We got a call on Monday from our bank's anti-fraud department asking if we'd authorized a transaction at an ATM in Brazil. Uh, no. We still don't really know how our card information was stolen, but it was and it's really disturbing. I always hear and read about things like this happening to people - some high-tech thief installs a copying device at ATM machines and steals the card information from unsuspecting folks trying to take cash out, etc., etc. But, until now, I'd never been personally affected by such a scheme. We were really lucky that it wasn't a high-dollar transaction and that our bank alerted us and canceled the card before more damage could be done, but it still makes me feel absolutely violated. It also makes me rethink how we spend money and our dependence on our bankcard - I know that I'll be much more cautious and aware of who handles my card now and where we use it, even if I've always felt I was being cautious enough.

But, as if dealing with stolen credit cards isn't enough for a Monday, not long after hearing from the anti-fraud department, I found myself witness to what I've now come to understand was the SECOND robbery of an apartment in my building in a month. It was the middle of the day and a thunderous banging sounded in the stairwell just below my apartment. At first, I thought the neighbors were doing travaux again, but when the floorboards and walls of our apartment started shaking with each blow, I opened the front door to see what the heck was going on. Just as my door swung open, a woman was running up the stairs for the elevator; I know I startled her, but she nervously said bonjour and told me they were looking for someone as she let herself into the elevator and descended. I really didn't know what to think at this point, but I knew she wasn't alone because I had heard someone else running down the stairs. What's ridiculous is that I had no clue if this woman was one of our neighbors or just some strange person running through our building. It's just not common here to get to know your neighbors, to know when they're in our out and to look after things while they're gone like you do back in suburban America.

Still, the sound I had heard and the frantic demeanor of the woman made me uneasy, so I went downstairs to see if there was anything amiss. I saw bits of wood on the floor as I turned the corner of the staircase, and realized soon after that the door to the apartment below had been completely broken into. I'm not sure if a tool was used or someone kicked it in, but however they did it, they found their way past a big, heavy French-style door and into the empty apartment of an unsuspecting neighbor. I immediately called Gui to find out what I should do, but both of us were still really confused with the scenario. Perhaps it was a lover's quarrel, or maybe someone forgot their keys and was mad. Maybe that lady was our neighbor and she was off looking for whoever had damaged her door. We just didn't know what to think. I knocked on the door of the only neighbor I do know to get some advice, but she didn't answer. A couple of hours later, as more people returned from work and noticed the broken door, I went downstairs to give my account of what happened. Another neighbor had seen a man running downstairs the same time I saw the woman, but he didn't do anything, either because, like me, he had no idea what was going on.

What really disturbs me about this whole situation, though, is what I discovered today. I came home to find a sign on our building's front door warning us that someone in our building was not only burglarized this past Monday, but three Mondays ago as well (a different neighbor), yet no one bothered to tell us about the first incident until now. I know for a fact that if I had been informed of the previous burglary when I heard the sound coming from below my apartment, I would not have hesitated to call the police or even try to catch someone in the act. Not that I would have gone all "Texas-neighborhood-watch" on them (at least not in France), but maybe I could have done something! All I know is that I hope that whoever's making their robbery rounds in our building has gotten what they came for and won't be coming back again. I've never hesitated to defend myself and property and I don't imagine I'd pause to reflect should someone come and try to bang down my door.

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.

I've been going to the same couple of grocery stores since we moved into our apartment. There are two of the same chain stores within a two minute walk from our place - one that's open every single day until 8pm - and another much larger store about a 10 minutes walk away. So, when I need something in a hurry or something I forgot to grab at the marché, I hop in the elevator and make my way down the street to the neighborhood grocer. Before I discovered the wonders of marché shopping, I was going to the grocery store nearly everyday, sometimes more than once a day. Actually, my abilities to grocery shop could be added to my CV under Hobbies and Interests if they were considered on par with, say, wind surfing. (And why shouldn't they be?)

Shopping at the same small retailers over and over again, one will begin to run into the same people over time. There are usually only one or two cashiers at any given time (even though there are four checkout lanes at one store), and I've only seen about four different cashiers during my separate trips. What I've come to expect from my cashier is simple: a monotonous bonjour, a rare glance in my direction, and an occasional complaint about another customer from some of the more social cashiers. The odd socializer tends to be in a noticeably happier mood than the others, and offers a genuine smile from time to time. I appreciate that, but I don't usually change my routine when checking out, regardless of the cashier - I say bonjour, try to make eye contact, shine a closed-mouth smile and bid farewell with a merci, bonne journée, au revoir!

It's odd because I feel like I know these people, like we're almost acquaintances, but not quite friendly. Once, while walking through the metro station at Pont de Sèvres, I saw one of my regular cashiers walk past me. We glanced at each other and I think we both realized we knew the other and from where, but weren't quite sure what to do, so we simultaneously flashed a "hey, I think I know you" smile and went on our merry ways. Today, I had to pick up a few things I needed for dinner, including a bottle of cassis which is always "locked" behind a glass case. I rarely buy things behind the glass case (although I'm thinking of changing my habits after I noticed a pretty bottle of tawny porto at a crazy good price), so I forgot that there's a little bell you have to ring to get some assistance. I went up to a cashier who regularly checks me out. She's not a socializer; she doesn't even give me a glance most times, and whenever I realize I don't have enough cash to pay with she grunts and huffs when I ask if I can pay by card. So, I asked her if I could get some assistance with the bottles in the case, and she reminded me to ring the bell first. That was the most I'd ever spoken to her. I went through her line when I was ready to check out and as other American transplants will know, you bag your own groceries here and sometimes the guy in front of you is really, really slow with bagging his stuff, but the clerks just go ahead and ring up your items which get mixed up with his and then you have to wait until the guy's done to start bagging your stuff, and the cycle continues. Well, I was waiting, my cashier was blankly staring at her screen, while the guy in front of me bagged his shiz, and as I was leaning to check the total I owed, she busted out with a loud "FIVE SEVENTY-TWO" - in English. At first, I didn't realize she was trying to make a joke, so I just kind of smirked and dug for my change. Then, I told her in French that I must have a really strong accent, and that's when the tides turned and she started doing what she's never done before - being friendly. We chatted about my accent while finishing up the transaction, and for the first time, I walked away from that grocery store with a smile. It's amazing what a little friendliness can do for your day - and I'm hoping it continues.

Geez, it's been a hot week! Yesterday, I went to a few Korean shops to buy some spices I've been searching for (with no luck), and had to help a dear old lady find her away around an arrondissement I'm not familiar with. Her face was beaded with sweat and she had to pull me into the shade while I searched my pocket map for the street she was looking for. We chatted a bit (she praised my French skills - yeehaw!) and I pointed her in the direction of her destination (I got the feeling she was reluctant to go wherever she was heading, but man, who wouldn't be reluctant to walk in 9,000-degree weather?). I realized, after talking with her, how much I enjoy practicing my French. Sure, it sucks when I don't have the right words to say, but it feels good to hear my progression and practice the phrases and words I've become familiar with.

So, I didn't stay out very long because, frankly, I was melting in the streets, and the stench of B.O. in the stuffy metro was making me gag. I came home, peeled off my sweaty clothes, threw on what's become my summer house-dress (an old, light, jersey dress) and hung out in front of the fan for the rest of the day. It was too hot to cook, so Gui and I had some tasty cold sandwiches for dinner.


Today was another scorcher and it took so much energy to motivate myself to get some pictures taken that I need for my carte de sejour appointment tomorrow. I also wanted to check into getting a haircut while I was out, but I couldn't stand the heat any longer than necessary and I headed straight back to the shade of our apartment and the coolness of our fans after snapping a sweaty, smile-less pic. It didn't get any cooler and there was no way I was turning on the oven tonight, so we spent a lovely evening in Le Marais enjoying a delicious fallafel and cold Corona in an air-conditioned resto. We wrapped up the evening with cold gelato at the Pozzetto counter where I enjoyed a refreshing watermelon sorbet cone (that I'll be going back for soon) and Gui scarfed down their famous hazelnut chocolate gianduia.






Tomorrow, Gui is taking a half-day to come with me to the prefecture for my carte de sejour appointment. With luck, I'll be receiving my récépissé that (ideally) allows me to work until I receive my actual carte de sejour. I'm not holding my breath that anything will go smoothly because, let's face it, that's my new reality and I'm fine with taking the bad with the good...for now. I'm just hoping they have working air-conditioning in their office because then if everything goes wrong, at least I'll have gotten a satisfying respite from this unrelenting heat...

Friday marked the last day of my first French class in Paris. It was a little bittersweet because many of the people I'd come to know in the class had been there with me since the first day, and some were heading back to their respective countries, realistically never to be seen or heard from again. Our teacher organized a picnic after a short tour of the neighborhood around our school. We had decided ahead of time that we'd get the food for the picnic after class, which seriously annoyed the poor young guy at the check-out counter when twelve different people were trying to organize payment for 92Euros of groceries in at least four different languages. Thank goodness I had the foresight to do my shopping separately and paid on my own.

When we got to Paris Plages (the summer beach area in Paris), there weren't any tables left, so we set up shop on a park bench and watched as teenagers with idiots for parents jumped into the toxic river just for kicks. We all loaded up on tabbouleh, chips, salad, hummus, olives, cheese, bread and saucisson. I didn't make it home until after 6pm, which means that our picnic lasted at least four hours. Before everyone left, the Spanish students (there were four and they outnumbered all the other nationalities) made plans to meet up on Saturday night and invited everyone to come for some dancing. The plan, as far as I heard it was to meet at a metro stop at 8pm, then head over to the Fleche d'Or for a live band or DJ. I was stoked because really, we don't go "out" much as far as going to bars or clubs, and from what I hear, lots of Parisians prefer to host parties than get lost in a touristy club where drinks cost as much as a few bottles of wine at the supermarket. Generally, that's the same train of thought I tend to follow, but mostly because I prefer the comfort of being in a controlled environment where I don't have to worry about sometimes creepy strangers trying to grab my butt.







We ended our Friday with dinner with an old friend from Austin who may or may not be moving back to Paris, and with Ber and Ben who joined us for drinks and the usual witty banter and mindless chatter. On Saturday afternoon, Gui and I met up with friends at Cité International University where I killed myself by participating in a game of Ultimate Frisbee. I wish I had taken pictures because really, folks, seeing me running around catching and launching a frisbee with a bunch of French dudes is a hysterical moment that won't occur often (if ever again). It turned out to be so much fun, though and despite my out-of-shapeness and the immense pain still radiating through my hips, butt and arms, I'm looking forward to the next game (where maybe I'll score more than the awesome three points I scored last time). I just wish I hadn't opted out of phys-ed in high school to do that co-op thing.



We rested a little after the exhausting game, and then headed out to the Fleche d'Or around 8:40. I was under the impression my old classmates would be hanging out in the bar all night, or at least for most of the night after meeting up at 8pm. Apparently, I was mistaken, and because I failed to be responsible and take the contact number, we hung out at the bar for a little over an hour and decided to give up on tracking them down. I was pissed - at myself for not bringing the number and at the group for not being where they'd told me they'd be. It was a shame, too because the bands we heard were quite good and the place reminded us of an Austin-style venue, with a big outdoor terrace and bar. I'll definitely go back.

We came back home because, frankly, I was upset that the plans fell through and I couldn't be bothered to go to this other party we'd been invited to because I was in such a pissy mood. I decided, now that I had the number, to call and let the group know that I came and missed them and would keep in touch through email, etc. Well, when I called, they said there was a big change of plans because someone showed up an hour late, and they ended up going to another bar and the original plan was to meet at Fleche d'Or at 10pm...wtf? The only possible explanation for my misunderstanding the plan is that they mentioned that part to me in Spanish and I completely disregarded it. Possible and probable. They had pretty much just started their night and were going to grab a bite and then a few drinks before going out for the music. I told them I wasn't sure about going all the way back out there, and truly in my mind I was annoyed and frustrated. But, Gui, being the inhumanly human that he is, convinced me to get over it and go meet up with them like I'd planned to all along. I think he probably regretted his effort to convince me to go back out because the rest of the night pretty much sucked.

We met them for pizza then headed towards the bar, but only five of us ever really made it in. The rest of the group (about five others) were waiting for someone else to show up, and then they decided to pick up some beer to drink before going into the bar, which pissed off the bouncer dude enough to deny them entry. At this point, it was starting to rain, so we stayed in the club for a bit and enjoyed some music from the DJ before Gui and I decided we had enough of the drama and bounced (that's Gui's word, and I'm stealing it for this post). I'm glad I got to see some of them for the last time and I'm really happy to have discovered a rather decent bar/club in Paris, but I still feel like I wasted a little bit of my life going back to meet them a second time. Ah well.




I spent all day Sunday recovering from the murderous pains that erupted throughout my body each time I walked, stood, sat, coughed or breathed. How am I this out of shape?? I walk at least a couple of kilometers a day and I've been known to occasionally break a sweat, so why do I feel like ripping my muscles out of my body after a measly couple of hours of frisbee?? Maybe I'll stretch first next time. Besides loading up on a delicious beans and toast lunch, making a quiche and being an extra couch cushion, I also made it out of the house and down the street to watch the Tour de France ride into Paris. Unfortunately, my memory card ran out of memory just as the riders were making their way in front of me, so I only caught a few seconds of the front of the group. I did manage to catch the yellow jersey, though and a few pics of them riding across the bridge. It was pretty neato even if Gui thought we were joining the beaufs (French rednecks) in watching Le Tour. I never said I wasn't a redneck...

This morning, Gui and I started the day a little earlier than normal for a Saturday and headed out to the marché. I checked to see what markets would be open first because I've learned that in Paris, markets are always open at different days and times. So, we headed up a few metro stops from our station to the Marché President Wilson - how fitting.

The morning air was crisp and cool and the market shoppers were out in full force today. But, we managed to find everything we came for and even a few extra goodies. I'd been wanting to pick up some seasoned black olives, a few spices, melon (which is really in season right now) and some onions (I've never seen a decent one at any supermarket here). We also scooped up some loose mint tea, a bag of sea salt and some almond powder. And, after getting a mouth-watering whiff of the rotisserie, we unhesitatingly picked up half a bird and a bag of drippings-soaked fingerling potatoes. The smell was literally like crack - I couldn't get enough. With haste, we headed home and dove into the most succulent rotisserie chicken lunch that I've ever feasted on. Midway through the meal, I announced that I would never again eat an HEB rotisserie chicken and reflecting on that statement now, I'd like to adjust it and say that I'll never again eat any rotisserie chicken unless it smells as good as that one. I think (and hope) we've created a new Saturday ritual chez nous.

Despite the tantalizing options in and around our 'hood, we've been pretty pathetic about eating out at any new places since we moved in. I guess with yummy goodness like this:

and this:
...being produced in our very own kitchen, why eat out? (Baked Maille salmon with basmati and salad, that I made this evening.)

When Gui's mom and sister came by, we decided it was high time to try one of the many, many Asian restaurants around these parts. Within a one-block radius, there are seriously four Japonese/Thai/Vietnamese/Chinese restos to choose from. Gui and I tried the trendy Vietnamese place just a few doors down our street for lunch a while back, but left feeling overdosed on cilantro (coriandre) and not nearly full enough, considering what we paid. But, they do proudly brew Illy coffee, so I'll likely return when I'm out of or too lazy to fix my own cup of joe and in need of a quick fix.

This time we tried the "Thailandese" place just on the next block. I'd always been curious about this place - it seems really busy at times, but at other times, it's totally empty. It was empty this time, but after we were seated, our waitress/hostess seemed awfully busy. Only after a few people came and went did we realize that she was preparing take-out orders - and lots of 'em! It was a good sign already and so was the low-priced menu. I ordered the pho for a starter and beef and onions with rice for my main course. Big mistake. The pho came out in a bowl big enough to serve all four of us. It totally hit the spot, though, and I quickly made up my mind that I'd be back in ordering the soup on the next rainy day (shouldn't be too long now). Everything else was good, too, which gives me confidence in whatever else lays undiscovered in our 'hood.

Saturday was full of more happy chewing and full bellies. After skipping breakfast (just me, Gui always finds something with chocolate to eat for breakfast), our stomachs were rumbling right around noon and we narrowed our choices down to a "traditional" restaurant and a pizzeria. I'd been wanting to try both since my mom and I had walked past them during the lunch rush before we even moved into our place, but something about the "traditional" place pulled us towards it and we had a seat inside. Despite seeing crazy-big, butter-soaked steaks and platters o' fries, we both opted for the couscous. Neither of us was prepared for what we were served, but after a few "OMG"s, we dove into this:



Yeah, there're like TEN pieces of merguez there - and that was one order. You can't even see what I ordered, which were the brochette, and there are at least five under there. It's probably not even necessary for me to explain that this all made me really happy, and really full. It brought back memories of my comatose meals in San Antonio a few weeks back when I couldn't move and had to sleep sitting up. I vowed then never to eat that much again, so this time I only ate enough to knock me out for a couple of hours without needing a stack of pillows to prop me upright. This place is definitely another keeper.

We're finally settling into our apartment now. We still haven't decorated any and I'm dying to put up pictures and art on our bare walls, but all the furniture has been put together and set up and things are starting to come together.

Click here for the full slideshow and descriptions.

(I'm trying out Flickr to see how it compares to Google Images, so let me know how you like it. Click on the first photo to start browsing, and click on the next image to continue through the set of photos. I added comments and notes to some of the pics, too. Enjoy!)

This time of year in Paris is when Parisians decidedly make an excuse to meet the neighbors. It’s called the Fête de Voisins, and it’s the equivalent to a block party in the States, only instead of closing down neighborhood streets, folks take it to the common area of their buildings (although I learned that when the weather is particularly great, buildings on small streets will put up barricades and have a combined Fête de Voisins). I’d been looking forward to this for over a week now. We had to sign up for what we planned to bring, and after waiting to see what others had put on the list, I decided to bring a pasta dish, hummus with warm pita, and a liter of Coke.

Even though I’d been the one to convince Gui to go to the Fête in the first place, I was a little nervous about the whole thing once the day arrived. All those questions start rolling through my mind...will they hate the fact that I’m American?...will they be offended that I can’t properly speak French, yet I’m living in their country?...will anyone speak English to me?...will they like my pasta or think its weird?

The poster said everything would begin at 8pm, so right at 8, I hollered at Gui to help me take everything down. I knew we’d be one of the first to arrive, and we were, with the exception of one tenant and the host of the party (who we later came to know as the “president” of our building, even though he didn’t live there). We chatted for a bit – Gui let them know I didn’t speak French very well, and the first female we met, who happened to be young and very Austin-y I thought, spoke perfect English to me the entire night.

It all turned out pretty well, but there were some noticeable differences in how things are done around these parts compared to what I’m used to. No one served themselves from someone else’s dish until the person who brought the dish started serving it. So, that meant that no one touched my pasta until I finally got up, served myself and Gui some and asked if anyone would like some pasta. Same for the hummus. It was pretty bizarre, and it kind of bothered me that I had to ask if anyone was interested in eating the food I’d prepared – talk about being put on the spot.

We met the lady who lives next door to us, and found out she’s been living in her place for the past 50 years - we learned a lot about our building from her. Apparently, before she lived there, during the war, a bomb blew out the fourth floor of the building and when the got around to rebuilding it, they added another (5^th) floor – which is the floor we live on now. It’s pretty neato, actually. The rest of the folks who live on other floors are a great mix of young and middle-aged peeps, all who were incredibly nice and completely welcoming to us newcomers. There’s only one proper family that lives in our building, and I’m not complaining about that. The two kids, though, were rather well-behaved and their parents seemed to have them in check, which is always a good thing.

I was definitely nervous for no reason, since everyone seemed to be interested in my story – how I got here, how I’m adjusting, what I’ll be doing. It was comforting to have my worries laid to rest, and to now know a few familiar faces around my new ‘hood.