This is why skinny jeans and boots are so popular in Paris. Even an umbrella can't save the bottoms of my wide-legged jeans from the incessant puddles in the uneven streets of this city on a drizzly day. I guess I need to invest in a new pair (or two) of skinny jeans. Thank you, Paris for yet another excuse to go shopping in your tantalizing, eye-popping, over-abundant magasins.

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.

La Rentrée is in full swing and Parisians are abandoning the sand, sun and holiday homes and flocking back to their 20-meters-squared flats in the city. Gui's mom returned Sunday from her few weeks spent on the beaches of Deauville and Normandy, and since we weren't able to meet her at the beach, we decided to spend a day together at her late father's home in the village of Marcq.

Marcq has less than 600 inhabitants and is considered "the country" by city folk, yet it's literally a 20-25 minute car ride from our apartment in the south of Paris. Gui and I spent Christmas day there, and it's where I learned just how much food my stomach could handle in one sitting (I stopped after eating my 6th course). The property that Gui's family owns there is currently for sale, as they're looking to buy property in a more popular place closer to the beach. It's a shame because Les Trois Granges, as the property is called, is really spectacular, especially in the summer. It's comprised of three separate buildings - one main house, a guest house and another completely gutted guest house that once served as Gui's grandfather's workshop. There's also a fairly large garage and enormous carport on the property, but the most striking asset, in my opinion, is the land itself. It's full of gorgeous flower gardens, brilliant green grass, charming stone arches, and a variety of fruit trees. Guillaume and his cousin Ben even have their own trees that they used to hang out in when they'd visit their grandpa as young, nature-loving boys. In one part of the land, there's a scarcely-tended garden that once boasted hearty tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, raspberries, and fresh herbs like lavender, rosemary and sage. There's something very nostalgic about the place. It's rustic, but not in a trendy way; it's grand, but not grandiose; it's mystical, not unlike The Secret Garden.

Being there during Summer was totally different from my first visit in December when we mostly stayed indoors, keeping warm by the chimney and staying drunk on fois gras and champagne. The garden really beckons in the summer sun, tantalizing the nature-loving spirit in even the most stubborn, city-loving folk. It was both a sentimental and exhilarating endeavor uncovering the treasures in the garden and behind the cobwebs of the lifeless buildings. I felt like Guillaume must have felt when he was a kid stumbling upon the tools in his grandfather's workshop imagining himself one day old enough to have his own workshop and tools - except my imagination was envisioning a massive garden and a small farm.

While we were there, a family stopped by unannounced to take a peak at the estate, but were asked to arrange a proper rendezvous before visiting. We were all relaxing after a late summer lunch, and apparently, impromptu visits are less than welcome, especially during August. I felt a twinge of guilty relief that they weren't allowed past the gates to be enchanted by its picturesque beauty, wishing that the place could stay "ours" just a little while longer.

When we finally made our way back to reality, I shared with Gui my newfound interest in living outside of a big city, in a more rural setting someday. I've always been a city girl, but more recently he's heard me gab about owning a garden and living off of our own, seasonally-grown fruits and vegetables, and he understands my appreciation for horticulture. But, the moment I mentioned owning a small hen house, he made it clear that that was where he drew the line. He has no desire to be a farmer, to own any more animals than a cat or dog, or to labor on a farm under a beating sun. I suppose my ideas for a home on the range are going a bit too far, but I guess the part of me that misses the green grass and wide-open spaces of living in Texas is longing for my own piece of earth to harvest and tend. As electrifying as Paris may be, it pales in comparison to the dazzling scape of the countryside and all the possibilities that it brings. Although we don't have set plans on how long we intend to stay in Paris, the Texan in me is optimistic that we'll find ourselves a little closer to my roots wherever we land next - even if that means an apartment with a simple garden.

Food is pretty much my favorite, non-human thing in the world. I've posted about a few meals here before, and I've been wanting to start a regular post about my cooking/baking/eating adventures/disasters for a while now, but always thought it was a little weird to post about. I don't know why. Maybe because nowadays more than my mom and sister are reading my blog (thank God because then I wouldn't have any friends), and although it might intrigue them to know what we're serving for dinner chez nous (my love for food is a genetic thing, I suspect) some unknowing person might not be so interested.

But, then I remembered that the whole point of my blog is to archive events and topics that are important to me and to communicate to my loved ones (and a few random peeps here and there) the daily happenings in my life, however mundane they may seem. Not to mention that I live in FRANCE now and let's face it, who doesn't associate this country with something food-related (escargot, frog legs or cheese, anyone)? So, voila, the first of what I anticipate to be a fairly regular, and mostly visual post about food.

Summertime in France is all about the sports. Nearly every week, Gui's received a call from someone inviting us to play soccer, Frisbee or rugby...or something. I love that my husband is so athletic and always down to play a good game of sweaty something or another. I've never been all that interested in exercising, but if it counts as a sport, I'm almost always in the mood for a game of tag (and golf, but not real golf, just swinging a club at the driving range - I love the workout my arms get). Besides a game of ultimate Frisbee, I've been pretty content hanging on the sidelines, watching everyone sweat.







I think it's really funny how some of the guys wear real soccer jerseys to play a random game of soccer. During this particular game, Gui scored four goals and remarked after each goal, "that was for you, baby." Dork. With Summer winding down, I think people are in a frenzy to get out and soak the sun up while they can. Next weekend we're playing Frisbee again and this time I plan on stretching beforehand to avoid two days of utter discomfort when walking. Wish me luck.

I'm simply overjoyed at the news that a friend from home is going to be moving to the Paris area in less than three weeks! We had just started getting to know each other before I made my way over at the end of last year and again in June when Gui and I visited, but we've kept in touch through blogs and emails as she's continued working towards getting her visa to be an au pair in Paris. She got news a couple of days ago that she'll be arriving on September 7th, which is just insanely soon! Unlike the first time I packed my bags and headed to France, this will be her first time travelling outside of the US - ever!

Walking to the marché this morning, I started thinking of how I felt the first time I traveled across the world and what thoughts and emotions were running through my mind. My first trip outside of the States was to Trinidad and Tobago (yeah, that was awesome), and then I took a trip to England before making the big move to Nottingham for a few months. I was young, so carefree, so wide-eyed. My summer in Rome was the first time I'd been in a non-English-speaking country, and being in a school setting, having friends and knowing people in the same situation as myself was, I think, what made communication so easy and kept me distracted from my nerves or self-inflicting complexes about speaking another language.

Having lived in and around Paris for a total of about seven months, I can say that many of my initial ideas about this city have changed, but not all for the worse. Reading blog, after blog, after blog of people who've been here and done everything I've done has undoubtedly made the transition so much easier. I thank the blog gods for giving people a place to rant and rave about their woes and joys so that we might all learn from them and feel just a little more normal when our lives begin to unfold like a comic book.

So, in an effort to offer my Paris-bound friend some advice about what to bring, what to leave behind and what to expect, here are a few odd things that cross my mind about my move here.

• I desperately wish I would have bought more shave gel on our last trip to TX. I seriously can't bring myself to pay 5 euros for a can of Gillette shave gel when I know I can get the same for less than half the price on the other side of the world. Some things are just too hard to let go of.
• I'm cursing myself for thinking that I'd somehow expect my mom to go through the bags and boxes of clothes that I've left behind in order to pick out what I might need for the winter time so that she could send it to me. I should have been more organized and made more of an effort to gather and label my things for easy reference and shipment to France instead of pawning it all off on my poor mom. Now, I'm left with a very boring and monochromatic wardrobe that's getting old really quickly and will no way last me through the crazy winter we're bound to have. (I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I find a job so I can do some guilt-free shopping at the winter soldes.)
• Flats are my best friends here. I wish I had the insight to buy more flats before coming (even those cheapy Target ones) because one really can't have enough with these crazy cobblestone sidewalks popping up all over the place. If I could, I'd buy a new pair everyday, but we all know that's not possible!
  
• And, by flats, I don't mean tennis shoes. I brought four pairs of "trainers" or "tennis shoes" with me here, - and I don't mean the New Balance track & field kind, but the cute brown and gold Coach tennis, sporty Pumas, and stylish Diesels - and I've found nothing says not à la mode more than a girl in sport shoes. So, my tennis shoes only come out when I'm moving stuff or actually running (uh, that's pretty much never). Comfy flats are where it's at!
• Resisting the urge to pass a friendly smile to strangers hasn't been as difficult as I imagined, but the guilt I feel after flashing a blank face out of habit to someone trying to be friendly is mortifying. For me, it's harder to revert back to being smiley after I've already conformed to my newfound survival tactics.
  
• All the friendly peeps in Paris make up for those unfriendly ones. I've learned to take the bad with the good here - it's usually not always one or the other. One friendly smile, or short conversation about the weather from a complete stranger (especially an older one) is enough to keep my spirits up for the rest of the day.
  
• I don't mind walking around the city or through the marchés and shopping centers, but I really hate walking to my metro station. It's only a 6-8 minute walk from our apartment, but it's the walk I despise the most. I don't know why. I'm thinking it's a subconscious reflection that comes from my years of car-dependency, and walking any further than the garage makes the part of my brain that deals with laziness start going crazy with fury. Hmmm.
  
• As much as I gorged on Tex-Mex on our last trip, I wish I would have eaten more.
  

Maybe it doesn't take a lot to make me happy, but for the past few days I've been finding myself quite content with a lot of things. We had dinner with Gui's dad the evening we got into town from La Rochelle. We were pretty pooped from the long drive and eventful weekend, but his dad insisted that we stop by for a quick dinner. We knew he had something up his sleeve, and shortly after we arrived, he handed us a box in a bag that contained these gorgeous knives.




He even had them engraved with our names on the blade, so we wouldn't have to share. Thank goodness, because you wouldn't believe how much dirtier Gui's knife is after eating than mine! They're absolutely beautiful and so sophisticated. We won't be eating with them daily - you're not supposed to wash the handle and they're just too fancy for the regular ol' meals we have around here. But, we'll be bringing them out for special occasions, for sure.

The Sunday chili I made had me all in smiles, too. We ended up eating it all throughout the day, polishing it off with a crisp cider while watching the Olympic games. I love chili, and this time I made it extra spicy which was so comforting on a gloomy Sunday.


I also finally whipped up some coleslaw, which I've been craving for weeks now. I couldn't believe how easy it was, nor how great it tasted!! Gui fell in love with coleslaw while living a summer in Texas and even he raved about it. I was happy to indulge, but much happier that I found another go-to recipe (I nixed the vegetable oil and added a little milk) to add to my personal repertoire.


I both smiled and grunted when I got this in the mailbox.

98% of our apartment is Ikea furniture, and our kitchen would be completely dysfunctional without the genius that is behind Ikea. We can never leave the store without a full basket of goodies for the house. Still, it makes me cringe that I didn't come up with the whole "build your own furniture" idea first.

My happy streak continued at the grocery store today, first when I spotted these:


And, then when I spotted this:

I've seen these corn tortillas before somewhere, but they must have been outrageously priced for me to have passed them up. Not this time! Now, enchiladas are on the menu for this week, so stay tuned!

And that strange cylindrical box is sodium bicarbonate, otherwise known as baking soda, which has been pretty hard to come by around these parts. I randomly walked by the salt section and saw this bright yellow thing reflected by the fluorescent lights and realized it was the golden ticket to the oatmeal cookies I've been wanting to try my hand at. I really hope it's the right stuff because I can't really understand any of the writing, which is in half Dutch, half French. If it is, it'll be more cause to keep smiling.