Small Things Matter

  The refrigerator I had in my dorm room has found a new life as the permanent resident in our Paris kitchen.  Its small size almost demands that I shop for groceries on a daily basis.
  So I haul out my aerodynamic shopping cart, uncool as it may be to pull one of those.  I don't care.  It carries a lot of things over the bumpy cobble stone roads I have to walk.
  It's overcast this morning as I roll my cart along.  I'm going to the closest market where the staff are Indian and speak French and English fluently.
  Here's a photo of the cheese section.  It's just 1/4th the size of the selection.

  I maintained self control.  We already have 8 different kinds of cheese in our refrigerator.

  Checkout time:  Every sales clerk I've encountered at a grocery store sits on a stool at their register.  You unload your own purchases.  When you're given your total, almost always you're asked if you have exact change or change?  When my total is 38.75 euros and I hand the clerk two 20 euro bills I don't expect to be asked for the exact change.  I do know the currency and can give her the exact change but I don't have it this morning, desolee.
  And then I pack my own groceries in my non-chic rolling cart and head out the door.

  Maybe I'm the only woman pushing a shopping cart who stops dead in her tracks to admire something and take a photo of it.

 

  Then I pass the statue of Benjamin Franklin I see every day.

 

I'm shopping for my groceries.  In Paris.  And I feel at home here.

Doing it All Can't be Done

  I'm glad I have an iPhone and can take advantage of its camera because I dislike lugging a big camera around.

  I confess that don't really like taking photographs.
  1) Whatever I'd like to photograph has already been done, and by professionals.
  2) Whenever I take a photo of something, I always feel "removed" from it.  Something is between me and my actual experience.

  But I do buy some postcards because
  1) somebody caught whatever the subject was, better than I could
  2) and they may have a more interesting angle
  3) and they're likely not to have throngs of camera toting tourists clogging up the scene.

  On some trips I just don't have the time to sit and do a thorough entry.  I WANT TO BE IN THE EXPERIENCE, not just recording it.  So I'll glue a favorite postcard, write down a few facts and my  impressions and then do a very quick sketch.

  That's how I feel like I really saw and experienced something.

Le Chat Noir-seen everywhere and on everything.
I love it.

Living in a Foreign Country is for the Courageous!

  Some people who get to live in a foreign country don't feel comfortable there.  They seek out places that other Americans live, eat only in American restaurants (really!) and don't bother to learn the language.  I don't get that.  Why not just stay home?
  Anyone who has lived overseas has challenges.  The language, the customs, the currency, etc.  It's one thing to be a tourist, yet another to be an expat, muddling through the day.
  Every day I'm challenged and I take it as a dare to get through it.
  Last night my challenge was to figure out how to operate the gas stove without torching our flat.  (We have an electric range at home.  I can't remember when I last had gas.  A stove, you know.)
  I admit it.  I've been here almost 2 weeks and have not cooked a single meal until last night.  I finally decide to, and I'm faced with a cook top that demands translation.

    "Not intuitively obvious" as my dear husband says.
  I take it as a sign that I shouldn't cook while living here in Paris.

Challenging Myself

  "I think I'll draw the Eiffel Tower" I said to myself.
   And so I did.

Driving in Paris

  There is so much to see here in Paris!  There are so many things to do here!  It may sound sentimental but there are moments here that actually my eyes leak a little.
  Yesterday we picked up my niece and her boyfriend and did a road trip outside of the city.  (Lucky kids are doing work study here in Paris.)
  We went on a drive to Reims, the city of Joan of Arc.  (I'm used to the English spelling of "Reims" as "Rheims", but when you are in France, I'll side with the natives.)
  We had a leisurely lunch (2 1/2 hours) then split up.  I spent all my time in the church-Notre Dame du Reims.  I took a lot of photos and tried to sketch a stained glass panel I admired.  It's mind boggling to think that some kind of place of worship stood here since the 400's A.D.  (Yes, that's 400 HUNDRED A.D.  Without a "1" in front of that "4".)
  My favorite things were the sculptures on the exterior of the church.  And the gargoyles and waterspouts were whimsical and scary too.
 The day ended with a drive around the Arc de Triomphe.  I'd tell you what that looked like but I was busy praying with my eyes closed.
  Twelve roads feed into 7 lanes around the Arc.  "Lanes" is a subjective term.
  You better know what you are doing or you will be going around and around the Arc until you've made a groove in the pavement or run out of petrol.  I wouldn't know as I am never going to drive in Paris.
 

Best Intentions

  I really thought I could blog about our life in Paris on a daily basis.  Truthfully, that requires more discipline than I have.  I've been exploring our neighborhood by foot (the best way to see it) and eating my way through 400 plus varieties of cheese (purely research).
  I am on a daily adventure the minute I step outside our ornate and heavy doors.  I love my life here and I'm so grateful for this opportunity.

 
    A few steps from our apartment, we can take the Metro and be anywhere in Paris in a few minutes.  While it's convenient, once you get the hang of it, you're underground.  Granted, some of the stops are pretty amazing but all the action is above ground.
  Today we drove ("we" meaning "my husband") to the huge British book store, W.H. Smith.  We opted to do this just to see how bad traffic and parking could be on a Saturday in Paris.  Many people are on holiday and away from the city now.
  I've seen worse when it comes to traffic while in Boston or LA.  As for parking, Mark found a spot just around the corner from the bookstore.
  What a visual feast to see the monuments!  I was chattering away like a mynah bird as my husband was trying to concentrate on his driving.
  We have a lot more exploring to do, whether it's by car, bus or by walking.  We'll wait until the temperatures aren't in the 90's to do so.

The Paths of Paris

  There are two ways to walk down to the Seine from our apartment.  The first one-all you have to do is follow the crowds of tourists to the Trocadero.  Walk past Displays of Public Affection (yes, they make out a lot here in Paris), bouncing baby carriages (see previous comment) and end up in photos where someone from Milan is going to ask someday "Who is that person?"
  The second option is the path my husband showed me the other well-lit evening.  Apparently it's only known to the locals.  Follow that path and your only companions are birds.

  The rails are made to resemble curved tree branches and trunks.  The path is mossy and green.  I feel compelled to slow down and take it all in.
  What a contrast the scenery here is, compared to the desert.
  I am enchanted by this path and use it every day.

Vignettes

  Today I went exploring.  I decided to have lunch at Le Wilson.  Here is a photo of the "Shepherdess Salad".

  Enough for me and three of my best shepherdess friends.

  Cafe creme:  the best coffee I've had so far since I've been here:
 

  I don't intend to make this a food blog but it's not easy to write about Paris and not talk about food too.  Paris really is a moveable feast.

Surprise! Surprise!

  Life here is full of surprises.  I tell myself to just go with it.  Say "Oui oui" a lot and hope you just didn't agree to give a stranger the title to your car.
 
  I slept in until almost noon this morning.  Parisians stay out late and sleep in and I'm just doing what the locals do.
  I lie.  I am jet lagged.  Jet laaaaagggggggged.
 
  It's noon and I'm still in my sleep shirt.  I hear the door open and wonder why my husband is home mid day?
  He's not.  There's a woman I don't know, and she has cleaning supplies.  Apparently we have a cleaning lady.  Apparently the woman in charge of overseeing the care of our apartment (I don't know what to call her anything but "my Angel") sent her.
  Or I just let a broom and mop armed serial killer into our apartment.
  She doesn't speak English. My French?  Brought to you today by the Letter O.
  Dammit.  Even the cleaning women here are chic and Size Nonexistent!  She's blonde, built like a ballerina, with sculpted arms and beautiful beaded sandals.
  And here I am-a non-fashionable, lucky to have something on, American woman.
  I am not doing anything to advance our cause, American ladies!
  I have an excuse.  I am jet lagged.  Jet laaaaaaggged.
  Righto.

Lafayette, I am ici!

  Pardon, madames et monsieurs, my "franglais", but I am happy to be here in Paris. I'm getting settled in slowly.
 Being in Paris-- I have been put through the wringer since June, and I believe this is my reward

 For the record:  ( I am so far behind on posts)

• June consisted of a horrendous move to Colorado Springs that took days longer than it should have
• Mark had to return to Paris 3 days after we were in Colorado 
• that left all the unpacking to me, which included wrestling heavy objects around and not killing myself or the dogs in the process
• someone tried to use my debit card in New York City, so I had to cancel it and get it replaced
• called a plumber, dripping faucet
• called an electrician after the circuits popped.  Outlets replaced
• my dear Lola got seriously ill unexpectedly
• Mark came home for just 4 days
• we had to put Lola to sleep.  Stunned and very sad
• Mark had to go back to Paris

  I was so tired and very sad after Lola's passing that I would have put off my trip.  But M's company had arranged for this and paid for my ticket so postponing wasn't possible.  Yes, it's PARIS, but I had a heavy heart.  I just felt banged up from everything.

  June 19th

  My flight from Colorado Springs to Dallas Fort Worth was uneventful.  It was the trip from there to Paris that things got hairy.  I noticed that we seemed to be flying in one big circle when our pilot finally announced that the airport "is closed"---no further explanation.  Then he announces that we have to fly to Oklahoma City to refuel because they only had enough fuel to fly from Colorado Springs to Dallas!
  Oklahoma City-on the ground for an hour.  Passengers whose final destination was Oklahoma City are wondering why they can't disembark there?  Flurry of activity, final result:  "Well, sure, but your luggage will still be in Dallas".  No takers there.
  Back to Dallas, land safely.  I know our technology can be irritating sometimes but I was glad I could look up the American Airlines application on my iPhone.  It gave me the current information that when I landed I would be several gates from where my flight to Paris was taking off.  Of course!
  Run to the airport train.  Ride several stops.  Get off at the right gate.  Be relieved that the lobby is full of passengers.  Panic when I realize that they are waiting to board for a flight to Peoria, NOT Paris.  Nice man tells me to go to the front of the line, to wait for the agent.  Other man tells me that the line forms behind him.  I tell him I was told to go there.  He says "the other man is waiting to be helped first."  Agent comes and announces "Passengers in the lobby waiting to board flight to Paris, please come forward."  Other man looks sheepish as he steps aside for his flight to Peoria.  I'm too harried and too nice to shoot him a dead look.
 No time to upgrade, as I hoped.  No room anyway. I am the last person to board the flight to Paris.
  Seat 41, as close to the latrines as you can get without actually sitting on them.  I hate sitting back there because the airplane's tail shudders side to side almost the entire time of the flight.  I've flown many times but this is the first time that I think I may actually get airsick.  So I cranked the "fresh air" flow on and settle in for a 10 hour flight.