Nostalgia
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
A perfect lunch
I've lived in Paris for nearly three years now, and I'm a little ashamed to admit that there are still not many things that make me nostalgic about the city. Of course, the Eiffel Tower at night takes my breath away, and the colors of autumn and spring make me feel hopeful, but my connection with the city is not yet strong enough to make my heart pound. Still, I have had some very perfect moments in my life here that I've found myself getting caught up with - ones that produce a feeling of utter, raw happiness in my soul and cause an involuntary smile on my face or chuckle in my belly. Today, I very simply made a moment like this. One that I will probably attempt to repeat in the near future, but will likely fall short of doing.
It was my lunch hour and as it usually goes, I had no idea where I felt like eating. I tend to come to work starving, but completely lose my appetite by noon. I'm weird. So, as I've been doing all week while everyone else in my department is still on holiday, I set out and went where the wind took me. Well, the wind today (lovely as it's ever been) took me to Bert's, a little, well-known lunch hotspot of sorts where I've been only once before. I got excited to see the big bags of Pepperidge Farms Chunk cookies, Tim-Tams and Reese's peanut cutter cups on the shelves next to endless assortment of cold salads and dessert cups.
I picked out my lunch (paprika chicken fusilli and pineapple pieces), took it to-go and had every intention of returning to my office to eat in front of the computer when I spotted an empty, lonely green bench in the square nearby. As I sat and ate my lunch, I watched and judged the passersby - the tourists on vacation looking for their next destination, the American interns heading back to the office after lunch, the busy businessman running to make his meeting, the tired security guard on his smoke break. Everyone had their perfect place in this scene. I looked up and saw the green leaves of the tree shading me outlined in orange against a piercing blue sky. Autumn is so close now. The wind was cool and the sun was warm, and I felt the quiet rumble of the metro echo through the bench seat every five minutes. This is Paris. This is the city that I'm starting to love and feel a part of - a reflection that until that very moment would not have been true.
As I finished my pineapples, a young city worker in a neon yellow vest and green jumpsuit rolled by me with his wheel barrow full of shovels and wished me a genuine bon appétit. I knew that this type of interaction could only happen in such a perfect moment, and after giving him my thanks and wishing him a good day, I sat back on my bench, felt my heart swell and smiled. Perfection.
It was my lunch hour and as it usually goes, I had no idea where I felt like eating. I tend to come to work starving, but completely lose my appetite by noon. I'm weird. So, as I've been doing all week while everyone else in my department is still on holiday, I set out and went where the wind took me. Well, the wind today (lovely as it's ever been) took me to Bert's, a little, well-known lunch hotspot of sorts where I've been only once before. I got excited to see the big bags of Pepperidge Farms Chunk cookies, Tim-Tams and Reese's peanut cutter cups on the shelves next to endless assortment of cold salads and dessert cups.
I picked out my lunch (paprika chicken fusilli and pineapple pieces), took it to-go and had every intention of returning to my office to eat in front of the computer when I spotted an empty, lonely green bench in the square nearby. As I sat and ate my lunch, I watched and judged the passersby - the tourists on vacation looking for their next destination, the American interns heading back to the office after lunch, the busy businessman running to make his meeting, the tired security guard on his smoke break. Everyone had their perfect place in this scene. I looked up and saw the green leaves of the tree shading me outlined in orange against a piercing blue sky. Autumn is so close now. The wind was cool and the sun was warm, and I felt the quiet rumble of the metro echo through the bench seat every five minutes. This is Paris. This is the city that I'm starting to love and feel a part of - a reflection that until that very moment would not have been true.
As I finished my pineapples, a young city worker in a neon yellow vest and green jumpsuit rolled by me with his wheel barrow full of shovels and wished me a genuine bon appétit. I knew that this type of interaction could only happen in such a perfect moment, and after giving him my thanks and wishing him a good day, I sat back on my bench, felt my heart swell and smiled. Perfection.
Dernière minute
I'm not really a last minute kind of gal. I like to plan ahead, make reservations, shop around and do everything I can to ensure that whatever is happening is done so in the smoothest and most efficient way possible. I don't mind saying yes to a last-minute invitation or hop off to a movie or dinner on the spur of the moment, but when making plans to, say, host a party or take a trip, quick decisions make me nervous and wary.
This weekend, though, I caught the most wretchedly dire homesickness that I've ever had in my life and nothing could coax me out of my funk. Gui and I grabbed happy hour and a movie on Friday evening (Alice in Wonderland in 3D - beautiful film but the jury's still out on the storyline and oddly-added solo dance), and then had some Tex-Mex for dinner, but I could barely eat from being so run amok with thoughts about my family and how much I miss them. Everything reminded me of my nephews and my far-away friends - now mostly parents of little ones - that I don't see often enough. I felt awful and tried doing things to distract myself, but nothing worked to deter my thoughts.
On Sunday, we had lunch with Gui's dad and sister at the same place we took my mom to on her first and only trip to Paris, and I struggled to keep it together. It was hard to stay composed when they asked how I was doing, how my job was going, and how my family and new nephews where getting along - normal stuff. My heart was totally longing to be near them, to hold my new nephews and run around like a kid with the others. Gui and I talked about our trip in June and all the things we'll do while we're there, all the people we'll see. But, in doing this, we realized how little time we'll actually have to see everyone we want to see. Between Kansas and Austin and Dallas and the traveling between each, two weeks is just not enough time.
Monday morning rolled around and I was in such a foul mood. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on the first black dress I saw, tights and boots, trudged slowly to the bus without much care about the time or my tardiness and then, with immense difficulty bonjoured everyone in the office and sputtered off a lie when they asked how I was doing. I just couldn't be bothered with the day; with anything. How did it get to this?
Despite my lingering Monday workload, all I could think of was leaving - leaving the office, leaving Paris, leaving France. Just leaving. I was so incredibly sad and felt so incredibly guilty about being so sad. All I could think of was going home - being home with my parents, sister, brothers, nephews, friends and their babies. I just wanted to be near them all.
So, as an act of desperation, I checked flights to Texas and flights to Kansas and realized that I could visit my sister (and brother-in-law and 3 out of 4 of my nephews) in Kansas by cashing in on our frequent-flyer miles and paying about half the normal price of a ticket. Originally, I thought about going for a long weekend - taking advantage of the Monday holiday, I could leave Friday night and come back on Sunday, but Gui thought that was just too crazy. He reminded me that I work in France, and when my contract is all said and done, I still won't have used up all of my paid vacation and RTT (days accumulated each month that act like paid vacation). So, I guiltily asked my boss if he would mind my taking a few extra days off - even though I'd already taken two days the week before, and he was totally cool with it. More than cool. He waved his hand and told me to take whatever days I need to and not to worry about any asking in advance. I was elated.
I don't know if this last-minute trip will make everything better or if I'll return with a renewed feeling of positivity and happiness, but I know it will do me some good. Just knowing that I'm leaving on Thursday morning to finally meet my new nephew and see my loved ones has already made such a difference in my mind. I've never planned a transatlantic flight so spontaneously before, and this time it's not about how smoothly everything goes or how efficiently my time is spent. Once I see those toothy grins and hear those hearty grunts from the sweetest boys in all the world, my thoughts will be light-years away from the trifles of time and economics.
This weekend, though, I caught the most wretchedly dire homesickness that I've ever had in my life and nothing could coax me out of my funk. Gui and I grabbed happy hour and a movie on Friday evening (Alice in Wonderland in 3D - beautiful film but the jury's still out on the storyline and oddly-added solo dance), and then had some Tex-Mex for dinner, but I could barely eat from being so run amok with thoughts about my family and how much I miss them. Everything reminded me of my nephews and my far-away friends - now mostly parents of little ones - that I don't see often enough. I felt awful and tried doing things to distract myself, but nothing worked to deter my thoughts.
On Sunday, we had lunch with Gui's dad and sister at the same place we took my mom to on her first and only trip to Paris, and I struggled to keep it together. It was hard to stay composed when they asked how I was doing, how my job was going, and how my family and new nephews where getting along - normal stuff. My heart was totally longing to be near them, to hold my new nephews and run around like a kid with the others. Gui and I talked about our trip in June and all the things we'll do while we're there, all the people we'll see. But, in doing this, we realized how little time we'll actually have to see everyone we want to see. Between Kansas and Austin and Dallas and the traveling between each, two weeks is just not enough time.
Monday morning rolled around and I was in such a foul mood. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on the first black dress I saw, tights and boots, trudged slowly to the bus without much care about the time or my tardiness and then, with immense difficulty bonjoured everyone in the office and sputtered off a lie when they asked how I was doing. I just couldn't be bothered with the day; with anything. How did it get to this?
Despite my lingering Monday workload, all I could think of was leaving - leaving the office, leaving Paris, leaving France. Just leaving. I was so incredibly sad and felt so incredibly guilty about being so sad. All I could think of was going home - being home with my parents, sister, brothers, nephews, friends and their babies. I just wanted to be near them all.
So, as an act of desperation, I checked flights to Texas and flights to Kansas and realized that I could visit my sister (and brother-in-law and 3 out of 4 of my nephews) in Kansas by cashing in on our frequent-flyer miles and paying about half the normal price of a ticket. Originally, I thought about going for a long weekend - taking advantage of the Monday holiday, I could leave Friday night and come back on Sunday, but Gui thought that was just too crazy. He reminded me that I work in France, and when my contract is all said and done, I still won't have used up all of my paid vacation and RTT (days accumulated each month that act like paid vacation). So, I guiltily asked my boss if he would mind my taking a few extra days off - even though I'd already taken two days the week before, and he was totally cool with it. More than cool. He waved his hand and told me to take whatever days I need to and not to worry about any asking in advance. I was elated.
I don't know if this last-minute trip will make everything better or if I'll return with a renewed feeling of positivity and happiness, but I know it will do me some good. Just knowing that I'm leaving on Thursday morning to finally meet my new nephew and see my loved ones has already made such a difference in my mind. I've never planned a transatlantic flight so spontaneously before, and this time it's not about how smoothly everything goes or how efficiently my time is spent. Once I see those toothy grins and hear those hearty grunts from the sweetest boys in all the world, my thoughts will be light-years away from the trifles of time and economics.
Auntie's on her way! See you soon, cuties!
'Tis the season to be...busy.
How on EARTH is it already mid-November?! And how did my first day of work suddenly turn into a month later?! I so wish I could just stop time for a bit, take a deep breath and reflect on what is now my reality. I see pictures of my new nephew that I still have yet to meet and can't believe he's already transformed from being a pink, wrinkly newborn to a completely cognizant infant. Not to mention that my other nephews are growing at lightning-speed like weeds in the summer without regard for their aging Auntie who's scared they won't recognize her soon.
And now Thanksgiving is upon us - less than a week away - and my built-in nostalgia-sensors are at full-strength. Since I can't make it home again this year for the family feast fest, we decided to host it chez nous once again to keep the tradition alive (at least one more year - I'm swearing that I'll be celebrating in the motherland next year). We've ordered the 17-pound turkey (fingers crossed it actually arrives), stocked up on the essentials for cornbread stuffing, green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, and we're planning to clear out the living room this week to make space for all the food and friends we're anticipating.
To help with the organization, we took a trip to Ikea this weekend and came home with more than we set out to get, including a poinsettia and some red garland. The holidays are already upon us and it's freaking me out! I've never felt so unprepared for the season before - it's like my brain is busting at the seams with thoughts of turkeys, Christmas gifts, new year's eve celebrations, knitting projects, grocery lists, and what I'm going to wear to work tomorrow. When did I become an adult? And when can I go back to letting someone else take care of all that stuff again?
I know what my mom will be saying right about now - something about how great it is to be an adult, to grow a family and continue the traditions. She'd also probably mention that I should just take it one day at a time, or in this case at least, one holiday at a time. I guess I just tend to get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of the to-do, it's hard to stop and check-in to reality for a second and cherish what it's really about.
One thing's for sure, when the temps drop and the holidays start rolling through, my stomach starts craving all things wintry and warm. On those rare evenings when I've found myself with some spare energy, I've taken to the kitchen to feed my cravings. And usually, that means something that I've been missing from my mom or Aunt Janie's kitchen - like soups and stews and Spanish rice. My most recent craving-killer was something my mom used to cook for us that I know her mom cooked for her when the air was extra chilly and squash season was in full swing. It's a simply soupy dish called calabaza con pollo, and it's all I could think about eating for more than a week straight. But, no recipe I found was exactly what I was looking for, so I noted the spices and concocted my own recipe along with my mom's recipe for Spanish rice and came up with one of the best dishes I've ever made. One thing I'm very thankful for is having a mom who's always known how to balance her time between work and family, and who, growing up, always managed to put a hot meal in front of us despite her hectic life. It's always difficult to be away from my family during the holidays, but I'm happy for the simple memories of family meals that I'm able to recreate from so far away.
Calabaza con pollo
2 chicken breasts, cubed
1 zucchini, sliced or diced
1 onion
1 can diced tomatoes
2 cups chicken broth
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp tomato paste/concentrate
1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp garlic powder
salt and pepper to taste
Season chicken with salt and pepper and saute in a deep skillet with the olive oil until cooked through.
Add onion and saute for 2 minutes, until translucent. Add zucchini and saute for another minute or 2. Add remaining ingredients, cover the pan and leave it to simmer on the stove (mid-low heat) for about 15 minutes.
Serve over Spanish rice and eat with tortillas (we had some corn tortillas that I brought back from Texas and could only have been happier if they'd been my mom's homemade flour tortillas).
* Also, I remember this dish being served with corn from time to time, but we didn't have a can lying around so I left it out.
And now Thanksgiving is upon us - less than a week away - and my built-in nostalgia-sensors are at full-strength. Since I can't make it home again this year for the family feast fest, we decided to host it chez nous once again to keep the tradition alive (at least one more year - I'm swearing that I'll be celebrating in the motherland next year). We've ordered the 17-pound turkey (fingers crossed it actually arrives), stocked up on the essentials for cornbread stuffing, green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, and we're planning to clear out the living room this week to make space for all the food and friends we're anticipating.
To help with the organization, we took a trip to Ikea this weekend and came home with more than we set out to get, including a poinsettia and some red garland. The holidays are already upon us and it's freaking me out! I've never felt so unprepared for the season before - it's like my brain is busting at the seams with thoughts of turkeys, Christmas gifts, new year's eve celebrations, knitting projects, grocery lists, and what I'm going to wear to work tomorrow. When did I become an adult? And when can I go back to letting someone else take care of all that stuff again?
I know what my mom will be saying right about now - something about how great it is to be an adult, to grow a family and continue the traditions. She'd also probably mention that I should just take it one day at a time, or in this case at least, one holiday at a time. I guess I just tend to get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of the to-do, it's hard to stop and check-in to reality for a second and cherish what it's really about.
One thing's for sure, when the temps drop and the holidays start rolling through, my stomach starts craving all things wintry and warm. On those rare evenings when I've found myself with some spare energy, I've taken to the kitchen to feed my cravings. And usually, that means something that I've been missing from my mom or Aunt Janie's kitchen - like soups and stews and Spanish rice. My most recent craving-killer was something my mom used to cook for us that I know her mom cooked for her when the air was extra chilly and squash season was in full swing. It's a simply soupy dish called calabaza con pollo, and it's all I could think about eating for more than a week straight. But, no recipe I found was exactly what I was looking for, so I noted the spices and concocted my own recipe along with my mom's recipe for Spanish rice and came up with one of the best dishes I've ever made. One thing I'm very thankful for is having a mom who's always known how to balance her time between work and family, and who, growing up, always managed to put a hot meal in front of us despite her hectic life. It's always difficult to be away from my family during the holidays, but I'm happy for the simple memories of family meals that I'm able to recreate from so far away.
Calabaza con pollo
2 chicken breasts, cubed
1 zucchini, sliced or diced
1 onion
1 can diced tomatoes
2 cups chicken broth
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp tomato paste/concentrate
1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp garlic powder
salt and pepper to taste
Season chicken with salt and pepper and saute in a deep skillet with the olive oil until cooked through.
Add onion and saute for 2 minutes, until translucent. Add zucchini and saute for another minute or 2. Add remaining ingredients, cover the pan and leave it to simmer on the stove (mid-low heat) for about 15 minutes.
Serve over Spanish rice and eat with tortillas (we had some corn tortillas that I brought back from Texas and could only have been happier if they'd been my mom's homemade flour tortillas).
* Also, I remember this dish being served with corn from time to time, but we didn't have a can lying around so I left it out.
Parting is such sweet sorrow
I don't remember when it happened. I just remember being surprised at how real and perplexing my feelings were. How could it be that just when Gui and I start to get serious and down-to-business about our plans to move back to Texas, I begin to have emotional attachment issues with my current home? I suppose it was crazy for me to never consider that I'd be sad about leaving Paris; that I'd miss the place and people; that I'd be nostalgic about our impending departure. Well, I am.
Although nothing is set in stone, yet, there is a very real possibility that I could be employed before heading back from our upcoming Texas vacation, meaning that our far-flung plans to live back in Austin could be a reality before the year is over. We've started the paperwork for Gui's green card, and despite what we've read on websites and forums, the lovely lady at the consulate told us that we could have the answer to our petition in just a few months (given that we do and provide everything that we're asked to). 'Gotta hand it to us Americans for our efficiency.
Still, as the possibility of leaving Paris looms over me, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly conflicted about my sentimental feelings. This is not going to be as easy of a step to take as I had presumed, and that makes me both surprised and concerned. What if we're not making the right decision to move back now? What if we fall on our faces? What if I get there and realize I want to be back in Paris? Well, I don't really know the answers to any of these questions, but I suppose I'll never know without giving it a shot, right?
Although nothing is set in stone, yet, there is a very real possibility that I could be employed before heading back from our upcoming Texas vacation, meaning that our far-flung plans to live back in Austin could be a reality before the year is over. We've started the paperwork for Gui's green card, and despite what we've read on websites and forums, the lovely lady at the consulate told us that we could have the answer to our petition in just a few months (given that we do and provide everything that we're asked to). 'Gotta hand it to us Americans for our efficiency.
Still, as the possibility of leaving Paris looms over me, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly conflicted about my sentimental feelings. This is not going to be as easy of a step to take as I had presumed, and that makes me both surprised and concerned. What if we're not making the right decision to move back now? What if we fall on our faces? What if I get there and realize I want to be back in Paris? Well, I don't really know the answers to any of these questions, but I suppose I'll never know without giving it a shot, right?
As far as my career goes, nothing would be better for me than to be back in the States where I can more easily gain more work experience and continue my education. Obviously, as far as my family is concerned, with two new nephews on the way this year, there's really no place like "home." But, it's knowing how enthusiastic and optimistic Gui is about moving back to Austin that puts it all into perspective and makes me realize that we really are making the right move despite my ambivalence. His willingness and excitement to leave the comfort of his home, family and friends to support my career and start a new life abroad really motivates me to make it work. And, man do I want to make it work!
So, if all goes as planned, and things like the unemployment rate or sweltering hot summer don't cause us too much grief, we could be calling Austin home again in a few months, and that makes me squeal with delight! Even if it also means I'll be shedding some tears while bidding à bientôt to Paris.
So, if all goes as planned, and things like the unemployment rate or sweltering hot summer don't cause us too much grief, we could be calling Austin home again in a few months, and that makes me squeal with delight! Even if it also means I'll be shedding some tears while bidding à bientôt to Paris.
This is just to say
I love knitting, but I'm always feeling a little guilty for cheating on my dusty books with my fancy yarn and needles. Reading is more of an instant gratification than knitting is for me, as I'm very much a "product knitter" (as opposed to a "process knitter"). So I find myself more often choosing to get through a few chapters than a few rows knowing that I'll be more satisfied. I can usually knit a couple of rows while watching a movie or show, but it's more of a distraction to have the TV on than anything. I know lots of people download books to listen to, but I don't really have any desire to change the traditional way in which I currently read my books. So when Aimee recommended listening to talk-radio, I was all over it. I didn't realize how much I missed listening to my favorite talk-radio stations back home until I tapped into some NPR archives and started streaming morning radio shows from my hometown. It's a little luxury that I never knew I was missing since I've been living in the land of public transportation. Belting out wrong lyrics to my favorite songs in the privacy of my own car has always been a nostalgic point for me, but I really feel like I've stumbled upon a little slice of home after tuning in to talk-radio shows these past couple of days.
Last night, while knitting, I was listening to a show Aimee had recommended called, "This American Life," and the topic of the latest broadcast was half-hearted apologies; it featured a story about a man who 40 years ago did some unethical things with dead bodies in the name of cryonics but still can't bring himself to admit his mistakes or offer a full-on apology. It was a pretty interesting story, and at the end of the show, they featured a related poem by William Carlos Williams which he supposedly wrote as a note for his wife to read. It's apparently an oft-spoofed poem, and I found myself thinking of so many ways in which I could apply its quasi-apologetic tone to my own life. So, I did, and I came up with a few spoofs of my own, one of which I'm sharing here:
This is Just to Say
by Misplaced Texan
I haven't done yesterday's dishes
or the laundry
that's been piling up all week
nor have I vacuumed
the floors that also
need a good wipe-down
Forgive me
it was sunny on my day off
and the green grass
so inviting
so plush
Last night, while knitting, I was listening to a show Aimee had recommended called, "This American Life," and the topic of the latest broadcast was half-hearted apologies; it featured a story about a man who 40 years ago did some unethical things with dead bodies in the name of cryonics but still can't bring himself to admit his mistakes or offer a full-on apology. It was a pretty interesting story, and at the end of the show, they featured a related poem by William Carlos Williams which he supposedly wrote as a note for his wife to read. It's apparently an oft-spoofed poem, and I found myself thinking of so many ways in which I could apply its quasi-apologetic tone to my own life. So, I did, and I came up with a few spoofs of my own, one of which I'm sharing here:
This is Just to Say
by Misplaced Texan
I haven't done yesterday's dishes
or the laundry
that's been piling up all week
nor have I vacuumed
the floors that also
need a good wipe-down
Forgive me
it was sunny on my day off
and the green grass
so inviting
so plush
Politics and food
Last night, Gui invited a friend from work to celebrate America's triumph with us. His friend, Louis, is an intern from Senegal who's studying business at a school in France. We exchanged enchantés and sat down for a coupe of champagne to discuss the new president and our respective countries. Louis's never been to the States and he was as curious as a six-year-old about my home country and life there. When I first arrived in France, I was a little naive to the idea that many Parisians hadn't ever visited the US, and it struck me as absurd when an 18-year-old girl in my French class told me she'd never seen a black person until she came to France. I think that's when I realized how sheltered of a life I'd really been living. Sure, I'm far more cultured than my grandparents ever were, but I've never learned so much about the world as I have since arriving here.
After explaining to Louis that subways don't exist in every major US city, that nearly everyone drives a car and that people can actually pick up an entire meal from a drive-thru for less than 5 bucks like you see on TV, we got on the topic of what being American is all about. He wanted to know about this patriotism idea that he so frequently hears about when Americans speak of their country. What Louis found so fascinating about being American is that regardless of heritage, religion, or skin color, American citizens (generally speaking) identify themselves as Americans first and foremost. It's the kind of pride that France tends to shun, and Gui gave an example of waving the French flag at a demonstration to be something that many in his country would see as divisive. France has a history of problems concerning the treatment of immigrants and the acceptance of other cultures and religions. I find many of the government's answers to a divided country to be absurdly backwards. I understand that as a secular country, provisions must be taken to ensure religion does not play a role in policymaking, but most of these provisions simply ignore that religion exists altogether. Take the headdress and cross-wearing laws, for example. Disallowing someone to express themselves freely for fear of how others might discriminate is tolerating discrimination. Let's not waive our country's flag because we might be flaunting our national pride too much and don't want to offend any immigrants. Let's just tell everyone with dark hair to dye it blond because, let's be honest, people will discriminate. I know there's a ton of French history that needs to be considered when taking great steps to unite this country, but it seems to me that the politicos running the country today aren't moving fast enough in the right direction.
I don't want to turn this into a political blog - at all - so, take this as a simple culmination of my thoughts about a very interesting conversation I had last night. After polishing off the last drop of champagne, we headed out for an authentic American dinner which required waiting in the cold for an hour first. We all ordered the bacon cheeseburger and fries, I had a vanilla milkshake (can't believe they didn't have strawberry - What-A-Burger, here I come!) and a side ofapparently, what French people are fooled into believing is good ranch dressing (it's on my list of things to bring back). Even though I was the only one at the table who ate my entire meal with my fingers, my nostalgic pangs were more than satisfied, and I felt a little closer to home.
Tomorrow, we're off to Caen to visit our dear friends once again. Tuesday's a holiday, so in typical French fashion, Gui's off from work on Monday, too, and that means a long weekend in Normandy for us! We expect to eat and drink incredibly well while we're there and I anticipate much more champagne in my very near future - all of France is celebrating American democracy, and hey, who am I to argue?
My vanilla milkshake.
YUM!
The lovely Louis.
The lovely us.
After explaining to Louis that subways don't exist in every major US city, that nearly everyone drives a car and that people can actually pick up an entire meal from a drive-thru for less than 5 bucks like you see on TV, we got on the topic of what being American is all about. He wanted to know about this patriotism idea that he so frequently hears about when Americans speak of their country. What Louis found so fascinating about being American is that regardless of heritage, religion, or skin color, American citizens (generally speaking) identify themselves as Americans first and foremost. It's the kind of pride that France tends to shun, and Gui gave an example of waving the French flag at a demonstration to be something that many in his country would see as divisive. France has a history of problems concerning the treatment of immigrants and the acceptance of other cultures and religions. I find many of the government's answers to a divided country to be absurdly backwards. I understand that as a secular country, provisions must be taken to ensure religion does not play a role in policymaking, but most of these provisions simply ignore that religion exists altogether. Take the headdress and cross-wearing laws, for example. Disallowing someone to express themselves freely for fear of how others might discriminate is tolerating discrimination. Let's not waive our country's flag because we might be flaunting our national pride too much and don't want to offend any immigrants. Let's just tell everyone with dark hair to dye it blond because, let's be honest, people will discriminate. I know there's a ton of French history that needs to be considered when taking great steps to unite this country, but it seems to me that the politicos running the country today aren't moving fast enough in the right direction.
I don't want to turn this into a political blog - at all - so, take this as a simple culmination of my thoughts about a very interesting conversation I had last night. After polishing off the last drop of champagne, we headed out for an authentic American dinner which required waiting in the cold for an hour first. We all ordered the bacon cheeseburger and fries, I had a vanilla milkshake (can't believe they didn't have strawberry - What-A-Burger, here I come!) and a side of
Tomorrow, we're off to Caen to visit our dear friends once again. Tuesday's a holiday, so in typical French fashion, Gui's off from work on Monday, too, and that means a long weekend in Normandy for us! We expect to eat and drink incredibly well while we're there and I anticipate much more champagne in my very near future - all of France is celebrating American democracy, and hey, who am I to argue?
My vanilla milkshake. 
YUM!
The lovely Louis.
The lovely us.Ups and downs and all-arounds
I was stoked to finally find my request to appear for my medical exam to get my carte de sejour in the mailbox today. I'm not so excited about the actual exam, which has become the slightly-comical destiny of every new French resident, but I'm just relieved that, after three months, I'm finally taking the next step towards solidifying my residency here. My récépissé expires on the 31st of this month, and a couple of weeks ago, after voicing a little concern about the whereabouts of my application, Gui bypassed the préfecture and secured my medical appointment over the phone directly with ANAEM (the French immigration agency). In fact, Gui left them a message about it and they did what no other French bureaucratic agency has done before - they called him back in a very timely manner! They even took down my information, researched the progress of my file and called him back to inform him of the status. And, would you believe that they let me pick the date of the rendez-vous when we explained our plans to be out of town during the month?! I'll still have to go to the dreaded préfecture and wait "patiently" for however many hours tomorrow afternoon to extend my récépissé, but I'm really relieved that I'm headed in the right direction.
It's slightly ironic, however, that this letter came when it did. Today, my emotions have been bouncing around like a slinky. I'm really sick of blogging about my frustrations and homesickness when my life is, in all fairness, rather great. But, I think Paris is provoking me. It's kind of like that to the blessed people who call it home - just as you pass the Eiffel Tower, sipping on an espresso, croissant in-hand and life can't get any better, you get to your métro station and lookie there, it's closed - because someone died there this morning. (Which actually happened to me today, sans the croissant and espresso.) It's as if the city is reminding you that as great as life can appear to be, sometimes it sucks. What an amazing feeling it is to walk to school everyday and pass the Pantheon, to stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg in between classes and stop in for a French express before the bell rings, but when the dreary reality of la vie quotidienne resurfaces, the scales are once again tipped and life becomes just life once again. Today, I reminded myself at least three times each how much I love this city and how much I hate it. Yet, it's not really the city so much as it's my life living here.
It was never really any question when Gui and I married where we would start our lives as a married couple. My job situation, although relatively secure and stable wasn't ideal, and Gui needed to put his degree to work before it got too dusty and lost its appeal to employers. I knew I'd be in for an eventful and sometimes frustrating transition while I settled into being a real resident here, but I don't think I fully prepared myself for the personal challenges I've faced and have yet to face. For me, Paris and France in general never "stole my heart" or "talked to me" like it has for so many people who've made it here. It's certainly growing on me, and I seriously appreciate the beauty of such an historical place, but man, is it sometimes a frustrating place to be! I don't mind that I sometimes have to search high and low for things that bring me comfort, and I love that I've learned so many different techniques and ways of doing things that I once did so differently. I enjoy the diversity of the people, their varied traditions and often bizarre anecdotes. Yet, there's something that feels off-kilter about calling this place home. Almost interdit. I feel like a fraud, like someone who's living someone else's dream (except that in their dream, they didn't get to marry my husband), when I'd rather be sipping a margarita with the girls at happy hour after a grueling 10-hour day of work.
I think I'm coming to the realization that Paris might never be able to replace those people and places I love so much no matter how hard it tries; that as great as the moments I have here are, they would be even greater with those people to share them with. None of this diminishes the fact that I've had amazing times here with some of the most remarkable people who I expect to become lifelong friends. I guess I'm just materializing the recognition that my life here isn't going to be perfect because it will always lack those people and places that have made me the person I've become. Realizing that this makes me sound so much like my dad, I'm now starting to notice how perfectly I balance the traits of both of my parents. My mom is the free-spirited, care-free wanderer of life who lives for spontaneity, while my dad is the uber-traditionalist who champions dedication and planting roots as the fundamentals to living a good life. I guess it's no wonder I have such daily self-conflicts about being here. But having an on-again, off-again relationship with Paris is something I'm learning to live with and hoping to get better at. Even though I hate sometimes feeling so out of love with this place, I love my husband more than anything, and regardless of where he's at, that's where I want to be. Let's just hope he doesn't get the sudden urge to move to Russia - there's one language I could die happily before attempting to learn.
It's slightly ironic, however, that this letter came when it did. Today, my emotions have been bouncing around like a slinky. I'm really sick of blogging about my frustrations and homesickness when my life is, in all fairness, rather great. But, I think Paris is provoking me. It's kind of like that to the blessed people who call it home - just as you pass the Eiffel Tower, sipping on an espresso, croissant in-hand and life can't get any better, you get to your métro station and lookie there, it's closed - because someone died there this morning. (Which actually happened to me today, sans the croissant and espresso.) It's as if the city is reminding you that as great as life can appear to be, sometimes it sucks. What an amazing feeling it is to walk to school everyday and pass the Pantheon, to stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg in between classes and stop in for a French express before the bell rings, but when the dreary reality of la vie quotidienne resurfaces, the scales are once again tipped and life becomes just life once again. Today, I reminded myself at least three times each how much I love this city and how much I hate it. Yet, it's not really the city so much as it's my life living here.
It was never really any question when Gui and I married where we would start our lives as a married couple. My job situation, although relatively secure and stable wasn't ideal, and Gui needed to put his degree to work before it got too dusty and lost its appeal to employers. I knew I'd be in for an eventful and sometimes frustrating transition while I settled into being a real resident here, but I don't think I fully prepared myself for the personal challenges I've faced and have yet to face. For me, Paris and France in general never "stole my heart" or "talked to me" like it has for so many people who've made it here. It's certainly growing on me, and I seriously appreciate the beauty of such an historical place, but man, is it sometimes a frustrating place to be! I don't mind that I sometimes have to search high and low for things that bring me comfort, and I love that I've learned so many different techniques and ways of doing things that I once did so differently. I enjoy the diversity of the people, their varied traditions and often bizarre anecdotes. Yet, there's something that feels off-kilter about calling this place home. Almost interdit. I feel like a fraud, like someone who's living someone else's dream (except that in their dream, they didn't get to marry my husband), when I'd rather be sipping a margarita with the girls at happy hour after a grueling 10-hour day of work.
I think I'm coming to the realization that Paris might never be able to replace those people and places I love so much no matter how hard it tries; that as great as the moments I have here are, they would be even greater with those people to share them with. None of this diminishes the fact that I've had amazing times here with some of the most remarkable people who I expect to become lifelong friends. I guess I'm just materializing the recognition that my life here isn't going to be perfect because it will always lack those people and places that have made me the person I've become. Realizing that this makes me sound so much like my dad, I'm now starting to notice how perfectly I balance the traits of both of my parents. My mom is the free-spirited, care-free wanderer of life who lives for spontaneity, while my dad is the uber-traditionalist who champions dedication and planting roots as the fundamentals to living a good life. I guess it's no wonder I have such daily self-conflicts about being here. But having an on-again, off-again relationship with Paris is something I'm learning to live with and hoping to get better at. Even though I hate sometimes feeling so out of love with this place, I love my husband more than anything, and regardless of where he's at, that's where I want to be. Let's just hope he doesn't get the sudden urge to move to Russia - there's one language I could die happily before attempting to learn.
"On the mend"
My sister would say that I'm "on the mend," but I'm still sick. And, I'm one of those annoying sick people who complains and gripes about my aches and pains as if that'll make them go away quicker. This isn't my first time getting the same awful fluish sickness in France. On my first trip to visit Guillaume here back when we were kids (ok, like two years ago), I came down with a more severe version of what I'm suffering these days. It almost resulted in postponing my flight home, but after a quick call to Gui's doctor-of-an-uncle, I managed to reduce my suffering by following a day's worth of homeopathic remedies. I quickly became a convert to homeopathy, having before always relied on alcohol-based syrups and drugs to knock me out long enough not to notice or complain about my symptoms.
What I find hardest about being sick in a different country is not finding those things that always make achy bones and crazy-painful sore throats a little bit easier to cope with. Like vegetable soup with alphabet pasta, saltines, bags of Celestial Seasonings throat lozenges, Vick's VapoRub, and my mom - especially, my mom. Am I too old to wish I had my mom around to take care of me while I'm sick? I hope not because I don't see that feeling changing anytime soon. I did scoop up a bottle of 7-up on my way home, not that there's any chance that it'll cure me, but it was always around when I was sick as a kid, so maybe it has some healing powers - even if they're only mental. And, although honey makes my throat scratchy, I've been adding it to my hot tea like mom always taught me to help sooth my burning throat.
The one thing that's making it easier to cope with everything is having my not-from-this-world husband by my side. Gui has been more amazing than I could ever be in taking good care of me. I seriously don't know what man-planet he's from, but he's definitely holding up to his commitment to love me during sickness, putting up with my whining and moaning, bringing home throat spray, fruit and juice and all the requisite sick-person food he can find. I'm taking notes so I can reciprocate the care he's given me when it's his turn to be the sicky (let's hope that's not anytime soon).
What sucks about getting sick this week is that it's the first week of my phonetics class - the one that starts at 8 am each morning - and, I'm pretty sure I'm off to a bad start with the prof having already missed the first two days. I'm not sure how the whole truancy thing works at La Sorbonne, but I hope I'm not required to give a doctor's note or anything. I did manage to make it to my daily grammar class today and didn't feel like I missed much by being gone one day. Midway through class, the Turkish girl next to me asked if I was okay, which made me think I must be looking like shiz. Unfortunately, the teacher didn't pick up on this and insisted on asking me to answer last night's homework (which I didn't cop out of with an excuse and still answered). But, then she thought it would be fun to give me an on-the-spot quiz to make an example out of my silly auxiliary-verb mistake (which I knew I'd made the moment I said it and then swiftly corrected myself), that resulted in a short lecture on the profound importance of memorizing these verbs. I wanted to walk out and go back home to my warm bed, but I stuck it out and hopefully tomorrow I'll be back on my game.
Oatmeal in bed for lunch on Monday.
My vitamin-packed juice.
More fluids - but this made my throat hurt more.
The trusty L52.
Throat spray with Lidocaine? It numbed my tongue and throat for about 10 minutes, but didn't do much else.
Tomato soup.
7-Up, tea and honey.
What I find hardest about being sick in a different country is not finding those things that always make achy bones and crazy-painful sore throats a little bit easier to cope with. Like vegetable soup with alphabet pasta, saltines, bags of Celestial Seasonings throat lozenges, Vick's VapoRub, and my mom - especially, my mom. Am I too old to wish I had my mom around to take care of me while I'm sick? I hope not because I don't see that feeling changing anytime soon. I did scoop up a bottle of 7-up on my way home, not that there's any chance that it'll cure me, but it was always around when I was sick as a kid, so maybe it has some healing powers - even if they're only mental. And, although honey makes my throat scratchy, I've been adding it to my hot tea like mom always taught me to help sooth my burning throat.
The one thing that's making it easier to cope with everything is having my not-from-this-world husband by my side. Gui has been more amazing than I could ever be in taking good care of me. I seriously don't know what man-planet he's from, but he's definitely holding up to his commitment to love me during sickness, putting up with my whining and moaning, bringing home throat spray, fruit and juice and all the requisite sick-person food he can find. I'm taking notes so I can reciprocate the care he's given me when it's his turn to be the sicky (let's hope that's not anytime soon).
What sucks about getting sick this week is that it's the first week of my phonetics class - the one that starts at 8 am each morning - and, I'm pretty sure I'm off to a bad start with the prof having already missed the first two days. I'm not sure how the whole truancy thing works at La Sorbonne, but I hope I'm not required to give a doctor's note or anything. I did manage to make it to my daily grammar class today and didn't feel like I missed much by being gone one day. Midway through class, the Turkish girl next to me asked if I was okay, which made me think I must be looking like shiz. Unfortunately, the teacher didn't pick up on this and insisted on asking me to answer last night's homework (which I didn't cop out of with an excuse and still answered). But, then she thought it would be fun to give me an on-the-spot quiz to make an example out of my silly auxiliary-verb mistake (which I knew I'd made the moment I said it and then swiftly corrected myself), that resulted in a short lecture on the profound importance of memorizing these verbs. I wanted to walk out and go back home to my warm bed, but I stuck it out and hopefully tomorrow I'll be back on my game.
Oatmeal in bed for lunch on Monday.
My vitamin-packed juice.
More fluids - but this made my throat hurt more. 
The trusty L52.
Throat spray with Lidocaine? It numbed my tongue and throat for about 10 minutes, but didn't do much else. 
Tomato soup.
7-Up, tea and honey. Pumpkin spice creamer
Reading through a new Twitter follower's past few tweets, I came across one that really sent my senses in a tizzy and started a chain reaction of thoughts about what little things I've totally forgotten about since I've left the US. Her tweet was simply this: "community Pumpkin Spice creamer in the office kitchen. My coffee is scrumptious! Totally made my morning!" Pumpkin spice creamer might seem like a silly thing to blog about, but besides making me verbally exclaim "YUUUM," it got me thinking about all the great things that come with the Thanksgiving season, and it even reminded me of what it is I miss the most about working.
Last weekend, at a party full of Americans (and a Canadian) the topic turned to Thanksgiving dinner. After listing off all of our favorite dishes - greenbean casserole, mom's stuffing, homemade pumpkin pie (my absolute favorite) - we got on the topic of eggnog. A few people have spotted the milky holiday beverage at various grocery stores around Paris, and someone verified the name in French to look for on the next trip to the market. I was never crazy about eggnog, and in fact usually only drink it when it's spiked, but somehow it seems to be more important on my list of holiday specialties than ever before. Talking about the drink conjures up memories of Christmas Eve finger-food dinners, holiday office parties, and winter dinner parties with friends. We have plans to replicate a perfectly American Thanksgiving dinner here this year, so I'm hoping all my seasonal cravings will be fulfilled.
As for that pumpkin spice creamer, I could actually see that in the community fridge of any one of my jobs of the past. My lovely friend (and old co-worker), Jen would totally bring that in to share with our department in celebration of the cooler temps or just to brighten everyone's day. She'd make her coffee at her desk in the miniature French press that was stashed in her office and come to the breakroom for a splash of creamer and an earful of the latest gossip. We'd compliment each other on our latest buys - her new kitten heels or my new pencil skirt - and talk about what's on the agenda for the coming week. That's the kind of work camaraderie that made working an often less-than-thrilling 9 to 5 job so worth it. And, there are those little things - like the pumpkin spice creamer that someone thought to share with the rest of the burned-out office - that seriously made life that much happier. Is it silly for me to be dreaming of artificially-flavored soy-milk when I can indulge in freshly-baked baguettes and tarts all day if I want? Perhaps. But, isn't the grass always greener?
Last weekend, at a party full of Americans (and a Canadian) the topic turned to Thanksgiving dinner. After listing off all of our favorite dishes - greenbean casserole, mom's stuffing, homemade pumpkin pie (my absolute favorite) - we got on the topic of eggnog. A few people have spotted the milky holiday beverage at various grocery stores around Paris, and someone verified the name in French to look for on the next trip to the market. I was never crazy about eggnog, and in fact usually only drink it when it's spiked, but somehow it seems to be more important on my list of holiday specialties than ever before. Talking about the drink conjures up memories of Christmas Eve finger-food dinners, holiday office parties, and winter dinner parties with friends. We have plans to replicate a perfectly American Thanksgiving dinner here this year, so I'm hoping all my seasonal cravings will be fulfilled.
As for that pumpkin spice creamer, I could actually see that in the community fridge of any one of my jobs of the past. My lovely friend (and old co-worker), Jen would totally bring that in to share with our department in celebration of the cooler temps or just to brighten everyone's day. She'd make her coffee at her desk in the miniature French press that was stashed in her office and come to the breakroom for a splash of creamer and an earful of the latest gossip. We'd compliment each other on our latest buys - her new kitten heels or my new pencil skirt - and talk about what's on the agenda for the coming week. That's the kind of work camaraderie that made working an often less-than-thrilling 9 to 5 job so worth it. And, there are those little things - like the pumpkin spice creamer that someone thought to share with the rest of the burned-out office - that seriously made life that much happier. Is it silly for me to be dreaming of artificially-flavored soy-milk when I can indulge in freshly-baked baguettes and tarts all day if I want? Perhaps. But, isn't the grass always greener?
Indian Summer
I never knew what an Indian summer was before I came to Paris. You can't watch the meteo on TV without someone mentioning the phrase. What it mostly means to me is that I can get away with wearing my summer-inspired clothing a little longer than I had anticipated, which for my Texan self, is most definitely a good thing. Today, walking into a shoe store in search of a pair of flats (boots? pfff, no boots needed this autumn), the shoe guy looked down at my dirty, t-strap, nude-colored flats with my naked foot peaking out from the sides and said "C'est toujours été, eh?" ["It's still summer, huh?"] Even after having him repeat his rhetorical question, I didn't quite understand what he was trying to say about my shoes and decided to respond with, "non, ils sont pas d'ici," ["non, they're not from here"] pretty much justifying that quizzical look he and his coworker gave each other after I smiled and casually walked off. It took me about three more seconds to finally translate and comprehend what his set of words had to do with my shoes, which also reminded me rather abruptly that French folks like to talk about the weather. In fact, riding up the three-person elevator with my neighbor the other day provided another interesting conversation about how much longer "l'été indien" would last, as well as how disappointing it would be if Obama lost the election (our elevator is obviously a little slow).
When I first arrived here, last November (geesh, nearly a year ago!), there was almost nothing to be done to assuage my body's rejection of the cold. I could barely stand to roll myself out of the warmth of my bed, and I dreaded the thought of leaving the house which required walking to the train station in less-than-freezing temps. Now, even though all the city's vegetation suggests that Autumn has arrived, the gorgeous temps and blue-blue sky suggest otherwise. I'm happy to leave the coats, scarves and boots at home in place of my short-sleeves, jeans and ballet-flats. Yet, I do wonder how much longer this lovely summer will be prolonged.
I've never lived in a place where Fall's presence is ever known - in Austin, Winter seems to come just a day after Summer, and that's not usually before December. I guess it's no wonder all this crazy good weather has got me thinking about life back in Austin - about barbecues and football; happy-hours and brunches. I guess back there, Indian Summers are just called Summer and days of good weather in the months before Christmas are considered the norm. I know I'll surely be missing many things about home come November, but if this Indian Summer holds out until then, I'm glad there'll be one less thing to be nostalgic over.
*updated 10/14 to include video: Thanks, Zhu!
When I first arrived here, last November (geesh, nearly a year ago!), there was almost nothing to be done to assuage my body's rejection of the cold. I could barely stand to roll myself out of the warmth of my bed, and I dreaded the thought of leaving the house which required walking to the train station in less-than-freezing temps. Now, even though all the city's vegetation suggests that Autumn has arrived, the gorgeous temps and blue-blue sky suggest otherwise. I'm happy to leave the coats, scarves and boots at home in place of my short-sleeves, jeans and ballet-flats. Yet, I do wonder how much longer this lovely summer will be prolonged.
I've never lived in a place where Fall's presence is ever known - in Austin, Winter seems to come just a day after Summer, and that's not usually before December. I guess it's no wonder all this crazy good weather has got me thinking about life back in Austin - about barbecues and football; happy-hours and brunches. I guess back there, Indian Summers are just called Summer and days of good weather in the months before Christmas are considered the norm. I know I'll surely be missing many things about home come November, but if this Indian Summer holds out until then, I'm glad there'll be one less thing to be nostalgic over.
*updated 10/14 to include video: Thanks, Zhu!
Pardon me, but....
I hope I don't get in trouble for posting this, but it's too funny not to share. I've seen some people moving in and out of our apartment building over the past few weeks now, but being that I've never actually met all of our neighbors, they could very well be old residents doing a little Fall cleaning. Still, I can tell that there are a few newbies from the handmade changes seen on the mailboxes. At our fête de voisins this summer, the caretaker of our building took down everyone's names and (among other things) promised to have new plaques made to replace the aged and ugly plastic covers that identify our mailboxes. Months later, nothing's changed - no new mailbox covers, no new resident information for deliveries, no new name indicators for our doors, no new nothin'. So now that new people are moving into our building, I've noticed more handwritten mailbox covers. Casually, glancing over the boxes to check out the names of our new neighbors, I stopped at this one and laughed (loudly) to myself - just before I grabbed my camera.
Yes, I realize this is a joke that a 12 year-old would make and laugh at, but I think the funniest part of it is remembering the Grey Poupon commercials I saw as a kid and how I would make the same fake British accent in an attempt to get my little brothers to laugh. It's amusing to think how clueless I was back then about how my life would unfold for me, and it's even a little funny to think that I'm here, living in France, with a French husband, having Monsieur Poupon as my neighbor in a life I never imagined I would have. Merci, Mr. Poupon, for the nostalgic joke and for putting it all into perspective for me.
Yes, I realize this is a joke that a 12 year-old would make and laugh at, but I think the funniest part of it is remembering the Grey Poupon commercials I saw as a kid and how I would make the same fake British accent in an attempt to get my little brothers to laugh. It's amusing to think how clueless I was back then about how my life would unfold for me, and it's even a little funny to think that I'm here, living in France, with a French husband, having Monsieur Poupon as my neighbor in a life I never imagined I would have. Merci, Mr. Poupon, for the nostalgic joke and for putting it all into perspective for me.
Gone country
La Rentrée is in full swing and Parisians are abandoning the sand, sun and holiday homes and flocking back to their 20-meters-squared flats in the city. Gui's mom returned Sunday from her few weeks spent on the beaches of Deauville and Normandy, and since we weren't able to meet her at the beach, we decided to spend a day together at her late father's home in the village of Marcq.
Marcq has less than 600 inhabitants and is considered "the country" by city folk, yet it's literally a 20-25 minute car ride from our apartment in the south of Paris. Gui and I spent Christmas day there, and it's where I learned just how much food my stomach could handle in one sitting (I stopped after eating my 6th course). The property that Gui's family owns there is currently for sale, as they're looking to buy property in a more popular place closer to the beach. It's a shame because Les Trois Granges, as the property is called, is really spectacular, especially in the summer. It's comprised of three separate buildings - one main house, a guest house and another completely gutted guest house that once served as Gui's grandfather's workshop. There's also a fairly large garage and enormous carport on the property, but the most striking asset, in my opinion, is the land itself. It's full of gorgeous flower gardens, brilliant green grass, charming stone arches, and a variety of fruit trees. Guillaume and his cousin Ben even have their own trees that they used to hang out in when they'd visit their grandpa as young, nature-loving boys. In one part of the land, there's a scarcely-tended garden that once boasted hearty tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, raspberries, and fresh herbs like lavender, rosemary and sage. There's something very nostalgic about the place. It's rustic, but not in a trendy way; it's grand, but not grandiose; it's mystical, not unlike The Secret Garden.
Being there during Summer was totally different from my first visit in December when we mostly stayed indoors, keeping warm by the chimney and staying drunk on fois gras and champagne. The garden really beckons in the summer sun, tantalizing the nature-loving spirit in even the most stubborn, city-loving folk. It was both a sentimental and exhilarating endeavor uncovering the treasures in the garden and behind the cobwebs of the lifeless buildings. I felt like Guillaume must have felt when he was a kid stumbling upon the tools in his grandfather's workshop imagining himself one day old enough to have his own workshop and tools - except my imagination was envisioning a massive garden and a small farm.
While we were there, a family stopped by unannounced to take a peak at the estate, but were asked to arrange a proper rendezvous before visiting. We were all relaxing after a late summer lunch, and apparently, impromptu visits are less than welcome, especially during August. I felt a twinge of guilty relief that they weren't allowed past the gates to be enchanted by its picturesque beauty, wishing that the place could stay "ours" just a little while longer.
When we finally made our way back to reality, I shared with Gui my newfound interest in living outside of a big city, in a more rural setting someday. I've always been a city girl, but more recently he's heard me gab about owning a garden and living off of our own, seasonally-grown fruits and vegetables, and he understands my appreciation for horticulture. But, the moment I mentioned owning a small hen house, he made it clear that that was where he drew the line. He has no desire to be a farmer, to own any more animals than a cat or dog, or to labor on a farm under a beating sun. I suppose my ideas for a home on the range are going a bit too far, but I guess the part of me that misses the green grass and wide-open spaces of living in Texas is longing for my own piece of earth to harvest and tend. As electrifying as Paris may be, it pales in comparison to the dazzling scape of the countryside and all the possibilities that it brings. Although we don't have set plans on how long we intend to stay in Paris, the Texan in me is optimistic that we'll find ourselves a little closer to my roots wherever we land next - even if that means an apartment with a simple garden.
Marcq has less than 600 inhabitants and is considered "the country" by city folk, yet it's literally a 20-25 minute car ride from our apartment in the south of Paris. Gui and I spent Christmas day there, and it's where I learned just how much food my stomach could handle in one sitting (I stopped after eating my 6th course). The property that Gui's family owns there is currently for sale, as they're looking to buy property in a more popular place closer to the beach. It's a shame because Les Trois Granges, as the property is called, is really spectacular, especially in the summer. It's comprised of three separate buildings - one main house, a guest house and another completely gutted guest house that once served as Gui's grandfather's workshop. There's also a fairly large garage and enormous carport on the property, but the most striking asset, in my opinion, is the land itself. It's full of gorgeous flower gardens, brilliant green grass, charming stone arches, and a variety of fruit trees. Guillaume and his cousin Ben even have their own trees that they used to hang out in when they'd visit their grandpa as young, nature-loving boys. In one part of the land, there's a scarcely-tended garden that once boasted hearty tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, raspberries, and fresh herbs like lavender, rosemary and sage. There's something very nostalgic about the place. It's rustic, but not in a trendy way; it's grand, but not grandiose; it's mystical, not unlike The Secret Garden.
Being there during Summer was totally different from my first visit in December when we mostly stayed indoors, keeping warm by the chimney and staying drunk on fois gras and champagne. The garden really beckons in the summer sun, tantalizing the nature-loving spirit in even the most stubborn, city-loving folk. It was both a sentimental and exhilarating endeavor uncovering the treasures in the garden and behind the cobwebs of the lifeless buildings. I felt like Guillaume must have felt when he was a kid stumbling upon the tools in his grandfather's workshop imagining himself one day old enough to have his own workshop and tools - except my imagination was envisioning a massive garden and a small farm.
While we were there, a family stopped by unannounced to take a peak at the estate, but were asked to arrange a proper rendezvous before visiting. We were all relaxing after a late summer lunch, and apparently, impromptu visits are less than welcome, especially during August. I felt a twinge of guilty relief that they weren't allowed past the gates to be enchanted by its picturesque beauty, wishing that the place could stay "ours" just a little while longer.
When we finally made our way back to reality, I shared with Gui my newfound interest in living outside of a big city, in a more rural setting someday. I've always been a city girl, but more recently he's heard me gab about owning a garden and living off of our own, seasonally-grown fruits and vegetables, and he understands my appreciation for horticulture. But, the moment I mentioned owning a small hen house, he made it clear that that was where he drew the line. He has no desire to be a farmer, to own any more animals than a cat or dog, or to labor on a farm under a beating sun. I suppose my ideas for a home on the range are going a bit too far, but I guess the part of me that misses the green grass and wide-open spaces of living in Texas is longing for my own piece of earth to harvest and tend. As electrifying as Paris may be, it pales in comparison to the dazzling scape of the countryside and all the possibilities that it brings. Although we don't have set plans on how long we intend to stay in Paris, the Texan in me is optimistic that we'll find ourselves a little closer to my roots wherever we land next - even if that means an apartment with a simple garden.
Pictures from our visit in Marcq. Enjoy!
Peachy cobbler
My hands-down, all-time favorite dessert is, as a matter of fact, peach cobbler. I rarely eat an entire serving, but the sugary, doughy, crunchy-crusted peachy loveliness is what makes me most happy after a meal. And, I like it straight up - I've never been an à la mode kind of girl, and I tend to like things in their simplest form because all that extra nonsense is just cause for distraction. And I don't like to be distracted when I'm eating.
So, all these ripe peaches have been seducing me as I walk past them sitting on the counters of the lively market stalls - just begging me to take them with me to savor their juicy goodness. How could I to deny them their fair shot at making it into one of my might-be-disastrous cooking endeavors? Lucky peaches.
I can't remember where I got the idea for peach cobbler - maybe I was reminiscing about eating one of many Lenten catfish buffets at the Manchaca Fire Hall that I almost always followed up with a peach cobbler; or maybe it was the famous Hill's Cafe that I remember regularly going to when I was growing up. I don't even know if they serve peach cobbler there, but I must have been thinking about one of those comfort-food havens to remind me of my undying affection for a homemade peach cobbler.
Despite the soaring temps, I fired up the oven after scooping up a kilo (or something) of ripe yellow peaches, and challenged my craving with one simple recipe. It all seemed to be going well...until I got to the part where you have to pour the "batter" into the pool of melted butter. Easy enough, non? Well, yeah, it was easy to do, but the way it looked was not easy to stomach.
Blech! I thought I'd surely ruined a recipe this time - dude, why can't I bake with confidence? So, I reluctantly tossed it in the oven, set the timer and didn't even peak until I heard the "ding."
And that's when my frown turned upside-down, friends, and I saw and smelled the most delectable thing I've ever attempted to make in my life. It took everything I had to let it cool a bit before serving myself a heaping scoop of heaven. I even waited until after dinner to try it out, and boy, was it worth the wait! Gui decided he wanted some vanilla ice cream distraction, so I served him two scoops and he was a happy (stuffed) husband.
I ate this cobbler for an entire week - with coffee for breakfast, as dessert at lunch and dinner, with tea after dinner, for gouter, and as a meal replacement in and of itself. This will be on the table at the next Thanksgiving dinner, and I will be calling dibs on being served first.
As for my baking abilities, I learned a valuable lesson that I will remember for all future bakingexperiments ventures: the oven is a magical contraption that turns oozing piles of goo into yummy piles of perfection - never doubt its powers.
Stick o' butter.
Heaven.
Gui's plate.
So, all these ripe peaches have been seducing me as I walk past them sitting on the counters of the lively market stalls - just begging me to take them with me to savor their juicy goodness. How could I to deny them their fair shot at making it into one of my might-be-disastrous cooking endeavors? Lucky peaches.
I can't remember where I got the idea for peach cobbler - maybe I was reminiscing about eating one of many Lenten catfish buffets at the Manchaca Fire Hall that I almost always followed up with a peach cobbler; or maybe it was the famous Hill's Cafe that I remember regularly going to when I was growing up. I don't even know if they serve peach cobbler there, but I must have been thinking about one of those comfort-food havens to remind me of my undying affection for a homemade peach cobbler.
Despite the soaring temps, I fired up the oven after scooping up a kilo (or something) of ripe yellow peaches, and challenged my craving with one simple recipe. It all seemed to be going well...until I got to the part where you have to pour the "batter" into the pool of melted butter. Easy enough, non? Well, yeah, it was easy to do, but the way it looked was not easy to stomach.
Blech! I thought I'd surely ruined a recipe this time - dude, why can't I bake with confidence? So, I reluctantly tossed it in the oven, set the timer and didn't even peak until I heard the "ding."And that's when my frown turned upside-down, friends, and I saw and smelled the most delectable thing I've ever attempted to make in my life. It took everything I had to let it cool a bit before serving myself a heaping scoop of heaven. I even waited until after dinner to try it out, and boy, was it worth the wait! Gui decided he wanted some vanilla ice cream distraction, so I served him two scoops and he was a happy (stuffed) husband.
I ate this cobbler for an entire week - with coffee for breakfast, as dessert at lunch and dinner, with tea after dinner, for gouter, and as a meal replacement in and of itself. This will be on the table at the next Thanksgiving dinner, and I will be calling dibs on being served first.
As for my baking abilities, I learned a valuable lesson that I will remember for all future baking
Stick o' butter.
Heaven.
Gui's plate.Trying to fall in love with French
This is my last week of French classes, for now at least. I was supposed to be finished last week, but I decided to enroll in another week to round it up to a four-week lesson. Reflecting on how much I've learned in four weeks, I really feel like I've come a long way. I've still got SO much further to go, but I'm more confident in a few of my skills, and I think I've increased the overall versatility of my speech. But, as I said before, I've got a long ways to go.
I still can't fully express myself in French - or even mostly express myself. I find I'm constantly asking how to say something or another in French and repeating the same words or phrases over and over. Many times, midway through a thought that I can't quite get across, I stop and decide to cut myself off for fear of saying the wrong thing or sounding stupid. I know it's all part of the learning process, but it's an exhausting feeling to be defeated each and every day by a language that makes no sense. I found some consolation today in class when a girl who has command of Portuguese, Spanish and English told me of her frustrations with learning the French language. Those seated next to us were also in agreement that the language is so complex and completely taxing. I mentioned that when I was living in Italy, I would find myself dreaming in Italian, thinking in Italian and feeling the language; conversely, it's never been like that for me with French. Sure, I studied Italian for a few semesters, but I never practiced, never listened to Italian radio or watched Italian TV on a daily basis, and I don't ever remember thinking of it as such a laborious subject. What I do recall is feeling like I was meant to speak the language, like it was somewhere in me all along, just waiting to be brought to life. I don't have that same feeling with French.
After class today, I found myself dreaming about moving away from France to Italy or Spain. I don't think that's something Gui and I would ever really do without a really good reason, but it was nice to think of how much easier life might be if I could live in a foreign country and be able to speak the language with comfort and confidence, working and enjoying my life as an "insider" rather than someone trying to figure it out. Then, I could really start my life there - do real work instead of going to school to learn how to read and write and talk; I could do so many things that I dream of doing here, like volunteering and taking music lessons, but instead I find there's always that black cloud of non-fluency looming over, reminding me of my below-par skill set.
I really hope (and plan) to one day master the language enough to get a job and converse freely with friends and family, but I don't imagine that will be anytime soon. A week from Friday, we have my carte de sejour meeting at the prefecture where I believe they'll assess my skill level (or send me somewhere to do that) to determine if language classes will be needed and if so, how much. It's part of this new integration contract they're implementing throughout France. I'm all for getting 200-400 hours of free language classes, and I want nothing more than to find my passion for French like I found for Italian. Yet, some part of me still yearns for the easy way, for a way to bypass months ( if not years) of language classes just to get to the point that I was at eight months ago (geesh! I've been jobless for eight months, who in the world is going to hire me?!). Sometimes I feel like I'm going backwards or not going at all, and it worries me to ponder where my professional life and personal ambitions will be in a year. All I hope is that I'm not still sitting in a class with the same folks trying to figure out how to politely say, "may I please have a baguette and a chocolate eclair?"
I still can't fully express myself in French - or even mostly express myself. I find I'm constantly asking how to say something or another in French and repeating the same words or phrases over and over. Many times, midway through a thought that I can't quite get across, I stop and decide to cut myself off for fear of saying the wrong thing or sounding stupid. I know it's all part of the learning process, but it's an exhausting feeling to be defeated each and every day by a language that makes no sense. I found some consolation today in class when a girl who has command of Portuguese, Spanish and English told me of her frustrations with learning the French language. Those seated next to us were also in agreement that the language is so complex and completely taxing. I mentioned that when I was living in Italy, I would find myself dreaming in Italian, thinking in Italian and feeling the language; conversely, it's never been like that for me with French. Sure, I studied Italian for a few semesters, but I never practiced, never listened to Italian radio or watched Italian TV on a daily basis, and I don't ever remember thinking of it as such a laborious subject. What I do recall is feeling like I was meant to speak the language, like it was somewhere in me all along, just waiting to be brought to life. I don't have that same feeling with French.
After class today, I found myself dreaming about moving away from France to Italy or Spain. I don't think that's something Gui and I would ever really do without a really good reason, but it was nice to think of how much easier life might be if I could live in a foreign country and be able to speak the language with comfort and confidence, working and enjoying my life as an "insider" rather than someone trying to figure it out. Then, I could really start my life there - do real work instead of going to school to learn how to read and write and talk; I could do so many things that I dream of doing here, like volunteering and taking music lessons, but instead I find there's always that black cloud of non-fluency looming over, reminding me of my below-par skill set.
I really hope (and plan) to one day master the language enough to get a job and converse freely with friends and family, but I don't imagine that will be anytime soon. A week from Friday, we have my carte de sejour meeting at the prefecture where I believe they'll assess my skill level (or send me somewhere to do that) to determine if language classes will be needed and if so, how much. It's part of this new integration contract they're implementing throughout France. I'm all for getting 200-400 hours of free language classes, and I want nothing more than to find my passion for French like I found for Italian. Yet, some part of me still yearns for the easy way, for a way to bypass months ( if not years) of language classes just to get to the point that I was at eight months ago (geesh! I've been jobless for eight months, who in the world is going to hire me?!). Sometimes I feel like I'm going backwards or not going at all, and it worries me to ponder where my professional life and personal ambitions will be in a year. All I hope is that I'm not still sitting in a class with the same folks trying to figure out how to politely say, "may I please have a baguette and a chocolate eclair?"
Un bon week-end
We spent the holiday weekend with friends in Normandy. The last time I was in Normandy was on my first trip to France - two years ago. This year, we were able to visit with our old friends from Texas and a couple of friends who came to visit us last year in California. It was really cool catching up with everyone, and it was as if time had never passed. I love that.
I discovered a few things about myself while visiting Normandy, too. 1) My new favorite sport is bike-riding, and I plan on entertaining myself with a few rides a week in the huge park just near us...once I find a bike. 2) I no longer think that the only place in France I can live is Paris; give me familiar faces, sea and sand and I'll pack my bags and head anywhere around this lovely country. I can't express how great it was to be back around good friends. I even spoke French for 90% of the weekend without wearing myself out. 3) After eating three glorious meals a day, I've found myself spoiled rotten but totally motivated to keep up the habit. And finally, 4) I can make a mean mayonnaise.
I couldn't upload all the pictures (and videos) tonight, so you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the album. For now, here are a few of my favorites from a perfect weekend.
I discovered a few things about myself while visiting Normandy, too. 1) My new favorite sport is bike-riding, and I plan on entertaining myself with a few rides a week in the huge park just near us...once I find a bike. 2) I no longer think that the only place in France I can live is Paris; give me familiar faces, sea and sand and I'll pack my bags and head anywhere around this lovely country. I can't express how great it was to be back around good friends. I even spoke French for 90% of the weekend without wearing myself out. 3) After eating three glorious meals a day, I've found myself spoiled rotten but totally motivated to keep up the habit. And finally, 4) I can make a mean mayonnaise.
I couldn't upload all the pictures (and videos) tonight, so you'll have to wait until tomorrow for the album. For now, here are a few of my favorites from a perfect weekend.
Feeling far away
Last night was a rough one. I called my dad and got his voicemail, then called my mom to see what she was up to with my nephews who are spending a few weeks with their Grammy and Popo. I called about an hour into their naps and the oldest woke up in time to chat with me. He's growing up so quickly...he talks in the cutest voice my ears have ever heard and articulates the most innocently sweet things. I fought back a well of tears when he told me that after he goes to visit Austin, he's coming to visit me - next Friday. I told him I wasn't sure if he would be able to and explained how long a trip in the plane would be for him. "Well, what about in a car," he asked. After a short explanation for the Atlantic, I told him we could see each other on Friday, but through the computer. I probably just shattered his little anticipating heart - and mine too; I was a mess until about 1 am. I miss my family, and even though I'm crazy-happy here, it's so much tougher than I ever expected to be so far away from them.
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