I've been thinking a lot about my blog lately; my poor, neglected, orphaned blog. I think I want to jump back on the wagon and rediscover the therapeutic benefits that thought-disposal provides to my tangled-up, conflicted expat emotions.

There's quite a bit of stuff going on round these parts lately. I'm still working on Fancy Street, with fancy people in their fancy clothes, speaking their fancy French. My French is still not quite so fancy, but I have to admit it's improved substantially since the last time I blogged. I can generally hold a telephonic conversation now, and my vocabulary list has expanded at least two-fold. I often hear myself speaking and think of how impressed my girl friends back home would be, being fancy French-speakers themselves. I still improperly conjugate my verbs and say things like à bientôt when I should really say à toute or à plus-tard, but to that I say, "whatevs." At the office I'm still pretty much the outcast, alien American that people kind of look at suspiciously, as if waiting to see if I'll explode or bust out in song and dance. And, at least once a week I find myself in culture-shock hell and wishing I could hail a cab to the airport to jump on the first 14-hour flight headed West. But mostly, I'm getting the hang of the Paris version of the daily grind and find comfort in the habits that I am used to and the skills that set me apart from everyone else (that mostly being my English-speaking talent).

And, it's still winter in Paris, so I'm hoping that has something to do with some of my work woes. This year, winter has been pretty rough on me. I've never gone so long in my life without seeing the sun or wearing flip-flops. I'm going to blame this rant on my lack of vitamin D, but seriously, summer could not come any sooner! (Man, do I sound whiney!) Besides the gloomy, frigid weather of late, Paris folk don't get any warmer or friendlier in the wintertime either, which is why I stocked up on paperbacks from WH Smith yesterday to hide my face behind during my somber morning metro rides. There's nothing worse than staring at a car-full of grumps in the morning before the first coffee's been poured.

But there is light at the end of the gloomy, snow-filled tunnel, and it comes in the form of les vacances! Gui and I are planning our winter, spring and summer trips right now and just thinking about the possibility of a beach and a tank-top in my near future has got me snubbing the cold. We probably won't be headed anywhere warmer until March, but I think I can handle a few more weeks of hoofing it under cloudy skies if I have a sandy towel and umbrella-topped cocktail to look forward to.

We already know that we'll be going to Texas in June, though. If I could take more than a couple of days paid vacation before then, we'd be going in March, but c'est la vie. Besides the obvious reasons of seeing family and friends, Gui and I will be going back to the States in June to "activate" his immigration visa. He applied for the visa in August last year and after going through the process at the embassy in Paris, he recently received the literal stamp of approval to live and work in the States, which requires him to enter the US within 6 months. We're really excited about moving back, and we're hoping to get a date worked out and plans set in stone once we're there in June. There's still loads to sort out, but thankfully, we have some time before my work contract is up to work out the logisitcs and make some decisions. I do already know, however, that whatever date we decide on moving back, it must be before next winter hits. It's pretty clear that my Texan blood just isn't cut out for this big-city winter!

I wore 4-inch heels on my first day of work and I surprisingly didn't regret it. It might have had something to do with my adrenaline pushing at full speed for most of the day, but I'm sure it helped that I was spending my entire day working in one of the most luxurious offices in Paris for the finest luxury goods company in the world. Without going into too much detail, I will say that I really lucked out with my job search, and I could not have dreamed up a better place to kick off my career in Paris - French-style.

I'm not going to lie - my new job (assisting a team in a financial capacity) is no walk in the park, but I'm so thrilled to be back in the saddle again, with looming deadlines and major responsibilities. From the moment I walked in the door, I felt the pressure of expectation that I had been so dearly missing and longing for these past several months. My colleagues put me straight to work...in French, bien sûr, leaving me no time to stop and ponder the subjunctive or consider synonyms for my overused adjectives. Like I said: no walk in the park. But, I surprisingly soaked it all up, understood every last preposition as if my life depended on it, and came to the conclusion that I'm really going to like my new job.

I've never been so happy to be so insanely busy in my life. It feels great to be challenged; to know that even though I'm good at something now, I'm probably going to be great at it soon. Really, the only time I felt remotely inadequate was when I took a tour of the floor and had to meet (read: make small-talk) with everyone else. I'm waiting (impatiently) for my professional communication skills to improve, but I'm proud to have already made it this far.

I've still got a long way to go, I know. For the moment, though, I'm ecstatic! And, after putting in a nearly 10-hour day, I came home to a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of the most delicious champagne I've ever tasted. Then, I was treated to a three-course meal at my favorite restaurant in Paris (and the same one that we dined at after our wedding). Gui definitely knows how to celebrate new beginnings!

I will say, though, that getting into a new routine that involves early evenings and even earlier mornings is not going to be so easy for me. I've been so used to going to bed and getting up at my own leisure, that waking up before it's daylight is not such an easy transition. So, I'm off to get some rest before another exciting and busy day commences. Tomorrow I'm looking forward to digging my feet into the pile of work that I've gotten myself into, but I think I'm going to give my heels a rest and maybe sport a pair of stylish flats instead.

I feel like it's the first day of school tomorrow. I've been running around the apartment getting my paperwork and supplies ready, my bag packed and picking out an outfit for what will be my first day of work in nearly two years. And I am SO excited!

To backtrack a bit, I had a really successful interview with that French speaking recruiter a couple of weeks ago. She sent me on to interview with the company she was recruiting for that same week. It was a terrifying experience.

By this time, I had been sick with what was probably laryngitis or strep-throat for more than a week and my sexy-phone-operator voice and coughing fits did not make it any easier to interview in a language I'm still struggling to speak. I met with the human resources director for the company and found myself having an incredibly hard time understanding her. At one point, my focus during the interview seemed to shift from highlighting my qualifications to stifling my persistent coughs. As I sat in her corner office with a perfectly centered view of the world's most famous radio tower, I realized that this was my chance to get my foot in the door, and I was scared I was letting it get away because of a stupid cough. A few minutes into what was becoming a train wreck of an interview, she excused herself from the conversation to read through what the recruiter had sent her detailing my qualifications and requirements. I used those precious few minutes to gather my thoughts and come up with a way to get back on track with the interview.

When she returned to continue the Q&A with me, I did everything I could to assure her that I was well qualified for the job, that I was ready to continue my career, and that I would be a great fit with the company. She seemed mostly pleased with what I had to say and eventually asked me to sit down with the person whose position I was interviewing for to get more details about the job. This time it was in English, and I have to say that I felt rather confident when she said she'd be in touch, which is why it was so surprising to me when a week passed by and I hadn't heard a thing. Not a "yes" or a "no" or a "we're still thinking it over" - rien.

I thought back about what could've gone wrong; about my qualifications and French speaking skills; about my fumbled interview with the HR director. And, I convinced myself that I was just not cut out for the job.

Then, the next day, someone calls me late in the evening from the same company but from an entirely different department. She explains that her boss received my CV from HR and wanted to see me the next day for a job in their department. I was baffled about who this person was, why they wanted to see me so soon and what type of position they were recruiting for. Up until this point, I'd been dealing entirely with the recruiter and I started wondering if this phone call was even legit. Despite not having much time to prepare for the interview - especially for one that's for a mystery job in a mystery department - I got myself up the next morning, put on my suit and heels, and made my way to the fanciest street in Paris to see what was going on.

It turns out that the job is quite different from the one to which I previously applied, but it's slightly more intriguing. I met with the entire team that same day, and I was really surprised at how perfectly matched I seemed to be for the opening in their team. They must've been equally surprised because they offered me the job less than two hours after I bounced out of their office with a grin on my face.

I still don't know why my CV was passed along or what became of the other job, but I'm chocking it all up to fate. It amazes me how all of the pieces just fell into place, and I'm so astonished at how incredibly well my new job suits me (despite the fact that it's mostly in French, bien sûr). Tomorrow's my first day, and I might end up hating or loving my time there, but I've got to say that I've always put my faith in fate and it would seem that it has yet to ever steer me wrong.

It's nearly 5 a.m. and I can't sleep. Besides the fact that I "may be coming down with something," my mind is going at full speed, churning with French adjectives while my stomach does a similar dance as it moves from queasiness to fluttering over my conflicted feelings of hunger and excited anticipation. You see, I haven't been completely open about what's been going on in my life lately mostly because what's been going on seemed so mundane, boring and depressing. Ever since I returned to Paris, I've been struggling to find my way out of a big, messy confusion over what comes next. I think I'm at one of those profound moments in my life where I need to make some big decisions about the direction I want to take, and I haven't been very successful with sorting through my thoughts adequately, nor eloquently. But, within a matter of hours, it seems, some things happened that gave me the boost I've needed towards regaining the composure and confidence I'd lost in all my messy introspection.

I didn't mention this before, mostly because I was scared of the possibility of failure and then the subsequent explanation of failure I'd have to provide, but the day after I flew back to Paris, I interviewed for a part-time office job that I had learned about through a friend while on vacation. It was for a short-term contract that started in mid-September and ended just before Christmas, and it was right up my alley both in terms of my expected career path and timeline. It also seemed like a job that would provide the perfect scenario for our situation: by the time Gui received his green card, my work contract would be expired and we'd pack up our things and make our move to the US, all the while, I'm working and we're saving a bit of money for the big move. Well...I didn't get the job. And, although the rejection had nothing to do with my qualifications (so I was explained), I was very discouraged and demoralized after receiving it.

I spent some time afterward rethinking everything - pondering my life and its meaning, my career path and its direction, and analyzing every step I'd taken that had gotten me to this point: jobless and insecure. My apathy reached the point where it was rubbing off on Gui, and for a few days I convinced myself that perhaps I was tainted goods, no longer cut-out for the real working world in which I was once a fearless contributor.

However, having amazing friends and family, as I do, my apathy was greeted more and more with reassurance and faith, and I was convinced to pick myself up, shake myself off and get back to hitting the pavement. So, I worked on my CV and for the past week or so, I checked Paris job-banks daily - sometimes twice or thrice daily - for any job that caught my interest. At first, I was a bit disappointed with my search - it seemed every job that appealed to me and matched my qualifications required a fully bilingual candidate. And, although my French skills are far beyond what they were when I did this whole job-search thing the first time around, I'm still far from fluent (oh, how naive I was way back when I thought 6 months would be enough time to master the French language). Still, I sent my CV and lettre de motivation out to the few posts I found requiring an English-speaker, and I hoped for the best. After a few days, I started getting anxious about the lack of responses, but I trudged on with my daily routine of scouring the web for anything at all enticing to my newly-determined self. Then, on Wednesday, I received a late-afternoon phone call from a company I'd submitted my profile to last week for a job I wasn't exactly head-over-heels for, but still curious about. They asked me a few questions relating to my schedule preference, my education and background and my salary requirements. Then, they asked me to come in for an interview today. I was stoked about the interview, if not equally so about the possibility of a job, but there are a few things about the position that make it less than ideal. The most notable is that it's a part-time job with no possibility of ever becoming full-time. Nonetheless, I regained a bit of lost confidence from receiving the call and went about my day. Then, just before bed on Wednesday, Gui and I were talking about how the job-hunt was going, and I decided to open up my computer to get his feedback about some postings I'd seen earlier in the day. We came across an interesting ad that I hadn't seen before for a position that really intrigued me. I was a little worried about sending in an application since the job was posted back in mid-September, but I got over it and stayed up until after 1 a.m. fine-tuning my CV and LOM before clicking the send button. To my surprise, I awoke this morning to find I had missed a call from the job's recruiter, who was contacting me not more than 10 hours after I'd submitted my application. But, as refreshing as it was to be contacted so quickly, I was less than charmed about returning a call to the very French-speaking recruiter. After replaying the message about five times to catch all the details, I jotted down a few things to say in French, took a deep breath and pressed talk.

My call was answered and after explaining who I was and why I was calling, I politely asked if it would be OK to continue the interview in English. I knew that asking to do this could jeopardize my candidacy, but I explained that although I can understand and speak quite a bit of French, I don't feel like I can adequately express myself in a professional manner. To my surprise, my request was met with the explanation that although the job would be conducted almost entirely in English, working and living in France requires that I learn the language, so it would be to my benefit to continue in French. This was followed by a reassurance that my niveau of French seemed quite impressive, so much that I shouldn't be worried about not being able to express myself. And, with that, I pulled up my theoretical boot-straps and impressed even myself with how competently I was able to articulate my qualifications and communicate my interest in the job. When it was all done, I had secured an interview and could barely recall that the whole thing had been done in a language I thought I barely knew. I was thrilled!

I'm not sure if things will go as well for me during the interview, but I've accepted the fate of both possible outcomes. I realize that this could end with another rejection and then the admittance of said rejection, but really, I'm fine with that - it's just life. More than anything, I'm taking away from this small success a renewed positive perspective about what lies ahead. I feel like I've awakened my inner businesswoman and reminded myself of my worth. Knowing that the direction I'm taking demands confidence, optimism and above all, patience should help me stay on track and endure the inevitable bumps I'll come upon while navigating down this road. Wish me luck!

I haven't been much of a blogger these days, have I? Well, there's no real explanation except for maybe that I'm spending my blog time doing other things or that I haven't been all that inspired to write lately. Maybe it's winter in Paris. I just don't really like the cold. Or the gloom. And, there's been a lot of both around here lately. Talking to a girl in my phonetics class the other day, we decided that the reason why we feel like Paris is Russia right now is because we don't have a car in a relatively warm garage to walk to in the mornings. We have a metro station a 5-10 minute walk away from home as our destination at 7:45 AM, when it's recently been at or below freezing. It just ain't fun.

I'm still taking my classes at La Sorbonne, which are coming to an end rather soon now. We have two weeks off for the holidays and then only one week of class in January before our big exams start around the 15th. Scary! Progress is slowly being made, I think, but I still have those days when my voice and tongue completely fail to work in any language. I am, however, finding that practice does make perfect, and the more I try to speak, the more I progress. Novel concept, I know. I had to go to our wedding photographer's shop today and as confident as I was about speaking to her before I got there, I felt like I stumbled over every other word once I was faced with actually speaking. Thankfully, she's incredibly sweet and patient (and hardworking, too - I heard her tell someone she'd be there on Saturday despite having family in town), so she indulged my choppy sentence structure with a smile and never once patronized me with corrections or funny looks. She also remembered my name right away, and reminded me how much she "adored" our wedding portraits. I remember when she was showing us the pictures for the first time, she kept remarking at how much the camera and light loved us. Flattery makes for good customers, I suppose, but she always seems sincere.

Besides my unceasing French lessons, we've been having quite the busy social lives of late. It seems that every weekend we've got things planned and even during the week, I find it necessary to check my calendar to be sure we're not "double booking" things. It's kind of strange. I think it's the upcoming holidays that have us so busy; since Thanksgiving and up until we head to the States for the holidays, it's a whirlwind of cocktails, friends, dinners and fêtes. Last weekend was completely filled with enjoying American food and drinks with new friends. We were celebrating the 200th episode of the Katia & Kyliemac podcast, which is frankly, quite a genius broadcast that these two creative geniuses host twice a week. (By the way, if you haven't checked it out and you're interested in expat life in France, you should give it a download.) They've got an amazing following of listeners who turned out from near and far to check out a live broadcasting of the historic episode, and we got to meet some really fantastic people and indulge in some really delicious fare in the process. Lucky us.

I've also (since last week) picked up a new hobby, which has been keeping me busy and often confused. It's knitting. My friend, Aimee has a beautiful tea salon in the 13th arrondissement of Paris where she hosts a weekly knitting group. She's a knitter (an amazing one, actually), and she offered to teach me and another friend to knit during the meet-up last week, and she did just that! I remember knitting and crocheting when I was younger - my grandma was always an inspiration for my creative side and she showed me once how to do it, but I didn't keep up with it as a hobby. Over the past couple of years, I've wanted to get more seriously into knitting - I've bought needles, yarn and a couple of books, and all I was lacking was a knowledgeable and patient teacher. Well, thank goodness that's exactly who Aimee is, and in between serving tea and soup, she gave me the introductory skill-set I needed to get started on my first project - a scarf. Since then I've been working almost daily on the piece, but every few rows I run into some kind of stitch-glitch and have to "frog," as they say, most of the work I've already completed. Still, it's been a rewarding and really fun hobby so far, and there's still so much I have to learn.

These next couple of weeks (THIRTEEN days!) are going to be pretty busy while we prepare for our trip to the US (and Gui's first American Christmas), but I plan on finding some time to blog. Christmas shopping is underway, and braving the cold is getting tougher and tougher for me. I just can't do it. All I can think of as I walk from my class to the metro is "home, heater, coffee; home, heater, coffee." We're trying to do some of our shopping online this year, though. Since we'll be arriving in Texas so late on the 23rd, we have to get most, if not all, of our gifts in Paris, which I'm not so happy about; besides having to brave frigid Paris temps, that also means that we'll be buying in euros and not dollars. I'm just hoping that the malls and Target will be open on Christmas Eve long enough for us to pick up any last-minute goodies. I seriously cannot wait!

So, today I signed my "Integration Contract" with the French government. It went much more smoothly than I expected, but unlike my friends who live mere meters from me in Paris proper, I didn't get my actual carte de sejour handed over to me when it was all said and done. I'll still need to wait to receive a convocation from the prefecture to pick up my card once I've completed the obligations of my contract.

It was pretty much like any immigration "welcome day" would be. My appointment was at 8AM, which required a sleepy me to get get up two hours earlier than usual, but I made the most of it and picked up some warm, freshly-baked choquettes at the boulangerie on my way there. I arrived at the ANAEM office about fifteen minutes early, and had to stand in the foyer with about 20 other early-birds before the clock struck 8:00. Everyone seemed to be moody and pushy, and when the guy finally opened the doors for us to trickle in, it turned into a stampede of sorts. Each of us presented our convocation letters and were sent to separate rooms named after musical composers - I got Verdi, and ended up in a room of mostly couples, a few very young looking guys, one blond woman and a couple who apparently thought they were the only ones in the room when they decided to start talking and laughing like they were in their living room at home. After an introduction about how the day would pan out for us, we were shown a short video about the integration process in France (during which someone had to tell the noisy couple to shut the hell up because the death-stares coming from everyone else weren't working). Everyone working at the place (save the dude who was sorting us into rooms and yelling "putain, ça suffit!" at his co-worker) was really helpful and surprisingly pleasant. No one seemed to hate their job, and things went smoother than I expected during the three-and-a-half hours I was there. They even had fresh brewed coffee, which was a first in my experiences with French administrative offices.

After the video, we were called individually to meet with someone for an personal assessment of our "Frenchness." I sat down across a desk from a girl who looked about my age; she asked me to verify my name, nationality, marital status, address, languages spoken and education level. I didn't realize it then, but she was assessing my language skills to determine if I'd need French classes. She handed me a paper that had a place to fill out my name and contact info, and five fill-in-the-blank questions with a word bank of five words that included petit déjeuner, marché and reçoivent. Below that question was a question asking me to describe what my favorite meal is using at least five words. If I could write my name and address, I received 10 points, 30 points for the fill-in-the blanks, 30 for my favorite meal, and 30 for my ability to speak French. It was such a joke. I asked her if this was the only assessment that would determine if I'd be offered language lessons, and she told me that I speak fine, and don't need any classes since I'm not a debutante (i.e. total idiot who doesn't know how to spell my name or address). But, I realize I'm lucky to be able to "afford" language classes on my own, so I let the idea of getting free French lessons die, and I asked her about getting help to find a job. I think it surprises people to hear that I've had trouble finding a job. I'm not sure that it's really easy for people to understand how I can speak English perfectly and French at an intermediate level yet still not land a paying position. It's true, that just like living in the States, I could probably find someone to hire me to do something, but until recently, my French was barely passable for an interview. Even after giving me a funny look, the nice government employee told me that I should sign up with ANPE (the unemployment agency that works as an employment agency) and see if I could find a suitable job with my level of French, and if it didn't work out, they'd redirect me to ANAEM for further assessment. I was satisfied with that, knowing that I would be more serious about my job search after finishing my French classes, so I signed on the dotted line to bind my contract with France.

Then, I was escorted down to the medical room where I was ushered through the weight and measuring station (I've lost three pounds), the eye-test station (20/20, baby - with contacts), and then asked to strip from the waist up in a fitting room until someone emerged from the back door to take my chest x-ray. I was happy that they provided a blue, gauzy smock that kept me mostly covered, and overall it was pretty painless. After redressing, I was called in to see a doctor who asked me to once again take off my top, but let me keep my bra on. He took my blood pressure, did his stethoscope routine while I got dizzy from inhaling and exhaling deeply, and then asked me to redress so we could chat about my health. He asked me if I had my vaccines - "uh, yeah, I think so." I really can't remember the last time I had a vaccine or who gave it to me, so I wouldn't even know where to ask. He gave me a short lecture on making sure I get the appropriate tetanus vaccine every ten years and suggested I get my vaccination history during Christmas. He asked if I had any health problems, take any drugs or smoke. He asked if I did sports - to which I may have answered too quickly with a "no." I wanted to take it back and tell him that I've never walked so much before in my life, but it was too late and he was already giving me a lecture about needing to get proper exercise. So, I promised him I'd get back into Bikram Yoga [after the holidays, duh]. We chatted a bit about getting a job and about speaking French, and then I was done. On the way out, I was tempted to grab a female condom out of the jar at the check-out desk because I've seriously never seen one before, but I decided to Google it when I got home instead.

What I forgot to mention about my binding agreement with France is that I'm now required to sit in on two full-day (9 to 5) classes - one on French culture and one on French administration. What sucks about this, is that they're both next week, and not only do I have a phonetics exam and tons of new stuff going on in my grammar class, but it's Thanksgiving week! I planned to get so much done during the few days before the big day in preparation for Thursday, but instead of cooking cornbread and prepping veggies, I'm going to be stuck in a class learning about how the prefecture works. That really sucks! It just bothers me that going next week doesn't even guarantee that I'll have my carte de sejour before my recépisse expires AGAIN, meaning there's another dreaded trip to the prefecture in my near future. The way I see it, the only possible way these mandatory classes will be worth it is if they can offer insider tips on how to avoid French administration...or at least now to get what you need in less time.

It's hardly a secret that Gui and I speak English at home. We met and began dating in Texas for nearly half a year, and we lived in California for more than half a year, too. Besides the fact that I didn't know a lick of French when we met (well, that community college class that I got a D in and that provoked me to switch to the much lovelier Italian language doesn't count, does it?), we were both living and working in an English-speaking country. During the time when we were in a long-distance relationship, we communicated by phone, IM and email exclusively in English. It was just never even a question that we'd speak English. I don't imagine that our relationship would have been able to progress as it did if Gui didn't speak English so well when we first met.

When I came to France nearly a year ago, I began down the long and turbulent road to learning French - a road that I still currently see no end to. Although my initial efforts were admittedly half-hearted, some progress has nonetheless been made. We've taken the advice of others to each speak in our mother tongues, to each speak the other's language, to pick a day or two when all we speak is French, but nothing's quite caught on. On random occasions, Gui will bust out with speaking French out of seemingly no where and I'll of course respond in English, but it never lasts very long.

There are times when I feel guilty for making him speak a language that he can't fully express himself in, but when I ask him how he feels about it, he makes the point that, in fact, he can't express himself correctly to me when we speak French. How is that possible? I think it has a lot to do with how closely he followed American pop culture when he was growing up. I'm often shocked to find that he knows more words to English songs, more American colloquial sayings and more American movie quotes than I do.

Now, though, I wonder if using the excuse that it's awkward to speak in French to each other has just become, well, an excuse. Just last night someone asked us why we don't speak French at home - a question that I get asked nearly everytime we're out with people. And, after responding with the habitual, "well, it's just kind of weird for us since, you know, we always spoke English to begin with," I started wondering if I still believed what I was saying. And, frankly, it's not much of a good excuse now that my French is improving and it's obvious I need to practice it. People are usually nice and respond with, "yeah I guess it would be quite difficult to change the language in which you speak with your husband after a few years." But, not really. We live in France, and lord knows if we were living in Texas, there's no way Gui would be able to get away with speaking only French. Stepping out of my comfort zone is really what I need to make myself do. I know I often whine and cry about how much I hate the French language, but I really am eager to learn it. I wish so dearly that I could express myself to Gui's friends and family as precisely as I can in English - that I can have full-on conversations with Gui in his native tongue. I'm hoping that someday we'll be able to switch our common language to French, like so many other Franglo couples do. For now, I'll continue down this bumpy road and see where it takes us.

Check out the originating post for this group blog.

Anyone living in Paris will tell you that the métro is not just a mode of transportation, but an important destination in its own right, especially if you're into watching strange events unfold, listening to lovers suck face two inches from your ear and observing an area full of fifty-plus people staring into space in complete and utter silence. It's funny how small the world becomes when you find yourself riding the same line on a regular basis.

On the way back from seeing a mind-reader perform the other night, Gui and I found ourselves on the metro with a group of drunk and stupid teenagers who thought that writing on the doors and walls of the metro car with a bright green marker would make their parents proud. Too bad for them, they picked the first car to showcase their penmanship and found themselves the embarrassed recipients of a stern, public lecture by the observant driver. Today, while heading back home from school, I happened to jump on the exact same metro car to find that none of their graffiti had been removed. I was thinking that had the same incident played itself out in Texas, those kids would have been crying to their parents that evening while explaining why they got questioned and held by the local police. Then, they'd be spending their next Saturday scrubbing all the metro cars clean as punishment.

One of the worst things for me about taking the metro is dealing with daily solicitation of money from beggars, homeless people and buskers. I don't mind handing over a few centimes to someone when I have it, but what irks me the most are the people who repeatedly work the metros with perfectly polished nails, wearing shoes in better condition than mine. My mom taught me long ago that what a person does with their money is of no concern to you once you've made the decision to give it to them. Which I totally agree with and I guess explains why I avoid giving those people money in the first place.

Today, I found myself witness to the most amazing conversation I've ever heard between a serial-beggar and a woman riding the metro. The woman begging for money is obviously a pro. She's definitely one of those with nice jewelry and fancy shoes, and I see her on my line every. single. day. What I hate the most about her begging is how she asks for money - she carries a stack of at at least fifty small, yellow cards that have a perfectly-typed message on them, asking for money to feed her homeless family. Occasionally, she brings a small child with her, but I haven't seen her with him since the summer. She goes around and hands these cards to unsuspecting passengers, leaving them on empty seats next to people who've refused them. I've fallen victim to her sneaky, little card trick once, but never again after that.

When I first saw her little plan unfold, I thought she must be crazy to think people would give someone so young, capable and literate some of their hard-earned money in such a place that makes it rather difficult for one to truly starve. And, it's true, most everyone felt like they'd been had when she came around to take the cards back and ask for the money they'd promised her by default. But, there were still a few who dug into their pockets, not sure if they were now obliged to do so, and handed her a few coins along with her little yellow card.

Today, though, was funny. After she'd made her rounds and just as the train was entering a station, a boisterous, straight-talking woman (who'd perhaps felt like she'd been had) asked the begging woman if she was capable of speaking. The beggar bashfully answered her (in a very audible voice) in French - "Pas bien...euh..uh...je parle..." The woman (my new hero) replied by telling her that (and I have to paraphrase some of this because although I could completely understand the conversation [thank God], there's no way I could rewrite all the words in French) "bon, si tu peux ecrire et passer les petits papiers comme ça, tu peux travailler! [well, if you can write and pass these little papers around, then you can work!]" The beggar smiled like the woman was telling her a joke, and a guy standing up to get off at his stop let out a loud laugh which only provoked my hero more and made everyone else chuckle. The metro came to a stop, but the woman continued by telling her, "Don't go around asking these people for money on a piece of paper if you can talk. If you want money, go work like everyone else." The great thing about how she told her all of this is that it wasn't in a condescending sort of way, but like one of your friends telling you to stop being lazy, get off your arse and get a job. I love that. I could hear her still trying to convince her to stop her begging ways as she walked off the metro and the doors closed. It's rare to find someone who'll speak their mind so openly here (especially on the metro), so I'm just glad it happened on my line.

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!

So, yesterday I completed my registration to start language classes at La Sorbonne. My good friend Sam told me how successful her classes were there when she first arrived on French soil without a lick of the native language under her belt. So, when I decided to shift my focus from job-searching to French-learning, I took her recommendation (as a now-fluent French-speaker) and enrolled in a part-time course. The place was buzzing with students when I arrived and found the line I was supposed to stand in to get my class assignment. I'd recently spent an entire day going between the school's two buildings near the Pantheon to interview, pick out my course, get my student ID and pay, so I was hoping this trip would be short and sweet. Finding that I was only the fifth person in line to get my registration card (which is unusual for "S-Z" names) gave me hope, but not for very long. When the guy handed me my card, I saw that the class time they chose for me was just not going to work - I mean, seriously who wants to go to class right, smack-dab in the middle of the lunch-hour from 12 to 2pm? I knew if I ended up in that class, I'd put off my first daily meal until afterwards and would be counting the seconds before class was dismissed to grab some grub.

So, despite the 20-person line to change schedules (and my slight fear of being told no and having to argue in French with someone), I stuck it out for 45 minutes, got to the counter, and made up a lie. I knew that wanting to change my class time because I didn't want to be hungry all day was just not going to fly with this French government employee behind the counter; I mean, that'd be like taking aim at an antelope without any ammunition loaded - totally for naught. After explaining that my [imaginary] job requires me to pick up kids from school at 2pm everyday and asking to be placed in the 10am-12pm class, she shook her head, looked at me with raised eyebrows and said it wouldn't be possible, then offered me the 8-10am class. Ugh. I had totally seen that coming, but I wasn't ready to accept a 6:30 am alarm clock just yet, so I decided to push her to at least make a phone call (because that's what I saw everyone else was doing to squeeze students into "full" classes). She called, looked at me and shook her head (bad news), then asked me if I was an au pair. I told her I wasn't, but she still offered me a special class for au pairs that meets for three hours a day, Monday through Friday, except Wednesday (since au pairs usually work all day Wednesday). I told her no, made up another lie (that I can't recall right now - yeah, the lies were starting to snowball) and kept pushing her to find me a spot in a 10 am class. A few minutes later, she hung up the phone, scribbled something on a card and told me she was able to find one spot in a 10 am class to put me in. Score! I was elated, proud and a little smug at what I had just pulled off in French. It dawned on me that all of the practice I've had with persistence at the prefecture was totally paying off, and a little twinge of acceptance came over me as I strolled down the street past the Pantheon.

Besides getting the class time I wanted, I found out today - my first day of class - that my French teacher is the bomb! I was a little happy to see that the younger French teacher for the earlier class wasn't also going to be our teacher, and instead the much older French woman was going to be giving us our lessons. I don't know, but there's something about an older, wiser-looking, French woman teaching me French that makes me feel like I'm getting a more authentic learning experience. From the beginning to the end of class, my attention was kept (except for a few times when I got distracted by and wanted to throw my pen at the loudmouth girl in the front row who kept blurting out answers even when the teacher was calling on someone else) and I could almost feel the wrinkles being formed in my brain. It was about the time that she asked us to repeat "On est à Paris pour ameliorer le français, pas pour apprendre!" ("We're in Paris to improve our French, not to learn it!") that I realized changing my class was the most shrewd and constructive move I've made since arriving in Paris. (In fact, I'm thinking of running for president with my keen sense of foresight.)

I had fun picking out school supplies and buying books after class with a girl from California, and I'm excited (yes, because I'm nerdy) about going to my biweekly pronunciation labs. I think this school thing is definitely going to kick my stagnation in the arse, I just need to learn how to suppress those all too familiar feelings of procrastination when it comes to doing my homework.

Since arriving in Paris for the first time nearly a year ago, I've struggled with identifying myself as a resident rather than a tourist or visitor. For me, home has always been defined as a place where I can navigate myself around without challenge; someplace wherein lies a support system of people who I can turn to for just about anything - for comfort in times of crisis or to share a good laugh with.

My first few months in Paris were riddled with jet-lag, over-sleeping, meet-ups and parties with Gui's friends and family and occasional headaches from trying to communicate between languages. I rarely left the house without someone else in tow to show me where to go and how to get there, and the few times I did venture out on my own, it was only to familiar spots or after two hours of preparation and mapping on the internet. I guess I was living like a tourist then. Now, I'm noticing myself growing braver about finding my way around the city. I'm at the point where I'm confident enough to trek through town with an address and arrondissement in my head and capably find where I need to go. Perhaps my bravery comes from carrying my trusty Indispensible or my wireless connected phone that can search Google maps for me, but even so, my new home is starting to feel more familiar everyday.

And, I suppose it helps that recently I've had a lovely group of anglophone ladies enticing me with invites to fun places around town. It's unbelievable how much of an impact having friends can have on an etranger's life (well, at least on mine). To be surrounded by impossibly friendly folks who've often gone through (or are going through) similar circumstances as mine, who are looking for like-minded friends to enjoy this amazing city with, who miss the same things I miss, who still pull out their cameras to take a picture of the Eiffel Tower for the zillionth time, who aren't afraid of a little rhum-rhum (or beer, or vodka/orange) and who don't mind occasionally shelling out 20€ on a glass of champagne and a plate of macarons just to check out the latest fancy bar on the Champs-Elysées is, more than anything, what makes living in this great city so much more like being at home. I never imagined my life with friends here. I guess I always figured I'd live my life here, meeting French people from work or school but spending my free time with Guillaume and his friends. Envisioning a large group of intelligent, adorable and generous (English-speaking) women available for happy-hour, house parties, movies and lunching, was never even in my periphery. I feel like I've hit the jackpot in the friend department!

But, beyond my newfound social life, I'm still trying to get into a routine with my "professional" life. After mulling it over in my head and soliciting advice from my well-informed friends and my practical-minded husband, I've decided to put my career ambitions aside for these next few months while I focus on conquering the ever-frightening French language. I've been on a few interviews for really decent job positions, but each time my lacking French skills were what kept me from getting the offer (or so they told me, anyway - maybe they didn't like my shoes or haircut - I wouldn't blame them, I'm in serious need of both). And, when I eventually found myself applying for a really great job teaching business English, I felt a twinge of relief and excitement that I'd finally found something to challenge me, get me back to work and help me gain some experience. But, even though it would have ideally been a perfect solution to my unemployment problem, in the end, I decided that taking on 20 hours of French courses a week was enough to keep me busy without the added distraction of a challenging part-time job. I guess a lot of other factors weighed in there, too, but I know keeping French classes at the top of my priority list is the best route for me to take for now, and so I'm taking it.

Still, I'm managing to keep myself occupied these days as a volunteer for an English-speaking non-profit organization in Paris, and above all it's been a really great place to keep my normally sharpened computer skills from getting too rusty. I'm getting a good idea of what it would be like to work with French folks, too, and on more than one occasion I've found myself on the receiving end of a phone inquiry in French, in which case my limited skills are definitely being tested. I don't mind that. And, it makes me feel quite good when I can get a point across or at least tell the person to hang on long enough to fetch someone who can understand them.

Summer's come and gone (in a blink, it seems), and there are a lot of changes going on in Paris and in my little life. It's getting colder, streets are full of people, shops are donning knee-high boots, wool coats and chunky sweaters (yay!) and I'm starting to get a taste of what it's really like to make a life here. I'm finding my groove, setting up a routine, and making myself at home. And, it's actually rather nice.

Now that I can finally benefit from what many consider the best health coverage in the world, I'm making overdue appointments with doctors to get back on track with my santé. The first order of business is replacing embarrassingly old "two-week" contacts that I've been using for over a year. Yes, a year. I was without health insurance for more than a year, and there was no way I was going to afford a $400+ doctor's appointment plus the price of new lenses or glasses on my barely sustainable salary living in L.A. Plus, my contacts have been working fine, and there's no reason to fix something that ain't broke, right? Despite my valid reasons, my mom and husband have been on me since forever to get some new lenses, so needless to say, it was first on my list of doctors to hit up with my shiny new securité sociale.

On Saturday, Gui and I went to see his good friend, who also happens to be an outstanding optician, at his place of business to get me some new eyes. I had spoken to him at the wedding we went to in La Rochelle last month and he was completely lost for words when I explained my long-term relationship with these two-week contacts. "You must come in and see me so I can at least give you some sample contacts while you wait for your carte vitale," he had instructed me, after getting over the initial shock of my statement. So, there we were, and after taking off my lenses, he lead me to a tiny room that had a familiar big machine which I attached my chin and forehead to and read letters on a wall from. It was clear after a few moments that I'm basically blind. He gave me a 12-week supply of a stronger-than-before prescription of THREE-week contacts with very clear instructions to change my lenses after three weeks, not three years. Then, he gave me a couple of names of ophthalmologists, who he said were the best in town, but who would likely have a 1-2 month wait to see. Apparently, an optician can't give me a prescription for glasses, so seeing an ophthalmologist is necessary before I can get glasses or purchase contacts.

Gui called the doctor right after we left, and keeping in mind that this is a Saturday, he was greeted with a chipper (well, as chipper as a French secretary can be) scheduler who notified us that the doctor had just had a cancellation and could see me on Monday - that's in two days! Sweet! But, after booking the appointment, we realized that I'd have to go solo, as Gui would be doing a team-building thing off-site that day and couldn't accompany me to translate. I was a little intimidated, but not enough to keep me from going. Facing my fear of French is the only way I'll ever conquer the language.

So, giving myself plenty of time, I took the bus a short ride away to the doctor's office that was really just a converted couple of apartments on the second floor of a random building. I read the signs carefully, pushed the buttons to get through the door and waited patiently as the secretariat finished a call with an annoying woman who didn't want to wait for the médecin to call her back about an emergency she was having with her eyeballs. After a quick check-in, I sat down on one of the three chairs in the small secretary's office until she told me that I could wait in the waiting room, if I wanted. Waiting room? I had no idea. So, I made my way back to the hallway where I discovered a sign directing me to the salle d'attente - doh! I walked in, smiled at the elderly lady that looked up at me and took a seat. Every time someone else walked into the room, they broke the silence with a bonsoir, one girl saying it rather boisterously before looking around at everyone for a response. I mumbled a soft 'soir, but no one else looked up from their interesting magazine. I think it's kind of funny to greet a room of waiting patients, but it is polite, so now I know not to make the same faux pas on my next doctor's visit.

I was the second person called by the doctor, who was middle-aged, well-dressed and rather kind. He took me to his office which was a large, dark room with piles of books and papers, and had a large machine by the hidden window. We sat at his desk and discussed the history of my eyesight, while he jotted down a few notes in scribbly French. I apologized for my bad French and he seemed amused that I was even trying. His office seriously reminded me of a Charles Dickens book - it was old, creeky and untidy with a dissected eyeball on the desk and several piled books in the glass-door bookcase. It was lit almost entirely by a vintage desk lamp and the light coming from the big machine being reflected high on the wall. Every time he paused to scribble something down, a hypnotic tick-tock from the desk clock broke the silence. I could practically see Bob Cratchit burning the midnight oil in there.

I took a few tests with the swiveling machine in the corner, and he checked my vision as I wore a pair of funny metal glasses; he chuckled a few times at my grammatical errors (someone saying "more better" in French is just as funny as it is in English, apparently); and we there were a few awkward moments when I didn't know what line (if any) I should be reading on the wall or whether I was saying the letters in French or English.

The visit went smoothly, and I felt a little proud of myself for having accomplished such a task completely solo. But, the best part of the visit was when I paid. The total bill for nearly 30 minutes of the doctor's time and expertise was 37€ (roughly $50). That means, if I didn't have insurance and I wanted to get a prescription for glasses and contacts, I'd be out a measly 50 bucks! Since Gui and I are covered under his insurance plan, we'll be reimbursed by direct deposit the 37€ plus however much my glasses and contacts will cost us. I know my mom will be very happy to hear that I'm no longer torturing my eyes, and with amazing health coverage like this, I don't really have an excuse for not keeping myself in tip-top shape from head to toe!

So, I've been sending my CV off for various job postings that I've found mostly on the lifesaving Fusac website and magazine. I'd say that I've applied to about five different places, and I've received three calls back, which isn't as bad as I expected. Despite the fact that the information about my basic French skills is clearly stated in English on my CV, the first two people who called me only spoke French and told me that I would need to have a good grasp of French for the job. I've been really upfront about my skills (or what I perceived as being upfront), but apparently that's of no consequence to some folks. Thankfully, I've been getting great advice from seasoned transplants who've gone through the ropes of job-searching and interviewing with French companies, and it's really been invaluable. Now, I know a little more about what's expected of me, what "basic French" means to prospective employers and how to handle myself a bit more on the phone. (Thanks Sam and Emily!)

There aren't many jobs around here that don't involve at least a good grasp of French, so my choices have been pretty limited. Even if a job posting says that the work will be done completely in English, it usually involves working with other francophones and having the ability to casually converse with others (which is the type of job I'm hoping to land). So, I was a little relieved and surprised when I received a call back from someone speaking perfect American English, requesting a phone interview with me. When I called back, I realized that the American voice was just a proxy to the real interviewer and I had the daunting task of speaking French for the first half of the phone interview. After a rough start, I was finally and thankfully asked to switch to English to be better understood (yikes!). Despite my acknowledged basic French skills, my prospective employer seemed to like me and asked me to come in to see her for a face-to-face interview.

My interview was scheduled for this afternoon, and knowing that I'd be interviewing in the 1ère arrondissement I was a little intimidated. Even though I spend my days in and around Paris, buying baguettes and drinking wine, I'm no vraie Parisenne and am always very conscious about my position as an outsider. The 1ère is the physical epicenter of Paris, the heart, the point from which the entire city radiates from. And, it's home to the Louvre, Palais Royal, the Ritz and Les Halles. It may not be the most popular or populated district in Paris, but to me it's where Paris begins. I had no idea what to expect, how to prepare and I was especially distraught with how to dress.

After raiding my shabby closet, I finally threw together a modest ensemble, slipped on a pair of the second-tallest heels I own, grabbed my passport and hit the cobblestone. I quickly realized why my heels had been tucked in a shoe box at the back of the closet since I brought them here in April. And now I know that only vraie Parisian women should wear heels higher than two inches when walking around the city.

I made it to my rendezvous with time to spare, but was quickly let into a first floor converted office. The woman who was to conduct the interview was apparently busier than she'd expected to be and kept me waiting a long time before seeing me. When we finally got to talking, I felt a little more comfortable about the job description and understood the basic daily operations of the business. Then, just when I thought the interview had come to an end, she asks me to do some on-the-spot writing samples for her. Writing? Ok, cool. I can do this - I write all the time, and I've written countless business letters on a multitude of topics, so I've got this. But, oh no. She wants me to write a mock business letter and then translate it into French. Even after I laughed, asked if she was serious and gave her a you-obviously-don't-understand-what-not-knowing-French-means look, she said she wanted to see a French translation. Fine. But, knowing that translating practically word for word is a big no-no, I did it anyway (seriously, I had no other option) and had my told-you-so face ready when she finished reading the first sentence, responing with pas de tout and what I swear was the phrase c'est nul under her breath.

But, apparently that wasn't enough to persuade her to end the interview because she then asked me for one more writing piece. This time, she wanted me to write her a letter, to tell her why I should be hired and what I can bring to the position (in English, thank goodness). In an attempt to redeem myself, I wrote a pretty decent cover-letter-type letter to her, which she read right in front of me. (Awkward.) I was worried that maybe I didn't mention enough specifics or provide enough information, but then she responded by saying that she was rather impressed that I was able to compose such a letter in a few moments. And then I breathed a sigh of relief and felt a little redemption. 'Guess those standardized writing tests in high school really paid off.

Two hours and three letters later, I walked out of the office still not knowing if I'd be offered the job, but feeling rather satisfied with my first French interview. I'm not putting much pressure on myself to find a job quickly, and I still have a few options, like continuing language classes full-time and doing volunteer work until I have the skill set I need to work in a French environment. But, I'm taking every opportunity seriously even if as nothing more than a learning experience. It feels really strange to have nearly 10 years of working experience yet feel like an entry-level candidate. There's a big part of me that's dying to get back to work and willing to take whatever I can get. But, I've still got a little pride to knock out of the way before I can feel comfortable starting at the bottom again. Right now, it seems my options are to take what I can get now and hope to advance my French skills while on the job, or dedicate my time to mastering the language until I'm comfortable to apply for a more agreeable bilingual job (which could take at least 6 months of full-time studies). I'm hoping the answer comes to me soon, but in the mean time I'll be preparing for more writing exams and 2-hour interviews.

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.

Sorry for not posting this week; I'm sure everyone's wondering what I've been up to...or not.
Actually, I haven't had anything of much interest to write about. After finishing my French classes and a week of preparing for and worrying about my carte de sejour, I've been stuck in a rut over what I should do with my free time. The obvious answer is to get with the job-hunting, but August is by far the worst month to try to contact businesses in Paris. There's even an advertisement all around Paris that's asking where all the Parisians have gone. I saw someone else put up a photo of the advert on their blog, but I can't remember who (I think it's official that I stalk entirely too many blogs). According to Gui it's a play on a football chant that gets shouted when the Paris team is sucking - kind of like "Where are y'all at now, Paris?" I think it's a really clever advertisement (although I can't remember the website it's promoting at the moment), and I still find it so amusing that people just up and leave this city for nearly an entire thirty days for a little respite from the norm. Our apartment is surrounded by lots of businesses and a few office buildings, so lately the neighborhood's been eerily quiet and parking spaces have been unusually superfluous.

So, expecting to find a job this month is really an absurd fantasy that I'm quickly finding myself getting over. Now that I have all this extra time on my hands, I'm trying to think of ways to discover Paris without feeling like a tourist. Monday was a completely wasted day spent indoors, cleaning, blog-stalking, cleaning and cleaning. But, on Tuesday, I took myself to Muji, which I'd heard is like a Japanese Ikea or something like that. I wanted to see what they had and maybe pick up some things that I still need in the kitchen - mainly cooking utensils. Well, I wasn't exactly blown away when I found my way to the little shop tucked behind the marché Saint Germain, but I scooped up a couple of low-priced items and decided to take a trip to my tried and true utensil shop down at Les Halles. There I found exactly what I needed and headed back home feeling successful after a quick frapuccino pit-stop at Stealmybucks. It's an indulgence I don't have often, so I don't feel guilty about throwing down 5 euros for a grande fruit-tea smoothie.

I came home rather early and hung around with Gui after work before I headed out for my first evening in Paris sans Gui. Emily is as lovely as a Georgia peach who, as we discovered over a couple of overpriced cocktails in the 16eme, has a lot in common with this misplaced Texan, including being married to a fabulous, grade A, slightly paranoid, americanized Frenchie. Girl talk in English is so much fun - we spent over three hours dishing about our lives, our history, our woes, our often unreasonable expectations of the fabled Paris life, and our rather happy existences. Our rendez-vous was loads of fun and a much appreciated breath of fresh air from my looming boredom. Thank God she appreciates alcohol-inspired French sign language.

And wouldn't you know that after making my trip to the marché this afternoon for some produce and such, I got an email from a girlfriend of Gui's friend inviting me to the piscine? So, this afternoon she swung by and picked me up in her car (quelle chance) and we headed in search of my neighborhood pool. Man, I never in my life knew there were so many rules for going to a freakin' swimming pool! And, man I never knew how popular pools were in Paris [banlieue] during the summer - geesh, don't people work? We got cut off in the line by a big, yellow tape barrier because apparently they were approaching their maximum occupancy of 700 people - yes SEVEN. HUNDRED. Luckily, we got in only minutes later and set off to go through the regular routine of taking off the shoes, finding and paying for a locker and showering before spotting a patch of grass for some seriously appreciated sunbathing. A ton of sun, a few dips in the pool, a few topless women, speedoed men, and another episode of showering (this time with soap and shampoo - yeah, that's weird to me) ensued before we called it a (great) day.

I'm still working on my CV and trying to keep up my French by talking with Gui and watching French TV, but I figure if everyone else can take August off, there's no reason I shouldn't also. I'm learning that boredom isn't so bad after all, so long as you've got a lot to do.

Now (besides my lower than generally acceptable French skill level), I have no excuse for being jobless anymore. After a patience-testing wait at the prefecture late this afternoon, I was handed a half-sheet of paper that's proof of my application for residency, and that I will use as evidence of my right to work in France until my actual card arrives - hopefully within the next three months (we'll see how that goes). It's funny because we actually had an appointment with the same woman who set the appointment in the first place, whose awful people skills and overwhelming rudeness we both were blown away with last time. She seemed fifty times happier this time and even made a few jokes and got us in and out within 30 minutes of our appointment time. We think it had something to do with her imminent three-plus weeks of vacation.

We asked a few questions, most of which were answered with "we don't do that here," but the most important question was the one about my eligibility to work. At first, we were told that I couldn't work with just a récépissé (which is just a receipt that shows I've applied for the residency permit), but after inquiring a bit, she told us that, in fact, I could work with it and that my eligibility would be printed on the document. Man, I wonder if I'd have the same eligibility if we hadn't been brave enough to ask?

All in all, it went pretty smoothly. We only had to wait a couple of minutes after our appointment to be seen, and would you believe it if I told you (speaking to those of you who've gone through this before) that we actually had everything they required for the application EXCEPT a copy of the stamp indicating my entry into France with my visa? Would you also believe that that was the only thing not mentioned on the list of required documents to bring? Luckily, we caught our guichetiere on a good day and she was kind enough to make copies for us without much hassle.

Now, I'm just waiting to get the information for the infamous medical exam. If I'm lucky, I might just get my actual cds a few months before I have to reapply for the next one. Ah, the 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?"

Since Thursday, Guillaume and I have been either hosting dinner chez nous or attending dinner parties with friends or family. Sometimes, it's really nice to have dinner plans already made to prevent the whole "what should we do for dinner" conversation. Usually, the conversation ends with a homemade dinner for just the two of us, which isn't really a bad thing anyway.

On Thursday, we spent some time in Gui's old 'hood, catching up with his childhood friends, including the two hosts who will be getting married next month in La Rochelle. We've been looking forward to their wedding since we were living in California, and as the big day approaches, I'm getting more and more excited about it. It will be the first time I attend a religious marriage ceremony in France, and I'm really looking forward to spending an entire day near the sea, celebrating the marriage of two people who've been together for what I think is over 8 or 10 years - something crazy like that! It was nice talking about upcoming wedding plans and hearing stories from the bachelor party that took place a couple of weekends ago. It's also funny to see Guillaume and his friends act like the boys that they grew up being - always trying to outdo one another in some, exaggerated, unnecessary way and calling each other by the pet names they came up with when they were pimply-faced 15 year olds.








On Friday night, we invited Gui's mom over for lasagne rolls and the not-so-disastrous-afterall apricot tart. The ricotta, spinach and prosciutto stuffed lasagne turned out really well and I even remembered well how to make a yummy bechamel. I'll never doubt myself again! While we were waiting for our coffee to brew, we busted out a birthday gift given to Guillaume from our dear friend, Baptiste. It's a juicer - a fancy red one - that we hadn't tested yet. So, we gave it a go, and voila, freshly-squeezed OJ was produced in seconds!






On Saturday, some other friends of Gui invited us to a dinner party at their place where we found ourselves in an exact replica of the house Gui grew up in. Actually, his old house was a few doors down from where we were dining, and besides a few minor cosmetic differences (i.e. paint color, flooring, etc.), the houses are identical. It was cool to imagine him growing up in the three-story abode, playing outside on the terrace as a child and blaring heavy-metal music from his poster-lined bedroom as a teenager. I also imagined there were many delicious tarts like the ones we dined on made nightly in his mom's kitchen for supper. Despite being exhausted from an early morning rendezvous at the marché, I partook in bit of French conversation and a ton of French tartes. I don't know why I don't make tarts more often - they're so delicious and not a ton of work since you can easily buy the pastry at any supermarket. I think my favorites were the bacon and onion tart and the goat cheese and three-pepper tart, but I found myself replenishing my plate more than twice with a simple vegetable salad of short-stemmed green beans, peas, carrots and mayo - a new salad that I'm adding my regularly-referenced recipe repertoire.






Last night, our soon-to-be-married friends came over to see our place for the first time and they stayed for dinner. This time, I made a shrimp tagliatelle that I adapted from a seafood spaghetti recipe that I've been hoping to test out. I got so lost in the moment that I didn't take any pictures of our dinner, but I did somehow manage to snap a shot of the ingredients I prepared for the pasta. The tomatoes were by far, the most important ingredient of the recipe and THE best sundried tomatoes I've ever eaten. I still have a couple left in the jar that I know won't last more than a day or two on the shelf - they were just phenomenal.



I was explaining to our guests that I'm still learning how to host a proper dinner in France. I told them that it's nothing like at home when, after my mom cooks up an entire meal, it's all placed on the table or counter for everyone to serve themselves, with things like "can you pass the mashed potatoes" and "did everyone get some beans" being shouted across the table. After living through a French Christmas, it's slightly the same idea, but as far as normal dinner parties go, it's rarely an entrée, plât, dessert, café type of occasion - at least in my circle of friends. We usually start (and end) with an aperitif, serve ourselves when the food is ready, eat on the couch, recliner, floor or other makeshift seat and talk about how great the food is, while someone occasionally makes a drink run to the fridge to see if anyone's drink needs replenishing.

Being slightly afraid of being the slightly awkward outcast, I find myself scrutinizing every detail of the dinners I attend in hopes of gaining greater insight into what's expected of me as a host. I've learned that it kind of depends on the company, the number of guests (and how intimate we are with the guests), the time of day and the reason for the occasion in the first place. Generally, I feel more comfortable in a formal environment even when it's not totally called for. I like serving the olives, crackers and mini-cheeses before starting on the entrée and so on. And, the after-dinner coffee and/or tea is my favorite part of the meal - I just need to scoop up another French press or tea pot to be sure I can accommodate all of my guests' requests. Desserts are not my area of expertise, so I'll have to work on finding a good go-to recipe that doesn't require too much effort so I can use it regularly.

After last night's dinner, I am feeling a little more confident about my role as "dinner host" here thanks to one of the best compliments I've ever received from someone enjoying one of my culinary creations. Gui's lifelong friend told me (in half-French, half-English) that the best cooks are those that have been exposed to a variety of different styles of food and cooking and take with them only the best things from each place, each experience; he went on to say that he could tell I was one of those people, or at least I was well on my way to becoming one. It's a similar sentiment that I find myself constantly reinforcing when I worry about my ability to integrate - I don't have to change everything about who I am to fit in, so long as I keep all the good parts.