, but it sure makes me chuckle.

My Funny Valentine - Text by Jennifer Mattern

2011-04-04T15:00:00.000+01:00

Text by Jennifer Mattern of Breed Em And Weep

Coming Soon to a Blog Post Near You

2011-03-17T11:59:00.002Z

For the last class on "Constructing a Character", our professor let us have free reign to present whatever we wanted to share. It could be a song, a monologue, a dance, whatever.

I'm a longtime reader of Jennifer Mattern, who writes breathtaking pieces on her blog, "Breed Em And Weep." If you have never read her, go. Post haste. (Can you tell we are currently studying Shakespeare?)

Jenn graciously gave me permission to perform her blog post "My Funny Valentine" as a monologue.

I took a lot of liberties. I cut out a lot, trying to limit the length. I made up a name for her ex-husband, whom she refers to as "D" on her blog. I flubbed a few lines, and had to peek at my text twice.

But I really enjoyed getting into her words, and, essentially, playing her.

Everyone - including Handsome - asked where the text came from. That Jenn can WRITE.

As soon as she gives me the green light, I will post the video here for your viewing pleasure.

I'm kind of proud of it.

Good Advice

2011-02-08T14:43:00.002Z

For those of you who are renewing your passports after they have expired, I have an excellent piece of advice.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, put your recent ID photo next to the one taken ten years ago.

Just, don't.

You're welcome.

2011

2011-01-20T12:12:00.007Z

To join in with those brave enough to publicly declare what they would like to accomplish in 2011, I hereby give you my list of 11 things I would like to get done this year. Eleven for 2011. I am so creative!

1. Get a French driver's license. I have been saying this for years without doing anything about it since it costs a ridiculous amount of money, and even though I already know how to drive, I must complete a driving course of a minimum of twenty hours. This rankles, but it must be done. I have to set aside the money, find the time, and bite the fucking bullet of pride and just do it already, jesus.

2. Stay with the recent motivation to do an exercise DVD twice on the weekend. I can see the difference already, and that is even more motivating. I can do this.

3. Spruce up the apartment. I'd like to paint a book unit thingy, get some swanky grey curtains for the bedroom and replace the sad ridiculous curtain rod in the dining room. Maybe recover the sad Ikea chairs? Oh, and finally redo the kitchen and bathroom floors. Bye-bye linoleum!

4. Keep some goddamn plants alive in the window boxes. My goal of doing this last year sadly failed. I am toxic to plants. But I do keep insisting on trying.

5. Continue with the positive internal monologue. One of the most useful and relevatory things I have learned in acting class (I think I mentioned it earlier in my post about the dance performance in front of 900 people) is that what you tell yourself is what becomes true. If I say to myself that I can do it and I know what I'm doing, I give that off to people and they respond positively, which gives me confidence, which helps me actually do the thing well. It might start out sounding like utter bullshit, but it ends up coming true. In any case, it's a hell of a lot better than berating myself for all my shortcomings.

6. Get my varicose veins fixed. I've had some little ones forever, but recently I have noticed one on my calf that is getting really ugly. Must eliminate.

7. Do one hard thing every day. "Hard" can be loosely defined. It might mean, taking today as an example, picking up the phone and calling the stupid nurses at work for my 2 year check-up. They are ridiculously alarmist. One told me I was near obese (so not true, especially five years ago) one told me I was going blind in my left eye (had it checked out by an optometrist and she just laughed) and the other one basically tried to scare me that my moles were cancerous. Yet again, the dermatologist I went to just rolled his eyes and told me to keep doing the excellent job I'm doing of protecting my skin from the sun. So, yes, it will be hard for me to pick up the phone and call the silly ninnies, but I have to do it. And then it will be done.

8. Do one kind thing every day. It's amazing how much one small gesture of kindness can make somebody's day, especially in a big grumpy city like Paris. I once helped an old man bag his groceries and he couldn't stop saying how nice it was and that no one did anything nice anymore. That sort of broke my heart.

9. Finish fixing my acting resumé, send it in to the new casting director, get her to pick the best head shots and SEND THEM OUT.

10. Go on at least one casting call. God.

11. This is really shitty of me, but I'm keeping this one to myself for a while.

Confessions

2010-12-28T15:45:00.009Z

I thought I'd start out the days leading up to the New Year with a few (some ridiculous) confessions you may or may not already know about me. Feel free to chime in with your own in the comments.

1. I absolutely hate the sound of the electric guitar. I can stand it in the background of a song, but I start to cringe at the opening notes of an electric guitar solo. I can't help it. And yet, as a teenager, I liked Billy Idol and Prince. I am full of teenage contradictions, what can I say.

2. People begging for money in Paris make me inappropriately cranky. I don't know anything, really, about what resources are actually available to the homeless here, or how hard it is to make use of them, but when the people begging for money are better dressed and better spoken than I am, it ticks me off. I just, well, don't believe they actually need my money....? As a bleeding heart liberal, this makes me feel very weird. (Having put that in writing, I feel really bad now...) But a homeless person in the US? Especially one in the age bracket to be a Vietnam Vet? That person is getting some money and a smile. Maybe I'm a homeless chauvinist. Hmm.

3. This is the worst one yet. Are you sitting down? I have come to the conclusion that I think chewing gum is vulgar. I have caught myself glaring at various people of all ages, especially on public transportation, who are smacking away and making the most disturbing noises. And I find myself thinking things like, do you know how gross that sounds and how ridiculous that makes you look? I have no idea what this says about me. That I am an old curmudgeon before my time?

4. I love celebrity gossip. I have no excuse or explanation for this. But it has come in handy in trivia situations!

5. I have a photograph of my mother when she was in her twenties in a frame in my apartment. She is in profile, holding up a black kitten, about to kiss it. I get over-the-moon flattered whenever anyone thinks it's me because I think she was so much prettier than I ever was or will be.

6. I stopped regularly watching television in 1999. This means I am hopeless on the pink questions in Trivial Pursuit, unless they fall into the category of recent celebrity gossip. See contradictions, above.

7. I am a lover of most cuisines, except Chinese and Mexican. Well, actually, after 6 years of living in France, I would kill for even some bad Mexican food at this point. Just as long as they don't use Emmenthal. But I still loathe Chinese food, both in France and in the US. I find it strangely tasteless and unnecessarily glutinous. One of my recent great disappointements was going to a supposedly Thai restaurant to find out it was a Chinese restaurant that had a few "Thai" dishes on the menu, which they prepared like it was Chinese food. I nearly cried.

8. I used to love to go grocery shopping for my mom because I could pretend to be an adult living in my own apartment, in charge of my sure to be adventure-filled life. Now that I am an adult living a satisfyingly stimulating life, I loathe grocery shopping. Well, in the big supermarkets, especially. Outdoor markets or specialty shops I like. Maybe I'm just adverse to fluorescent lighting and Musak?

9. I am a hopeless procrastinator. There are about five things I should be doing right now that I am putting off. Ahem. I work better under pressure, maybe? Maybe not.

10. When I dislocated my knee cap for the first time (there was a terribly painful second time) I actually had to go out and specially purchase a pair of flat shoes. The only ones I had were for running. Ha!

Your turn. Fess up, in the comments!

Théâtre des Variétés, Lessons and an Invaluable Secret

2010-12-07T15:33:00.009Z

So, that was fun.

The Théâtre des Variétés is indeed beautiful. Getting ready in the dressing rooms named after Jean Gabin and Louis Jouvet was surreal, and being made up by professional makeup artists right before going on was divine.

But most of all, hearing the applause as we exited after doing a dance number I wasn't confident about in an unflattering costume in front of 900 people after two and a half months of constant criticism from the director was just about the coolest thing ever.

I learned a lot during the whole experience.

I learned that I have the guts, after being cut from every number, to pick up my broken pride and come back with a proposal of my own and survive - triumph, even, in my own way, with a director who tends towards the sadistic. Tada! Take that!

I learned (for the umpteenth time) that some people are two-faced and will double-cross you the minute it's convienent for them to do so.

I learned that some things aren't worth getting all worked up about.

I learned (for the umpteenth time) that I can overcome feeling inadequate, unattractive and rejected, by simply facing those feelings head on, finding reasons why it's not true and forging ahead full speed.

I learned that hard work pays, almost always.

But the most important lesson I learned is that next time I step on stage, I will not do it for approval, support, admiration, glory, validation or recognition. I will do it for the pure exhiliration of being on stage. I will feel secure, glorious, superb, even, whether there are 10 people or 1000, whether anyone thinks I did well or not.

I have been given a secret, you see, by a professor. If, while taking a bow, you repeat in your head "I adore you all," instead of endlessly going over what you think you might have fucked up, or what anybody might think of your performance, it changes the whole focus, and you are free to feel the pure joy of just being there.

I didn't remember to do that Monday night, and it was an awful feeling. Every doubt I had came rushing to the forefront and I was desperately searching for approval.

But next time, I have promised myself, I am using the hell out of that secret.

My Paris Stage Debut - Sort Of

2010-11-08T15:49:00.003Z

Got any plans on December 6th at 7:30 PM? Feel like watching a little show my acting school is putting on? No big soliloquies, I promise. It's more like a bunch of little dance and lip-synch numbers to songs from Elvis to Edith Piaf and lots of things in between.

I just might be dressed as a cat. (Not exactly what I had imagined when I dreamed of my Paris stage debut, but I'll take it. And anyway, the Théâtre des Variétés is sort of pretty, don't you think?)

You are forewarned.

Go here to reserve your free seat!

Reality Check

2010-10-18T09:31:00.002+01:00

I guess I was feeling confident after having my professional headshots taken.

It's not often I actually like a photo of myself, so when I was looking over Handsome's shoulder the other day as he was showing me a clip on YouTube, I noticed an ad for Hotmail on the sidebar.

Me: "Hey, don't you think that woman in the Hotmail ad looks just like me?"

She was blonde, had an interesting oval face and an intense expression. My doppelganger, really.

Handsome: "Um....that's a transvestite."

Me: "....."

Che Bello Che Bravo Che Buono

2010-09-21T15:26:00.003+01:00

Massimiliano "Max" Reider
(? 1996- September 13th, 2010)

Beloved boy cat of Penelope Reider and Gilles Thomain and adored by all who met him, Massimiliano passed on to his next life at 9PM on Monday, September 13th, 2010 in Paris, cradled in Penelope’s arms.

Also known as "Buddy", "Le Gamin", "Maximum Max", "Max la Ménace", "Maxou", "Bad Boy", "Baldie" , "Milk Mustache", "The VP of International Operations", and formerly known as "Captain Yellow Balls", Max was born on a farm in rural Georgia sometime in 1996 and picked out of a litter of six especially for Penelope as a gift from her then-husband, Fernando. Having been needled for several months about getting "a striped orange boy", he finally gave in. Pretending his car had been broken into yet again - as happened with annoying frequency at the time on North Avenue and Myrtle Street in Atlanta - he asked her to come outside and see what had happened. Pointing to the car, he said, "Look what they did!" Penelope could see no visible damage, but as she approached the passenger side to look inside for broken glass, sitting on the seat was a spritely orange striped kitten who looked up at her, cocked his head and meowed. She immediately dissolved into tears.

Seeing the "M" marking on his forehead, she decided to name him Massimiliano, after an Italian friend from Trieste whom she had met years earlier in France.

Max immediately took over the apartment on Myrtle Street and the hearts of all who met him. As a kitten, he would start to purr the moment he was touched even if it was just the tip of a finger, and was therefore constantly teased for his habit of purring "on contact". One memorable day, Penelope had taken him along with her to exercise, and as she did a sitting leg lift, Max the kitten climbed up her extended right leg and curled up in a ball on her hip. Exercising had never been more fun. That same day he also performed a death-defying leap from the top floor, scaring the shit out of Penelope, who had no idea what had just dropped from the sky.

Back at Myrtle Street, Max soon began to terrorize Fernando’s poor girl cat, "Ceci", eventually driving her into depression to the point where they would come home to find her sitting atop the sofa facing the wall. It was decided to house her at Atlanta’s famous "Cat Camp", aka Penelope’s mother’s house on East Rock Springs, where cats went to recuperate, recover, and rediscover their feline roots. Ceci was forever transformed, and Max became the sole cat on Myrtle Street.

After five years of antics and love on Myrtle Street, Max moved to Montgomery Street, where his dream of being able to live together with Ceci and go outside was quickly thwarted by several suspicious "accidents" he suffered, making his vet declare he not be allowed outside as his injuries appeared to be purposefully inflicted. The neighborhood was apparently not cat-friendly.

Max and Penelope then moved to a studio apartment on North Decatur Road. It was in Decatur where Max learned to walk on a leash. He started out humiliated and terrified, grazing the wall of the apartment building hallway in dread of what awaited outside, but quickly figured out that a quick dart into a bush and a pull on the leash while he was secured in the right position meant Penelope was left holding an empty harness as she yelled at him to get the hell back here, godammit. Many escape attempts were made; none were successful.
During Penelope’s many business trips, Max was lovingly looked after by his two faithful cat sitters, Penelope’s mother Daphne and Penelope’s sister Tatyana.

It was also in Decatur where Max forever left an impression on a group of Penelope’s friends. As they sat on the sofa waiting for her to come back from letting a friend in the building, he boldly walked in front of them, stopped at the front door to stand up on his hind legs, reached the doorknob, turned it with a flick of his paws and went out the open door, leaving them all sitting there mouths agape.

It was in this studio apartment that Penelope made him a promise: if she someday made it to Paris, she would take him with her.

At Christmas in 2003, Penelope received a gift that would forever attract attention – the famous cat bag. Originally designed to carry a small dog, it is a red backpack that converts to a rolling suitcase and a small bed. It was in this bag that Max would make his many voyages, be they to the vet or to foreign lands. Wherever they went, people would ask where to buy that bag.

In summer 2004, Penelope and Max moved to Paris. It was Penelope’s particular delight to make the surly passport control agents at the Roissy airport laugh by presenting them with a miniature passport she had created for him, complete with photo and paw print. She did not know at the time that Max would indeed have a passport in the future, European this time, with no bureaucratic wait of three months. She would be green with envy when she saw how easily he obtained European citizenship.

After a year of studiously ignoring and occasionally tolerating a series of men no good for Penelope, Max finally met his lifelong buddy and partner in crime, Gilles, in 2005. Originally not particularly fond of cats, Gilles was conquered by Max’s charm and charisma, especially touched by a display of affection full of heat butts and purring while being assisted by Max with a complicated IT intervention on Penelope’s ancient laptop.

"The boys", as they came to be known, would go on to become the best of friends and accomplices; watching countless action movies - nicknamed "boy movies" - solving numerous IT issues as a crack team, going on unauthorized walks, eating unapproved-of foods, taking luxurious afternoon naps and other scandalous behaviour typical of partners in crime.

In May 2008, Penelope, Gilles and Max moved in to the apartment they bought on Boulevard Ney, which incidentally, Max helped them buy. Known for opening doors, both figuratively and literally, it was the mention of Max to Mme. Couty, a formidable Parisian real estate professional working for Penelope’s company, which broke the ice and provided the proverbial key. A passionate lover of cats, it was with her incomparable help and through her powerful influence that they were able to negotiate a good price and get fair loans.

Penelope and Gilles became accustomed to being upstaged. Wherever the three of them went, Max was the center of attention. Friends and family would ask after him before inquiring about their welfare. Countless children would call for "Mask". Wherever he went, whoever he met, he left an impression.

Renowned for his remarkable intelligence, Max’s accomplishments ranged from being able to open almost any door, immediately understanding that a laser pointer was not a physical object able to be caught (he straightaway looked at the dot on the floor and up at Penelope’s hand holding the pointer, and then walked away, miffed), raising the alert that his dry food was moldy by knocking over the bag so its contents would spill on the floor, and, upon seeing a big screen TV for the first time (set to the Animal channel), he walked up to the screen, pawed at the bugs, and then looked below and behind the screen to see where the images went.

Max was particularly fond of very loud bouncy rubber balls, green beans, any food made of starch, Gilles’ clothes closet, and being rubbed on his belly. Shaved for an ultrasound, it remained thereafter pink and hairless due to constant belly rubbing "love sessions." It was the ultimate sign of distinction and affection to be on the receiving end of his "paws of love," one, two or even four of his paws placed on the face or chest of the person rubbing his belly. He never tired of a good can of freshly-opened tuna, or a kiss on the nose.

His dislike of vacuum cleaners, dancing and being teased about his "rabbit legs" never abated.

In May 2009, after a couple of mysterious health issues, Max was diagnosed with diabetes and kidney disease at the age of 13. His diet was completely revolutionized from dry food to organic wet food imported from Germany, and he began undergoing twice-daily insulin shots. He taste-tested a wide variety of wet foods from around the world -diabetic cats being particularly finicky and capricious in their tastes - one minute chicken aloe vera was the tastiest thing ever, the other minute only rabbit with veal would do.

After an initial round of treatment, Max showed all the signs of being cured from diabetes, a phenomenon unique to the feline species. Max would go on to be "cured" a total of four times, the last being in March 2010. Throughout the management of his diseases, Max remained upbeat, loving, curious, and incredibly brave and charming during all his clinic visits, shots, pills and ear pricking. Vets and vet techs alike enthusiastically greeted him whenever he came through the door. He had an international team of veterinarians working to solve his health issues, from Atlanta to Paris to Italy. He had even been selected to become a case study in Paris’ renowned veterinarian school in Maisons Alfort.

Max is widely believed to be the only American cat to have travelled to both Slovenia and Southern France, so far away from his native rural Georgia. He also travelled to Aix-en-Provence, Angoulême, Le Rimbert, Périgueux, Limoges, Venice, Dubrovnik, Opatija, and Trieste. He had travelled by plane, car, train and boat. It was his particular relief to have never been subjected to the helicopter or the submarine.

His last voyage in the famous cat bag saw him through Italy and former Yugoslavia. In Venice, an elegant lady on the vaporetto declared upon seeing him, "Che bello! Che bravo! Che buono!" After two and a half weeks of sun-filled balconies, local fresh fish, and local bugs caught with brio, he suffered a setback while in Opatija, Croatia, causing Gilles and Penelope to race him back and forth through Slovenia to a veterinary clinic in Trieste, of all places, where the raven-haired veterinarian declared him to be a "fighter".

Upon his return to Paris, unable to walk or feed himself, he was put to rest. His body was interred in Le Rimbert, home to Gilles’ now cat-loving parents.

He is greatly missed. He taught us much : how to love selflessly and unconditionally, how to be patient, how to comfort and ease sickness, and how to let go of the unimportant. He leaves an enormous void. May he rest in peace knowing he changed us for the better.

Tap tap....

2010-08-04T16:04:00.005+01:00

Tap tap....

Anybody there?

[crickets]

Serves me right for not posting for three months.

It's August. Everyone is gone.

Yesterday, as I was desperately trying to navigate my rental bike in red high heels, I came to the conclusion that - in my neighborhood at least - the only people left in the city are homeless, crazy, disabled or old. I was strangely annoyed by this. (It could have been the migraine.) But as everyone will tell you, at least you get a seat on the metro.

There are three people on my floor at work. This makes it harder than usual to get out of bed in the morning. Who will even notice if I come in or not?

Not that I'm complaining. Seriously. The rebel in me likes that I refuse to go on vacation when everyone else does. Handsome, Max and I will be happily boarding a night train to Venice when everyone else will be fighting the traffic jams to get back into the city. Then it's on to Croatia, Montenegro, Slovenia and Bosnia Herzegovina. Or wherever the rental car company actually lets us go. I am confused why one part of ex-Yugoslavia is okay and another isn't, but my Italian isn't up to par enough to get into geo-political detail about it.

In other news, "The Lion King" ended after a three-year run, and the producers were nice enough to throw a huge bash on the night of the finale. How about some pictures?

This is me in the lighting booth at the Mogador Theatre at Handsome's console. Please notice that I have the back of walkie-talkie up to my ear. I like to call this one "A Portrait in Blonde".

This is me and Handsome. I like to call this one cute.

That is all for today. I have to go learn the Serbo-Croatian for "local wine and cheese."

MERDE!

2010-06-03T13:36:00.003+01:00

I figured it was time to change the tone around here. Thankfully, my niece is doing much better and responding very well to treatment, so how's about we pick it up a notch around here, huh?

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I announce my upcoming Paris stage début!!

On Monday June 14th and Tuesday June 15th, I will be in my acting school's end of year production, called "Algérie en Eclats". It takes place in Algeria in the 1990's in the middle of the civil war, when thousands of innocent citizens, and most especially intellectuals, artists and journalists, were massacred by fundamentalists. Sounds like a blast, no? Seriously, though, the stage direction is pretty interesting, and it's not nearly as depressing at it sounds. In fact, the overall message is pretty much that artistic expression is a fundamental human need, and some people are willing to risk their lives for it.

The theatre where we are playing is pretty small, so if you want to come, you have to reserve your spot!

And I leave you with a French lesson of the day.

Instead of "Break a leg!", in France they say, "Merde!"

Isn't that perfect?

MERDE!

For Meaghan

2010-04-09T10:30:00.000+01:00

This week was surreal.

On Monday, my sister and her husband learned their cute, spunky little three year-old daughter Meaghan has leukemia (specifically, ALL, the so-called "good" kind). It was quite a wallop in the head for everyone.

But, all things considered, she is doing great, and the prognosis is very good for this type of leukemia, and very good for her specifically so far. She might even be able to go home this weekend.

This isn't quite my story to tell, or perhaps the most appropriate forum, so for those of you who know my sister and want to send her and her family messages of support, she has created a website for Meaghan.

I am so very proud of how gracefully my sister is handling this, and so grateful that she is getting tons of love and support. It warms the heart.

Love to all of you.

If I Were A Rich Girl

2010-03-11T16:00:00.002Z

I often daydream about what I would do if I were rich. I imagine the palaces I would stay in, the restaurants I would dine in, the houses I would buy and alternate living in, and, most often, the clothes I would wear.

First, one of the houses :

Photo from Vogue of Olya and Charles Thomson's NY Brownstone

Isn't it a lovely mix of clean whites and splashes of blue with all those luscious rich carpets? And the mirror - wow. Plus, I love a bay window. I don't know why, but in French, a bay window is called "bow-window". I suspect someone down the line wrote it down wrong and it stuck. Well, that's my theory anyway.

As for hotels, I have been lucky to have stayed in some pretty top-tier addresses on business trips (which is totally the way to go, even if you spend a large portion of the time fantasizing about being there with your honey, and oh, how the two of you could get creative in that bathtub the size of your living room...) and on one such trip, I had the chance to visit this one. I vowed on the spot I would come back someday and stay there.

The Four Seasons Istanbul (from www.fourseasons.com/istanbul)

Drool. And Istanbul in general - sigh.

So if I were a rich girl, I'd have a house like the one above, stay in places like the Four Seasons Istanbul (starting at 450€ a night, people!) and I would eat at places like this :

Photo from Paris-bistros.com of Apicius, a Relais & Châteaux award-winning restaurant

And this :

Le Grand Véfour

And, then, I would totally find the occasion to wear this:

That is a motherfucking gold feather coat, ladies and gentlemen, from Alexander McQueen's last collection, and a crazy-ass but gorgeous red and black satin dress from his 2009-2010 Autumn-Winter prêt-à-porter collection.

I might tone down the lipstick, though. That is a bit much even for me.

What do you daydream about?

I Will Kick Your Ass Some Day - Love and Kisses

2010-03-01T15:06:00.002Z

After two particularly fierce rounds of Trivial Pursuit Genius II last night, where I just BARELY lost both times, this is what this morning's email exchange looked like. (For context's sake, I have only beaten him three times in our entire time together. It is my constant goal to clobber him, but he is so wily!)

Handsome : Love and kisses and sorry I kicked your ass at Trivial Pursuit last night ;-)

[Ed note : The nerve!]

Me : A clarification : you did NOT "kick my ass" at Trivial Pursuit. It was a VERY CLOSE CONTEST. And you have a distinct advantage with the French version. So there. Watch out for next time, buster. I will pummel you. One of these days. And it will be ugly. Love and kisses!

Weird Weird World

2010-02-24T15:47:00.003Z

I don't know if it's because my acting classes are having the effect of making me more "aware" of every little thing, but the other day I seriously felt like I was on Mars.

I was at our local supermarket doing the shopping, for once. Usually, Handsome takes care of this odious task with much cheerfulness and aplomb. Seriously. That wasn't meant to be sarcastic, I swear.

Anyway.

I was idling around with the caddy - aimlessly shuffling about, really - because it takes me eons to find everything, and I ended up in the produce section. I say ended up only because Handsome and I have pretty much agreed that the supermarket's produce selection sucks, so we prefer to buy from the open-air market. It's much better quality at pretty much the same price, but it's still not organic. Organic is outrageously priced over here.

Anyway.

I'm in the produce section and I suddenly realize I hear birds chirping and wind blowing and other such nature-like sounds. And then I realize. They were piping in birdsong in the produce section. To make us think the shit was more natural? That birds would have liked the selection? That we were actually in an orchard instead of in a flourescent-lit inner city supermarket?

And I just stopped in my tracks and thought, what a very strange world we live in.

Not To Be Mean, But....

2010-02-10T12:30:00.000Z

This is the second week in a row my co-worker has worn the same dress to work.
The. Exact. Same. Dress.

Should I be concerned?

Should I say something? What exactly does one say in this instance? I sort of feel like she might be depressed, but I haven't the slightest clue how to approach her about it.

She is kind of a downer of a person anyway, in the sense that I can never, ever get a positive response when I ask her how she is. I cringe every morning when I stop by her office, bracing myself for the total depressing answer she is going to give me.

"Not so good, I couldn't sleep last night, so I'm exhausted."

or

"The trains were late again. It took me two hours to get to work. I'm so tired."

or

"Have you seen this rain? They say it's going to last all week."

I guess I don't have to mention that the dress in question is grey. Grey as the rain. Grey as the trains that are always late. Grey as the sleep in your eyes.

Oh god.

I need a dose of this, stat!

Joyeuses Fêtes

2009-12-25T18:21:00.002Z

I hereby present to you the most adorable thing you have ever seen.

You're welcome.

Happy Holidays!

Girl Crush

2009-12-08T15:25:00.003Z

Well that was quite a hiatus!

Between starting professional acting classes and dislocating my knee cap yet again (in no way related) I have been a bit busy hobbling around town. From emoting to sweating it out at physical therapy sessions, I haven't been very good at keeping up with this here little blog. (You : yes, we know.)

But! Here is a time waster for all you fashion-loving people. I am in love with this lady's style. And holla to an ATL girl! (I think.) If I ever get my act together in that department, I would love to have a wardrobe as put together as hers.

But mine has certainly proved useful for costumes for the acting classes. I'm not sure if that is a good thing. Would you be surprised if I told you I managed to put together an entire costume in order to play a 17th century Spanish playright using only things out of my closet? No?

Well, I did have to buy the fake mustache.

Just Shoot Me Now

2009-10-05T08:00:00.000+01:00

Ohmyfuckinggod. This is it. Just shoot me now.

Question

2009-10-01T17:00:00.000+01:00

Would you, in my place, be concerned?

It happened as I was coming back from lunch. I had just come in the lobby and was heading for the elevators. There was one that had just taken on some passengers and was ready to go up. I got there right as the doors were closing and stuck in my hand just in the nick of time to make the doors open again and let me on.

Inside the elevator was the notoriously incompetent and weaselly HR minion I jokingly refer to in private as "Schlepsteak." He is about four feet tall and walks with his neck crunched all the way into his shoulders. All that's missing is lip smacking and hands rubbing together as he contemplates who to flummox next with his awkward attempts to impress and flatter.

He looked at me as I got on, thanking and apologizing like a nimwit (thank you for waiting one nanosecond? Sorry for delaying you one nanosecond? Elevator etiquette, sheesh.) and then he cheerily exclaimed, for the benefit of the other poor soul stuck in there with him,

"That was close! You almost lost your hand!"

"Yes," I say, thinking, let's not get excited here for nothing. I gave a polite elevator chuckle, one of those I am constantly throwing out when I don't know what else to say.

"You almost lost it to the guillotine!" he chortled, mimicking the doors closing in on each other with his hands and looking over to the person on his left for complicity.

"Hmm, yeah," I reply, thinking please just let me get to my floor and out of here.

"Very famous in France!" he proclaims, straightening his jacket for emphasis. This is the man who once asked me how the weather was in the United States.

"We're more reknowned for the electric chair," I quipped.

He didn't seem to hear me. He was off on a roll.

"The widow-maker! The bascule! The monte-à-regret!" he crowed, visibly proud of his ability to wow me with synonyms for the guillotine.

We're only on the fifth floor? Oh please, please hurry up! I silently implored the control panel.

"The bois de justice!" he blurted.

At this, the neighbor to his left muttered, "Ah! The bois de justice, yes, there is that one."

Schlepsteak looked very pleased with himself.

We had mercifully arrived at my floor.

"Well," I said, turning to them both, "on that note, have a nice afternoon!"

It took me almost until I reached my office door to realize : holy fucking shit, the HR guy just spent five minutes talking about the guillotine to me!

Am I supposed to get a hint or what?

PANIC!!!

2009-09-11T14:51:00.006+01:00

I might live to eat my own words, or not, such as the case may be, but I just have to get off my chest that I am officially over the hysteria about the porcine flu (known as "la grippe A" over here).

Not only does every single magazine, free daily and "reputable" newspaper have a headline screaming about how we should all be prepared to drop dead any minute, but now my company has gotten itself all in a dither.

They didn't need to put up signs in all the bathrooms kindly explaining the correct way to wash your hands because those signs are leftover from three years ago from the AVIAN FLU OHMYGOD DON'T TOUCH THE PIGEONS WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!

So they have that covered.

They did make the poor janatorial staff wipe off all our doorhandles, keyboards and telephones with alcohol. Once. In the middle of August. When no one was here but me and other assorted weirdos. And they didn't come near the all-important, touched-every-second-of-the-live-long-day MOUSE.

So, um, ineffectual, but cute.

The security staff handed each and every one of us, as we came in through the revolving doors the other day, a handy-dandy pamphlet entitled : BIG COMPANY YOU WORK FOR AND THE FLU PANDEMIC : YOUR HEALTH IS OUR PRIORITY.

It explained that a "Crisis Unit" had been created (oh, thank heavens!) and reassured us that in case of need, there was a large stock of face masks and Purell (they didn't actually say "Purell" but I can't think of any other way of saying it other than 'alcohol gel solution' which is not what you say, I am sure) and that the "Crisis Unit" would not hesitate to put this germ-fighting material at our disposal in case of need.

It was our intern's last day. I suggested he might want to extend his internship in order to protect himself from the deadly virus. He politely declined.

There is a special section on viruses on our intranet site. I periodically click on it to feel like I am in safe hands. HANDS THAT HAVE NOT ACTUALLY TOUCHED MINE AND THAT HAVE BEEN REPEATEDLY AND RITUALISTICALLY WASHED WITH A SOLUTION SIMILAR TO PURELL.

They've even gone so far as to suggest that we no longer greet each other with the traditional "bise."

But now, today, they have sent out a company-wide email that on Monday morning, the poor security personnel will greet us with "Safety Kits" as we walk through the revolving doors. These reassuring "Safety Sits" will each contain :

- a mask
- a bottle of solution similar to Purell
- an instruction manual

But do you know what the best part is?

This "Safety Kit", we are told, is, and I kid you not, FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY and to be used ONLY WHEN INSTRUCTED TO DO SO BY HR.

Jesus fucking christ on a cracker.

It makes me want to lick the pole in the middle of the metro car at rush hour.

More List-y Things

2009-08-25T10:57:00.000+01:00

To continue the list of things I'd like to do someday....

11. Get a French driver's license (sounds simple, but oh boy, is it ever complicated. And expensive!)

12. ~~Pay off credit cards~~ (DONE!!! That feels so good! No more debt in the US. Only apartment mortgage debt here, which is cool. Thanks again for the advice on how to do it, Momsie!!)

13. Make bagels from scratch (If I can do this, I can do anything....)

14. Beat Handsome more regularly at the French version of Trivial Pursuit (three times in four years is NOT ENOUGH)

15. Re-tile the bathroom and kitchen floors. The linoleum needs to go. Soon.

16. Get a PADI Open Water scuba diving license. Handsome loves to dive, and it would be nice to be able to share one of his passions with him. Now that I had the hole in my heart repaired, I just might be able to! (More on that later. If you insist.)

17. Update my blog more often. I do like sharing my stories, and it does me good to exercise the writing muscle.

18. Have my portrait taken by a professional photographer. And maybe some nudes - 15 years after the first ones I ever had done. I am totally crazy. Or masochistic. Or narcissistic.

19. Finish framing the pictures and art I have been wanting to put up but haven't because - wait for it - they aren't framed.

20. Avoid killing the flowers and herbs in the window boxes. I am usually lethal to green things, but so far, so good...(maybe that's because Handsome is taking care of them....hmmm.....)

10 Trendy List Things

2009-08-05T15:25:00.003+01:00

Sorry about that rather long hiatus.

I have felt rather uninspired as far as this blog goes, despite the collection of scraps of paper and random notebooks in which I've scribbled ideas for what to write here. The problem isn't a lack of stories to share. Boy, do I always have stories. As my mom once said, my life is never boring. Thank goodness. It has been more a case of hating everything I wrote. I typed up numerous tidbits of things I thought I could write down and share, hated them, saved them in draft and never opened them again. Which doesn't really ever lead to progress, now does it?

As a remedy, I thought I'd take a stab at that ultra-trendy list: the list of things you dream of doing one day before your time is up.

This wouldn't be the first time I've made a wish list. My first was right after my divorce, when a good friend convinced me to go to a workshop to learn how to connect to your inner voice. Well, actually, the technical term was "angels", which really didn't work for me, so the instructor told me to substitute whatever word spoke to me. I think I went for "universe" at the time. Semantics aside, the idea was to clearly identify what you wanted for your life, write each item down as if it were already fact, and then use the list to recite them out loud after doing some brief meditation and breathing. (I very badly needed to breathe at the time.)

I still have the list, and aside from some rather embarassing items : "X is my regular lover", "I weigh 125 lbs" (seriously? dream on, honey) there are a few like these : "I live in Paris with Max in a nice apartment where I feel comfortable" , and "I have a job I like in Paris". Pretty cool that I can look back at that and think to myself "I did it!"

So I think it's time for another list. Which will not include who is my lover or how much I weigh. These are things I would love to do some day. In no particular order. Maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but as I now know from experience, dreams can come true.

1. Act in a play on the Paris stage. (I start professional acting classes in October. Whee!)

2. Act in a movie, either as an extra or in a larger role.

3. Write a novel. (Nevermind that I have been saying that for over ten years and never actually doing it. And nevermind aforementioned hating everything I write. Maybe someday I will get up the courage.)

4. Re-visit the Cairo Museum and spend as much time as I want in the collections. The first time was really cool (I burst in to tears I was so moved to see in person the things I studied in college) but way too short.

5. Visit Thailand.

6. Spend a romantic weekend in London (it is only a train ride away, and we still haven't done it!)

7. Spend a romantic weekend in Rome.

8. Spend a romantic weekend in Venice. (I detect a theme here...)

9. Make a successful tarte tatin.

10. Be able to do a series of 10 manly-man pushups. I'm still on the girlies.

There is so much more, but I'm starting at 10.

What do you dream of doing?

I Take That Back

2009-06-11T15:32:00.002+01:00

If you told me a few months ago that a cat can go from normal to diabetic to normal and back again, I would have been all, "Duuuude! No way!"

Way, dude. 6.98 glycemic index.

So back to square one. Or two.

Back to twice daily insulin injections. Back to special diabetic food.

Maybe he'll cure himself again.

Good lord.

I mean, seriously, what the fuck?

Art Therapy

2009-05-31T15:10:00.008+01:00

Good News!

Max is no longer diabetic. Yes, apparently cats can cure themselves of diabetes (with a little help from insulin and good nutrition). Who knew? Now if only he could cure himslef of chronic kidney disease, things would be just perfect. Ha! Seriously, though, he is back at home and back to his old self. We are so happy to have him back.

Two weeks ago, I had a little procedure done to correct a heart murmur. This was of course in the middle of Max's health crisis, so that was a fun few weeks, lemme tell ya. In a way, though, the fact that I spent every waking hour worrying about Max instead of freaking out about my heart procedure was a good thing. But I do tend to work myself into quite a state, so in order to stay zen in the hospital, I brought along a children's watercolor set I have had for years and never touched. The nurses thought it was an eyeshadow palette, and were quite amused when I explained it was for painting. I haven't drawn or painted a picture in well over five years, but man, was it the most perfect way to pass the time and keep calm.

But I apparently have a one-track mind.

First feeble attempt at portraiture

I kind of ruined a good thing with the whiskers there, but I only had one brush, and it was pretty thick.

But the first attempt encouraged me to try something a little more developed.

I took my time with this one. I think it shows.

I was very pleasantly surprised with the results. Incidentally, I think I will make this into a card to send to the vet clinic as a thank you note for everything they did.

One day when Handsome and I went to visit Max in the clinic, we took him out of his cage to hold him and pet him better. The poor boy was hooked up to an IV and in pretty bad shape, but as Handsome, his buddy, held him in his arms, he rested his head on his shoulder and put his paws around his neck.

I thought I would die.

Buddy Love

This is the best I could do to capture the image that will forever be sealed on my brain as the sweetest thing ever.

Poor Boy

2009-05-08T18:31:00.005+01:00

I have tried to write about our trip to Egypt here. I hated every word I wrote, even the paragraphs I redid three times.

I tried to write about my trials and tribulations with a hurt knee and the physical therapist who later came on to me, leading me to drag him to a mediation with the professional order of physical therapists. It all sounded like crap.

I haven't wanted to freak out my friends and family members by writing about my scary exam.

But typical of me, it takes something happening to someone I love for me to get off my ass and write, and more than anything, not give a shit if it sounds good.

Today, we hospitalized my darling boy cat, Max. He had been uncharacteristically lethargic and apathetic, not to mention drinking copious amounts of water and peeing so much that we had to change his litter almost every two days. I had made an appointement for Monday with a different vet than the one we had been using, sensing he needed better care than he was getting.

I came home last night to find him weak, disoriented and unstable on his feet. I called the emergency veterinary service, which sent a vet to the apartment 40 minutes later. He diagnosed him with possible diabetes and constipation, giving him a dose of children's laxative and telling me to continue with it one to three times a day. He urged me to have him seen by another vet who could do bloodwork to confirm the diagnosis as soon as possible.

It's a holiday weekend here. Most everything is closed today. I had very little hope of finding a vet clinic open, thinking the earliest I could have him seen would be Saturday.

This morning, he had still not eaten or relieved himself, even after two extra doses of laxative, except for the tiny amount he expelled right after the vet had given him the first dose twelve hours earlier.

In utter panic, I called the clinic where I had made an appointment for Monday. Miraculously, they answered, and agreed to see him at 12:30.

We rushed him there, where after x-rays, a urine sample and bloodwork, they diagnosed him with stage II diabetes, dehydration, constipation, and possible bladder infection and kidney failure.

My sweet, clever Max is fighting for his life right now in a swank veterinary clinic in the Eiffel Tower neighborhood.

I feel so awful that I didn't take better care of him. I feel so guilty that I didn't realize how sick he was.

Please send your thoughts, positive vibes or prayers his way.

My poor, poor boy. He'd better get well soon, because I don't know what we will do without him.

photo byDavid Monjou

Lazy but Not Dead (Yet)

2009-04-07T16:38:00.003+01:00

Hello there!

I seem to have neglected this little blog, and I am truly sorry.

My only excuse is that February and March were weird months. There were Official Complaint Letters and Mediation Sessions and Scary Medical Exams and Trips to Foreign Lands.

Slowly but surely I will be updating you on the trials and tribulations. Promise.

While I get my shit together, here is a silly picture to tide you over.

Smooches!

Love, Love, Love

2009-02-13T11:08:00.002Z

Four of my dear, dear friends have finally found love.

The Sweet Southern Belle - found a guy who treats her well, truly loves her, and makes her happy. They're getting married in May!

The Tazmanian Devil - found the guy who gets as much a kick out of her as the rest of us; she is now serene instead of frenzied. They cannot keep their hands off each other, and it is the most beautiful thing ever.

The Noshtna Ptiza - the gorgeous polyglot professional who never thought she'd ever love again has fallen! Head over heels! With a Frenchman! Ahhhh, l'amour, l'amour!

The Ivy League Rapper - after several disappointments, is now, as she puts it, "madly in love" with the father of her child.

To you, my gorgeous lady friends,

to all of you in love,

to those who are searching for love,

to all those who have ever loved,

and to my love,

HAPPY VALENTINE's DAY!

Holiday Scenes

2008-12-20T14:00:00.000Z

Scene I : Tiny Parisian apartment, evening. Handsome and I are discussing plans for the holidays.

Handsome: It's official. I have to work the evenings of the 24th, 25th and 31st.

Me: Fuck.

Handsome: But I'll be home by 11:30.

Me: (Sigh)

Handsome: Well we could still have some things to nibble on and some champagne.

Me: (Sigh)

Handsome: We could even stay up and open the presents on the 24th. It's just pushing things out a couple of hours.

Me: (Sigh)

Handsome: Remember last year? I got home on the 31st at 11:30 and we drank champagne sitting in the window and talked until sunrise?

Me: Yeah, that was fun! I remember that was when you told me you were ready to take the plunge and move in together.

Handsome: I said that? I take it back.

Me: Jerk. Too late.

Handsome: But maybe we'll get invited to a party on the 31st.

Me: Yeah, maybe. But since now we can't even spend the holidays with your family in the country, and you won't be here until late on the 24th and 25th, can we at least get a tree?

Handsome: A tree? What do you want with a tree? No!

Me: Oh come on! Pleeease?

Handsome: They're expensive. And we don't have room for one.

Me: We can put it in the window in the dining room. Just a little bitty one!

Handsome: Even the little ones are expensive!

Me: OK, how much do they cost, the little ones?

Handsome: 25 euros!

Me: Dude, that is not expensive. You can't get a bouquet delivered for that!

Handsome: What do you want with a tree? We're not even Christian.

Me: It's a pagan tradition.

Handsome: (Sigh)

(Me : 1 Handsome: 0)

***********************************************************************************

Scene II : Tiny Parisian apartment, evening. Handsome and I are discussing gifts we are giving to various family members.

Me: I mean, really, the company is only contacting me now to ask where to send the gift? I ordered it two weeks ago!

Handsome: Yeah, they called yesterday asking for you, and I didn't know what they wanted, so I told them to call back.

Me: They sent me an email asking where to send the package. I didn't understand why it wasn't clear for them. I was like, this order for Mr. Reider goes to this address. This order for Ms. Reider goes to this address.

Handsome: That totally confused them, I'm sure. 'Why are there two different addresses for people with the SAME LAST NAME OH MY GOD!!'

Me: And now I'm all nervous that the order they contacted me about won't get there in time. I was like, please do everything in your power to get this delivered on time, since it took you two weeks to figure out you were confused.

Handsome: Good, you have to insist with those people or nothing gets done.

Me: But I mean, really, I ordered on like December the 5th!! Geez, next year, I guess I'll have to start shopping in November!!!

Handsome: (silence) Umm, that's what most people do......

(Handsome: 1 Me: 0)

**********************************************************************************

Scene III: Tiny Parisian apartment, evening. Handsome and I are discussing gifts we are giving to each other.

Me: I got you the best surprise gift!! You are never going to guess what it is!!

Handsome: Is it a _____?

Me: (frowning silence) I hate you.

(Handsome: 1 Me: 0)

************************************************************************************

Scene IV: Tiny Parisian apartment, evening. Handsome and I are discussing the holiday menus.

Handsome: We already have foie gras, but I could pick up some smoked salmon and blinis and champagne.

Me: Cool!

Handsome: And oysters! We could order some oysters on the half shell and have those when I get back from work on the 25th.

Me: Yay! With mignonette sauce!!

Handsome: Ok, so what else should I put on the shopping list?

Me: Well, it's not food, but I don't know if you looked at how much wrapping paper is left. Check to see if there will be enough for you.

Handsome: For me?

Me: Yeah.

Handsome: To do what with?

Me: To wrap the presents you're giving me!

Handsome: (wide eyed) You want me to wrap your presents?!?

(Me: 1 Handsome: -14,965)

************************************************************************************

Scene V: Tiny Parisian apartment, evening. Handsome and I are on the couch.

Me: Christmas is next week! Yay!

Handsome: (Incoherent grumble)

Me: Aren't you excited? We get to open presents!

Handsome: Pffff!!

Me: You're not looking forward to opening presents?

Handsome: It's not like I don't like giving or receiving presents, it's just that I've never really been into Christmas as a holiday. It gets on my nerves.

Me: Oh no, you're a grinch!! I'm going to start calling you the grouchy grinch!!! (poking Max, who is napping contentedly between us) Max!! Did you know your favorite buddy is a grouchy grinch? How could you possibly prefer a grouchy grinch to me?

Handsome: If you think it's bad now, just wait fifteen years.

Me: (Calculating age he would be, realizing it is close to his notoriously grouchy father's current age.) Oh lord, save me.

(Handsome: 0 Me: 0)

Happy Holidays, everyone!

Feels So Good

2008-11-07T11:45:00.006Z

I don't think I've ever been more excited to fill out a ballot.

Too bad the French postal system didn't quite know what to do with it, and sent it back to me.

I promptly freaked the fuck out.

Once I'd calmed down, I found a cool program for expats called "Express Your Vote" where FedEx offered drastically reduced rates to FedEx your vote back home. And I expressed that sucker right back to Georgia.

And voilà!

YES WE DID!

Perfect Pancakes

2008-10-03T19:00:00.002+01:00

I've been thinking a lot about pancakes lately.

I blame Dooce. She talked about how she and her husband finally convinced their daughter to try pancakes at a restaurant, thereby expanding her approved food list to five items. The only problem being that Dooce didn't know how to make pancakes the next morning when her daughter asked for them.

Which got me thinking. First about my mom's Swedish pancakes, which are a lighter, more crepe-like version than the thick stack of flapjack-like numbers you'd get in your average diner. OOooooo. Diner. I suddenly really want diner food. Chocolate milkshake, cheeseburger and fries. With a side of pancakes.

No, seriously. I only like my Mom's pancakes, so that's the only kind I make or order.

Pancakes are one of those rare pieces of American culture that remain slightly exotic over here. A normal French breakfast is a slice of baguette with butter, or a brioche with jam, a croissant, or a yogurt. Sadly, they've also adopted the horrendously colored sugary cereals as well, but we'll ignore that for now.

Because of the quintessential American-ness of pancakes, it's been fun sharing the experience of making and serving them with Handsome and other friends. They're ridiculously easy to make, and it turns a morning ritual into something special.

This summer we were staying at some friends' house in the country, where they had cooked lunch and dinner for two weeks. I wanted to do something in return, so the day before we left, I made pancakes for everybody.

The women gathered around to see what exotic things I was putting in this intriguing mixture. One of them looked downright disappointed when she discovered it was only a matter of eggs, flour, milk and butter, with a dash of salt and sugar.

"Oh," she said, thoroughly unimpressed, "it's just like crepe batter, only thicker." And with that, she turned straight back to reading her fashion magazine.

I've talked before about the importance of aesthetics over practicality in some aspects of French life. Remember the hanging files?

When I was ready to start cooking the pancakes, our hostess looked worried.

"I'm afraid I don't have a mold for you to use," she said, knitting her brow and looking dubiously at the frying pan I was preparing.

"A mold?" I asked, confused. "Why would I need a mold?"

"So the pancakes are round," she said, surprised I needed to ask.

I burst out laughing.

Yes, god love 'em, they use a mold to make them perfectly round, one at a time.

That is so fucking cute, it kills me.

Three Countries in Three Hours

2008-09-18T16:00:00.004+01:00

Um, hello there! It's been a while. But, hey, you know how everyone in France takes the whole month of August off, right?

Right?

Ahem.

So what on earth have I been doing this whole time?

Well, Handsome and I spent a lovely few weeks in the Aude region near Carcassonne staying at some friends' house built from a mill dating back to the 14th century. Unfortunately, you can't really see any mill-like characteristics. Unless you squint really, really hard.

Anyhow, on this foray into the region, we explored many castle ruins, a hat museum, lots of local markets, and a tiny town reputed to be the resting place of the Virgin Mary,* and otherwise famous for its inexplicably creepy holy water basin.

On one day trip, we drove all the way to Andorra to take advantage of the VAT tax haven. The countryside was breathtakingly beautiful - a mix of Switzerland, Austria and Spain - but the architecture was 70's and cheap and horrifyingly ugly. There was a creepy, unhealthy feel about the place as well. When people call it 'the largest shopping center in Europe', you understand why. People are only there to buy, buy, buy. Andorra is jointly admistered by France and Spain, so it's equally strange that from store to store you have no idea what language to use - French, English, Spanish, Catalan? Not that I could pretend to string a sentence together in Catalan. It always sounds so silly to me - like someone got mixed up between Spanish and French and just made some shit up. (Apologies to my Catalan-speaking readers. Ha! Like I have Catalan-speaking readers.)

Handsome and I made our purchases and got the hell out of the first border town, thinking it might be better in the capital, Andorra La Vella.

I have never seen an uglier city in a prettier setting.

See if you can see what I mean. This is the countryside. This is the capital. Just have a gander at all ten of those lovely photos on the second site and see if you don't agree with me.

We drove through the town, silently incredulous, craning our necks to see if we could identify any place that might remotely appeal for lunch. Handsome looked over at me with an expression on his face I immediately understood. Something akin to, 'I am very hungry, but hell fucking no to this place.'

"Let's get the fuck out of here," I proposed.

Handsome's face immediately lit up. "Let's have lunch in Spain," he said, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

"Onwards to Spain!" I declared.

We had lunch here.

I fucking love Europe.

* It is obvious that I was not indoctrinated in any religion, and most of the time, I'm perfectly comfortable with my lack of knowledge. Last night, however, while telling some friends about our trip, I suddenly realized my very big mistake.

"Oh fuuuck! Guys, I put the wrong Mary!!" Oops.

I Won

2008-07-23T14:41:00.001+01:00

I try to limit myself to the truly amusing stories whenever I talk about work on this site.

I have one for you.

Last year I got moved into another department, much to my chagrin. My other job wasn't perfect - it had its share of stress and I had my bouts of extreme self-doubt - but I liked the high-profile aspect, and the fact that I actually was useful there.

The new job was quite a change. No one really needed me, even though everyone was more than nice and welcoming. I quickly became bored and felt totally useless. Which in turn led me to lose any and all motivation.

There were things I could do to pass the time, but I had absolutely no desire to do them. Most especially, I was asked to file continous paper updates in enormous documentation binders. Navy blue official-looking binders so huge the binding is made of wood on the inside. They are big, heavy and totally mind-numbing if all you're doing is 'replace pages 14a-15d with pages 14a-15f.'

My predecessor had not done the last few months of updates, so I had a lot to catch up on.

I put it off.

And put it off.

And put it off.

Until the pile of updates, left unopened in their plastic sleeves, reached at least a foot off the floor.

I've been in this job for a little over a year. Only once, my semi-official boss needed to consult the binders.

"Penelope?" he called tentatively from the hallway, "Those documentation binders, did you do the updates?" The upturn in his voice betrayed his anticipation of the answer.

He entered my office, his eyes shut to sheild himself from the view of the glaringly massive pile of white update folders he knew he would find on the floor. He opened them to my smiling face.

"Nope!" I said cheerfully, "As you can see, I haven't touched them. But you know, you could always use the electronic subscription, which is always up to date." I tilted my head to side as I held the air hostess-y smile I had plastered on my face.

"I don't like the electronic version," he replied, almost apologetic. "You really should start on it when you can," he added unconvincingly.

"Hmm mmm!" I replied in dismissal of the subject.

A few months later, he was promoted and became my official boss. I was in his office discussing some of the things he wanted me to help him with in his new role.

"And, Penelope," he said, a hint of defeat in his voice, "you can go ahead and cancel the paper subscription of the documentation. Your refusal to do the updates has shown me that it actually is not something we use or need. We will stick to the electronic subscription from here on out."

"Victory!" I shouted. I did a little dance around his desk chanting, "I won! Laziness pays after all!"

He watched me go round and round, shaking his head and smiling.

Strangely, I'm beginning to like this new job.

Reason 2,451 Why I Love Paris

2008-06-11T10:40:00.003+01:00

I was not in a good mood this morning. It normally takes me 20 minutes by bus to get to the metro station, where I hop on Line 1 and have three stops until I get to work. This morning, though, there was more traffic than usual, so the 20 minutes turned into 45. It was hot and crowded and I couldn't open the window. I hadn't eaten breakfast because we were out of yogurt, so in addition to everything else, I was also hungry.

Hungry, hot, late & cranky.

I finally arrived, stopped to buy an apple and a croissant, and was stomping my way to the building where I work when someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned around to face a man in his late forties, a smile on his face.

'Bonjour,' he said.

'Bonjour,' I replied a little impatiently. I was already horribly late.

'May I give you a compliment?' he asked.

I love this type of gallantry times a million - asking permission to give a compliment. While you're at it, could you throw your coat over that puddle so I don't get my feet wet?

'Go right ahead,' I answered with a smile. 'It's always nice to start the day with a compliment.'

'You are simply exquisite. You have so much allure - even from far away - I noticed you immediately. You really are beautiful. I don't ask that you leave your boyfriend or husband or children, but simply put, may I see you again?'

I laughed. 'Thank you for the compliment. It's always nice to get one. But, no.'

He actually looked surprised. 'So I can't see you again?'

'No,' I said firmly but with a smile.

He looked around, a little confused, 'This is not how I pictured the scenario in my head.'

'C'est la vie,' I shrugged.

'In any case, I wish you a very good day,' he said, bowing slightly and stepping away backwards, as if he were addressing the Queen.

'And a good day to you,' I replied.

Suddenly, a day that started out frustrating and crappy turned into 'The sun is out, and I'm alluring!'

God, I love this place.

Fifty-one square meters of Paris (and that includes the only closet)

2008-06-02T17:51:00.001+01:00

We finally did it!

Handsome and I bought a cute two-bedroom apartment in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. It's cosy, but feels surprisingly spacious.

Each of the three main rooms have little "Juliet balconies" (thanks, Mom, for providing the correct term) where I have already imagined cute little window boxes full of plants and flowers. I am hilariously optimistic about actually managing to keep them alive.

The three main rooms also have different original crown moulding. The dining room is appropriately adorned with fruit. We have so far identified pears, apples, grapes and raspberries. Or blackberries, depending on how picky you are about their relative size to a pear. I even had to vigorously defend the apples against a devil's advocate-playing friend who insisted they were tomatoes, and that tomatoes, as fruit, had every right to be there. As if.

We took too long to decide whether to repaint the kitchen, bathroom and hallway ourselves, or call in a professional. But after getting quotes from two different painters, even black market prices were too much for us. When I told my mom the first quote, she was horrified. "That's more than I paid to repaint the entire exterior of my house!" she exclaimed. Such are the prices in Paris, apparently. So after moving in, with our boxes piled high in each room, we set about the process of painting.

I will never forget how to say 'primer' ever again. I kept getting it confused with the word for 'spackling', so when I kept suggesting we might need some before the actual layer of paint, Handsome politely dismissed it, along with the actual spackling.

But Handsome is nothing if not quick to learn, so after consulting all three different cans of paint, insistent and in agreement on the essential steps to painting, and at least five different trips to the store, he came round to idea that there was more to painting than meets the eye.

Paint Can Consensus Essential Steps to Painting:

1. Wash surface

2. Let dry

3. Fill cracks

4. Let dry

5. Sand

6. Dust

7. Apply primer

8. Let dry

9. Apply paint

10. Let dry

11. Apply second layer if necessary

We were painting over a thick high gloss paint and many, many cracks and old leaks that needed repairing. Which meant it wasn't going to be quick, or easy. Handsome was, to put it mildly, anxious to get the project over with and unpack the boxes. I became swept up in the minute details and was determined to follow the protocol from A to Z so it would be as close to perfect as possible.

These are our different takes on the Paint Can Consensus.

Me :

1. Oh goody, everything will be so clean!!

2. Look what a difference being clean makes! It's a whole other color!

3. I love these little spackling knives! I think I need more spackle on that spot. And that one too. This knife is so cool!!

4. Wow! It only takes three hours!

5. This power sander is one helluva machine! Am I glad I put those dust masks in the shopping basket when Handsome wasn't looking..... I am totally rocking this!! I am modern woman, hear me sand!! This is a really great workout for the arms....Power Plates are for sissies. Oooooo, feel how smooth I got that wall! Weeeee!!!!

6. All this dust that I created with my powerful sanding! I rock!

7. 'Primer' is 'sous-couche', 'primer' is 'sous-couche'.... It's going to look so pretty when I'm done!

8. It only takes an hour! That's fast!

9. OOOOooooo!!! 'Orange Blossom' pretty!!!! This roller and extension pole really make painting the ceiling a snap! Oops! Almost fell over backwards over the bathtub....I guess I should just turn around...Whee!!! Look at my smooth sanded ceiling!

10. It only takes an hour to dry! I can't wait to see what it looks like!!

11. A second layer would make it just about perfect......weee!!!!

Him :

1. What the fuck? We have to wash all this? Even the ceiling? Jesus Christ, this is going to take so long....

2. Can I paint yet?

3. A little gob over here....Done! Can I paint yet?

4. Three fucking hours??? I am giving it an hour, max....

5. No I don't need the dust mask. Or the safety goggles. God this is a pain in the ass. And boring. Where did you say the dust mask and safety goggles were again?

6. No fucking way.

7. I'll just go over everything real quickly and then in an HOUR, MAX, I am painting this shit once and for all.

8. Is it dry yet? Can I paint now?

9. God, finally! Meh, looks okay, but it's DONE!

10. Done, done, done. In thirty minutes, I'm unpacking the boxes and the shit is going in its place and off the floor and out of the way ohmygod I can't wait......is it dry yet?

11. You have got to be fucking kidding me. NO. And we don't have any more paint. Thank GOD.

No tears were shed and nobody had a paint bucket hurled at them in the process. But I think it just might have inspired me to try more - gasp - projects. (Hi, Mom! Hi, Sis!)

Who woulda thought?

Brilliance

2008-04-27T14:36:00.000+01:00

Even after more than 15 years of study and 4 years of living in France, there are still days when I come smack dab up against the realization that I can still make a ridiculous fool of myself in French.

It invariably happens at the worst possible moment.

Take for instance this week, while working a conference for IT bigwigs in Deauville. I'd been asked to lend a hand, and was more than happy to do so. The first evening, we were rounding up all the participants into buses to go to the organized dinner. The assistant I was helping has a rather laid-back style, in that she doesn't feel the need to do head counts to make sure every one is on the bus. She figures they're all adults, they knew what time the bus was leaving, and if they miss it, too bad for them.

This tends to make me nervous.

So there I was, standing in my red dress and high heels next to our local events planner, nervously scanning the hotel entrance and parking lot for last minute stragglers. The assistant I was helping was in casual conversation a few feet away with the guest of honor, the VIP of the evening. I wanted to do a quick check of the hotel lobby to make sure we had everyone, but not wanting to overstep my bounds, wanted to see that it was okay with her first.

I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted across to her,

"Hey, Josephine! Don't you think I should turn a last trick in the hotel before we leave for dinner?"*

Everyone burst out laughing.

I am fucking brilliant.

*"Eh, Josephine, tu ne veux pas que j'aille faire une derniere passe dans l'hotel avant qu'on ne parte?"

Pour Laurette, Pour Annick

2008-04-02T17:08:00.001+01:00

Two weeks ago I learned a colleague of mine, Laurette, a pleasant, positive woman in her late forties had a sudden brain aneurysm and had fallen into a coma. She had just gotten back from vacation and hadn't been stressed or sick.

It was jarring, most especially because she didn't appear to be one of those people who smile only with their mouths, their eyes and body language betraying sadness or depression or even ill will. When she smiled, her whole face followed, her head tilted a bit to the side. She always made time to say hello and ask how you were.

There was still hope she might pull through - the ambulance had been called right away.

She died last Saturday.

This is for Laurette, who brightened so many people's lives with a simple smile.

*************************************************************************************

When I first started working on the CEO's floor almost four years ago, I was totally overwhelmed and scared to death I wasn't up to the task. I had never worked for someone as high profile as the CFO of a major corporation, never had to answer phone calls from government ministers, or arrange flights on private jets or coordinate with dedicated chauffeurs.

Every Thursday I had to distribute a weekly schedule of visitors and appointments (including where my boss would be eating) to the front desk, floor receptionist and special events coordinator. There was a restaurant on the floor below reserved for the executive board, complete with a personal chef and a white jacket-clad waiter. If there were visitors at lunch or breakfast, my boss would receive them in the private restaurant. If there were no mealtime visitors, he would often have the waiter bring him lunch in his office.

It always smelled divine.

Annick was the special events coordinator. She was in charge of the executive restaurant and other special events, like the annual champagne reception. Always impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, she carried herself with poise. She knew the best tables in the city, the best florist and chocolatier, where to find the perfect oh-so-French corporate gift, and which card stock was appropriate for formal invitations.

She intimidated the hell out of me.

Because of this, I invariably made the dumbest mistakes on her section of the weekly schedule, and numerous times had to call her at the last minute to awkwardly sputter an explanation and ask for her help in fixing it. I was sure she despised me. Which of course made me make more mistakes. One day in my second month on the job, I couldn't stand it anymore. I went to her and assured her I wasn't a complete and total idiot, wanted very much to not unnecessarily complicate her life, and asked for her patience while I got the hang of things. It totally broke the ice.

I got to see her in a different light. We shared some good laughs about a few particularly despicable colleagues, and she grew to appreciate my extraverted and occasionally shockingly irreverent self, as I grew to appreciate, rather than be intimidated by, her style and class.

She revealed herself to be unfailingly generous. One day, I happened to mention that I couldn't find a punch bowl in the whole city for my annual egg nog party, and not only did she know immediately what I was talking about, but she also offered on the spot to lend me her (no doubt impeccable) set. In her perfect handwriting, she wrote me instructions how to get to her house in Versailles.

I arrived at the door of a lovely three storey grey stone house, a wrought iron gate surrounding the small garden in front. Annick was waiting at the front door and invited me in. She showed me into the living room and told me to make myself comfortable on the the black leather couch. Le Corbusier, of course.

Her husband came in to join us for a cocktail. Dressed in coal black jeans and button down shirt, he cut a handsome figure. He was relaxed, open and charming, asking me questions about myself and making me feel welcome. Annick sat on the other side of the room, her back razor straight. She didn't seem more relaxed at home than at the office. I had just finished an impersonation of our most hated colleague, which had made them both laugh, when she remarked that she had no idea I was so full of personality. I assured her she hadn't seen anything yet.

She had prepared the punch bowl and cups wrapped in newspaper and packed in sturdy shopping bags I could easily carry back with me on the train. Before I left, she asked her son in to play a piece for us on the piano, noting with exasperation that his piano teacher had let them know he preferred ragtime to Rachmaninov.

They all three walked me to the door and waved goodbye. It had been a refreshing visit and a nice change from the cramped quarters of Paris.

The punch bowl was the centrepiece of my egg nog party. I returned it to her at work and thanked her again for her kindness. She called me a week later to say she had been rearranging some things in her dining room and it had suddenly broken in her hands. She laughed it off saying at least it had gone out with a last bash.

When I left the CEO's floor after changing jobs, I didn't see her as often. We ate lunch together a few times, until one time she abruptly cancelled without explanation or any apparent desire to reschedule. The CEO's floor is a stressful place to work, and I assumed it was as simple as that.

More and more often, though, when I saw her and said hello, I felt her distance. She seemed changed - an emptiness had settled in her eyes.

On one occasion, I even felt her total indifference. I had called her to get her advice on a courier service to deliver a bottle of champagne and she curtly replied that I could always have it mailed. In a rush to fill the awkward silence, I gushed that I wanted to thank some people who had helped Handsome and me look at apartments, that had bought an apartment together and wasn't that great. I had no idea it was the worst possible thing I could have said.

"What do you want me to say, Penelope? Be happy," she shot back and hung up the phone. The total iciness in her voice left me stunned.

A few days later while I was eating with two friends, she passed by our table, paused to say hello and hesitated a bit, as if she had lost her way. She slowly walked by, a weak smile still frozen on her face.

"What on earth is wrong with Annick?" I asked. "Doesn't she seem a little out of it to you guys? She's got this strange look on her face. Is she on drugs?"

I didn't realize it at the time, but my friends deftly changed the subject. They knew she was going through a rough patch but didn't want to betray her confidence.

A few days after that, - on Good Friday to be exact - I was in the cafeteria by myself and saw her sitting alone, staring off into space, her hand bringing her fork up mechanically to her mouth. She seemed so incredibly lonely and sad. For a moment, I hesitated. I wanted to go over and sit down, ask her what was wrong, offer to help. But then I remembered how summarily she had brushed me off on the phone. I didn't feel like being told off again, so I walked past her and pretended I hadn't seen her.

Two days later, she committed suicide.

Annick was a very private person. The reasons that made her take her own life, the titillating details of her private life, have been spread around, discussed and analyzed ad nauseum. It was a shock to everyone. But despite the theories, opinions and analyses - which might be comforting to some - I'm not sure it's really possible to understand 'why'.

I can't get that image of her alone at the table out of my head. But I know it wouldn't have changed anything if I had stopped to talk to her.

There are those among us who appear to be put together, confident and polished, but are very fragile and cracked underneath. They can, one day, suddenly break apart in your hands.

I hope to handle the next ones I meet with more care and understanding.

This is for Annick. May she rest in peace.

Six Degrees of Separation

2008-03-20T15:00:00.001Z

I, like a lot of people, read lots of blogs. I read Huffington Post and DailyKos for political news, Go Fug Yourself for a good laugh, regularly send the 'Crap Email from a Dude' section of Jezebel to girlfriends who are having boy trouble, and when I'm feeling down, get a boost from Cute Overload and the Daily Kitten. I am also addicted to several blogs written by smart funny women, be it Pioneer Woman, A Little Pregnant, Suburban Bliss, Dooce, Poundy, Finslippy, Amalah, Whoopee, One Good Thing, or Les Cadeaux.

These blogs make me feel connected, particularly to things in the US, something I don't want to lose for fear of becoming a snotty expatriate ass. I have met my share of holier-than-thou expats, and they are some of the most insufferable people on earth. I even made my friends back home promise me that if I ever started to act like my shit didn't stink because I live in PAAAAARIS, they would personally come knock some sense into me pronto.

I don't comment very often on the blogs I read, mostly because I don't feel the need to add to what are invariably interesting, funny and thoughtful posts, but occasionally there comes a time when I absolutely have to share. The other day, I read on Molly's blog, Les Cadeaux, a post in which she talked about getting divorced and starting over at 33. I was moved by the grace of her writing, and added my comment to share my own experience with divorce, in hopes it would give her a little boost. She sweetly sent me an email thanking me for my comment, and I wrote her back. At the same time, I was exchanging emails with my sister about things totally unrelated.

The next day, I came into work to find an email from my sister with the subject line 'Not to Freak You Out But' and the verbatim text of my comment on Molly's blog with 'sound familiar?' added to the end. I suddenly panicked, thinking I had inadvertently sent the comment to my sister instead - and god she must think I've lost it. But it turns out a friend of my sister's also reads Molly's blog, had seen my comment, and called my sister the next morning to say, 'I think I know who your sister is!'

Sorta freaky, sorta cool, non?

Which now makes me think I really should update my blog more often. You know, if people besides my immediate family and friends are actually reading it.

There are actually people reading this, right?

Cultural Differences

2008-02-07T15:22:00.000Z

A colleague of mine sent me an email the other day asking for some translation help. As the executive assistant to one of the big bosses, she was preparing a meeting in Paris with some foreign executives, and had written the assistant of one of them to ask what they typically had for breakfast. The reply had her mystified, which led her to seek out my help.

'Miss Penelope,' her email read, 'could you help me out with what this means? I am at a loss!'

I scanned the list, and to my horror, saw the foreign assistant's original message :

"They prefer to eat fresh fruits such as cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, mango and papaya. In the mornings, fresh fruit, cinnamon raisin bagel with honey nut cream cheese, coffee with two brown sugar (sugar in the raw) and hazel nut creamer. They especially enjoy Aquafina water, cranberry juice and Tropicana apple juice. . "

My colleague had highlighted the words she could not immediately understand :

Canteloupe
Honeydew
Cinnamon raisin bagel
Honey nut cream cheese
Sugar in the raw
Hazelnut creamer
Aquafina water

I sent her my best attempt (there is no way to translate 'hazelnut creamer' - thank god.) but I didn't at first understand why she needed these particularly American items translated. I picked up the phone.

'Hi, it's me. Um, what is this for?' I asked. I couldn't imagine she was putting this in a presentation. My company is hardly Kraft Foods, after all. She explained she had to organize a breakfast meeting and just wanted to make sure she got the right things for everyone.

'Is there an American grocery store in Paris where I can find this stuff?' she asked, sounding a little desperate.

'Oh thank god, no,' I said, 'Heaven forbid! It's bad enough you guys have fucking Oreo cookie fucking cereal but if you start stocking hazelnut creamer I swear I'll jump off the Eiffel Tower in despair.'

There was a slight uncomfortable silence on the other end.

'Let me explain what 'hazelnut creamer' is. 'Creamer' is an entirely processed white liquid made to look like milk, but doesn't have the slightest drop of anything naturally occurring, like, oh I don't know, cream, to which is then added entirely fake hazelnut flavoring. You put this in your coffee.'

'Oh my,' she replied.

'Exactly,' I said, 'and, okay, bagels. You can find bagels in the Jewish quarter, but they are certainly not going to be fucking cinnamon raisin, for god's sake, and if you are remotely able to find cream cheese, it absolutely will not be goddamn honey nut.'

'Okay,' she said slowly, sensing she just needed to let me blow off the steam.

'And Aquafina water? Does this person actually think it is necessary to specify the brand name of fucking bottled water? It's like if you told someone in buttfuck Indiana that your boss needed to have a liter bottle of Panna, Lavazza espresso, pain au lait and chouquettes, with a heaping bowl of mirabelles and reines claudes.'

'I see,' she said, sounding relieved she wouldn't be schlepping all over the Marais.

'I'm going to hazard a guess,' I continued, 'this person who responded to you has never left the United States.'

'I suppose not,' she replied.

'Look, this is what you do : you order a nice quantity of croissants and pain au chocolat - everybody loves them - some fresh fruit, some bottled water and coffee, and it will be just fine. Trust me.'

And Time magazine declared French culture dead.

Not quite yet.

Only in France

2008-01-16T15:25:00.000Z

In reading the paper the other day, my eye was drawn to a small article titled 'Bomb Scare in Créteil.' A suspicious package was found in a municipal office in Créteil (a Paris suburb) and the building's 60 odd workers were evacuated until the package could be inspected. Police arrived on scene.

In France, good wishes for the new year are sent out all throughout the month of January, so cards and presents are still trickling in people's homes and offices.

The suspicious package turned out to be rather harmless. Not a bomb or anthrax, it was instead a generous gift to the municipal workers of Créteil in the form of a nice size jar of foie gras. Traditional for the new year.

Only in France, kids, only in France.

My Brush with Celebrity

2007-12-17T17:00:00.000Z

I had just arrived in Paris three years ago when a screenwriter friend generously invited me to attend the first screening of his movie at the Opera Garnier. I panicked that I had nothing to wear. Figuring it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I thought why not go to Galeries Lafayette and splurge on an evening gown? Countless evening gowns later, which were either too small in the butt or too big in the chest, I finally asked the salesgirl for advice.

'Don't you have anything that would look good on someone who's Jennifer Lopez in the rear and Kate Moss in the top?'

She frowned. 'I'll see what I can find,' she said, throwing open the curtain to the dressing room and disappearing back into the store.

I finally settled on an extremely overpriced ruffled spaghetti strap top and horribly expensive silk pants. I had never spent that much on one outfit in my entire life. (But that was my first year in Paris. The real spending, it came later.) The hem of the silk pants came undone after wearing them only two times. Then I accidentally washed them. In my washing machine. I really should never buy expensive things - they deserve better homes.

The night of the film screening, I got a big kick out of the people watching. My friend had told me there would be lots of celebrities and other VIPs there, and I tried to guess who amongst the crowd was someone famous. Usually, the women who wear something totally kooky are either in fashion, the arts or rich enough to buy some of the horrors you see from the haute couture designers. One woman, whom I supposed was a VIP from the outfit she was wearing, had on those footie things they give you in shoe stores to make it easier to slip in your feet, only hers were violet and she was wearing them with gold strappy high heeled sandals and an evening gown. Confused? So was I. So much so that I didn't even notice what her dress looked like.

But I was also slightly concerned that the red wool cape I had chosen to wear over my horribly expensive black outfit would be out of place. Too flashy. Too old rich lady looking. I was terrified I would be the only person in red.

I was.

But la dee dah, I was at a private screening with real French movie stars! None of whom I recognized! Well that's not entirely true.

After the screening, there was a champagne reception. My friend, nervous about the reviews, downed two glasses in a row while listening with half an ear to the hollow assurances of his agent. I was looking around when I caught sight of someone I thought I recognized. He was obviously famous, surrounded by a group of people eagerly vying for his attention, his arm draped around a blonde half his age in an elaborate red evening gown and, to my surprise, a regular pony tail, complete with an everyday elastic band. (The I-don't-spend-time-on-my-hair look is very popular here.) He was only a few feet away and I was looking straight at him, trying to place who he was. I had a vague sense that he was a has-been singer, but then maybe I had seen him in a movie, too. I suppose I must have had an intense look on my face that made him think I wanted to get his attention because he began to stare back. Intensely. Desperate to place him, I poked my friend's arm.

"Who is that guy standing over there? Some cheesy singer, right? Or is he an actor?"

My friend discreetly looked over and turned back around to look at me incredulously before saying, 'That's Patrick Bruel!"

"Oooooh!! That explains it!" I replied, relieved to have put the name to the face. Patrick Bruel is indeed both a has-been singer, and nowadays, more an actor than anything else. A pretty darn good actor, too, I have to admit. In his musical heyday, though, his concerts were composed of masses teenage girls screaming "PAATRIIIIIIICK!!!!!" swooning and bursting into tears at his rather fluffy lyrics.

By this time, my friend was introducing me to some of his acquaintances, and I had my back turned towards Paaatriiiiiiick and his entourage, who were starting to head out. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him slip through the crowd behind me, and to my utter amazement, felt his hand cup my ass as he passed by. I nearly choked on my mouthful of champagne. My friend saw the expression on my face and asked if anything was wrong. I waited until I was sure the entourage was out of hearing distance and leaned in to whisper,

"I can't believe this, but Patrick Bruel just grabbed my ass!"

"You're kidding me!" my friend said.

"I swear!" I took another sip of champagne and looked moonily at my ass, "I'll never wash that cheek again. I will have it bronzed! PAATRIIIICK!!"

The next day at work, I couldn't help myself. I pranced around my office and stuck out my rear, saying,

"Do you wanna touch this? This right here? Cause last night, baby, Patrick Bruel sure did!!"

The story proved so popular that one day recently - three years after the fact, mind you - a colleague sent me the following email :

"Just heard Patrick Bruel is getting divorced.....You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

Strike Number One

2007-10-17T20:49:00.000+01:00

Here in Paris (and for that matter, France) we are all gearing up for a massive public transportation strike as of this evening. I went through the one in 2003 when I first got here, when I unnecessarily walked all the way from my apartment to work (the metro line I needed was in fact running, but at reduced frequency) but it was so soon after my arrival that it seemed all shiny and new and part of the 'authentic' living-in-Paris experience. I actually was annoyingly bubbly and got a kick out of noticing things I never get the chance to see from inside the metro. My coworkers were not amused when I showed up smiling and flushed at 11 in the morning.

This time, however, the entire country will be affected. This one is a doozy, with all the various public transportation unions united in their efforts to cripple the whole system. The SNCF regional and international trains, as well as all suburban trains into and out of Paris, and the entire metro system and buses will be on strike. The bone of contention is the current government's plan to reform these workers' 'special' retirement plans. As best I understand the situation, anyone at 60 years of age and after 40 years of working may retire with full benefits. The workers of the public transportation systems, however, only have to work for 37 years before they get the same benefits. This is seen as unfair and preferential, so the government plans to reform the law so that everyone is on an equal playing field.

The strike planned for tonight and tomorrow (and possibly beyond) is so massive that most metro lines will have no service whatsoever, most suburban trains will not run, and - imagine this for a moment - all regional trains connecting various parts of the country will come to a screeching halt. Most people I know at work have taken the day off or gotten permission to work from home. At the very least, it might prove to be a positive step in getting telecommuting into the forefront, but I have my doubts. I, of course, not living in the cut-off suburbs (thank goodness) nor having any children to worry about transporting, have agreed to sub for my co-worker, who has both children and an hour and a half commute by suburban train. (Shudder.)

In order to get to work, I sneakily asked Handsome - who has a car - if he had any plans tonight, and if he might be willing to drop me off tomorrow morning somewhere within walking distance to La Defense, the eyesore of a suburb where I work. He of course agreed, but called me earlier in the day to warn me we should get up around 6:30 (quelle horreur) to be on the road no later than 7 so that he can then make it to a freelance job at 9:30 in the city centre.

Getting back home will be a challenge, but I think I will risk the metro line - which is supposed to run at 15% of its normal frequency - to the Arc de Triomphe and walk from there.

I guess I'll actually put some comfortable shoes in my bag.

Sigh.

How You Know You Are Officially Over the Hill

2007-09-04T15:52:00.000+01:00

My good friend Patrick and his roommate Eliane threw a birthday party recently in their swank three-bedroom apartment near Bastille. Handsome and I were more than happy to come help them celebrate with much champagne and wine.

While sitting on the balcony overlooking the avenue Ledru Rollin and exchanging pleasantries with the other guests about paid internships and first jobs out of college, it occurred to us that we were the oldest people there.

They were talking about their current experiences.

"Oh, but age is a state of mind," I later protested to Handsome, as Eliane came out to greet us.

She squatted down on her heels to be on eye level with us and asked if we needed our drinks refreshed. We waved away her concern, assuring her we were fine.

"Happy Birthday!" Handsome said.

"Yes, Happy Birthday, and may all your wishes come true," I chimed in. We each gave her two birthday kisses on the cheek.

"So," I ventured, "what year are we celebrating?"

Luckily it was dark out, so she couldn't see us blanch when she told us.

There was a pause, and Handsome choked back a cough.

"Oh, come on, I'm sure you're not far away," she chided.

Handsome and I exchanged worried glances.

"Um," I managed.

"No, really," she insisted, "how old are you guys?" She looked up expectantly at us.

I poked Handsome in the ribs so he would go first.

"Forty-one," he said a little sheepishly.

"WOW!" she replied, obviously surprised. We weren't sure that was necessarily good. "And how old are you?" she asked, turning to me.

"I'll be thirty-six in October," I said, as neutrally as I could.

"Wooow," she said, looking up at me admiringly, "I would love to look like you when I get to be your age!"

And with that, it was crystal clear : I am now officially an old fart.

Co-workers to be wary of

2007-08-25T22:30:00.001+01:00

I started a new position in June, and it's been rather slow going. My direct boss is out on sick leave, and it's August, a month in which everything in France comes to a screeching halt. That might be a slight exaggeration, but let's just say it's definitely the month most people go on vacation for at least three weeks. I heard a woman on the street complaining to her husband in a strong American accent, "I keep asking them about the project, but all anybody will tell me is 'We'll see in September' September! It's so annoying." I couldn't help but laugh out loud in solidarity as I passed her.

But since things are slow in my department, and I'm the new one, sometimes my coworkers who aren't on vacation will stop by for a little polite chat.

One afternoon a middle aged female coworker came by and asked how things were going. I made some non-commital response about it being a little slow, and eventually, it being August, the subject turned to vacations and hobbies. It turns out her hobby and passion is archery, which she discovered for the first time at a resort around 10 years ago. She explained to me how quickly she picked it up, how she joined a club and moved rapidly into competition level, eventually becoming the reigning French champion for five years in a row.

I've since been warned she has a propensity to go on for hours if you let her, but as she prattled on and I made the occasional replies of "Uh huh," and "Really", I secretly made a mental note:

DO NOT PISS THIS ONE OFF. HAS GOOD AIM.

The Pick Up

2007-08-12T12:52:00.000+01:00

I was waiting for the bus one day after work, and after checking and double checking that I was indeed waiting for the right bus going in the right direction (a constant challenge for me), my cell phone rang. It was my mom calling from the States, and we chatted over the street noise until I saw my bus approaching.

"Hold on a minute," I told her, "I have to get on the bus and pay my fare."

I was wearing one of my favorite dresses, a black and white giraffe patterned number that I bought in Madrid on the weekend my niece was born. I stepped onto the bus and swiped my fare card while holding my cell phone to my ear with my shoulder.* The bus driver, a pleasant-looking African man in his thirties, stood up as I boarded, and planted himself in front of me.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot take you**," he said, grinning.

"Hold on, Mom," I said into my phone, and then to him, "I'm sorry?" For a second there, I thought he was going tell me I couldn't board the bus while talking on my cell phone because it might disturb other passengers. This actually happened to me with a taxi at 2AM on a Saturday. I had to hang up before the driver would let me into her cab. But she was sort of freaky, anyway.

But back to the bus driver.

"I cannot take you," he repeated, "you are too charming."

I laughed. "How sweet," I replied, while trying to sidestep him to take a seat.

"No, seriously," he insisted, "I cannot take you, Mademoiselle, I'm sorry. But you really are too beautiful."

I let out a sort of 'mmheh, mmheh' polite chuckle, because, really, this was getting old fast.

"Okay, but is there some other problem?" I tried.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Um, the Gourgaud stop?" Suddenly I thought I might actually, despite all my double checking, be on the wrong bus.

"Well, technically, I am not supposed to take anyone at this stop because it is the terminus," he explained.

Nowhere on that route map did it say that this was the terminus, goddammit, I thought to myself.

"But because it is you," he beamed, "I will let you have a seat so you can accompany me to the next stop."

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," I said, "But I warn you, this is my mother I have on the phone, so you'd better be on your best behavior."

I could hear her voice from the phone in my hand. It reminded of a train trip we took to Prague from Paris, where the seats in our car pulled out into a reclining position, so when laying down, my feet were in front of her face. Next over from her was a Frenchman, and since he and I were facing each other, we naturally got to talking in French. It was polite talk, and despite taking place other over my mother's feet, it had a distinct air of sensuality as we lounged on our sides, leaning on our elbows, and rocking to the rhythm of the train. My mother quickly got tired of being left out of the conversation, and promptly stuck her finger in my sock to poke my foot saying, "What are you two talking about?"

The bus driver laughed and said, "Tell her I would love to be able to call her 'Mother' some day."

"Oh ho!" I remarked, thinking good lord, that was quite a leap.

"Well?" he said.

"Hmm?" I replied, starting to raise my phone back up to my ear. My poor mother was paying for this call.

"It's usually the first step to get the approval of the daughter," he teased.

"Usually, yes, it is," I replied, thinking, finally, it's time for the 'I'm not interested' part. Maybe after we get that over with, I can finally sit down. I've always had trouble responding to a man's compliment or flirtation by abruptly announcing I'm taken. I consider that being on the receiving end does not commit me to anything other than a 'thank you'. I'd rather take the compliment like a lady and leave it at that. But rarely do things end there. Especially in France.

"Well?" he pressed.

"Well that's all very sweet of you, but I'm taken," I said. "And very happy," I added, anticipating the I-don't-care-if-you-have-a-boyfriend-let's-have-a-little-fun-anyway reply.

"Aww, too bad," he said, looking genuinely disappointed. He finally moved aside to let me take a seat.

I sat down in a window seat and put my phone up to my ear. "Sorry about that, Mom," I said.

"What were you two talking about?" she prodded.

* I know I shouldn't do that, Handsome, I know.

** This is even more blatantly a double entendre in French, although it only occurs to me now as I wrote this entry that perhaps he used that phrase on purpose?

I Cannot Stop Doing This

2007-07-23T15:56:00.000+01:00

Unfortunately, I have a bit more time on my hands than I imagined, so it was a stroke of luck this rainy cold morning (I am so not kidding - in JULY, no less!) to stumble upon the website promoting "The Simpsons" movie, coming out on July 27th worldwide. On the site, you can create your own Simpsons avatar by selecting skin color, weight, hairstyle, nose, etc.

I have been doing this all day, and I cannot stop.

Behold my first attempt :

Not bad for a likeness, huh?

But I thought there might be a hairdo I had overlooked that would be closer to my actual one, so I tried this on for size :

And then I thought, hmm, the nose. While pretty darn close to my real one, why not get a painless and free nose job while you can? And there was something a little too perky about the eyes.

Much better. And as a last touch, let's try the other hairdo :

PERFECTION!!! I absolutely love the annoyed look.

Speaking of annoyed, here is one you could call the teenage me :

I loved doing this so much, I thought, why don't I do one of my sister*?

And then I just couldn't stop. Here is one of my mother :

And for those of you who are curious as to just how handsome Handsome really is, check this out :

* Her real glasses are much cooler than these.

Gadjo Dilo*

2007-07-12T23:20:00.000+01:00

I often complain to Handsome that although my apartment is in a tony neighborhood, the street I live on is very fucking loud.

Mostly because at all hours of the day and night, tony little teenage boys, wearing jeans and oxford shirts hanging out of cashmere sweaters, like to speed their annoying little motorbikes down my street. Motorbikes whose mufflers have been removed on purpose. I can hear them all the way down the block before I ever see them. The acoustics of my street are like that : the sound travels around the curve just before my building, bounces off the opposite pierre de paris walls, and shoots straight into my living room.

Oddly enough, it never bothered me before we went on our trip to Atlanta and DC. Once we got back, after a whole month of lush yards full of birdsongs, I suddenly couldn't stand the noise - like collossal mosquitoes heading straight for me, only to buzz right past my ear and keep going.

I've taken to shooting them the finger from the safety of my apartment, or muttering curses and insults under my breath like some bitter old lady. I'm sure Handsome finds this totally sexy.

Then there is the normal, everyday garbage and recycled glass collection. Did I mention I live next door to a tony restaurant? Which generates a lot of glass bottles? Which get collected at 6:30 in the morning? The garbagemen also like to shout instructions across to each other. I have no doubt that this, like the missing mufflers, is very much on purpose.

Oh, and I should add that I also live near a private elementary school. I can attest to the fact that little children going to school at 8 in the morning make a lot of noise.

To make matters worse, the city of Paris has planned many things for my street this summer. First off, an initiative called 'Vélib', whereby 750 bicycle rental stands are to be installed around the city by July 15th. There are at least two near my apartment - both of whose installations could be clearly heard from beginning to end. Starting at 8:01 in the morning.

Then the city decided to replace the streetlamps. Every single one that lines my street. Do you have the faintest idea how much noise is generated by tearing up sidewalks, pavement, and installing new streetlamps? One thing I can tell you : it requires a lot of fucking jackhammers. At 8 in the morning.

You would think with all this noise early in the morning, I would have no trouble getting up and getting ready for work at a decent hour. You would be wrong. I am one stubborn motherfucker when it comes to the snooze button.

So it came as a particularly welcome auditory surprise Tuesday evening, when walking back from the grocery store, to hear - instead of all this grating noise - a brass band marching down the street. I stopped in my tracks to listen. 'When the Saints Go Marching In' came floating around the bend, and I immediately thought, 'A jazz funeral in the 16th arrondissement?' I tried to remember if it was a holiday, if there was some reason for commemoration. With all the obscure Catholic observances, one can never tell.

I waited for them to appear, curious to see how many they were and how they were dressed. Then I saw them : three bedraggled Gypsy men - two trumpets and a French horn/tuba hybrid - dressed in worn-out green band jackets and old fashioned straw hats, like a barbershop quartet. They walked slowly down the middle of the road, pushing a duct-taped boom box blaring background music in a rolling cart, nonchalantly blocking traffic and raising their instruments to the apartment buildings they passed. A city bus got stuck behind them, and to my amazement, the driver didn't honk or gesture for them to get out of the way, but as he rounded a corner and managed to squeeze by them, laughed and stuck up his thumb in approval. The passengers gaped at the scene from the windows. People appeared on their balconies to watch and listen; windows opened and heads stuck out to see what was going on.

The man playing the French horn made the rounds of the sidewalks, sticking out his hat to collect coins from passersby, some who stopped to contribute, some who continued on but waved and clapped. Almost everyone was smiling and laughing, shaking their heads at the gumption.

In an instant, they had transformed an early gray evening, when people normally wearing stern and determined Parisian expressions rushed to do their shopping for dinner before the stores closed, into a moment of wonder.

I hurried back to my apartment to grab my camera. At the pace they were going, I could beat them there and make it back downstairs in time. I waited for them to come around the bend before my building, taking up sentry next to the valet of the tony restaurant, a charming young man in his early twenties who always has a smile and a wave at the ready.

'What's going on?' he asked in his usual friendly tone.

'It's a group of street musicians, who've literally taken over the street!' I exclaimed happily.

We watched them arrive. They were now playing 'Hava Nagila', much to my amusement. I sang and danced along, kicking my legs out to the left and right, and as they approached, I stepped out to the French horn player to give him some coins and a pack of cigarettes. He tipped his hat in thanks and let me take his picture.

I motioned that I was done, and they slowly moved on, to the utter bewilderment of the tony customers trying to make their way to the restaurant entrance. The valet leapt to open the door and usher them inside.

Once back outside at his post, he said, 'Wow, you were really generous to them!'

'Hey,' I replied, 'it's not easy to get a whole street full of Parisians to smile, and that should be rewarded.'

*'Crazy foreigner' in Romany, and the name of an excellent movie by Tony Gatlif, a director of Gypsy descent who has made many films about Gypsy life.

Romantic Conversations - Part 3*

2007-07-02T10:51:00.000+01:00

We've decided to take the plunge.

No, not marriage.

Not kids either.

Something even scarier.

We have decided to brave the Paris real estate market and buy an apartment together.

I have no idea how to actually go about this, and only a vague idea of how much pasta we will have to eat in order to afford a two bedroom, but am nonetheless excited about owning a (very) small little piece of Paris.

Since we haven't done the first thing about actually starting the process, though, I sometimes forget we actually made that decision.

As evidenced by this little exchange the other night in bed.

Me: "So are you working nights next week?"

Him: "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "Oh, ok. I suppose I should get used to it."

Him: "Mnhnm??"

Me: "I mean, with your new job starting in July, you'll be working nights and I won't get to see you that much."

He hooked his arm over me to pull me tighter next to him and replied,

"Of course you'll see me! Especially if we live together, you dumbass."

A month in the US has done wonders for his vocabulary.

* Parts 1 and 2 can be found here.

De Retour a Paris

2007-05-23T22:46:00.000+01:00

Handsome and I returned from our lovely month-long trip to Atlanta and Washington, D.C. on Sunday, and have lots to report.

We spent four weeks eating local specialties and hard-to-find-in-Paris ethnic food; drinking California, Oregon, South African and Australian wines (not to mention Bulgarian!); visiting museums, zoos and historical sites; and most importantly, spending time with family and friends.

I still marvel, even after three years here, that I live in a place where taking a month off in the springtime is no big deal.

In fact, when we went to pick up the rental car in DC, the guy behind the counter couldn't resist asking,

"So, what do you guys do for a living that you can take a whole month off?"

Handsome and I exchanged smug looks.

"That's normal in France," I answered, smiling.

"Geez, I only get seven days this year," he replied.

"You're in the wrong country," I said.

Being home was fabulous.

But as I watch from my bedroom window the searchlights slowly rotate on the top of the Eiffel Tower, spreading beams of light across the roofs of Paris, I know I am where I want to be.

Reason #8745 Why I Love My Mother

2007-04-16T18:22:00.000+01:00

My mother called me the other day to discuss some details about our upcoming trip.

"I've prepared some things, like the guest bedroom, but I haven't prepared my French phrases like I said I was going to," she admitted.

"Oh don't worry about that," I reassured her.

"But I'm afraid he will think I'm all bumbling and dumb if I try to say something in French and I haven't practiced," she explained, referring of course to Handsome. He bravely decided to come with me on this trip home to meet my family and friends. Fearless man that he is.

"Oh, but he is just as worried about his English as you are about your French," I explained.

Without missing a beat, she proclaimed in slight Southern lilt,

"Well, maybe we'll just hold hands and coo."

WELCOME!!

2007-03-28T09:06:00.000+01:00

Welcome with love :

Meaghan Sophia Kelly

Born : March 10th at 8:24 PM

7 pounds 7 ounces

19.5 inches

The sweetest little niece a girl could ask for.

I can't wait to meet you.

La Môme

2007-03-15T15:33:00.000Z

The album at the front of my parents' record collection, the one whose cover I could see as a little girl from almost every angle of the room, secretly terrified me. The pastel sketch of a sunken, tortured Edith Piaf made me uneasy. The artist had portrayed her haggard face in a such a way that for the first time I understood that some people were not completely happy. Something in her eyes and hollowed out cheeks made me recognize, in my own childishly vague way, the existence of sadness, suffering and death. It reminded me, in fact, of a skeleton, although I can't think where I might have actually seen one at that age.

My parents played her records often. I remember twirling around the living room to "La Goulante du Pauvre Jean" and imitating the movements I thought were those of a woman in love to "La Vie en Rose" and "Hymne à l'Amour." I had no idea that the voice which at turns transfixed and annoyed me - "Bravo pour le Clown" and "Ca Ira" really, really grated on my nerves - belonged to the woman on the scary album cover. Without understanding the actual lyrics, her voice communicated the emotion she was singing about, be it love or dancing in a crowd.

Years later when I was learning French, her songs took on a new dimension as I rolled over my tongue the sweet simplicity of lines like, "Il me dit des mots d'amour/ des mots de tous les jours / et ça me fait quelque chose." *

When I went to Paris for the first time, it was her voice that was the background music to my strolls along the quais of the Seine, my pilgramges to Hemingway haunts such as the Shakespeare & Company bookstore and the Closerie des Lilas, and my attempts to strike poses in cafés worthy of Doisneau photographs. A blonde American teenager trying to look sufficiently European, mysterious and brooding over her afternoon café au lait and ridiculously strong Gitane filterless cigarettes must have been touchingly naive and cliché. (Pardon my French).

A film has just come out about her life, which Handsome and I went to see. Called "La Môme" over here, and "La Vie en Rose" in the US, the press has been abuzz about the young actress, Marion Cotillard, who plays the role of Edith Piaf, and how amazingly she disappears into the skin of the French legend. Ms. Cotillard is only in her twenties, and had some successes on her film resume, but no one except the director thought she was capable of pulling off such a role, much less carrying the entire film.

She is incredible.

Amazing.

Stupefying.

Go see it.

*He tells me words of love / everyday words / and that does something to me.

Cabernet Frank - Part Deux

2007-02-19T12:45:00.000Z

Unfortunately, we couldn't make it to the wine tasting, deciding to go the Robert Doisneau exhibit at the Hotel de Ville instead. It was definitely worth it. Doisneau photos (and a cute 16-year old exchange student) were how I first fell in love with Paris. I am still incredulous that I now actually live here.

Still, I was a bit disappointed we didn't attend the wine tasting. I was all set to go, taste a few different ones, and find the right moment to declare,

"Now this, this is a wine that doesn't beat around the bush!"

or

After giving my glass a little theatrical swirl and taking a sip,

"Whoah, boy! This is a wine that says what's on its mind!"

Alas, I will have to find another way to embarrass Handsome in public.

Hmmmm......

Cabernet Frank

2007-02-16T12:30:00.000Z

Handsome and I are on a mailing list for a nice little wine store near my apartment. It's on one of those lovely pedestrian streets, which on Saturdays and Sundays, transforms itself into an outdoor market replete with fruits and vegetables in season, stinky cheeses, meats and fish, pots and pans, knife sets, inexpensive clothing, flowers, and even an antique chair repairer. I always get the name confused with another street nearby. One is called 'rue de l'Assomption' and the other is 'rue de l'Annonciation'.

I usually just refer to it as the "rue de l'Ah Ah Ah." Handsome thankfully speaks Penelopese.

We got an email today from the wine shop announcing their Saturday wine tasting, encouraging us to come taste two little wines from Touraine: a Gamay and a Chenin. Described as 'bursting with fruit' and 'rich', I was all for making sure we stopped by, but what really convinced me was the last line in the invitation.

"These wines will seduce you with their frankness and richness."*

I don't know about you, but if there is one thing I can't stand, it's a dishonest wine.

*"Ces vins vous séduiront par leur franchise et leur richesse."

Romantic Conversations - Part Two

2007-01-31T17:51:00.000Z

I've gotten really used to having Handsome around. I don't even clean up my apartment before he comes over anymore.

This has me worried.

I'm afraid, I suppose, that I will eventually get too comfortable. That I will let myself go and become unattractive. This is the only explanation I can come up with to justify what came out of my mouth last night as we were settling into bed.

"I'm so lucky to have you," I cooed, touching his face.

"I'm lucky too," he murmured.

"Yeah, but I walk around in my slippers and cooking apron," I countered, "and I even talk to you while I pluck my nipple hairs."

There was a slight pause while he considered this.

"Yeah, well, I'll let you watch me shave my balls sometime."

Romantic Conversations - Part One

2007-01-31T15:50:00.000Z

One day last fall, Handsome and I had gone to the suburbs to help his father dismantle some light fixtures before he and his mother moved to their house in the country.

As usual - at his father's bidding - we ate and drank too much at lunchtime. Unable to move, we declared we were taking a nap before finishing up the chores.

Comfortably spooning under the covers in his parents' bed, his arms around me, Handsome murmured into my ear,

"You know, I feel so good with you. I like you."

"You like me?" I retorted, "Is that all? You like your friends. You like steak. You like your mailman!"

"Oh, come on," he said, nudging me with his knee,"You know I love you. Now stop bugging me."

Yesssss! Yesss! YESSSSS!!!!

2006-12-25T19:46:00.000Z

Can I find the absolute best way to piss off my upstairs neighbor, who already rues the day I moved in?

YES I CAN!

Not content with merely annoying my downstairs neighbor by throwing a Thanksgiving party at the ungodly hour of 8:30 PM on a Saturday - whereby she started to pound on the wall at exactly 8:45 PM - Handsome and I recently brilliantly succeeded in enraging my upstairs neighbor as well.

This would not be the first time. I managed to piss her off all by myself months ago.

See, in Handsome's family, they have a tradition. They have a family song, which is used at any time to congratulate someone on a job well done. For practical purposes, I'll call it the "Chic a l'amour" song, it being the first line. One person will suggest the person to whom the song should be directed, which is everyone's cue to begin. For example, if the meal is particularly good (which it very often is) one person will say, "Chic a l'amour to Arlette, for the pot roast!" and everyone will join in. The song is accompanied by rhythmic claps and hand waving. You have to experience it to believe it. Luckily, the first time I was introduced to the family, Handsome had warned me in advance. Otherwise, I think my brain would have imploded trying to understand what the hell was going on.

But it does not end there. The Handsome family, they likes them some singing. Very often, after they have gathered around the table and eaten to their hearts' content, they designate someone at the table, and that person has to sing a song. Any song. On the spot. A cappella.

The first time this happened to me, I had brought along my friend Kitty, who has a really good set of pipes. She was sitting next to me, and sang 'Hymne a l'amour' like I wanted to. Perfectly. Bitch. So I was left scrambling for something else. I have no memory of what I eventually came up with. I've blocked it out.

But then it happened again. On a totally different occasion, in a totally different locale. We were once again all gathered around the table, someone got pointed at, and it began. Only this time, it was more like karaoke. Handsome's 11 year-old nephew had a whole DJ console installed in the kitchen, complete with a mike, CD player, keyboard, disco ball and lights. (Have I mentioned how much I love this family?) But once again, I was on the spot, with no song to sing. I passed, blushing in embarassment.

And then couldn't stop thinking about it. All night.

Surely I knew one song sort of by heart that I could share? Me, who used to spend hours in my mother's garden, singing my head off?

The evening was winding down, and people were clearing the dishes and preparing to go to bed. And I was still thinking about it.

Shyly, I pulled on Handsome's shirt and whispered that I thought I could sing that one song on the jazz CD we had listened to in the car on the way down. He nodded encouragement.

I went to get it, and came back into the kitchen, the CD clutched in my clammy hands like Oliver's bowl of gruel. Please sir, can you put this on? I almost whispered to the 11 year-old in charge.

Handsome cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. People were finishing up their last dregs of coffee and most had started to get up and stretch before going upstairs.

"Um, Penelope has a song she would like to sing for us," he announced.

Everyone looked a little surprised. but slowly sat back down. I handed the CD to the preteen DJ and told him which track to play. I gripped the microphone like my life depended on it, and weakly ambled through the jazz ballad. The original jazz ballad composed specifically for that unknown vocalist, so it's not like anyone would have recognized it even if I hadn't completely botched it. There was a modest smattering of polite applause.

And then everyone finally went to bed.

Later on, curled up in Handsome's arms, I whined,

"Nobody liked my song."

"Yes they did," he countered.

"No they didn't," I pouted. "I saw them, looking all confused, like, what the hell? It was jazz, and they don't ever listen to that. But I don't know any Claude Francois or Johnny Hallyday." I sniffled.

"But that's you," he said, "that's your contribution as an American : jazz! Don't forget, they don't speak English that well, so you can't expect them to exactly sing along."

I was mildly comforted.

But once back in Paris, I was determined never to be caught off guard again. I went through my CDs and compiled a repertoire of songs I liked and could easily learn by heart. I began to transcribe lyrics. I played and replayed them. And once I had two songs' lyrics written down, I began to practice. Again and again.

Until I heard a knock on my door.

I froze, and looked at my cell phone for the time. 2 AM. On a Tuesday. I didn't move a muscle.

A haggard voice came from behind the door,

"Could you please stop singing?"

Oops.

Handsome came back at 5 AM after getting off the night shift . It was the day after my birthday.

Standing up next to the bed, he started, "Haaappy Birrrrthday to Yooouuuuu!!!"

"SSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!! No singing!!" I stage whispered, "She will KILL me!!"

"Who? What are you talking about?" He waved his arms about like a conductor and took a breath like he was going to go for the second bar.

I clamped my hand over his mouth. "I'll explain later!" I hissed.

I totally understand if she hates me.

You would think I would be extra careful after that. You would think I could not find a way to piss her off more.

You would be wrong.

I've only seen her in the flesh once. But I get the feeling she is a mite sensitive about the wreck her love life seems to be in. I make this sweeping judgement based on the shouting matches I've overheard her get into with the person I can only assume is her (not too frequent) boyfriend.

So I really should have known better.

I admit that it was late. 3AM, to be exact. I admit that I mometarily forgot we were not alone in the world. I admit that we made some noise on top of the dining room table. I was going for a second round of 'yesses' when we heard an angry thumping on the ceiling. The ceiling my head was bent up towards. The ceiling that would be her dining room floor.

I would not be surprised if she's made a voodoo doll of me. Which she regularly pricks with pins. In its vocal chords.

The next day, we came back from dinner to find this note under the door.

*Translation : Please try to be at least a little discreet in your intimate acts at 3AM.

So, Penelope? Can you try a little harder to rub it in? Can you just shoot for the jugular? Can you find the best way to make friends in the building in the snootiest neighborhood in Paris?

Oh, yesss! YESS!!! YEEESSSS!!!!! You can, Canon!

Signs

2006-12-24T11:56:00.000Z

I've come to realize that I have a thing for signs and advertisements. I love the Marilyn Monroe 'Lustre Cream' shampoo ad I have hanging in my bathroom, and one of most prized pieces of art is an antique Erte poster advertising a show at the Folies Bergeres.

So it should come as no surprise that while in Turkey over the summer, I was delighted to find it rich with signs that beguiled, puzzled and outright made me double over laughing.

Tourists are routinely warned about what ruses to avoid in Turkey, such as agreeing to follow someone in the Grand Bazaar market who insists he has better merchandise to show you at his cousin Mehmet's stand, which is just over here down this alley.... Another very common way to be had is to follow the recommondations of that very nice man at the train /bus station or airport who recommended you go to such and such hotel or restaurant, and - oops! The price is way more expensive for your fanny-pack wearing tourist self...

So, this little pension in Selcuk is to be commended for trying to assuage any lingering doubt:

Still, what about the trainsstation?

After you have spent the day visiting the incredible ruins at Ephesus, sweating and trying to appear intelligent by struggling to remember your Greek and Roman history, you just might want an altogether different kind of experience at the end of your tour. But you may be apprehensive about how much it's going to run you...

Only fifty cents for the magic? What's in that thing, anyway? See how the kid's hands are all bunched up in excitement? That must be one magical toilet!

Maybe you want to buy the missus a nice gift while in Turkey? How about a memento that is not only from an exotic locale, but completely oxymoronic?

A Rollex? A Piyaget? An authentic sham! Thanks, honey!

Perhaps you are hungry after walking around, and are hankering for some kind of Turkish meal? Look no further.

Okay! Well that says it! I'll have one of those!

Feel like some water sports?

Let's not Dive........ instead......

Big Mable with us! Patriot with us! Banana with us! Let's exciting! In fun with us!

After all that physical exertion, you must be hungry again. You could always grab a bite at Ali and Sahil's.

Dude makes your mouth water, eh? Is Diana Steak some kind of Turkish meal?

At the end of your trip, suppose you have some Turkish lira leftover that you'd rather spend than exchange. Let's say you had anywhere from 4 to 500 Turkish lira. What could that buy you?

Hmmm..... figs or a flatscreen TV? Flatscreen TV or some figs? Decisions! Decisions!

Break a Leg, Part Two

2006-11-14T10:42:00.000Z

In a few minutes, I'll be going to my acting class.

I didn't get the part I really wanted : an ageing actress in a retirement home who scandalizes the other ladies by waxing nostalgic about her past love life and making fun of their fear of the outside world. She is fabulously bitchy.

The parts got chosen on a day I couldn't make it to class, so now I'm playing a teenager shocked by the murderous confessions of a crazy lady on a park bench.

I only accepted to be nice.

But I don't feel nice.

I secretly wish something would happen so I could have the part of the old bitch. I don't want anything bad to happen, of course, but you know, just a scheduling conflict where the person who got it can't make it. Something that would make her have to bow out. Then I could step in as the savior, have the part I really want, blow everyone away with my fantastic performance, all the while coming off as a team player who stepped up to bat to save the show.

Does that mean I am getting a tiny glimpse into the backstabbing, competitive and totally neurotic world of acting?

I think I'm just getting a lot of good practice at being a bitch.

PR Tag Team

2006-10-31T18:47:00.000Z

The hotel where we stayed in Turkey was one of those French-speaking all-inclusive club hotels which included airfare, accommodations, food and drinks in the price we paid up front.

I was apprehensive.

I expected to get annoyed because I prefer mingling with the locals, I don't like being told what, where and how on vacation and I especially don't like group-related activities. Invaribly, it makes me feel like I've regressed to my childhood and am stuck in a Brownies troupe meeting in some dank church basement being told by someone else's mother - never as cool or glamorous as mine - that I was supposed to glue macaroni on a square of burlap and give it to my parents as a present. This never quite made sense to me.

One afternoon at the club hotel, we were finishing up lunch when a member of the group activities staff stopped at our table and interrupted us with a dry bonjour aimed somewhere above our heads. Her job was to entertain, enthuse and convince as many French speaking guests as possible to partake in the activities offered. It took me a moment to realize she was talking to us, and expected a response.

"Bonjour," we replied cautiously.

"Coffee game at ten past?" she asked, still looking above our heads and shifting her weight from one leg to the other impatiently. Enthusiasm was not her strong suit.

"Excuse me?" I said. I had no idea what she was talking about, and her French was hard for me to understand.

"Coffee game. At ten past two. At the activity pool. You coming?" This time she actually looked at me, apparently to ascertain if I looked as stupid as I sounded.

"Coffee game?" I repeated, still having no idea what she could possibly mean. I understood the word 'coffee', and I clearly heard 'game', but putting the two together meant nothing to me.

Handsome was observing the scene and trying hard not to laugh, but realized he needed to come to my rescue.

"That's right, you aren't familiar with how all this works," he said with a huge grin. He put his hand on mine and signaled to the activity girl that he would take care of it. She left with a shrug and with what I expect was an expression of sympathy for Handsome for being saddled with such a dunce.

"Coffee game? What the hell is she talking about?" I asked.

"It's a game, like trivia, where you gather around the pool and play nicely with the other guests," he explained, still grinning widely at the expression on my face. Handsome worked for Club Med for years. If there's someone who knows how things work at an all-inclusive club hotel, it's him.

"To win a coffee?" I asked incredulously. Brewed coffee was included in the all-inclusive package, but espressos were not. This could only mean that in order to encourage you to mingle with the few other French speakers, and to avoid paying a mere 2 euros for an espresso, you would go play trivia by the activity pool. And possibly win. An espresso.

I was slightly annoyed.

At dinner later on, we had made the rounds of the fresh cheeses, olives, vegetables and fresh baked pide bread and were trying to find a table on the outside terrace, our hands full with plates and glasses. The only one available was a four-top with another couple already seated and two other seats available. We decided to go for it anyway.

"Excuse us, may we?" I asked in French, gesturing at the table. It was obvious they weren't Turkish.

"Of course," the woman replied as she looked up at us and smiled. She looked like a prettier version of Marianne Pearl.

We sat down and quietly began eating and talking in low tones so as not to disturb them.

"Have you been here long?" the woman asked after a while.

"Oh, we've been here a week now," I said, "and you?"

"We got here last night," she replied. They looked a little tired, and if it had been anything like our arrival at four in the morning, I could understand why.

"Is this your first time in Turkey?" Handsome asked, looking at them both.

"Yes, but we won a free week's vacation, and this was the only club that had space during the time we could come," she said. It was obvious Turkey had not been on their top ten list.

For some reason, I was slightly annoyed.

"Well if there is one thing you absolutely have to do while you're here," Handsome volunteered, "it's to go visit Ephesus. It's amazing how well-preserved the ruins are."

They didn't seem too interested. We continued nonetheless to enthusiastically encourage them to take advantage of being in a country with such a rich history, gorgeous landscapes, friendly people and good food. At the end of the meal, we wished them a good stay and told them we'd see them around.

The next day, we went on another excursion to visit the ruins of Didyma, Priene and Millet with a small group. Luckily, they were interesting and well traveled people and did not have the ridiculous expectation that everything should be like at home. There was even a man who had taken great pains to learn some basic Turkish, which admittedly impressed me. He was nice enough to be pretend to be impressed by my similar efforts. The group spent the whole day together, and by the end of it, I was worn out by the sun and the effort of being sociable.

We returned to the hotel, and retired to an outside cafe table for a last tea before aperitifs and dinner. We spotted a couple we had met during the day's excursion who seemed to be looking for a table, so we invited them over. I liked them. She was an elegant, very attractive woman in her late 50's, and he was tall and trim and had a full head of thick snow white hair. They had never once been condescending or critical. I especially appreciated that when she asked me questions about my impressions of living in France as an American, she always looked me in the eye, and did not make me feel as though she already knew what I would say and was just trying to prove herself correct. Most importantly, she never made me feel like a Hottentot Venus.
We chatted amiably about travels and cultural differences, and eventually went our separate ways to dinner.

Afterwards, Handsome and I had planned to go into town to have after-dinner drinks and smoke a houka in a bar we had noticed. After dinner, I went up to the room to change, leaving Handsome waiting in the lobby bar.

When I came back down, he was waiting for me at the elevator.

"Um, I ran into the couple from last night," he said anxiously, "and they asked what we were doing tonight, so I told them."

"And?" I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"So they asked if they could come along." He smiled facetiously wide.

"And you said yes!" I said, mimicking the smile and rubbing my hands together in fake enthusiasm.

"Uh huh!" he said. He turned serious. "Do you really mind?"

"Oh what the hell," I said, "let's show those people a good time."

"That's my girl!" Handsome replied, sticking out his arm for me to take.

But I was slightly annoyed.

We walked with the other couple from the hotel to the bar, making polite chit chat along the way. Inevitably Handsome ended up walking next to the guy, while I walked next to the woman and asked her questions about herself and her husband. It turned out she had just learned she was pregnant, which was enough conversational fodder to last through almost the whole evening. The husband seemed rather lifeless and monosyllabic, and I was grateful for the gender divide. In normal circumstances, it annoys the hell out of me.

At the end of the outing, we walked them back to the hotel and said our goodbyes in the lobby, wishing them again a nice stay.

"Man," I exclaimed, slumping in one of the lobby chairs with exhaustion, "we should totally get paid for that shit!"

"We fucking rock," he agreed, shaking my hand in congratulations, "and this hotel should totally hire us to help them with their PR, entertain their guests, and bring them out of their shells."

"We are a veritable coffee game and activity girl," I replied with a smirk.

Çok Güsel

2006-10-06T13:48:00.000+01:00

Yes, I know.

I have been quite a louse and not satisfied your desire for Turkey photos and Turkey stories. This I will try to rectify.

Only, you will have to be patient, as my internet connection at home is - yet again - not working, so I must do this Blogger thing surreptitiously from work. I don't exactly want to be the next "La Petite Anglaise", so you'll just have to bear with me as I sneak in a few sentences at a time, only to quickly hide the Blogger page with an Excel spreadsheet when I hear my boss' door open. (And really, this alone should raise his suspicions, as I'm not exactly a fan of the program.)

And now, Ladies and Gentelmen, I give you Turkey!

Taa daa! That was easy!

Except we didn't go to Istanbul, and that right there is the famous Blue Mosque located smack dab in the middle of that fine city. I don't exactly have all my Turkey photos with me at work, so this will have to do for the moment.

Okay, wait. I can at least tell you a funny story.

Handsome and I were on vacation in the lovely little tourist town of Kuşadası, located on the west coast in between Izmir and Bodrum. We had decided on a package deal with a 'French speaking club hotel'- which I have to admit I was less than enthusiastic about, expecting to find myself in the middle of Turkey eating cuisse de canard and bavette à l'échalote and trying desperately to block out songs by Michel Fougain and Johnny Hallyday blasting in from the organized activity pool. (As in Water aerobics! Stretching! Water polo!)

Thankfully, the hotel turned out to cater much more to the Turkish tourists, who far outnumbered all others, and weren't exactly interested in doing aerobics to un, deux, trois. The hotel served delicious and authentic Turkish cuisine, the staff was majority Turkish, and much to my delight, most of the music blasting from the activity pool was Tarkan, Candan Ertegun and the like.

By the end of the second day, we had already established a ritual. After spending all day snorkeling, scuba diving (full post on that later) or sightseeing, we would come back to the hotel, shower, get dressed up and head out to the the bar overlooking the sea to have a rakı and watch the sunset. I love an excuse to get dressed up. Especially if it's to go to a place called "The Harem Bar".

After a long day visiting the ruins at Aphrodisias during the beginning of our first week, I noticed an angry rash on my thigh, no doubt an allergic reaction to some plant or sea thing. For days, I regularly slathered it with copious amounts of bug cream, and even borrowed Handsome's super strength Egyptian cream, which normally gets rid of the most persistent irritations. But this rash was not going down without a fight, and it stubbornly ignored my attempts to placate it. After several days of no results, I had a flash of brilliance one evening as I was getting dressed up to go to the Harem Bar.

"Why not try toothpaste?" I thought.

The minty-ness would feel good, and it might turn out to be the miracle cure. (This probably only makes sense to me and mother, who believes aspirin, garlic and vinegar can combat just about anything that ails you.) Hey, it did a bang up job stopping up the nail holes in my former apartment, and it had even made my scuba mask stop fogging up. (An old divers' tip, apparently).

I spread the Colgate - extra whitening - on the rash, let it dry, and finished my toilette. I put on my flirty brown mini dress, dabbed on some perfume, and slipped into my high heeled strappy Brazilian sandals.

Handsome surveyed the results with a whistle of approval and held out his arm. We made our way through the hotel to the bar, keeping an eye on the time so as not to miss the setting of the sun. We waved at the hotel employees we had become friendly with, trotting out the Turkish for "Good evening!" and "How are you?" much to their delight and amusement.

We crossed the garden, passed the oxymoronically named "quiet" kiddie pool, and waved a hello to the diving instructor who was closing up shop below. We stepped up and onto the terrace of the Harem Bar, and I headed out to grab our favorite table while Handsome got the drinks.

I lowered myself into the nearly ground-level banquette as Handsome carried out the rakıs with a devlish smile. He slid in next to me on the multicolored cushions, draped his arm around my shoulders and we settled in to watch the sun set. We talked of what we had done, seen and heard that day as we marveled at the shades of red, yellow, orange and purple in the sky. We waited for the very last sliver of sun to disappear below the horizon, on alert in hopes of seeing the "le rayon vert." (He saw it, I didn't.)

We stared into each others' eyes, whispered words of love and talked of what to do the next day. The stars came out, and we stretched out on the cushions to point out the few constellations we knew between the two of us, as strains of Turkish music weaved around us.

He sat up, and I put my head in his lap, continuing to stare at the night sky.

"You know," I said, reaching up to run my fingers through his hair, "this is just what I hoped it would be."

"Mmm," he replied, and leaned down to kiss me.

"I mean, all of this: the music, the rakı, the sunset, the stars, this place.." I gestured around us and brought my hand back up to caress his face. "You, this. It's just so perfectly romantic."

"Yes, it is." he said, smiling.

"But even all this loveliness," I said, sitting up and looking him in the eye, "all this magic, cannot possibly take away the fact that at this very moment, I have toothpaste on my thigh."

We laughed so hard our stomachs ached.

And then we went to dinner.

Türkiye

2006-08-18T17:26:00.000+01:00

It's the middle of August and I'm freezing my ass off. Yes, I know I posted earlier about a heat wave, but that is long gone. And I miss it. Because now? Cold, gray, rainy. Yes, cold. I've gotten back out the blankets and coats, and haven't ordered a pastis in weeks. It's really odd. And depressing.

But cold or not, it remains August in Paris. Which means there is hardly anyone around. My entire snooty neighborhood is shuttered, closed for 'annual vacation'. Want a cashmere designer sweater? Come back after August 28th. Want to resell your Chanel ensemble? As of September 1st, please. Need a bikini wax? Any sort of medication or prescription? How about a damn baguette? Please go to another neighborhood, where they have not all left for a villa in Mauritius.

And at work? There are three of us on my floor and I'm covering for five other assistants. It didn't bother me before, and it doesn't really now, but I'm beginning to feel the pangs of needing a vacation. Last year I mostly laughed at how horrified people were that I wasn't going anywhere. I brought out the old 'we only have two weeks per year in the US' line, just to get the point across. How puritan my work ethic, how strong, how hard-working, how dedicated I must be! Ahem.

But this year, I'm getting into the local spirit. This year, I want my damn two weeks in the sun. Only I'm taking them right when everyone else comes back. Ooo, look at me rebel!

Handsome and I are going to Turkey, dammit, and I'm going to have a blast. While everyone else in Paris is working. So there.

Now we just have to learn a little Turkish. Cause I have to know how to say the basics. Of course I bought not one, but two Turkish phrasebooks. One cold and rainy night, we sat on the sofa under a blanket studying the first chapters. Handsome picked up the concept of the verb 'to be' pretty fucking quickly. And the vowel sounds are pretty much like in French. So after about five minutes, he understands how to say, 'I am tired.' ('Yorgunum') It comes out of his mouth, and it sounds so damn Turkish - and so sexy - that like Jamie Curtis' character in "A Fish Called Wanda", I got all tingly and asked him to say it again. And again. Ooooo kuzu kuzu*! Say it again!

My project for the week : learn how to say, "One more raki, please, and turn up the Tarkan!"

*little lamb, in Turkish, from a Tarkan song

Break a Leg!

2006-08-04T13:29:00.000+01:00

One of the nicer things about working for a large French company is the perks, and I'm not even talking about five weeks of vacation or the 35-hour work week.

I'm talking about the comité d'entreprise, or 'employee perks committee' if you will. I don't know if an equivalent term exists in English, as it feels all too '9 to 5' for me to think we have something similar.

In practical terms, having an 'employee perks committee' translates to getting reduced prices on theatre and movie tickets, having rotating on-site vendors, access to a book and CD library, and having all kinds of classes offered, from scuba diving to Cha-cha-cha. I remember a French friend in the US who, once he learned I had gotten the job in Paris, explained this concept to me as I listened mouth agape.

"So the first thing you should do," he urged, "is find out who is on the committee and get on their good side. You can totally cash in on free concert tickets and all kinds of cool stuff!"

So when I noticed signs posted up that the 'employee perks committee' was offering free trial acting classes for the summer, I jumped at the chance.

If enough people like the trial classes, they'll offer paying, intensive ones come September, with a play performed at the end. In front of the whole company. My boss is most likely cringing at the thought of what role I might be cast in.

"Who's the hooker with the loud laugh? The CFO's assistant? Really?!?"

But we are not there yet.

For the second class, we had been asked to bring in an object with strong emotional value. One girl brought in a bracelet she'd bought in New York on a day she felt particularly happy. One lady brought in a wrought iron ring that was used to shut the gate to her family's property. It was her job to open it whenever people came to visit, and she could still remember the sound of her father's voice shouting, "Annie! Open the gate!" One man brought in a single metro ticket he had been saving in his wallet for ten years. He had used it to go visit a sick friend. We never found out if the friend made it.

I brought a black and white photograph of my mother when she was in college. Her head is turned to a three quarter profile - the most flattering angle, and the one my father thought made her look like a Vermeer. Her hands are hidden in the pockets of her coat, and she looks young, shy and totally unaware of her beauty. I sat on the table in front of the rest of the class, holding the photo, and just started ad libbing.

"Daphne," I said loud and clear, sweeping my eyes over the assembled class, "a Greek name, like mine."

I'll spare you the rest, but I kind of got into it, and didn't even feel all that weird. The best part was that one of the girls in the class came up to me later to say I had made her cry.

"Wow, thanks!!" I gushed, and then realized that would only come across well in an acting class.

So I thought I had a good start.

Until the third class.

We had to memorize four or five lines from a favorite author, and out of total lack of insipiration for an author in French, I picked a passage from the French translation of "A Moveable Feast" by Hemingway.

"Il n'y a jamais de fin à Paris. Nous y sommes toujours revenus, et peu importait qui nous étions, chaque fois, ou comment il avait changé, ou avec quelles difficultés ou quelles commodités, nous pouvions nous y rendre. Paris valait toujours la peine, et vous receviez toujours quelque chose en retour de ce que vous lui donniez. Mais tel était le Paris de notre jeunesse, au temps où nous étions très pauvres, et très heureux." *

I knew the instructor was going to do something to get us out of the comfort zone of just reciting our passages. So after an interesting group exercise, we each had to get up and recite our piece. Then he would choose a way he wanted it to be interpreted. He made one guy act like a queeny fag and his passage had something to do with war. Very funny. So it gets to me. I recite my schpiel, trying to do an old tired man patronizingly describing his youth in Paris to an imaginary younger person. It didn't quite work.

"Do you know the French films of the 30's and 40's?" the instructor asked, "Can you do that voice?"

I blanched. "Um, I think I know what you mean," I said hesitantly, "but I don't think I can do it in French."

"Okay," he said, waving the idea away with his hand, "be vulgar."

"Vulgar?" I asked, my head still stuck on Michèle Morgan.

"Yeah, make it vulgar."

I tried, I really did. I tried to conjure up Mae West or Shelly Winters or even Jayne Mansfield.

Instead I came off as an aggressive lesbian.

Meryl Streep, I am not.

Yet.

* my approximate translation, not Hemingway's original text : "There is never an end to Paris. We always came back, and it didn't matter who we were, each time, or how it had changed, or how difficult or easy it was, we could always get there. Paris was always worth it, and you always got something in return for what you gave it. But that was the Paris of our youth, when we were very poor, and very happy."

Heat Wave

2006-07-26T16:20:00.000+01:00

Thanks to - well, global warming - Paris is experiencing another heat wave. Back in 2003, the big one, people were taken a bit by surprise. In other words, most people were away on vacation and the old people left in Paris who didn't have family, or whose families couldn't be bothered to interrupt their vacation, died from dehydration and heat exhaustion. Thousands of them.

The people blamed the government for not having a 'heat wave plan.'

"I don't need the government to tell me it's fucking hot outside," griped one of my French friends, "I think I can turn on the fan and open the window all by myself."

But he's weird anyway.

So this year, the government isn't taking any chances. Instead of, oh I don't know, spending money to equip new buses and trains and other such public places with air conditioning, or for that matter, windows that actually open, the government has written a nice little script to post on information signs, the highways, and even to be read aloud to you in the metro. You know, in case reading it yourself would make you hot:

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is hot outside, so please remember to limit your exposure to direct sun, make sure to close your shutters and curtains to block the sun during the hottest hours of the day, and most of all, remember to drink plenty of water even if you are not thirsty."

Now that's real sweet and all, but honestly, talking about being hot? On the crowded metro? Hmm. Makes me hotter.

See? Still the government's fault.

Seriously, though, being from Hotlanta, it doesn't bother me too much, cause jeez, at least the 95° temperatures are not accompanied by stifling humidity. But it's true, people here aren't used to it, especially when it is still very hot at night. I do remember that was something I really liked about Europe as a teenager, that it could be hot during the day, but always nice and cool in the early morning and evening.

That has changed. But people will have to adjust. Like buying fans, for example. Just an idea.

Here at work, everyone's talking about the heat. If you ask, "How are you?" a large majority of people will respond, "Hot." Which doesn't sound so weird in English, but dust off your high school French and try this one out:

"Comment ça va?" This is said in earnest, but mostly because, hell, you have to ask even if you don't care what the answer is.

The inevitable reply is, "Chaudement," accompanied by either slumping or sighing or a slight disapproving pout, as if to say, "Really, they ought to do something about it!" All this despite the fact that the building we work in is already nicely air conditioned.

I had an exchange recently with a co-worker who complained she had trouble sleeping at night because of the heat.

"Well, do you have a fan?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

Well that might help. Just sayin'.

That is, until the government decides to finally announce the arrival of autumn.

A Million Little Feces*

2006-07-07T23:47:00.000+01:00

If I were a heroin addict, I imagine the torture of cold turkey - the nausea, the groaning, the pain, the feeling it will never end - would be much like the highly excruciating experience of reading fake addict / author James Frey's fake memoir / novel 'A Million Little Pieces.'

Full of odd Teutonic capitalizations and little or no punctuation, endless repetition of extremely annoying phrases and scenes (must we use the exact same words '[vomited] chunks of my stomach' ad nauseum? Pardon the pun.) But the most tiresome part of trying to read this book is the utter ridiculousness of the portrait he has painted. We are presented with a twenty-three year old (imaginary we all know now) version of himself as the baddest of badasses who is (most unbelievably) addicted to every narcotic substance known to man, but who is laughably sentimental about a lost college love and the crack addict prostitute he falls for in rehab. He who rejects the saccharine preachings of AA while simultaneously hugging almost every person he encounters, regurgitating tripe (sorry again) he is fed by a fellow rehab patient : 'Just Hold On', and (the ultimate thing that set off my bullshit detector) his immediate and total comprehension of, appreciation for and proselytizing of 'The Teachings of Tao'. And that's all in addition to the root canal surgery without anesthesia.

Oh barf. (Sorry, I can't seem to help it).

I am a little appalled this shit ever got past the first editor, and therefore might be suffering from a wee bit of jealousy, admittedly. And I am not done reading the thing, either. But I swear if the guy hugs one more person, I'm gonna throw (get ready for it) the book across the room.

He should have subtitled the thing 'Hugging your Way to Sobriety.'

Don't bother buying it. Because as a service to humanity - and truly talented writers everywhere - I have composed a little parody for you.

So, enjoy, kids. And get the barf bag ready.

(Real excerpt from 'A Million Little Pieces' page 171:)

"I am twenty-three years old and I've been an Alcoholic for a decade and a drug Addict and Criminal for almost as long and I'm wanted in three states and I'm in a Hospital in the middle of Minnesota and I want to drink and I want to do some drugs and I can't control myself. I'm twenty-three.

I breathe and I shake and I can feel it coming and rage and need and confusion regret horror shame and hatred fuse into a perfect Fury a great and beautiul and terrible and perfect Fury the Fury and I can't stop the Fury or conrol the Fury I can only let the Fury come come come come come. Let it motherfucking come. The Fury has come."

(from page 260:)

"At the end of the Session, Sophie asks everyone to join hands. An intimacy has developed and we do so eagerly. She has us recite a poem that she calls the Serenity Prayer. She says a line and we follow. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. She smiles and we smile everyone smiles. When we finish saying the prayer, she has us do it again. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. She has us do it again and again.

When she stands, everyone else stands. She tells us we're finished and everyone starts hugging each other. There are hugs sealing the bonds hugs healing the wounds hugs in appreciation of knowledge and insight shared hugs of understanding and hugs of compassion extended. After the hugs, Sophie opens the door and we file out smiling and laughing and in better shape than when we entered. Everyone says good-bye thank you good-bye thank you."

Awwwwwwwww!

My turn!

"I feel the Fury come fast and swift and up from my Feet all the way into my Head until it becomes a burning white light burning white light light white burning the Fury it is burning white motherfucking burning white Fury.

I think of the Girl in College with her perfect Teeth and sweet Breath and tiny fragile Waist and I am ashamed of Everything I did to make her hate me. I am a Criminal wanted in three States and a drug Addict and an Alcoholic and I don't deserve Anyone.

I smoked my first Joint at eight and soon moved on to Acid and Ecstasy. By the time I was twelve, I had shot Heroin, smoked Crack, sniffed Cocaine, eaten Mushrooms and made it to an Opium den by the time I was fifteen and at seventeen I lost my Virginity to a Prostitute.

The Black man who shares my room in Rehab just happens to play jazz Clarinet and fuck is he good and he plays slow and soft and melancholy while I let the words of the Tao soothe my tortured Soul. Suddenly, he puts the Clarinet down and begins to cry and he cries and cries and Tears run down his face and drop on the Floor next to his Clarinet Case and I go over to him and say hey man it's going to be Alright you just have to Hold on Hold on all you have to do is just Hold on. I put my Arms around him and he is crying and I am crying and we are hugging each other in this Room in Rehab in the middle of Minnesota and it feels Good and I just hold him and cry and let him cry and we are hugging and crying."

Christ Almighty, this book sucks Ass.

*Plagiarized from my friend Kitty, who is a badass with dirty rhymes.

On est en final! On est en final!

2006-07-06T12:30:00.000+01:00

UPDATE:

France : 1 Portugal : 0

After the game, my friend and I went out on the streets to mingle in the crowds. We got so caught up in the mood, in the movement, in the euphoria, that we walked all the way from Republique to Concorde.

That's a hike, folks.

I've never seen anything like that scene. Everyone - black, white, Middle Eastern, citizens, tourists and clandestines - everyone was waving flags, hanging out of and on top of cars, swarming the streets and sidewalks, kissing, hugging and high-fiving everyone they passed. Roller skaters grabbed onto car bumpers for a ride, people climbed atop statues, mailboxes, bus stops - even the monument at the Place de la Bastille - waving the bleu blanc rouge and singing,

"We're going to the finals... to the finals we're going...."

I tried to capture some images with my cell phone, but they didn't turn out.

So Sunday? France against Italy for the championship? I am so going out to a bar to watch it.

This time, though, I'm bringing the fucking camera.

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Blog

2006-07-05T15:54:00.000+01:00

For a brief message :

Tonight at 9PM, France battles Portugal to play in the finals of the World Cup.

ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!!!

I'm wearing my blue, white and red babydoll T-shirt to watch the match tonight.

Here's hoping I don't run into my Portuguese concierge.

Catcalls

2006-06-29T00:16:00.000+01:00

The first time I went to Latin America, I was so sure I would get whistled at on the street. Not that I think I am so hot I sizzle or anything, but my previous experience in France had conditioned me to being singled out as a woman in public places. Okay, so I was more of a girl at the time. Young lady. Whatever.

But once I actually got to Santiago, Chile - nada.

I remember being really surprised and disappointed. After a few days of being totally ignored, I got pissed.

"So, like, I'm not beautiful?" I whined at my Chilean boyfriend-future-ex-husband, "This ass is not whistle-worthy?" I was practically screeching. I had my big-butt-for-a-white-girl sticking out for approval.

"Don't worry, sweetie, it's just because you are with me," he replied, affectionately patting the region in question, "They're respecting that you're taken."

"Like that ever mattered anywhere else!" I huffed, flipping my waist-length blond hair to the side. I thought at least the blond hair would get some reaction. Turns out Chile is full of blondes. Hmph.

"Trust me," he said, "we're just not all that hot-blooded. Have you heard our music? Pan flutes, for Christ's sake."

Responses like that were just one of the many reasons I loved him.

But blonde hair and lady bumps aside, I had many reasons to expect to be catcalled. Most notably, a surreal two-week venture in Lyon when I was sixteen, where I became convinced either I was the culmination of babe-a-licious, or the only female in the greater metropolitan area. I could go nowhere - and I mean nowhere - without being whistled at, propositioned, shouted at, pointed at, or leered at.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. My French was good, but maybe I had misunderstood what the guy had yelled out of his window at me that day. Surely I had gotten some words mixed up and only thought I heard the waiter ask for my phone number. I couldn't possibly have understood correctly when the fucking telephone operator asked me out for a drink.

I still have trouble wrapping my head around that one. Dude couldn't even see me.

It went something like this:

"Yes, hello," I said slowly, making sure of my pronunciation, "I would like to make a collect call to the United States, please."

"But of course, Mademoiselle," the male operator's voice said breathily, "to what number?"

I gave him my father's number. I wanted to tell him I was no longer staying at Pierre's place, and had checked myself into a hotel. (Another story for another day, that one). He was supposed to be my contact while my mother was out of town at a seminar.

"And who shall I say is calling?" he asked, a little playful edge to his voice.

"Penelope, his daughter," I replied.

"That's a lovely name," he cooed.

"Merci," I managed. I felt shy all of a sudden.

He couldn't reach my father, so he came back on line.

"I am not getting an answer, Mademoiselle, you'll have to try again later."

"Okay, thank you," I said. I was getting ready to hang up when he broke in again,

"So, you're American?" He was trying sound casual.

"Um, yes," I answered.

"You speak French well for an American. Are you calling from Paris?"

Why on earth would that matter? I thought, but said, "No, I'm calling from a booth in Lyon."

"Oh, that's too bad," he said, "I would have asked you out for a drink!"

At that, I took the phone from my ear and looked at it unbelievingly. The fucking phone operator just asked me out, I thought. I have no recollection of how I managed to end that call, but I'm sure I said something idiotic like, "Oh! Well! Eh-heh... Bye!"

But things did not end there.

I stepped out of the booth, one of those clear glass ones, and turned around to the sound of men hooting and clapping directly in front of me, all assembled at a cafe table on the sidewalk.

"Nice ass!" yelled one.

"What a view! Do that again!" said another.

I was confused, and turned back around to the phone booth. My heart sank when I realized I had been leaning against the glass while making the call, giving the entire cafe terrace a magnified, crystal clear, spread out view of my ass. As if they had been the lens on a photocopier I had decided to sit on. I ran away, blushing.

And promptly smashed my face into a metal telephone pole.

I should charge for entertainment that good.

A few days later, I was waiting on the subway platform when the subway conductor - as he pulled the train into the station - stuck out his tongue at me. But when he curled it up suggestively to mimick actually licking my lady parts, I thought I had a screw loose. I stood there, eyes bulging out, mouth opening and closing like a fish ripped out of the water.

Did he just do what I think he did? I thought. I looked around frantically to see if anyone else had seen it. I needed reassurance it wasn't my imagination. But how do you ask a total stranger in a foreign country, "Did you just see the subway conductor make like he wanted to lick my hoo ha?"

Yeah.

Besides, there were no other women around to ask.

Once I was walking down the sidewalk when a guy pulled over his car and opened the door. I froze.

"Need a lift?" he asked.

This might have been normal behavior in France-land, but to me, it screamed ohmygod serial killer I am going to die and be cut to bits and fed to the silly-looking poodles!!

I gathered my wits and began to walk away, saying, "No, thank you."

"Can I buy you a drink?" he ventured.

"No, thank you," I repeated, speeding up.

"I saw you from afar, and you're so pretty, I thought I'd try my luck."

"No, thank you, I'm fine," I repeated again, and stepped up my pace.

Would you believe me if I told you that where I ended up next, I got followed by two old men? The same day?

Well if it wasn't the same day, it was certainly not much before or after, cause Lyon, man, that place was just teeming with leery whistley oglers. I must have totally not been in the right neighborhood. So whatever day it was, I left the confines of my cheap hotel room to take a walk around. For years I could still remember the name of the street my hotel was on. It was one of those places that stay inside you. And not in a good way.

I'm casually strolling, looking in store windows, when I notice in the reflection of the glass that there are two older men right behind me, who seem to be discussing me. Or some part of my anatomy. I start walking again, this time only pretending to look in the shop windows in order to watch them behind me. A few shops later, I begin to be convinced they are following me. I decide to test them and cross the street. One of them signals goodbye to the other, and crosses the street. He continues right behind me. Great. Not so subtle, though, buddy. I'm on to you.

Suddenly, I duck down a side street, run to the first building I see, and flatten myself up against the back of it. I'm standing there in the parking lot, catching my breath, and turn my head to realize I am staring straight into the open window of a couple's bedroom. They are, thankfully, not engaged in any hanky panky, but are not fully clothed, either. It was August.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted, "but I'm hiding here because I think there is a man following me."

The man in the apartment came over to the window looking concerned.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," I answered, "but if you don't mind, I'm just going to stand here for a while."

"Do you want to come inside?" he asked.

"No, I don't want to bother you," I said, trying not to look at his underwear.

"Well, we're here if you need anything," he assured me.

"Thank you, that's very kind." I turned around and looked at the parking lot. I felt rather silly just standing there trying to pretend I wasn't disturbing the half-naked couple in the apartment behind me. I almost started whistling to signify how normal this all was. Finally, I gave up and went back to the street. I took two steps and saw the man who had been following me coming towards me. I was sure he hadn't seen me, so I ducked into the apartment building's entrance and plastered myself against the wall.

Please let him just walk by, I willed. Just walk right on by, buddy.

He walked up to the entrance, and stepped inside to find me spread out against the wall like a starfish.

Suddenly, I lost all control.

"Why are you following me?" I shouted. I was angry.

He looked surprised, even offended.

"I'm not following you," he responded.

"Then why are you here?" I asked. I have no idea what I was thinking. What was I going to do? Take this middle-aged man down? I noticed he had brown stains on the front of his white undershirt. I was hoping it was tea. He looked like he drank a lot of tea. In houka bars.

"I am walking down the street," he replied, his hands spread in that what, me? way. "You have too many ideas in your head." he said. His accent was thick, but I had already heard enough.

"And you have no ideas, I suppose? That's why you followed me here? And because of your completely innocent ideas, you are standing here in front of me?" I wasn't even afraid. I was fucking pissed.

I sort of miss the sixteen year old me. She had balls.

"What do you want from me?" he said. Out of the two of us, he seemed the most scared.

"I don't want anything to do with you," I said calmly.

"I am innocent," he said, his voice rising slightly petulantly, "I just wanted to ask you to have a drink with me." He smiled sheepishly. I noticed he was missing some teeth. The ones he had were brown. Tea-stained, let's say.

I laughed. It was not a nice laugh.

"Do I look parched with thirst or something?" I was beginning to come undone. "Because the men in this fucking town keep asking me if I want a drink." I had balled my hands into fists at my side. "No," I snarled, "I. Do. Not. Want. A. Fucking. Drink. With you. Or anyone. Ever."

"You have too many ideas in your head," he repeated, as if this was going to make me change course and suddenly ask for a Black and Tan.

"I have one very good idea," I said, "and it is that you FUCK OFF." He looked genuinely shocked, and took a step backwards.

"I want you to get away from me," I said, raising my voice, "Now."

He raised his hands in defeat and backed out of the doorway and onto the street. I stayed plastered to the wall and watched him walk away. I stayed there until I was calm enough to not knock the shit out of the next man who dared to speak to me.

Then, I went calmly back to my hotel and went straight to the bar. I really needed a drink, alone. The bartender? A woman. I almost cried with relief.

Please, please just don't let her be gay.

She wasn't, and I survived that trip somehow, but I've never stepped foot in that town again. I guess I'd be afraid to be disappointed. If it turned out to be nothing like I remember. If it turned out not to be menacing, just rather banal.

If no one even bothered to say,

"Hey, sweetheart! Can I buy you a drink?"

Six Feet Under

2006-06-24T13:30:00.000+01:00

When I woke up late, I had a feeling it was going to be a bad day.

Rushing out of the house, I threw on some flip flops and put my high-heeled shoes in my bag to change into later.

Running down the steps to the subway platform, I tripped and nearly fell flat on my face. When I reached the bottom, I carefully took a step and tripped again. Confused I was actually that clumsy, I looked down to see that the rubber sole of one of my flip flops had started to come off. I sighed and sat down to change my shoes.

I had worn the flip flops specifically for comfort and - gasp - practicality. For some reason I have yet to figure out, the paving stones on the bridge leading to work are only sealed with cement at the corners, leaving big gaps all around the sides. On any given morning you can watch the hordes of people rushing to work and, invariably, you will see every other woman in heels suddenly get stuck mid-stride, try to extract her foot, curse up a storm and carefully insepct the damage. It's a pretty effective way to ruin a good pair of shoes, which I have a knack for doing under any conditions.

I made a mental note to be careful on the bridge this time.

I changed trains at my usual stop and was just squeezing into a space inside the car where I could breathe without sucking someone's hair up my nose when the train came to a screeching halt, sending everyone flying backwards into each other. Then the lights cut off and the engine died. The passengers looked around quizzically at each other, and the conductor's voice came on over the PA system:

"May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen," a note of stress in his voice, "We have a....problem..."

There are often "problems" on the subway lines. Usually, they are called by their wonderfully euphemistic names. A "social movement" is a strike. A "technical difficulty" is a strike. But an unnamed "problem" is kind of spooky.

People shifted uncomfortably and muttered. It was very hot, and now that the train wasn't moving, there wasn't even a breeze. I took out my fan, grateful to have remembered to bring it. The woman in front of me looked at me wistfully.

"Ladies and gentleman," came the conductor's voice again, "we have a problem, and we will be here for a while. Thank you for your patience."

They NEVER say, 'a while'. Usually it's 'a few moments.' 'A while' means hours. Cell phones got whipped out from left to right.

"Jean-Pierre? It's Benoît. Look, I'm stuck on the train. No, we're in between stations, and they say it will be a while. Yeah. Christophe is there already?!? You're kidding. I'm going to be later than Christophe?"

"Marie-Christine, it's Claudine. Yes, the meeting? Can you tell them to start without me? I'm stuck on the train - no, in between stations - I don't know, they just said ' a while.' I know. Doesn't bode well. Hey, maybe I'll make it in time for lunch?"

Surprisingly, only one lady seemed to take it personally.

"I don't know why these things always happen to me. Well, I'm calling you to let you know I'll be late, so I don't see why you have to attack me. I'm the one who's stuck. Well, I think you're wrong to come after me like that. I can't believe I take the one train that gets stopped and call you and get yelled at. You are so wrong to treat me this way...."

People moved away from her as her voice got higher. I was hoping she wouldn't totally freak out and start thrashing around. There was hardly room, and it would have just stirred up more hot air.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came the conductor's voice again, "there has been a passenger accident at the preceding station."

Metro speak for suicide. Good morning! Someone threw themselves on the tracks back there!

"We will be here for quite a while. Those of you who would like to evacuate, please proceed to the front of the train. You will walk to the next station through the tunnel. Those who would prefer to wait on the train, please make room for those evacuating."

"Oh, no fucking way!" said the impossibly hot black chick next to me into her cell phone, "There are like, mice, out there!"

Great, I thought, how the hell am I going to walk down the tracks and side step rats in the dark in these shoes?

Maybe the broken flip flop would come in handy after all. If I brandished it as a weapon.

"Shoo, vile rat!" Flappy flap flap!!! "Away with you, metro mouse!!" Floppy flip flop!!

I even briefly considered using a lighter to guide me. Better yet, I could light the broken flip flop on fire and use it alternately as a torch and flappy flame-throwing rodent killer.

I am - in a word - brilliant.

I moved to the middle of the car to make my way to the front of the train to evacuate. Did I mention I was on the next to last car? I had a very long wait ahead of me.

One guy behind me was looking rather panicked, and explained to the lady next to him,

"I have a final in an hour," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "and the exact same thing happened to me last semester - a passenger accident. I left two hours ahead of time this morning just in case, but I still think I'm going to be late. They'll never believe me."

"Well go on ahead, young man!" the lady said, giving him a friendly shove, "tell people you need to jump ahead!" She maneuvered her way alongside him, tapping people on the shoulder to ask them to let him in front.

"If he won't say it, I will!" she said to me when I smiled at her and let them pass.

After an eternity of waiting and advancing only half a step at a time, the line to evacuate started to actually move. At that moment, the conductor came over the loudspeaker again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good news. We will be able to leave in fifteen minutes. Please be seated."

You know the moment in musical chairs when the music stops? It was like that. But hot.

And then we waited. And waited. And waited. For more than thirty minutes.

"Like I said, we should be starting up again in just fifteen minutes," the conductor announced, sarcasm seeping out of the speakers.

At this point, people just gave up and laughed.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen, here we go for real!" he chirped, as the lights came back on and the train began to move. "And thank you for your patience. You have been very good."

I got to work three hours late. But with the best excuse ever. And come to think of it, I'm kind of disappointed I didn't get to evacuate. I was sort of curious to see the tunnels. And when else would I get to emulate Isabelle Adjani?

Excuse Me, Do You Work Here?

2006-06-02T11:07:00.000+01:00

Apparently, I look like someone who should work in a luxury hotel.

I worked a three-day IT conference in the Hôtel Normandy Barrière in Deauville recently, and the IT managers in attendance were a little confused.

My company has a bit of an unfortunate reputation for being old world and stodgy. Admittedly, the other assistant who always plans the conference is a bit - if you'll pardon me - matronly. You take one look at her and think, "I bet she makes a mean cassoulet."

But I digress.

She had asked me to come help out, which I was happy to do, as it meant getting out of the office and meeting new people in a nice setting. Oh, and it royally pissed off my snake of a co-worker. She hates it when I get to travel. Major bonus.

Most of the attendees had never met me, nor dealt with me in any way, so I didn't expect them to recognize me or anything. I just thought the company name tag would be a clue.

Throughout the conference, I tried to guess what language to speak to whom, herded participants onto buses, handed out welcome packets, explained where the cocktails and dinners were being held, bullshitted my way through answering what kind of internet connection was available in the business center, and kept guard outside the meeting room while things were in session, all in full waitress mode, asking and answering with a smile. All the while, "Penelope Reider, X Company" was clearly visible on my name tag.

Despite this, almost every other person I interacted with asked,

"Do you work for the hotel?"

At dinner on the second night, I took refuge at the Spanish and Brazilian table. IT managers are one thing, French IT managers are another. I needed some spice. I was happily chatting with various members of the table when the Catalunian asked,

"So, you work for the hotel, right?"

"You are about the tenth person to ask me that," I said, laughing.

"I'm sorry, we have a tendency to repeat ourselves," he responded.

"No, no," I replied, "it's just that it makes me think people must say to themselves, 'That girl can't possibly be from X Company.' "

The table erupted in laughter. "That's it exactly!" several of them replied in chorus.

"But what is it about me that makes people think that?" I ventured, not sure where I was treading.

The Catalunian looked at the Mexican. The Mexican nudged the Colombian, who waved him away. The older Spanish gentleman patted my arm.

"It's nice to know people like you do work for X Company," he explained.

"Don't change a thing," said the Brazilian with a devlish smile.

Somehow, I don't think they were talking about my administrative assistant skills....

Nice Try

2006-05-17T21:57:00.000+01:00

Over Easter vacation, Handsome and I went on a road trip through Brittany.

Our first stop was the Paimpont Forest, where it is claimed the magician Merlin, of King Arthur fame, is buried. Handsome had warned me it was a little anti-climactic as far as monuments go. Indicated only by a tiny hand-written sign, and an illegible semi-official marker, it is - at best - underwhelming.

At first, I was almost willing to make the leap. These sort of things you want to believe, for whatever reason. You read the marker, you see the other tourists, you try to wrap your head around why on earth the Anglo-Saxon magician soothsayer of Arthurian legend would be buried in Brittany.

You take a closer look at the marker, and then you notice the quotation marks: "Merlin's Tomb."

And then it hits you. Arthurian legend.

Well, hey, you gotta work with what you've got, right? So, you have some large Druid-like stones laying around. You're in a forest, on the axis coming from Paris, and forests make you think of King Arthur and Robin Hood and whatnot. You need some extra dough. You take three rocks, stack them up, spread the word, and bingo! Instant tourist attraction.

I leave it to you to decide if they did a convincing job.

I know what you're thinking. Merlin was Jewish? Those little pieces of paper are so Wailing Wall.

But really, guys, nice try.

Baaa Waaaa!

2006-05-17T21:45:00.000+01:00

I was listening to the radio the other morning and nearly choked on my coffee when I heard the headlines.

A mountainous region in France has voted to re-introduce bears into the wild. This, like, well, everything involving change, sparked a protest. The announcer gave details of the crowd, mostly composed of local farmers. Without a hint of irony he added, "a few hundred sheep were also in attendance."

Farm animals on strike.

Only in France, kids, only in France.

Brawl in the 16ème - Y'all!!

2006-04-24T17:11:00.000+01:00

Sunday, I went for a brisk jog. You read that correctly. Moi, jogging. Mais oui. See, Handsome is quite the runner, and those green eyes can make me do just about anything. But I am still quite the novice. Like six minutes and 20 seconds kind of novice. On Sunday, I had just gotten back from my feeble attempt, and when I went to close my apartment door behind me, the wind from the open window slammed it shut, making a rather loud noise. Oops! I thought. Sorry, neighbors!

In one of those weird coincidence moments, at that very second, I heard someone out in the hallway, trying to slip a note under my door. I picked it up, curious. It read:

(Translation : Dear Neighbors, Pleaze [sic] be a little more discreet on Sunday mornings especially when closing your shutters and in other akts. [sic] Thaynk you. [sic])

My first reaction was that the "akts" in question were a direct reference to the kind of sport Handsome and I had been practicing before the jogging, one at which I have much more endurance - and loads more practice. But I was almost sure I had been more "discreet" than usual. I felt a slight moralistic reproach in the "on Sunday mornings", as if my use of "Oh God!" in the context in which I had uttered it had been particularly blasphemous to the ears of this mystery person. I tried to remember how loud I had been and who could have possibly heard. I felt myself blush. Then, the shutter part threw me. I never touch mine. I think they're a pain to close and open all the time, so I just leave them open. Surely this was not a note from my neighbors across the street, who had somehow gotten into my building, asking me to close the shutters the next time I felt like getting a little closer to heaven?

I read it again. I noticed the "ç" in "merci" twice, and the missing "e" in "acts". This person can't be French, I thought, and if they are, shame, shame! This is not from my neighbors across the street, I reasoned. This is not about people seeing into my window. This is not even about how best to praise the Lord on his special day. This is about noise. Shutter closing noise. Which I did not make.

Handsome came back from his hour-long run, and I showed him the note.

"Tell me I'm reading this wrong," I said, "and that this is not about us and our warm-up session this morning."

He read the note quickly and handed it back. "Don't worry," he said, "this isn't about us."

"So it's not that anyone heard us or saw us and they're complaining cause it's Sunday? This is to everybody, right?"

"Yeah," he said, "and even if it were to us, who cares? Whoever it is needs to lighten up."

"Whew!" I said, relieved. "I didn't want to make enemies with my neighbors so soon."

"Besides," he said, taking me in his arms and smiling devilishly, "you were a lot quieter than usual."

Later that evening coming back from a movie, we were tired, and contrary to our habit, decided to take the elevator to my floor. Lo and behold, taped to the wall was proof we were not the only targets of the Sunday morning note.

(Translation: Sir or Madam, This makes two times you have accused me anonymously. At least have the courage to sign your name. For your information, 1) I never close my shutters 2) I was out of town this weekend. [NOT SIGNED])

"Ooo!" I said, "things are heating up on Rue de la Pompe!!"

"Look, the fool lost his argument cause he didn't sign himself!" Handsome pointed out. "He would have won if he'd just put 'third floor, door on the right,' or whatever. Like 'come tell it to my face, fucker!' "

"Mnnhhh hhn!!" I said, sucking my teeth and swinging my neck like I was back in the ATL, "there gon' be some fur flying tonight!"

Fur coats, that is. This is the 16ème. Ahem.

Ten Under

2006-04-06T14:24:00.000+01:00

Much to my annoyance, every year we have to have a physical exam. I'm pretty sure this is a no-no in the US, but here, it's part of the mentality of your company and your government "taking care" of you. French people will admit that the state has a sort of "parental" role. It gives you milk money, asks you to check in when you change addresses, and monitors if you watch TV or not. (There is a TV tax. No lie. One more reason not to own one.)

My check-up was on Monday, and I knew it would be pretty routine : blood pressure check, vision test, etc. Everything went fine with the nurses, and then I had to have a brief visit with the doctor. She called me into her office. A rather stern woman with closely cropped blond hair, she asked me to sit down and asked how I was doing. Not realizing this was part of my health test, I gave the standard chirpy 'everything's fine' answer. If only I had known, I might have amused myself by making up psychoses.

"Well, everything was fine until I started to have sexual dreams about the janitor."

Or, "I often hear voices telling me, 'Shred that piece of paper! Shred everything in sight!"

Or, "Sometimes I get the overwhelming urge to re-organize my files in reverse alphabetical order."

But I'm proud to say, I resisted the temptation to mess with the company doctor.

She finished her questions and then asked me to get undressed. There is something ever so slightly incongruous about getting undressed in what looks like a normal office except for the paper-covered examing table. I tried to act like I was used to getting undressed in people's offices all the time, but maybe that wasn't the best impression to give her. Anyway, luckily, I happened to be wearing a bra and underwear that slightly matched. If you squinted, you might have even mistaken them for a set.

I stepped on the scale, having honestly no idea where it would land. I don't have a TV because it depresses me. I don't have a scale for the same reason. Plus, kilos still don't really mean all that much to me. I looked down at the number. She came over, looked, and then went back to my file.

"Two more kilos than last year!" she announced.

I shrugged and smiled dismissively. I thought if I didn't care, she wouldn't. Plus, my underwear matched.

"And you have to lose them because you're right at the limit for your height," she pronounced.

I burst out laughing.

Fuck you, and have a nice day, I thought as I left.

I came back up to my floor and went to go see my friend.

"Well guess what," I said, "I'm supposedly 'right at the limit' in weight for my height."

"No," she said, "how tall are you?"

"Shit, in meters, I don't know."

"Because the rule is you should be ten under your height," she explained.

I gave her a blank look of incomprehension.

"For example, if you're 1 meter, 60 centimeters tall, you should weigh 50 kilos. If you're 1 meter 70 centimeters tall, you should weigh 60 kilos, and so on."

So everyone goes walking around with this information in their heads? This seems too even and neat to me. Too metric.

But if I want to be in line, if I want to be within the norm, if I want to fit neatly on the graph, I have a few kilos to lose.

Eh. I'll think about it tomorrow.

Mmm! Mmm!

2006-03-29T15:21:00.000+01:00

As of last weekend, I am no longer the same person.

I didn't know at the time to what extent it would affect me, but I can now say with certainty that I no longer see the world, or myself, in the same way.

You see, on Sunday, Handsome's parents invited us to Sunday lunch. It wasn't that I was nervous about meeting them. We've met already, and they're very nice, warm people. The life-changing experience? The Sunday lunch menu.

Beef tongue.

I thought about it all week. What if I didn't like it? Would I be able to conceal it enough to get through the meal gracefully? What if I hated it? Would Handsome be disappointed? Would he eventually lose interest and dump me for a tripe-loving tramp?

Beef tongue.

I wanted to try it. But I really, really wanted to like it.

Handsome explained that the first course would be a sort of pot au feu, with bouillon and vegetables, and the second course would be the beef tongue, accompanied by garlic-mustard sauce, potatoes and salad.

We arrived a little late, oblivious to the spring time change, and made our excuses while making the obligatory cheek-kissing rounds. Handsome's father served us a generous aperitif, and this helped calm my nerves. I was comforted that at least to my untrained nose, things smelled normal.

We made our way to the table for the bouillon. It was surprisingly hearty, and served with turnips, leeks and carrots. I had two helpings, egged on by Handsome's father, who, like his good-looking son, is a hard man to refuse.

The plates were cleared, and I realized the moment of truth was upon me. I shifted uneasily in my seat and took a large gulp of wine.

"How about another glass of the red stuff?" Handsome's dad offered from the end of the table.

"Oh yes, please," I said with relief.

Handsome's mother brought in the bowl of garlic-mustard sauce. I could smell it from where I was sitting. It bode well. Then out came the potatoes and salad. Then finally, the much-awaited large plate of beef tongue. I tried not to stare at it, afraid I might recognize something akin to a taste bud. From the quick peek I took, it looked surprisingly like a sort of pot roast, cut into thick slices.

I helped myself to potatoes and passed on the plate, took a large helping of salad, and handed the bowl to Handsome. With a quick look around the table and a large what-the-fuck smile, I took the fork and helped myself to a large piece of beef tongue. I smothered it with garlic-mustard sauce, and dug in.

"Mmmmm!" I exclaimed. The garlic sauce then made contact. "Aaarrr!!" I roared, sticking out my tongue and shaking my head to make it wobble.

We all erupted in laughter and raised our glasses for a toast to a lovely Sunday afternoon.

Beef tongue. The new broker of improved Franco-American relations.

Watch Out, Ladies and Gentlemen!

2006-02-15T14:24:00.000Z

There are very few musical productions I know of that try to warn you in advance. But a few weeks ago, I got invited to see a Michel Fougain retrospective at the Folies Bergères, entitled "Watch Out, Ladies and Gentlemen!"

It just doesn't get any clearer than that.

But I was thinking more along the lines of: in company of good-looking guy, free, Folies Bergères. Can you blame me?

I had never really heard of Michel Fougain, but asked around and got some vague answers about him being a singer popular in the seventies. I decided I didn't care.

Like I said, good-looking guy, free, Folies Bergères.

But taking into account the fact that I have a lot of trouble dealing with the kind of music I hear all the time here at weddings, parties, restaurants and clubs precisely because it is mostly composed of things that were popular in the seventies, it did not bode well.

I know what you're thinking. I really should have known from the poster.

I was trying to keep an open mind. I didn't know if it was going to be more of a musical or a concert, but I had no idea it was going to be a pointless two-hour long attempt at dancing to this former star's songs. The result was an endless succession of three-minute long clips of Michel Fugain's most popular has-been ditties (think Barry Manilow in French) sung and danced to by a cast of cute young adults trying really, really hard to make it in the world of showbiz. I mean teeth-clenchingly hard. You could feel just how hard they were trying. Something about it all felt eerily familiar.

The set and costumes were puzzling. The girls wore jeans and horribly early 80's tops. One girl had very badly permed hair, cropped acid-washed jeans, knee-high red patent leather boots, and a ripped tight fitting T-shirt with some fake American logo on it. I swear she looked like she'd just flown in from New Jersey. In 1982. The set had one platform in the middle, connected by two stairs on the sides. A lot of times, the kids would be milling around in their horrendous outfits, singing, propping feet up, sitting on a step with head in hand, and I got to thinking, is this supposed to look like the playground of a New Jersey high school in 1982? And then it occurred to me. Fame. Much peppy walking up and down the set stairs occured. In unison. With arms spread wide. While singing into their headset microphones, which made them look like overly-cheerful singing and dancing customer service operators. From 1982. In New Jersey. Like I said, Fame.

The combination of it all was simply absurd.

For those of you who don't know me well, let me give you an idea of how I react to absurdity. In public. When, despite everything, lots of people have worked their tucheses off to make the thing happen. Just ask my Dad about the time he made the mistake of inviting me to watch an open audition of local actors back home, attended by all the people in his field. People he probably was trying to network and close deals with. Ask him about the slightly plump lady whose unfortunate choice of monologue had her acting the parts of both a man and a woman, so that she was dressed half in a suit, half in a dress. Ask him about when she started to molest herself, and then slap her own male hand away with her gloved female one. Ask him about how I burst out laughing so hard and so loudly that he had to literally pull me by the arm and escort me out of the theatre. But he might not want to talk about it.

About six songs into the Michel Fougain musical production, three of the Fame-esque guys dressed in jeans, white wife-beaters and black leather jackets lined with quilted gold lamé are standing in front of three very large black trashcans. Singing about lord knows what, but I doubt it was about garbage collection. They remove the lids, and out pop three Fame-esque beaming young ladies, holding trash can lids. They step out, dressed in short black raincoats that look like they've been sprayed with drugstore Halloween sparkles. They are joined onstage by their overly cheerful female castmates, identically bedecked in sparkled short raincoats and dancing with trash can lids.

I stole a look at my companion. He had an odd frozen expression on his face. I pinched myself, hard. I tried to think of dead kittens. Then came the last straw. Two very young, very white men came onstage, dressed in what someone thought looked like 'urban hiphop' gear, and began to do their best imitation of some jivey urbany hip-hoppy yo-yo movements. That did it.

I remember the sensation of pounds of pressurized laugh-breath escaping my mouth as I sputtered forth, making a not unelegant arc, aiming directly for my lap. I think it sounded something like "Pfffffffffrrrrrrrgggghh!!!" And then I sat there, convulsing, doubled over, trying not to squeak, trying desperately to hide and wipe away the tears that were streaming down my face. This lasted through to the next number. My good-looking companion leaned down to ask if I was alright. Which sent me into a new round of stifled snorting.

Hysterical laughter eventually gave way to total boredom. Then morphed into scorn. We shifted in our seats. We looked at our watches. When the greaser-wannabe gold lamé jacket dudes were singing a song about how tough they were, challenging the cops to cart them off, my handsome companion muttered, "Yes, please! Lock them up!" I was tempted to add, "Throw 'em in the can!" but no one would have understood.

When I was sure it had been hours, when I began to doubt if it would ever end, I leaned over and asked, "How many songs did this dude write?" Handsome squeezed my hand in reassurance. When it was finally, blissfully over, I felt the audience clapping enthusiastically. Panicked, I grabbed him by the arms and said a little too loudly, my voice breaking in desperation, "Oh god, no, please! If there is an encore, I will die right here!"

We nearly trampled the people in our row in the struggle to leave before another song came on. We ran into the lobby, panting, feeling like we had barely escaped with our lives (and our integrity).

We looked at each other in disbelief at what we had just been through.

"Man, after that, I need a good stiff drink," I said.

"Amen," he said, and we headed straight to the nearest brasserie.

Piece of the Pie

2006-01-19T14:05:00.000Z

I suppose I should feel like I've really made it - arrived - as they say, now that I've moved to the snooty 16th arrondissement. But I don't. Yet.

I wouldn't have bothered moving if it hadn't been a real necessity. But with the wall holding in my shower about to collapse, and the landlords refusing to fix it, I had no choice.

I really liked my old building. I had gotten to know my downstairs neighbor, a 90-year old lady who travelled the world as a governess and who shared her stories while we nibbled chocolates together. She gave me nice hand-me-down clothes, including my first piece of couture: a black Balenciaga dress and matching bolero jacket. I had also met Emmanuelle, Claire, Marie, Erika and Sophie : all young professional women who live in the building and who all have a healthy appreciation for a nice cocktail after work.

I had even gotten to know the shopkeepers in the neighborhood : the video rental guy - who while nice, was very confused by me and just dying to ask me what planet I came from; the sweet cashier at the Shopi on the corner, his Coca-Cola bottle thick glasses magnifying his tender blue eyes by three; the pessimistic lady at the dry cleaner's who delighted in telling me there was no hope, nothing to do, too late now, but she'd try anyway to get that stain out, if only I had brought it to her sooner.

I am particularly going to miss the restaurant downstairs, called "L'Entredgeu." If you are ever in Paris, I highly recommend it. It's a tiny little place with no more than 15 tables, if that, a 28 euro fixed-price three-course menu that changes with the seasons and the whims of the chef. I had only been in the apartment for a few days, when I was waiting for some friends to come over and knew we would need a place to have dinner, so I thought I might as well try the place downstairs. I walked in and asked the girl at the counter,

"Would you have a table for three tonight around 8:30?"

"We can fit you in around 9. Under what name?" she replied.

"Penelope," I said.

She stopped writing and looked at me pointedly. "Excuse me?" She looked like she was waiting to unmask me and the trick I might be trying to pull.

"Penelope," I repeated, sure I had pronounced it correctly.

"Because your name is Penelope?" she asked.

At this point, I was getting a little annoyed. "Yes," I said firmly.

"Mine too!" she said, breaking into a smile.

"Well, look at that!" I marvelled, "two Penelope's on the same block in Paris. Who would have thought!"

Every time I went there to eat afterwards, we got a kick out of looking at each other with little smirks and saying,

"Bonsoir, Penelope!" to which one of us would reply,

"Bonsoir, Penelope!"

All of this to say, I really wasn't looking forward to leaving the neighborhood. Plus, for those who don't already know, I hate packing. And unpacking. With a passion. I put it off as long as possible - it was the holidays, I told myself - and then finally gave in. I got so nervous I wouldn't finish in time, I tore cuticles apart. Which really helped with the packing, lemme tell ya.

But it got done. Movers came, made friends with Max, and moved all my stuff into the new place. There were some adjustments that needed to be made, so an electrician came, made friends with Max, labeled all my fuses, and spent a good three hours re-wiring some antique lamps. The plumbers came, made friends with Max, and tried to figure out why the electric toilet was giving off strange stagnant water odors. Then, after not having a phone signal for a whole week and a half, the phone company came, made friends with Max, and re-intstalled the phone cable that had been ripped out and never replaced when the place had been renovated. Now I just have to get the electric company to come, make friends with Max, and up my amperage. That new electric stove uses a heck of a lot of watts.

I really can't complain. There is even another restaurant downstairs. The apartment is a bigger, sunnier, nicer place with a real separate kitchen. I have a cute little fireplace (which I'm apparently not supposed to use) in the bedroom, and a bathtub I have reveled in since the very first night.

But people, the toilet is fucking electric. Who thought that was a good idea? And, um, I can't get it to work until I try fifteen times. I push the button, nothing happens. The electrician pushes the button, it works. I push the button, total silence. The plumber pushes the button, flush-a-thon. Decidedly, I do not have the French touch. I have gotten so sick of staring at my business while trying to get the button to notice my existence that this morning as I felt the call of nature, I thought, "Oh fuck that, I'll wait til I get to work."

Something tells me I'm going to save money on my water bill.

Tis the Season

2005-12-16T09:43:00.000Z

I've mentioned before the similarities between the French and the Japanese, and while I've never lived in Japan, I stand by my assertion that the two cultures share a fondness for useless, strange, and totally inappropriate gifts.

Take for example the recent issue of "A Nous Paris", a free newspaper distributed in métro stations all over the city, whose current issue features gift ideas for the holiday season. Some of them were cool, but most were simply trendy superficial things you were supposed to want so you could be à la mode. (Meaning 'in style' in French, not 'with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side', in case you were confused.)

So, if you were a trendy Parisienne, you were encouraged to buy for the loved ones on your list:

Um, yeah. An "I'm Happy Weirdo" robot.

Doesn't that just scream weird Japanese teenage girl?

And then there is the real pearl of a gift you can be proud to offer to anyone on your list. Described as 'very original' and 'irresistible', it's the ....... drum roll, please........

'Gangsta' oven mitt

Perfect for all those epicureans who don't have room for a lawn jockey. Ahh, racism. The gift that keeps on giving.

Seriously, folks, check that shit out. How irresistibly original! Use this to pull out that casserole from the oven. Wear it with pride as your serve your guests the holiday dishes you prepared from the recipes in the back of "Marie Claire." I mean, really.

Joyeuses Fetes and Happy Holidays from the land of liberte, egalite and fraternite!

Punch Bowl

2005-12-01T22:00:00.000Z

I threw my first party in Paris last Saturday. The reasons were twofold : my best friend is leaving to do a PhD abroad, and it's December and I wanted some egg nog.

Since I am the way I am, serving the same cocktail to over 4o guests, I was thinking : PUNCH BOWL. It seemed only natural, and so a propos.

Much to my surprise, what in some circles back home is a standard item to be included on wedding registries is quite old fashioned here in Old Europe.

I started by searching on the web. When you have no car and getting from point A to point B takes at least thirty minutes on the metro, you sort of want to make sure the store has the item before you make the effort of going there and lugging it all the way back home.

My first couple of searches got me this:

Gee, serving egg nog in this Imperial Russian, um, soup tureen (?) sure would add a special touch to the party, now wouldn't it?

or this:

Good old M37A here sure is a pretty old punch bowl, but she's a wee bit expensive for what I had in mind. Antiques are pesky like that.

And this set, on sale on Ebay for a mere 600 dollars, is, well, just, well... Yikes. Blue?

So I decide to go the Huckabee's like "everything store" here in Paris, the BHV, thinking if they don't have a punch bowl, no one will. BHV is an experience. It gives the idea of personal space entirely new boundaries.

But when I asked a sales clerk I managed to find lurking in a remote kitchenware corner if they had any punch bowls, I got that Gallic widening of the eyes and lower lip thrust that means something akin to, "No clue, lady." Turns out, in Paris, they call them 'salad bowls with a soup ladle.'

This got me curious. Why would something that was a regular feature of birthday parties, wedding showers, holiday celebrations and office parties back in the good old South of the US of A be totally obsolete here?

And I realized it totally depends on how you colonize your territories.

See, here in France, the word "punch" is indelibly linked to rum - rum from Guadaloupe or Martinique, both former French colonies. A "p'ti punch" is a drink made from rum, sugar and lime juice. None of this fruit juice, 7Up and lime sherbet for the kiddies, thank you.

Which got me thinking again. Where did the word "punch" come from?

Turns out, kids, that the word "punch" comes from the Hindi word for "five" - panc - designating a drink made from arrak, tea, sugar, lemon and water. (A must-try for a future party, methinks.) This concoction was brought back to England by sailors with the British East India Company. The better explanation for its prevalence in the New World, however, seems to me to be from German immigrants, who drank something called "punsch" made from several fruit juices and spices, often with liquor or wine added.

The party, by the way, was a blast. It was a nice mix of people, and not everyone showed up at the same time, so space was never a problem. I'll definitely be throwing many more in the future.

But just a warning for those of you who will be attending American holiday parties with punch bowls present:

egg nog + champagne = bleah.

Melancholy at the Grand Palais

2005-11-27T21:30:00.000Z

I've been taking advantage recently of the cultural things Paris has to offer. (Eastern European rock installations not included).

I have been to two different exhibits at the Grand Palais, attended an artist's expo in a chic but rundown apartment not far away in the exclusive 8th arrondissement, and went to a party at an artist's loft in the outskirts of the city, where this weekend they are having an open house with an artists' collective.

The first expo at the Grand Palais, entitled "Melancolie", was, well, how can I put it? Interesting, very extensive, and a little exhausting. The idea was to show how important of a theme "melancholia" has historically been in the arts, be it painting, music, philosophy, theology, sculpture, etc. The exhibit was huge, and spanned the ages. How much time they must have put into deciding what pieces to include, I can only imagine. But I sort of liked trying to picture the board of people involved, sitting around a conference room table, discussing what works to use.

"I absolutely cannot understand why you refuse to see my point about the Dührer, Charlotte!"

"Jean-Charles, please don't slam your fist like that. I think you'll find the Otto Dix supports the exact same idea, plus it's available on loan for the time we need it!"

Yes, these are the things that swirl around in my head at 7:30 at night at an art expo. Consider yourself warned.

The first thing I saw upon entering was a Grecian urn depicting Penelope at her loom, appropriately melancholic, waiting for Ulysses' return with her son Telemachus at her side.

Off to a nice start, I thought.

I found it interesting how the stance of melancholy one takes, the head tilted to the side and resting on the hand, hasn't changed at all since ancient times. But then again, why would it have? In any case, it was fascinating to see the pose repeated so consistently throughout.

I was impressed with the variety of the works chosen. There were the predictable Dührers and Goyas and Van Goghs, but I thought Edward Hopper was a nice addition. And I was a little surprised not to see a whole bunch of Schiele. But then again, he was being displayed next door, at the "1900's in Vienna" exhibit, alongside Kokoschka, Moser and Klimt.

There were of course an enormous amount of things that went completely over my head. Each part was organized into sections, and there were long cerebral explanations of the view of such and such aspect of melancholia seen through the spectrum of such and such an age, or such and such philosophy. There was a huge panel that discussed the theological ruminations of "black bile", as melancholy was sometimes translated, and how during the Middle Ages is was considered a sin. Yawn.

The absolute best part, though, was how many people were jotting things down into little notebooks or handheld computers, even into their fancy cell phones. I can assure you not all of them were art students, either. You gotta love a country that is so much into culture, philosophy and knowledge in general that they not only line up in the cold for hours to see an art exhibit after work, but that they actually take notes.

It's just so cute.

The Rules

2005-11-16T21:35:00.000Z

I had a date tonight. With a friend of a friend, who was rather good looking, and danced like a pro. We had met at a Caribbean party, where he and I danced danced the zouk for quite a while. It's very up close, with the woman's legs on either side of the man's like the lambada. Things got a little hot and heavy, but the party was ending, and it was far away. In parting, I gave him my card with my email addresses. After almost a year, I still haven't memorized my cell phone number.

About a week later, he sent me an email, giving me his cell phone number. I replied giving him mine, but letting him know that I had two friends staying with me for a few weeks, and that if he wanted to see me for a tete-a-tete, it would have to wait. I didn't hear back for about a week and a half, so I sent him another email, reiterating that he was welcome to call and we could do something all together, but that if he would prefer just me, I was looking forward to hearing from him after my friends left.

Total radio silence.

Ironically, I saw the friend who introduced us this weekend and he asked if I had heard from the guy. I said I had sent two emails and gotten no reply. He gave me a perfect throwaway line - which I am really sick of hearing - that maybe the guy in question didn't feel up to par.

I don't know if the two of them talked, but the day before yesterday, the guy called. I told him I wasn't sure he was interested since I hadn't heard from him. He said something about being really busy and not wanting to contact me until he really had time to get together. Then he asked me out to dinner. Tonight. We set the time and the place, and on my way there, I called to make sure it was still on. He replied he was getting ready and would be on his way.

I found the place (miraculously in less than 15 minutes) and arrived a good ten minutes ahead of time.

I sat at the bar to wait. I am a polite person, so I waited to order a drink until he got there.

Forty minutes later, (giving him the benefit of the doubt since I was early), I called his cell phone. Straight to voice mail. In a tight voice, I said that I was already there and had been waiting half an hour, and that he would find me at the bar.

I watched table after table come in, have drinks, talk and leave. The owner of the place kept stealing glances at me, no doubt trying to come up with theories as to why someone would stand me up.

I gave in and ordered a drink.

I checked my cell phone. No voice mail message; no text message.

An hour and five minutes after the appointed time, I called again. Straight to voice mail.

"Alain," I said, my voice tense, "this is Penelope. I have been waiting for over an hour now. I am giving you ten minutes, and if you're not here, I'm going home."

By this time, the owner had already eaten his own dinner. He came around from behind the bar.

"Well," he said, shaking his head, "Monsieur is trying to make himself desirable, is he?"

I shrugged.

"It's appalling. Really. He should be ashamed of himself."

In reply, I asked how much I owed him for the drink.

I paid, put on my scarf, gloves and coat, and threw my cell phone in my purse. Try and call me now, I silently dared him. As I was zipping up my purse, a Bangladeshi flower seller came in. I turned to go.

"Mademoiselle!" called the owner from behind the bar, "Here." He handed me a red rose.

"Awww!" said the waitress. I swallowed hard so my eyes wouldn't tear up.

"Thank you," I said.

You wanna know the rules?

Make me wait half an hour without calling : inconsiderate, but you might have a good excuse.

Make me wait an hour and fifteen minutes for your sorry ass : Fuck you.

My red rose is in a pretty vase on my dining room table to remind me of the shallowness of men who think their shit doesn't stink.

And of the kindness of strangers.

The Picture of Your Name

2005-11-16T18:39:00.000Z

I read this on another blog a while back, and I just had to try it. It's definitely for one of those bored-at-work or waiting-for-boy-to-call moments of killing time. (I'm not saying which moment I am having right now - so there.)

Here is what you do:

Go to Google and do an image search on the following things:

Your first name

The town you were born in

The title of your favorite song (don't fret over this, no one will know)

Your grandmother's first name

Kinda cool, huh? Anybody but me notice a theme here?

Talking Rocks

2005-11-15T19:57:00.000Z

Paris is not burning.

But there is a strange little installation of talking Latvian rocks set up in the square in front of the Louvre. Nine large rocks of different sizes, each with a different face projected onto it, tell the story of Latvia, its history and folklore.

There was something disquieting about it. But it was still very, very cool. Especially when I just stumbled onto it on my way to have a drink with a friend.

That's the thing about Paris. You never know what you'll find. So it's a good idea to make sure you always have these three things handy:

1. A camera (in case you stumble onto a Latvian rock installation, for example)

2. A notebook to jot down overheard conversations, bad English translations of menu items, or words you want to look up later.

3. An umbrella (need I explain?)

A Chance Encounter

2005-11-06T23:50:00.000Z

Pastel colors on the canal

I went to Saint Petersburg to work a conference of financial directors. The first few days were full of tasks like putting together gift bags and checking last minute details. The administrative staff was camped out in the conference room with nametags, maps, computers, fax machines and dedicated phone lines.

On the first day, I was still in awe of the hotel, and trying to take in the surroundings and figure out how to address people I ran across. It's still kind of odd for me to speak English when I'm abroad, so in the elevator on my way back up to the fifth floor conference room, I would simply nod my head and smile if anyone got on.

Perhaps for this reason, when a man got on at the second floor, he asked if I worked at the hotel. Maybe I looked like an employee, or had some determined expression on my face as if I had somewhere important to be.

"Oh, I thought you were Russian," he said when I answered in American English that I did not, in fact, work at the hotel.

It turned out he was from Texas but had been living in Saint Petersburg for six years.

"It must be fascinating. Is it?" I asked.

"It's a hard life," he said, "It's difficult here. But it makes it better when you're in an elevator with a beautiful woman."

I smiled. The elevator reached my floor, much to my relief.

"Well, I hope you won't need to call me - because of what I do - but if you ever need anything while you're here, don't hesitate to contact me," he said, handing me a business card. I turned it over to the English side. He worked for an emergency clinic.

"Oh, goodness," I said laughing, "I hope I don't need your help."

"We were rated the best private clinic in the country by the American Embassy," he said proudly, as the elevator started to make sounds of protest at him holding open the door.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said.

Later at dinner, one of the financial directors came up to me to say he might need to leave early, showing me a spider bite he had gotten a week earlier that had swelled up. He now also had a rash on his arm.

"I might have just what you need," I said, pulling out the card and showing it to him. "They were rated the best private clinic in Russia by the American Embassy." I offered to call them and set up an appointment.

He thanked me, and made a joke about assistants and their resourcefulness. I decided not to tell him it had more to do with being picked up in a hotel elevator than being a good assistant.

"Frank?" I said loudly into the phone from the ladies room. It was the first place I could find that was quiet. "I'm sorry to call you this late, but it seems I do need your services after all."

I explained the situation, and he told me what information they would need to set up an appointment.

"I'll check with the person in question to see if he would prefer to come in the morning or during the lunch break, and I'll call you tomorrow morning to let you know." My American voice bounced off the polished marble walls, and I wondered who could hear me.

The next morning, I made an appointment to come at noon. I reserved a car with the hotel, a sleek black luxury car with tinted windows, and I felt ridiculously like a drug lord gliding through the streets. Frank had told me to call him when we were on our way, so he could meet us personally. He offered to give me a private tour of the facility while the financial director saw the doctor. This made me a bit uneasy, but I didn't know how to politely get out of it, considering what a favor he was doing me.

The building was non-descript from the outside, but once inside, it was apparent why it was so well thought of by the American Embassy. The waiting room was a sleek, bright and luxurious atrium, with a coffee stand, uniformed hostesses and overstuffed leather couches. A very elegant middle aged woman walked in wearing a sable colored wool cape edged in identical colored fur. She sat down on one of the couches, crossed her long sleek legs, and opened a fashion magazine. I could tell it was not her first visit.

The paperwork was filled in, and the director went off to see the doctor.

Frank turned to me and put his hand on my arm, "It's good to see you again, even in the circumstances," he purred.

"Thank you for your help," I said, smiling tersely and taking a step away from him.

"Let me show you around," he said, moving his arm behind me as if to grab me by the waist and pointing ahead to show me the way. I moved quickly to the doors leading inside the clinic.

He showed me the dentistry wing, the dermatology wing, and the sports therapy wing, complete with mud bath and whirlpool facilities, all the while reciting facts and figures as if reading from a pamphlet. In the stairwell on the way to see an example of a patient room, he turned to me and tried to compose his face into a look of genuine interest.

"How much do you think it costs to have hip replacement surgery in the US, Penelope?"

"I really have no idea, Frank," I said, a little annoyed and wondering whether he had been a member of Toastmasters back in Texas.

"Well, in the US, it can cost up to $60,000, and here we do everything for $13,000. We're a state of the art facility, but our prices are very reasonable. We have a lot of tourist business."

I raised an eyebrow. "Tourist business?"

"You know, elderly tourists who fall and break something, they all come here. We have a good relationship with the hotels."

"Ah," I said. Thank you, Frank, for making me now actually think about where I would go if I needed emergency health care abroad. These are not things I think about.

As he was showing me the MRI equipment, apparently one of two or three in the whole country, I remembered the woman in the lobby and the frankly beautiful patient rooms.

"So tell me, Frank, I'll bet you do a lot of plastic surgery here, don't you?"

He didn't seem to expect the question. "Well, a lot of the Russian stars and the well- to-do come here for that, but they also come for the medical facilities. I would say plastic surgery makes up only about 30% of our revenue."

"Hmm," I replied.

Bored with talk of the clinic, I asked him about living in Saint Petersburg.

"It's very hard. It's really violent. I've been assaulted six times. Electricity goes off periodically with no warning, sometimes in the middle of winter. Real estate is a nightmare. Even this clinic - we rent the space, and totally renovated it, but despite an official lease, the owner could simply raise the rent astronomically or take back the building whenever he wanted. People urinate and defecate in the hallways of apartment buildings. 80% of pharmaceuticals in public pharmacies are placebos. It's a jungle. All the Americans I have ever met who got transferred over here only made it six months."

I had a newfound respect for good old Frank from Texas. I wouldn't be able to handle those conditions, either.

It was time to collect the director. I found him in the lobby calling his doctor in France on his cell phone.

"What did they say?" I asked. It really was the scariest looking angry red welt on his arm, the size of a big walnut.

"They wanted to cut it open and drain it and give me some more antibiotics. My doctor prefers I fly back tonight to Paris."

We had a brief discussion with Frank about price and antibiotics, until the director finally thanked him and assured him it had nothing to do with doubting the quality of the facility, but that he preferred to follow his doctor's advice.

I got on my cell phone and changed his ticket, called the hotel to have the car pick us up, and said my goodbyes to Frank.

"Thank you very much for everything you did for us. It was very kind to take so much of your time for us," I said, sticking out my hand for him to shake.

"If you should have some free time, I would love to take you dinner," he said in reply.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," I said, "but thank you again for everything." I was grateful he made me look like a highly competent assistant, but not that grateful.

The black luxury car was waiting for us on the street outside, humming and beckoning us with its warmth. It was beginning to get cold.

As I watched the buildings file past as we drove back to hotel, I wondered who lived there and if they had heat.

Nyevsky Prospekt

Санкт Пэтэрбург

2005-10-29T18:32:00.000+01:00

Welcome, multinational corporation employees!

There is something to be said about business travel. At least the kind I have been fortunate enough to do. Sure, you have to work a little, but that consists of making sure the seating arrangements at dinner are politically correct, or double checking that the transportation company has taken note that so-and-so's wife's flight got delayed. It's not like I had to make a presentation, or defend my department's going over budget.

Instead, I got to drink company sponsored Водка. And encourage middle aged financial managers to do the same, under the disapproving eye of said middle aged financial manager's wife. "Pierre, it's only noon!"

Free Водка aside, I fell in love with Санкт Пэтэрбург. And the Armenian brandy at the luxury hotel bar.

The city outside the hotel was at times beautiful, mysterious, but mostly unknowable. Walking on the Nyevsky Prospekt, the city's main drag, I managed to decipher words like "hotel" "restaurant" and "cafe" with the rudimentary Cyrillic I had learned before coming, and it was thrilling. But while I might have been able to identify "Радиссон" as being the "Radisson" hotel, I couldn't explain why there were an abundance of young blonde girls on horseback at three o'clock in the morning, their un-mounted friends walking beside them, obviously coming back from a night out at the clubs together. I found out later from one of the tour bus drivers that the girls work during the day in the parks giving tourists carriage rides, and at night, sans carriage, the horses become their mode of transport.

An alternative, apparently very common, is to hitch a ride. Those who have cars stop to pick up random people. They negotiate on a price, and take you where you want to go. The night I ventured out to a club, lines of cars were parked along the Nyevsky Prospekt, waiting to take club goers to their destinations.

Adventurous as I might be, I did not partake of this particular local custom. My Russian does not go beyond "hello" and "thank you", and besides, I was walking distance to my hotel.

I leave you with two tantalizing images, and a bit of a teaser for the next episode.

Canal on Neva River

Aptly named "Church of Spilt Blood"

Tune in later to find out how a chance encounter in the hotel elevator led to me taking a financial director to country's finest private clinic!

Secrets

2005-09-26T20:51:00.000+01:00

Last night I called a good friend. One of those friends who understands my idiosyncracies. One of those friends who is just as complicated and multi-faceted.

I said to her, "You and I, we are not light."

I meant that we felt the weight of being, and sometimes it's heavy.

But there are times I feel light, like I'm floating. Like the time my photo was taken with Rio de Janeiro in the background. At the exact moment the shutter clicked, I thought, "Here I am, in a place I've always wanted to visit, speaking a language I didn't speak two months ago. All because of me."

Today, my friend sent me this. And it transported me.

And for a while, I floated.

Thank you.

Movin' On Up

2005-09-20T21:24:00.000+01:00

I think if I were looking for work in Paris, I would learn to be an escalator repairman. Because I swear to god at least twenty of those things are broken at any given moment in the city. It's the damnedest thing.

The one leading from the metro station to the plaza where I work (or vice versa) is broken at least half of the time, which in my morning or evening stupor, I tend to not notice until I have heavily placed one foot on the first step, making that tell-tale thump, and nearly falling on my face to realize the thing isn't moving.

I remember in college one of my eight roommates had never been on an escalator in her life. (Small town Wisconsin, what can you say?) I thought that was so fucked up and weird. But I was a snot then. And, (have I mentioned?) very fucking cold.

Then there is the mall - yes, the mall- that I walk through every day to get to the metro station to go to work. Those escalators are broken half the time, too. Once, I was wearing some nice new shoes I had bought whose heels happened to fit snugly into the grooves of the escalator steps. When the escalator reached the bottom floor to deposit me on solid ground, I stepped off, and heard "pop! pop!" as the rubber soles came off the bottom of my stilettos one by one, and I was left standing on two nicely adorned nails to grudgingly click-clack my way to work.

Sense of Direction

2005-09-18T12:37:00.000+01:00

The other day after work, I didn't feel like going straight home. It was a pleasant warm evening, and I felt adventurous, so I got off the metro at Louvre Rivoli, thinking I would have a drink at Le Fumoir, and perhaps meet some interesting people. I had been there once by myself and met a really interesting older engineer who gave me the addresses of some good world music clubs. I lost the piece of paper, of course, but it was a pleasant way to pass the evening. It reminded me of Apres Diem in Atlanta where I was always sure to have a good time.

I looked into Le Fumoir, which was packed with people, so much so that I couldn't even reach the bar. I decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood and come back later. I had no particular destination in mind, and even if I did, I have zero sense of direction, so I wouldn't have been able to find it anyway. One of the other reasons I really like Le Fumoir is that it's right outside the exit of the Louvre Rivoli station, so even someone like me can find it easily.

I strolled along the banks of the Seine. The bouquinistes were shutting up their stands for the evening, the tourists having gone back to their hotels to take a nap before venturing out again for dinner. I passed a cafe, and as I turned the corner, the waiter standing outside said,

"Bonsoir, Princesse."

I laughed and muttered bonsoir, passing him to stop at the window of a perfume shop next door.

He suddenly appeared beside me and said,

"May I offer you a drink?"

I looked, up, surprised. "You want to buy me a drink?"

"It's on me," he said.

I am on a budget, I reasoned, so free drink = why not.

He led me to a table inside, and brought me a bowl of potato chips.

"What can I get you, Princesse?"

Cute the first time, the princess thing was getting old quickly.

"A kir, please," I replied, and opened my book. He hurried away. Through the window, I watched him serving an American couple on the terrace, reciting the desserts in English with a smile, charming them into a chocolate cake and ice cream.

Back at my table, he set down my glass and said, "So, Princesse, do you like the spontaneous things in life?"

"Yes," I replied, "otherwise I wouldn't have accepted your offer." I smiled, but braced myself for what was surely coming next. The drink might have been free, but I was sure there was a price of some kind. Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me.

"And are you coquine?" This is a word I have been called before, but I am not a hundred percent sure of its meaning.

"What does that mean, exactly?" He looked taken aback. I don't have an American accent in French, so it really throws people off when I do that. "I'm not French," I explained, "so I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"Well," he said, looking around, "I'll be right back."

I chuckled to myself as he went to check on his tables outside. I read my book and snacked on the chips until he got back.

"So, Princesse, what do you do for a living?" he asked, standing back to look me over.

"I'm an administrative assistant," I answered.

"You really look like an administrative assistant," he said, his eyes traveling appreciatively up and down me.

"And you really look like a waiter," I replied with a smile. I quickly added, "I used to be a waitress, and I had the same uniform: bow tie, black vest, white apron. I learned a lot. Especially about people." I smiled up at him, waiting for him to get to the point.

"It's a nice career," he said, "you meet all kinds of people."

"Mmm hmm," I replied. I always forget this is not a noise the French people make. It sounds totally dismissive, as if to say, yeah, what-the-hell-ever, instead of being a way of agreeing or encouraging one to continue.

"So, you see, I take photographs," he said. Now we're getting somewhere, I thought. "Photographs of beautiful women like you. It's my private hobby - I'm married, you see - but I do it very discreetly. I especially like women in suits. Are you an exhibitionist?"

I took a large swallow of my kir, and looked up, feigning as if I had never thought about whether I was or not. "Noo," I said slowly, "that's not really my thing." It was absolutely true at that moment.

"Oh, that's too bad," he mused, pratically drooling, "I'm sure you'd be very good at it."

"Do you meet a lot of women who accept?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said, "I pay 150 euros per photo, or take them to dinner."

"Expensive hobby," I said. "And what do you do with the photos? Do you keep them? Do you frame them? Do you put them on the web?"

"They are for me," he replied, "but I have to be discreet because I'm married. It's my little secret."

I nodded, in my pop psychologist way, but I didn't believe for a minute they just stayed in his camera.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Patrick," he said, extending his hand.

"I'm Penelope," I replied, shaking his hand. "Thank you for the drink, Patrick, but I need to be going now."

"I'm here every day except Monday," he said, "if you change your mind."

"I'll know where to find you if I do," I replied with a smile, secure in the knowledge that there is no way I would ever remember how to get back there.

Fodder for Ridicule

2005-09-13T18:30:00.000+01:00

Rightly or wrongly, I consider myself a better than average cook. I grew up helping my mom in the kitchen, who taught me most everything I know. She had recipes from all over the world, and almost every kitchen utensil known to man, not to mention a kick-ass gourmet kitchen. We made rum and chestnut cream tortes, feijoada, crepes suzette, roasted goose, pecan pie so good she had people begging her to ship them via mail, butternut squash soup, fondue, zingy Lebanese tabouli, and all kinds of dishes ranging all the way from shark to sushi. Her penchant for trying new things had its funny side effects, namely the most extensive vinegar collection in the Western Hemisphere. Once, my sister and I counted 16 different kinds.

So as you can see, I am no stranger to cooking. I actually really enjoy it when I am cooking for an occasion. I find it less rewarding when it's just for me, but budgetary concerns have forced me to confront the limitations of my miniature Parisian kitchen (which is more aptly described as a corner of a room). Despite its small size and odd usage of space, it has relatively large cabinets, and two whole ceramic ranges! (insert ironic tone here.) I recently acquired a little toaster oven, a hand-me-down from a friend whose parents moved back to Mexico, and it sits on my counter, taking up precious room. I was skeptical when I saw it - it looked good for little more than heating up croissants and blinis - but I discovered to my delight that my small Pyrex dish fits inside. So recently, I concocted a nice little dish of chicken, tomatoes, olive oil and feta, put the glass cover on, and baked it for 30 minutes. It came out tender and flavorful. I was more than pleased with myself and my little oven-that-could.

I have a good friend who lives in a 16m2 studio (~160 sq ft) and makes a mean quiche lorraine. She beats the eggs, heavy cream, lardons, emmenthal and herbes de provence in a bowl, and puts it in an oval dish fitted with a pre-made pâte feuilleté crust. She pops it in her (slightly larger) toaster oven, and 30 minutes later, we all have a tasty treat to stave off drunkeness a little longer.

Encouraged by the Greek chicken success, and my friend's repeatedly perfectly turned out quiches, I decided to make one in my Pyrex dish last night. I had gone shopping at the corner store on Saturday when I realized I had almost nothing to eat and thirty minutes before the store closed. It's not open on Sunday, and I hate grocery shopping on Monday night after work because it's full of stressed out scowling people, and the shelves are half empty. So I rushed through the store on Saturday night, and the shelves were almost bare. There was no chicken or beef to be had, only lonely looking turkey and pork cuts. So over the announcement that everyone should immediately proceed to the checkout counter because the store was closing, I quickly bought the ingredients for the quiche. I hesistated over whether my friend's is so good because she picks a particular kind of lardon over another. Salted or smoked? I went for salted, partly out of loyalty to my Southern heritage (ya'all ever had country ham? Dang, it's salty!) but mostly because smoked stuff scares me. I'm always afraid it will remind me of that smoke in a bottle stuff. Bleah. I grabbed what I thought was pâte feuilleté, salted lardons, emmenthal, eggs and heavy cream and obediently proceeded to the checkout.

Last night, I happily mixed the ingredients, lined the Pyrex pan with the pre-made crust, and popped it in the oven. I checked on it a few times, and it didn't seem to be cooking very fast. The shelf of the oven was at a height that made the top of the crust almost touch the heating bars, so I should not have been at all surprised when I smelled burning later. I took it out, but was heartened that the top of the quiche was a nice brown color and it seemed to be cooked throughout. I set it out to cool. When I went to see if it was cool enough to eat, I began to pick off the burnt parts of the crust, and that's when I felt it. That telltale heaviness of uncooked ingredients. I looked closer. The crust on the insides and bottom were almost raw. Okay, so my Pyrex pan is small, but it's not really shallow, and the inherited toaster oven is no convection masterpiece. Then I see the wrapping of the pre-made crust sticking out from the trash : pâte brisé. Oops. That's more for tarts and pies. No wonder.

Determined to salvage it, I picked off the burnt crust, put on a saute pan to heat, and scooped the whole darn thing out - intact - into it. I covered it, and let it cook. When I once again smelled the crust burning, this time directly on the bottom, I took the spatula and peeled back the crust. I scooped up the inside onto my plate in two parts and threw the burnt pâte brisé away.

My concoction, though not a quiche lorraine, turned out to be a very thick, rectangular shaped, yummy baked omelette.

But still, fucking up a quiche is fodder for ridicule. So be nice until I figure this kitchen corner out.

My Country

2005-09-07T23:23:00.000+01:00

I don't know how to express what I have been feeling over the past couple of days. I have alternately felt numb, incredulous, helpless and deeply ashamed.

I have seen so many photos that have made me quickly turn away to bury my face in my hands and cry. I can only imagine the state I would be in if I had TV. There was the one photo of a poor scraggly dog that had been tied to a railing on the interstate for six days and was barking for someone to save him. My heart broke into a million pieces.

Then there was the shot of evacuees waiting to be flown out, piled onto cots seven high. It looked so much like the images of ships carrying slaves on the Middle Passage that I immediately burst into tears.

That the current administration fucked up is no surprise. That the people who could not leave New Orleans were black and poor is no surprise. That the blacks are portrayed as 'looting' and the whites as 'scavenging' enrages me.

"Everyone knows," my caustic co-worker said to me today, "that the Americans are the most racist of all." This from a woman who refuses to drink out of her bottle of mineral water if it's left out overnight lest the North African cleaning crew help themselves to it. "You never know with those people," she whispered conspiratorally.

Like Mary Landrieu, I feel an urge to slap someone upside the head.

But with everything this whole disaster is revealing, I certainly cannot argue that we don't have a serious problem. More than a problem with race, however, I feel from a distance here in this country where tenants who fail to pay their rent cannot be evicted in the winter months, a kind of shame that we treat our poor people, regardless of their skin color, so callously. There are many things wrong with the system in France, I grant, but their idea of the role of government is to provide for and protect its citizens. I wish ours were.

There are some rays of hope. A long complacent press seems to be getting some balls. Ordinary citizens have directed much of the discourse in the blogosphere. New Orleans might recover.

I hope my country recovers its conscience.

Antwerpen is Swiet and Seksie

2005-08-24T04:21:00.000+01:00

On a stroll through the charming historic streets of Antwerp, I came upon this shop.

I now have two new words I can add to my Flemish vocabulary!

In case you need a hint as to what kind of shop it was, here is a small one. (Or rather, a large, inflatable pink one.)

And yes, folks, that is an edible bikini. You have to really, really like Sweet Tarts.

Or how about a nice warm, crusty loaf of bread?

There were many more delights inside, but I didn't want to be too much of a geek by going around giggling and snapping pictures of chocolate hoo-has, impressively faithful in their rendering as they might have been.

And to just roll with the theme here, it was on this trip to Belgium, famous for its mussels, that I finally understood why on earth the word 'mussel' is a synonym for hootchie in French. I don't know why I didn't get it before. I guess I got too hung up on how the shells fit into it. But as I was hungrily scooping out the actual tasty morsel from its shell, I looked at it closely, in all its flesh-colored, shell-less glory, and I finally got it.

And yeah, man, they are so right.

And now, a test:

You thought the same thing I did, didn't you? (I know you did.)

And just to cement the impression I am giving of myself as a total snickering teenager, peeping through keyholes at people getting undressed, here is another sign that cracked me up. This was found in the nice fancy hotel's elevator, letting guests know where to go to get all sweaty with strangers of both sexes in the hammam, jacuzzi, sauna and swimming pool.

Head on down to the 1st floor to where things are happenin' at the:

Get some Antwerp Action at the Astrid!

(snicker, snicker!)