Move,Pop,Serve

My apologies for the delay since my last post. Since moving a few weekends ago, I've been without internet access and let's just say that the internet café around the corner - with a 'regular' who is currently slumped over in the corner and constantly groaning in a low 'mmmmmm' - leaves me less than inspired to write.

So where was I? Oh yes, the move! After moving out of my apartment in Seattle in June, here I was only a few weeks later, moving to a new apartment in Paris. The timing was perfect in that Yann's dear friends Annaëlle and Eric were moving out of their apartment in the 17th: a quiet little neighborhood called Les Batignolles and Yann's lease was up in his apartment near Place de Clichy (a busy, noisy, dirty, highly touristy place by the Mouin Rouge). Not that I'm biased.

Since finding a decent apartment in Paris is like trying to dislodge a pigeon's claws from your shoe (tried it. not easy), we jumped on the chance to take their apartment. And so it was that while we moved in, Annaëlle and Eric moved out. All on the same day.

But the Parisians know what's up when it comes to moving up and down flights of stairs with no elevator: it's called creating a human chain and it's fabulous. Yann's friends especially know the perfect recipe to make for a smooth, nearly painless move with a nice sweet aftertaste (that aftertaste is known as Champagne).

So on a sunny Sunday afternoon in July, 10 friends came together to help in The Big Move.

Here were our marching orders:

Step 1: Move Annaëlle and Eric out of their apartment: Down 5 flights of stairs

Step 2: Move Annaëlle and Eric into their new apartment: Up 5 flights of stairs

Step 3: Move Yann's stuff (and OK, my 2 suitcases) out of Yann's apartment. Down 3 flights of stairs

Step 4: Move Yann's stuff and Kelly's 2 suitcases up 5 flights of stairs

Step 5: Remove champagne bottle from fridge, pop cork gently and partake in the delicious feeling of accomplishment

And so we are officially moved into 25 Rue La Condamine in the 17th. The neighborhood is quiet, the apartment is clean and there is even a little fireplace that will likely serve us well this fall and winter as we sit, relax and just enjoy one another's company.

Preferably with a nice, chilled bottle of Champagne.

French Thing or Boy Thing?

Let me preface this post by sayikng that I'm going to be a terrible mother.

I mention this because as we speak, Mr. Yann is lying in bed, groaning and moaning due to some kind of illness. It may be Malaria. It may be the Bubonic Plague. Or it could just be a sore throat and fatigue after a long week. Hmmm it's a toss-up.

And while I have been a supportive, understanding and loving fiancé (of course!) - making miso soup, searching Paris for the best kind of fruit juice available that might allay his aches and pains - the groaning continues.

We are on hour 50 of the Bubonic Plague.

All this moaning and groaning got me to thinking of cultural differences and gender differences. Is this a French thing or a man thing? Do men usually groan and moan this much when they are sick?

You see, the French (and dare I say it, Parisians) are notorious for their querulous ways. 60 degrees outside calls for a few grunts, a long frown and scarf around the neck - so cold! A long line equates to several impatient taps of the toe, long sighs of agitation and eye rolling - it's taking FOREVER. A bad meal...ouf, let's not even go there.

I am not saying that Yann fits this mold of distraught, 'pity-me' Frenchman. Rather, he's quite different from this picture.

So much so that I think I have been halfway unaware that yes, there may be some cultural differences between the boy and I (what? really!?). And when you throw in the whole gender thing, I may as well be living in the Amazon. I have no idea if I am even heading in the right direction as I swipe away the large rainforest leaves and cut down trees to clear my path. I mean that figuratively of course. Save the trees!

So as Yann lies down, dead to the world. Am I to think that his groaning and moaning is due to his being French, or is this a man thing?

I tend to think that most women are strong, tough and can tackle the aches and pains of illness while also running errands, folding the laundry and taking the dog for a walk. But this is just limited to my experience. What can I say, I'm surrounded by strong women and I am a slight shadow compared to them.

As I tackle the cultural differences between Yann and I, there will be many tests, like the one I am facing today.

There will be many deep breaths, silent nods of understanding and pats on the back. And I will try my darndest to keep from saying "Just suck it up already!!"

3 is the Perfect Number

I don't really understand why people aren't into birthdays. Especially when the birthday happens to be their own.

Ok, Ok, come back and ask me in 20 years if I still enjoy celebrating my birthday but until then, bring on the chocolate cake and a great excuse for being smothered in love.

That said, Yann was less than thrilled about his birthday this year. So, I naturally decided to make him own up and recognize his 33 years of life on this earth with a 'Celebrate Yann' weekend.

The weekend was meant to be a steady stream of fun in 3 parts: delicious restaurant on Friday night, drinks with friends Saturday, swimming Sunday and World Cup final on Sunday night. Ok so that's 4 parts. I'm not good at math.

For anyone visiting Paris, Brasserie Thoumieux is far and away the best restaurant I have been to in the city...or maybe ever, anywhere.

Originally established in 1923 as a culinary escape for bourgoise families in the 7th arrondisement, the restaurant saw a bit of a decline in the 70's and 80's. In the past few years, the brasserie has been restored to its streamlined black and white checkered backdrop and, with celebrated chef Jean-François Piege now at the reins, the food is devine and the atmosphere is nothing less than...well, like a 1950's film. I half expected to run into Grace Kelly in the ladies room.

After a night out just the two of us, I had organized drinks with Yann's friends on Saturday evening. We had a great time at a new bar called La Conserverie - with inventive drinks made of rasberry and watermelon. That's right, watermelon.

But what I enjoyed the most was the conversation. I appreciate Yann's friends for bringing up topics that matter to everyone but don't have to do with politics or weather.

It's a difficult feat to do for the French.

When your country has something like 500 political parties and the president's wife is an ex-model and musician, there's naturally going to be a lot to talk about.

Anyways. Sunday followed with a new discovery as well - this time in the Parisian suburb of Puteaux. We meant to give the public pool a try as it was another hot day. However, we were met with a big sign screaming 'INDERDIT' due to too many people having the same idea:
the pool was full.

So we wandered around and found a great park with roses, fountains and large plastic orange bunnies and blue plastic snails.

That's right. Orange bunnies as big as an eight year old boy. Hundreds of these bunnies and snails were just sitting there throughout the park, sometimes in little families of 4, sometimes all alone. If they were different colors I would have thought they were life sized Peeps.

Strange plastic animals aside, it was a great park and perfect for taking a nice afternoon nap. And nap we did - while being serenaded by a band of French guys trying to sing Celtic jigs of course.

So that was the 'Celebrate Yann' weekend in a nutshell. I think I made the boy appreciate just how beautiful birthdays can be and forced him to grasp the joys of life on this earth. Mission accomplished.

Oh yeah, and Spain won the World Cup.

A Sweet Escape

As mentioned in my previous post, Paris has been hot.

And when I say hot, I mean over 100 degrees hot - for days and days. I felt bad complaining via
e-mail to my friends in Seattle, since summer has yet to creap its way into that corner of the world - but complain I did.

And goshdarnit, it feels good to complain sometimes!


And so it was in this 'Urghh! Enough already!!' state of mind that Yann and I decided to get out of town. This past weekend, we rented a car and hit the highway - direction north: Normandy.

We picked out a little town on the map called Houlgate (pronounced: Oool - gat...insert thick French accent and you have it). For anyone curious about Normandy beaches, there are quite a few and they are only about 2 hours away from Paris. Houlgate just so happened to be the most convenient and (almost)the most charming one of them all (second only to the darling village of Honfleur, decorated in colorful flowers and beloved by 19th century impressionists).

In Houlgate, we walked along the beach and took a nice nap in the sunshine, we went running and ate some yummy seafood and cidre. And Yann watched patiently as I searched for seashells to begin my own collection in memory of my mom, whom always brought seashells home with her from various vacations and decorated the house with bowls full of them.


As an unexpected surprise, Yann and I decided to take our little Ford up the coast to check out the 'faillaises' (a breathtaking expanse of large cliffs that fall into the Atlantic). The surprise being that, while we never actually got to see the cliffs, due to some minor technical errors (e.g. the boy got us lost), we did get to see a TON of quaint villages: from the chic-chic Deauville all the way to large port town of Le Havre.

The flowers! The trees! The country side! I was so happy to see some natural beauty I nearly asked Yann to stop the car so I could hug a cow. Instead, I was happy to stick my whole head out the car window and just let the wind run through my hair.



On the drive home, we both decided we'll be doing more of these weekend escapes - for some fresh air, a clearer perspective and a few more misguided adventures.

On Growth Unexpectedly

I've been in Paris now for 2 weeks and the longer I stay, the hotter the city seems to get. Today, we're languishing in 105° temps.

I suppose the Paris translation would be an image of standing in a crowded métro car as you feel the sweat slowly trickling down from your armpits, one bead at a time. But you can't do anything about it. Instead, you're trying too hard to hold on tight to the métro bars so as not to fall in a big sweaty pile while taking down the people standing (and sweating) right next to you.

Leaving Seattle has meant a re-adjustment to Paris life and the surprise that, gosh darnit, I've gotten a bit older since my last stint in Paris! I had no idea I hated pollution, noise and people so much. I can't even remember staying out late being a problem when I was here last - dinner at 3 a.m.? Why sure!! Cigarette smoke in the face at a bar? It's 'cultural'!

I knew that something had changed the moment I set up my new cell phone and the man at the Orange store said "Madame or Mademoiselle?" to which I paused and he countered quickly with, "Ok, Madame Roberts, très bien!" And that settled it.

I am officially Madame now. And you know what? That's OK.

While it was only 3 years ago that I last lived here and taught English, a lot has happened in those 3 years. A lot. I've earned the title of Madame and I'll own it: at the grocery store, the bank, restaurants, it's officially "Bonjour Madame!".

Shame on me should I ever wish to go back to Mademoiselle.

I like the idea that leaving a place - even a place as bustling and crawling as Paris - can make you stop and see how much you've developed, grown, morphed into a different person since you last experienced that place.

I'm looking forward to getting to know this new 'Madame' person better and for the growth that is to come.