The Script Ended

Butcher "ess"

One of my dreams when I thought of living in Paris was to enroll in the famous Le Cordon Bleu cooking school. Before arriving here, it seemed like an almost impossible thing to me. I don't know why it felt so out of reach.  Maybe it was because Julia Child had gone there and she, being one of my idols, was an almost fantasy figure in my mind. Following in her footsteps, no matter how far behind, seemed almost presumptuous. Or possibly because the school's reputation is so high and well known, I could not imagine them considering someone like me - an American woman without professional experience who was OLD! Well, I applied anyway, why the heck not?, I decided. I mean, living in Paris had seemed like a presumptuous plan too. Who was I to think that I could live in such a place anyway? And I am here - they hadn't thrown me out yet - so might as well go all the way and try for Le Cordon Bleu.

I applied and was accepted! The voices in my head immediately assured me that if I was accepted, EVERYONE must be accepted. Don't get too proud of yourself, they reminded me.( God, I hate those guys!) But in any case, to the outside world, where everyone else lives, becoming a student at Le Cordon Bleu is a big deal. An even bigger deal is making it through the rigorous course. Check any "cooking" ego you may possess at the door. The French Chefs in the school are the bosses and you do as they say and cook as they do. Period.

There is lots to relate about the 3 months I have spent at LCB so far, slaving over a hot stove in the student kitchens. But the first thing I will tell you is the utter shock I felt at discovering how much I like to cut up the rabbits and all manner of birds we are learning to cook AND the gutting, de-gilling , skinning and filleting of the fish. Who knew? Not me, that's for sure. I have given some thought as to why these latent butcher tendencies have shown up in me and I have come to the decision that it has something to do with control. How many times have I strolled by a French boucherie (butcher) or one of the long ice beds laid with seafood in the open French markets, and saw all manner of wild life and sea life in their "whole body" form and wondered how in the heck you got those critters from that state to the dinner table. It really was intimidating. Especially when some little old gnarled French housewife standing ahead of you in line, blithely asks for two huge rabbits and tucks them, floppy eared heads and all, into her little wheelie cart.

I am a French market wimp no more! Thanks to Le Cordon Bleu and our sharpened cleavers we have learned to wield without fear or remorse, I can chop off little Mr Cottontail's head as well as his feet and all the rest of it, without so much as a cringe (well.......almost). No longer do whole silvery fish staring up at me from the counter make me go all shivery inside with the" ick" factor. With my razor sharp fillet knife and other tools, those fresh fish are soon beautiful and neat fillets. (I even know how to deal with the poor little fishies' eyes but I will spare you that detail). Yup, its control all right. I also know how to carve to perfection any fowl presented to me. I don't need my (ex) husband or some other male to do this dirty work any longer (lucky thing since there hasn't been too many males around here lately).

Really, all this gory knife work is down right empowering!

The Move

As I've mentioned in previous posts, Parisian apartments really do fit in the fairy tale charm category. But when such charm was being designed into row upon row of Hausmannian masterpieces, no thought was apparantly given to the practical side of living surrounded by spiraling staircases, twisting hallways and hidden courtyards. I can't believe that there exists a better test of the functionality of Parisian buildings than the household move. Have you ever wondered how all those massive, carved armoires ever got into those cozy little bedrooms? I had, and I shuddered just thinking about the hernia producing process it would all entail.

I moved this month and got to see first hand how this magic is performed. Everything, EVERYTHING is hauled in and out of these apartments, no matter how high up you live, through the window.

Yup, the window.

The French moving companies arrive first thing in the morning and set up an elevator of sorts with a platform on which all of your worldly possessions are strapped. It really is quite efficient. My movers were the antithesis of the lazy french worker prone to long breaks and surly service. I have rarely seen anyone hustle like these guys hustled. They were literally running through my apartment quickly wrapping up all my furniture and practically flinging it out the window. The entire apartment was emptied by noon. Then it was off to the new place where the whole process was reversed. This time we were moving to a 5th floor apartment (6th stories up in American lingo as the first floor is floor "0"). No matter, the movers parked their truck and cranked up the conveyer belt and soon my stuff was rising up the side of our building. All those spiral staircases are avoided this way.

Except for one little hitch.

The truck was emptied by about 5 pm and I was still waiting to put my refrigerator stuff back into the chill. Ou-est-ce-que le frigo? Where's the refrigerator? I asked of Main Mover Man. He asked me in turn why I didn't have a refrigerator for this new place. I already HAVE one, that's why. A couple more confused fractured french statements later and we both realized that my magnificant movers had forgotton the refrigerator back at the old place! By this time the conveyor belt elevator was disassembled. Without a hint of reproach or complaint, a couple of the guys drove back to the old place, hauled my fridge down three flights of winding stairs and then hauled it up 5 more spiraling flights to settle it in my new kitchen.

Aside from that little hiccup, I have nothing but praise for my French Movers, their very efficient elevator, their hard work and their INCREDIBLE patience with my french and all the confusion it caused. They even put up with me changing my mind while arranging the Salon (Living Room). Put the giant sofa here.........no there............uh, you were right ..........put it back over there...it really doesn't fit at all does it?

We all managed.

Joining up

Today is a very happy day in our little Parisian apartment. Those of you with Paris envy may figure that this is nothing new, but believe me, today is special. Why?, you ask. Because today our internet was reconnected after two long weeks attempting to "pirate" off floating and weak WIFI connections and suffering serious withdrawals from life on the world wide web as we have come to know it.

I'm sure that some people have probably given us up for dead.

Of course that doesn't mean we have a phone yet, but hey, we're not greedy and we are learning the art of patience (and we have our mobiles besides). One of the special little things about living in Paris is the maddeningly slow and archaic way that certain mundane tasks are accomplished. What would be only a swift phone call away in the USA, requires that all the planets in the universe line up "just so" to achieve the same thing here in France. Everything is so OFFICIAL here. And you are asked questions that aren't even allowed in the USA, to achieve the most insignificant thing.

Example #1. Change of Address. Oh so simple in San Diego, even when moving to another continent. But in Paris, you might as well be applying for early parole. First, La Poste. After standing in line for a good 40 minutes I was faced with a suspicious looking postal clerk taking my request for a change of address. Now mind you, this was my SECOND attempt at this task. The first ended in receiving a photocopy of the OFFICIAL CHANGE OF ADDRESS FORM as no more original forms were available (that clerk assured me that this was "n'import pas, French for it doesn't matter) and gave me an explanation of all the requirements necessary in order to achieve this apparantly high security operation. Passports and original signatures from each individual member of the family must be presented, along with answers to other crucial questions. This first clerk at least smiled and assured me that once completed I could present all this documentation at any La Poste anywhere in the city. This Second Clerk was working toward "nominee for best representation of cliche suspicious and generally rude French civil servant" award. I have been faced with several other very competitive candidates for this award so my skin has thickened sufficiently to not take any of this personally. In fact, I barely get ruffled anymore.

His first challenge was to the authenticity of this photocopied OFFICIAL CHANGE OF ADDRESS FORM. Why did I have such a thing in the first place? he sneered with disgust as he shook this imposter form back at me. Second sneer came in response to my explanation as to how I came to be in possesion of this lowly photocopy. He then seemed to brighten in a sinister way, he would get me yet. Madamn, you realize that you must have OFFICIAL IDENTIFICATION DOCUMENTATION for every member of the family you wish to include in this vital transation. (he was speaking in rapid fire French of course, but my comprehension skills have also improved along with my thickening skin). I assured him that I was well aware of these requirements and promptly produced all of my family's passports.

I swear he was visibly disappointed.

Next he began to eye suspiciously the passports, flipping through each page, looking at the date of entry into the country stamps, flipping back to the picture page, back again through every page, tilting each one sideways in search of.......what? Who knows. He grudgingly then began to write down all the ID numbers on the back of my imposter form.

So now, Madamn, where were you living before??? Wasn't this right on the form, I thought, under "ancienne address"? I answered him anyway and he checked my answer with what I had written on the form, I passed this test. I wonder what lie he thought that he was going to catch me in?

And where do you now live? Uhh....here, I answered, pointing to that line on the form. Hurrumph, foiled again!, he grumbled. He checked his computer screen, took out the all important rubber stamp, pounced importantly on my OFFICIAL CHANGE OF ADDRESS FORM, and informed me that that would be 40 euros, s'il vous plait. 40 euros! There is a charge for changing my address?

He was sooo happy, he had finally gotten me! Why of course Madamn! You think that we would do such a vital and official thing as this for free??

Example # 2: MORE changes of address. One must present oneself at the Mairie (city hall) of the arrondissement in which you live within 8 days of arrival to inform them of your presence and to, right you got it ---CHANGE YOUR ADDRESS officially-----oh no, not again! This time, this transaction took 3 attempts. The first began with a quick wait at the information desk asking which line to stand in, answer - Window # 2. Of course...... this in the one with the line snaking its way into the lobby, I should have guessed. At least waiting in line gave me a chance to check out what else might be required to do this task. I observed the others before me, read the posters on the wall and figured out that I needed photos of myself. By the time I understood this, it was my turn. The clerk didn't ask for photos, we didn't even get that far, she wanted to see my electricity bill from my new apartment. Oops, didn't anticipate that one. I left and decided to return the next day. 24 hours later, electricity AND phone bill for good measure in hand, along with photos, I was back.  Triumphantly, I presented all of this when it was again, finally, my turn.

Madamn, you are a FOREIGNER? Yes, this is so. You need to register not here, but at the police station. That is where FOREIGNERS must present themselves. The Police Station! I thought back to my previous day inquiring which line to stand in to change my address, and being told that I needed my electricity bill, didn't either of those people realize that I was a foreigner? Why had they not bothered to tell me that I was in the wrong place to begin with? I guess asking one's nationality is further down the list of requirements, after photos and electricity bills. But believe me, once I open my mouth, ANY French person knows that I am not French, no matter what kind of French I happen to produce.

Luckily, the Police Station is around the corner from my apartment which is only a block from the City Hall. I live in a convenient location for all of this official business. The woman at the "welcome desk" of the Police Station, actually smiled when I approached her. I presented my documentation and she rifled through it. Photos; check, EDF bill (electricity); check, France Telecom bill; check, Carte de Sejour (French ID); check,..........where is your proof of insurance, passport, tax return? And by the way, we don't need the photos.

Thank god I live close by!

I explained away the missing the tax return (I haven't completed one yet as I am new to work in France) and after running home again, returned with all the necessary documentation. I had to wait for a while though as a rain soaked man was explaining that he had fallen asleep at the Bus stop and someone had stolen all of his money and his computer. At least I think that it what I understood to have happened. A long back and forth ensued as to what the police could do about all this (nothing apparantly) and ended with he being sent off to the Bureau of Lost Items in another part of town, which, by the way, was closed for the day. He would have to go tomorrow. More discussion surrounding his inability to wait until tomorrow, he had a bus to catch, and a final Gallic shrug of the Police Welcome Woman's shoulders. He was dismissed.

My turn. My paperwork was in order, I was going to successfully change my address! Police Welcome Woman began to fill out more paperwork, while Junior Police Welcome Man quizzed me. What did I do here in Paris, where did I work and was I married?  I answered politely and then countered with whether or not he thought that the rumours that President Sarkozy had indeed married his super model girlfriend secretly last week were true? This question seemed to please him. I think my knowledge of the latest hot French gossip went further towards my successful address change then all those damn documents!

During this important discussion of the merits of Carla vs Cecilia (maybe new wife and latest ex wife) my official proof of my change of address was being prepared, to be carried with me at all times right next to my French ID. And what do you suppose this official document, so precious for all it had taken to obtain, looked like? It was a tiny slip of brown note paper, handwritten BUT with the all important rubber stamp at the bottom. This was it? Police Welcome Woman assured me that it was, and would need to last me until my current Carte de Sejour expired............in 10 years.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

Still Sexy

I am talking about the dog. One of the crazy juxtapositions in Paris is the one between the posh 16th arrondissement and the Bois de Boulogne. The Bois is elegant and beautiful (Bois is "woods" in French) with its meandering paths through leafy forests and around  picturesque lakes. It borders the western boundary of the 16th. By day there are families and couples enjoying this serene pocket of nature in the city.  At night the Bois is home to the city's population of hookers, transvestites, their "clients" and all manner of others who, should I say, are "active" at night.

So what does all this have to do with the dog? I'm getting to that part.

A month or so ago, when Harry, our 14 year old poodle, was still spry enough to make it all the way around the block for his morning walk, and I were strolling down Avenue Victor Hugo when we were approached by a tall and very elegantly dressed woman. She was weaving ever so slightly as she halted in front of us and knelt down to pet Harry. "Ooo, la, la, tres mignon, mon chou chou" (ohh, very cute my little cabbage) she cooed as she began to stroke him. She turned to me and asked if she could caress him further (all in French of course but I will spare you the original and simply translate from here). "Wow, she has beautiful skin!", my 49 year old, spent my life in the sounthern california sun self, registered. This is when I realized that the "she' was actually a "he", and a very beautiful one at that, (life truly is not fair....). He/she (my very politically correct daughter informs me that he/ she should be referred to as SHE because that was how SHE was dressed so that was how SHE wants to be thought of - all righty then) was also drunk or high or something. It was early in the morning and it most probably had been a long night for her. Anyway, I told her " of course" and she proceeded to pet Harry and coo at him face to face. Poor Harry looked up at me in bewilderment, his cloudy eyes asking "who WAS this person anyway"?

She then began to show her ardour a might more aggressively. All of a sudden she shoved her purse at me and growled "HERE, TAKE IT" in bass voiced English!, and began to encourage Harry to lick her face. Of course Harry obliged, he really is a very obedient doggie, and then his new friend stuck her tongue into Harry's mouth! Again Harry turned his head to look at me between these french kisses, as if to say, "what IS this guy doing to me and............ am I allowed?" By this time, the guardian sweeping the sidewalk of the elegant jewelry shop we were in front of, caught my eye and gave the universal sign for crazy, rolling her finger at the side of her head.

Harry's new admirer couldn't get enough of him it seemed. Harry is a big dog and his "girlfriend" was a tall guy so we were basically blocking the sidewalk during this encounter. How WAS I going to escape this?

Just then a well dressed couple with a little dog in tow stopped at our roadblock. Harry's lover began to pet him more and more furiously and then she grabbed Harry "can you guess where?" and continued to stroke him. I am NOT making this up! Harry gave me one more look and I decided to no longer allow this sexual harassment of my dog to continue. We may both be overly polite and meek Americans trying to fit in, but enough was enough. I dumped her purse down beside her and with a firm 'bonne journee madam, au revoir' pulled Harry away. She reached out to grab him back protesting, "no,no,no........" and then abruptly gave up and twirled around to the new dog waiting with his owners to pass.

Harry and I escaped the scene and seconds later we were joined by the other couple and their little dog. They apparantly hadn't been quite so obliging. We all shook our heads and muttered in French how bizarre, etc. I felt part of my neighborhood there on our street corner, banded together with my bourgeios neighbors, protecting our dogs against vicious sexual assult! I didn't let on to them that Harry probably enjoyed every minute, any kind of attention is usually good attention in his mind. I am sure that their little parisian fluff ball was suitably mortified.

Poor Harry, hobbling home, hopefully realizes that at 14 years old (almost 100 in people years) he apparantly has "STILL got it"!

complexity

I just read an interesting discussion on the process of human psychological maturation in the New York Times. One of its points was that as we mature some of us develop what is called complexity. This is the ability to look at ourselves and our situation from varying points of view and a certain "3rd person-ness". This ability is only learned over time and is an asset as we enter mid-age and beyond. Those of us who develop complexity can look at losses in our life and gain insight from them. We can look at regretted choices and see what was gained from them as well as lost.

The only problem that I see in this is that it is a hell of a lot of work. And it also requires that the bubble that I, for one, gripped so tightly, burst. I think this is called "growing up". Our parents, it turns out, were once again right. As we hurried ourselves along towards being "grown up", they constantly told us to enjoy being a kid, that being an adult was no fun. Of course we didn't believe them, what could they have possibly been talking about? Didn't they remember the torture of not being able to stay up past 9 o'clock to watch the forbidden show on TV? Our being made to eat yellow squash when it made you want to puke? Or the crushing embarrassment of being the ONLY girl at the 8th grade pool party in a one-piece "modest and appropriate" bathing suit while all the cute and popular girls had on string bikinis? Oh, if only we were adults! All of these problems wouldn't exist. I for one, could hardly wait. At the time I would have gladly traded a mortgage for the freedom of buying all the Sugar Pops I wanted. Afterall, what was so hard about writing one of those little scraps of paper called checks that my mom stressed over so often in comparison to having to constantly hide the telephone under the covers every time Dad passed down the hallway?

It is true, youth is wasted on the young. But wait! This is where complexity comes in. Without the growing pains suffered in childhood readying us for what we were to face in adulthood, we would be totally unprepared. They got us into shape - kind of like training for a marathon. And the better able we are to incorporate all that training and pain, the better we cope with what comes our way.

Okay so now the Paris part. This IS, afterall, a blog on new beginnings in Paris. But, as in everything, we bring ourselves with us wherever we go. And thank God, as it turns out. For without honing my senses breathing the tingly salty air of southern california beaches, how could I possibly appreciate the rush of cold air making my eyes tear as I pedal my bike under the Effiel Tower while racing to cooking school in the dark mornings of November? Or revel in the ability to weave in and out of shoulder to shoulder crowds in the metro if I hadn't spent hours on clogged freeways? Or cocoon in a crowded sidewalk cafe' over a glass of wine with my french girlfriend Sylvie, if I hadn't already been blessed with countless hours of girl talk on long walks, Starbucks, slumber parties, the telephone......

When I tell people that I moved to Paris not because I didn't like where I was, but because I wanted to add more to an already fantastic life, it is true. I was not running from something, but to something. Without what came before, there is no now.

I will get back to more actual "Paris" stuff next time, I promise. Now I have to go pack.

positive spin

2007 was not such a great year in our household, in fact it downright sucked in April and May for me. Being glad that this year is now behind me though starts the "voices in my head" chattering away. "Be grateful, it could have been worse, blah, blah blah....."  It may be my Catholic upbringing that causes me to feel guilty about almost everything - come to think of it, it MUST be thanks to my membership in the "one, true and only church".The one with the Catholic Guilt reputation, all you other club members know the one I mean. I remember my mom explaining that once a Catholic always a Catholic, you can't escape it without threat of eternal damnation. THAT always struck me as totally unfair. I mean, none of us gets a choice in the family we are born into and in what religion that family practices so how come you are stuck with what existed before the minute you enter the world? And to top it off, your parents go to hell if any of their children leave the fold! Talk about covering all the bases.........plus piling on another layer of guilt on the previous generation. Like parenting isn't already hard enough?

I better get back to what I had wanted to say before the above tangential rant and that is to say that as I welcome 2008, I feel guilty, in fact jinxed, to say that I am full of hope that this new year will not be anywhere near as bad as 2007. Ta- Dum, the guilt!! And why? Because, for all the turmoil of this last year, there were many bright spots too and I can imagine (though hate to) lots of other bad things that could have happend but didn't. How is THAT for twisted thinking??

The Not So Good

The year saw my previously wonderful, sensitive and caring husband take his final bow in that role. He allowed the "dark side" to finally take the lead and there turned out to be nothing I could say or do to bring back that other guy. There were even comments to the effect that this new harsh and hollow person was the "real one" all along, superb actor that he was. As hard as this has been to swallow, I am beginning to choke it down. I have no choice really. But things could have been worse and instead I have much to be happy about.........

The Good - in no particular order

Girlfriends. They really are forever and I have been wrapped into the arms of that sisterhood. I don't feel worthy of all of the love and support you have sent me ( this, another wonderful "gift" from the "unworthy and guilty" Catholic list) but am deeply grateful all the same.

Husbands of girlfriends. My wonderful girlfriends have wonderful husbands and the thoughts and insights that I have received have been of immeasurable help. Plus, there is nothing like a good old "guy" comment bluntly delivered in that way that only a guy can....'fuck him, he's a fool' often is just the thing I needed to hear, especially delivered in a male voice. Girls, you all know the one, it is where "that problem is now solved....Next." Often a very frustrating male quality but here it serves a worthy purpose.

Daughters. Four of them and each and every one the gift of my life. Their world too has been torn upside down and the grace and strength each of them has displayed in the face of all this truly awes and inspires me. I struggle to learn from them and am thankful that they have allowed their mom to swim through her sea of tears, thrown the occasional life raft and never given up on her.

Family. There is good reason for having lots of kids and I am living the proof of that. Without my sister, brothers, their wives and my cousins, the darkness of this year would have been all the more black.

Paris. The postcard city that has become my home. It is filled with "my tribe" as one friend aptly described. How many more signs could have been sent showing me that I am just where I am supposed to be? I have magically fit in here and am surrounded not only by beauty everyday, but some of the most welcoming and thoughtful people anyone could hope to meet.

Patrick. The name of our never to be born son, then, our uncontrollable puppy who, one too many times, foolishly escaped from the safety of our home, and now, a very nice Frenchman. As my cousin said - maybe he's your puppy sent back to watch over you and bring you some happiness. Nice thought. Gliding on the back of his moto, through a Parisian night lit by a movie set backdrop that is magically now my reality,I would pinch myself except I need to hold on tightly. Who would ever have guessed that I would be HERE at this time in my life, on the back of a motorcycle driven by a Frenchman, zipping down the Champs-Elysees at midnight? Only in the movies.......until now.

So as I can clearly see from this post that the Good clearly out weighs the Bad and that's even without listing lots of other good stuff that is coming up like starting graduate school and continuing cooking at Le Cordon Bleu. Looks like 2008 WILL be a very good year, just like 2007 wasn't all bad. Now that is my positive spin.

Happy New Year, Bonne Annee'