Since last Friday, the sun has been shining as bright as it ever has in Paris, and Gui and I have been taking full advantage of the beautiful weather all weekend.  Our friend, Juliet had the foresight to plan a barbecue on the most perfect day we’ve had all year, around which we gladly planned our weekend.  Our first stop on Saturday was at my favorite local marché (on Avenue Président Wilson).  Although Gui doesn’t agree with me, it totally beats out the Avenue Versailles marché which is held on Sundays and is about 15 minutes closer to our apartment.  It’s not like it’s really a “better” marché, but to me, it just seems more authentic…more “French.”  And, besides being fooled by fake farm-fresh eggs, the products just seem nicer – and the people do, too.

One of the many perks (and quite possibly the best one) of my job includes priority access to many vente privées throughout the year.  A vente privée literally translates to "private sale," but saying it in English doesn't quite give off the same meaning as when I hear it in French.  I'd compare it more to a special few days when guests can shop a brand name at their leisure and pay for their items at a very generous employee discount.  Sometimes, this means that the sale will be full of past seasons' collections or off-colored and blemished items, but that is not usually the norm.

Last year, I attended my first vente privée in Paris, and it was such an adrenaline rush. Usually, a huge line forms before the sale begins, and depending on the brand's popularity, it could continue throughout the day.  Most sales are held in spaces or warehouses specifically designed and purposed for such, which means they are professionally staffed with people who run these kinds of private sales for a living.  Nothing but wallets and cell phones are permitted on the selling floor, so a mandatory coat and purse check is the first place to visit after showing your invitation and ID to the security guard at the door (once you've finally made it there).  Then, you grab a massive plastic bag and fill it with as many shoes, purses, wallets, and clothes your heart desires before finally sorting it out into "keep" and "sadly leave behind" piles.

There are no dressing rooms to try your clothes on, so oftentimes, you'll catch a glimpse at someone's undies or see people posing with their hangered treasures in front of the few mirrors available.  Most bags, shoes and haute couture items are placed on shelved walls guarded by staff members who stand in front of the shelves and behind a table of display bags.  You can usually grab what you want from the table, but if you notice something sparkling on the shelf, you can simply ask for it from the staff member.

As much as it all sounds like such a privileged and organized event, it can get pretty ugly.  I went to a sale a few weeks ago on its third day of opening (vente privées can last anywhere from one to five or more days), and could not believe the chaos that normally respectable ladies were causing ... for fabric bags, no less!  The staff can only stock so much on display, so the rest is left hidden "backstage" in cardboard boxes that don't give any indication as to what's in them. For deal-desperate shoppers, this means that as the day goes on, there will be more stock with possibly newer items available for sale, so, someone's dream bag could be trapped in a cardboard box and not come out until the end of the sale.  And, that's what these "ladies" were hoping would happen for them if they waited and pushed long enough.  Despite there being limits on how many bags and shoes can be purchased, these women had gobs of handbags well over the limit and had invited every friend, neighbor and cousin to come with them so they could amass the most stock possible.  I could barely stand the insanity, so I left empty-handed from that sale and swore to never again wait to come when the invitation is extended beyond the employees of the company (it's usually open to anyone with an invite after the first day).

There are a few "big" brands that everyone looks forward to but are really strict on the amounts of items you can buy and whether or not you can bring a guest (you usually can't for the popular brands).  And, as for the prices, well, they're quite good considering the brand that's being sold and the retail prices that the items would normally sell for.  But, these are expensive goods we're talking about here, so it's kind of just relative.

My job has definitely fed my desire for fancy purses and logoed shoes that I never really had so much before. Women at my office are often dressed head to toe in recognizable designer threads, so walking around in my Zara dress, H&M heels and Gap handbag doesn't turn many heads for the right reason.  And, mostly I'm OK with that.  I never buy everything I want, but I often rationalize my rare vente privée splurges by reminding myself that every Parisienne needs a nice handbag (or four) and that I won't have access to the sales once my work contract is up.  Now, rationalizing my need for three more handbags to Gui, well that's another story, and obviously, he's no longer sensitive to my so-called "need" to fit in.

So, my spontaneous trip back to the good ol' US of A seems to have pushed me back to the side of sanity, which is precisely what I had hoped it would do for me. I can't even explain how much of a difference it's made to my nerves to have a few consecutive days of real life family - drama and all - back in my life. Even pulling an all-nighter on the plane-ride back and going to work for 5 hours just after couldn't bring me back to the funk I was feeling before I left.

Besides soaking up the giggles and snuggles and cries and shouts of my loveable nephews, I also got a little "I-just-need-to-be-an-American-and-do-American-things" in while I was visiting my sister in midwest America. It ain't Texas, but I still managed to find a delicious plate of enchiladas, tacos, rice and beans to grub on pretty much as soon as my plane slid onto the tarmac. I made a few Target runs, browsed through the local Banana Republic, J.Crew and Nordstrom stores, grabbed a couple of Starbucks cinnamon dolce lattes (which haven't made it onto the Paris menus, yet), stopped by Michael's and an LYS to check out the yarn scene, ran through the Taco Bell drive-thru, and had breakfast and three lunches at Chick-fil-a. Oh, how I missed thee, Land of Liberty!

I'll admit that it felt a little awkward being back at first - it's so much easier to be somewhere that doesn't require a bit of reflection about how to phrase a sentence before speaking. But, the awkwardness didn't last long and I fell back in the sadle in no time. The weather was pretty cooperative, save for the couple of nights of violent winds and rain that kept me awake. Luckily, it cleared up before Easter and I got to watch the boys hunt for eggs and fly kites.

I even got in a bear surgery while I was there. It's tradition for my dad to give his grandsons a bear when they're born, and they've become the boys' doudous, which of course means they take quite a beating after the years of being dragged around everywhere. Well, my nearly 6-year-old nephew asked me if I could stitch-up his bear (of the same age) in a couple of places because he'd had a bit of wear-and-tear. So, Dr. Auntie held a surgery and made Mr. Bear (as he's named) as good as new! I could tell my nephew was so honestly happy afterwards to see his Mr. Bear all fixed up.  But, he had no idea how truly grateful I was to be there to do that for him.  My last-minute planning couldn't have been better timed!

I'm not really a last minute kind of gal.  I like to plan ahead, make reservations, shop around and do everything I can to ensure that whatever is happening is done so in the smoothest and most efficient way possible.  I don't mind saying yes to a last-minute invitation or hop off to a movie or dinner on the spur of the moment, but when making plans to, say, host a party or take a trip, quick decisions make me nervous and wary. 

This weekend, though, I caught the most wretchedly dire homesickness that I've ever had in my life and nothing could coax me out of my funk.  Gui and I grabbed happy hour and a movie on Friday evening (Alice in Wonderland in 3D - beautiful film but the jury's still out on the storyline and oddly-added solo dance), and then had some Tex-Mex for dinner, but I could barely eat from being so run amok with thoughts about my family and how much I miss them.  Everything reminded me of my nephews and my far-away friends - now mostly parents of little ones - that I don't see often enough.  I felt awful and tried doing things to distract myself, but nothing worked to deter my thoughts. 

On Sunday, we had lunch with Gui's dad and sister at the same place we took my mom to on her first and only trip to Paris, and I struggled to keep it together.  It was hard to stay composed when they asked how I was doing, how my job was going, and how my family and new nephews where getting along - normal stuff.  My heart was totally longing to be near them, to hold my new nephews and run around like a kid with the others.  Gui and I talked about our trip in June and all the things we'll do while we're there, all the people we'll see.  But, in doing this, we realized how little time we'll actually have to see everyone we want to see.  Between Kansas and Austin and Dallas and the traveling between each, two weeks is just not enough time. 

Monday morning rolled around and I was in such a foul mood.  I dragged myself out of bed, threw on the first black dress I saw, tights and boots, trudged slowly to the bus without much care about the time or my tardiness and then, with immense difficulty bonjoured everyone in the office and sputtered off a lie when they asked how I was doing.  I just couldn't be bothered with the day; with anything. How did it get to this?

Despite my lingering Monday workload, all I could think of was leaving - leaving the office, leaving Paris, leaving France.  Just leaving.  I was so incredibly sad and felt so incredibly guilty about being so sad.  All I could think of was going home - being home with my parents, sister, brothers, nephews, friends and their babies.  I just wanted to be near them all. 

So, as an act of desperation, I checked flights to Texas and flights to Kansas and realized that I could visit my sister (and brother-in-law and 3 out of 4 of my nephews) in Kansas by cashing in on our frequent-flyer miles and paying about half the normal price of a ticket.  Originally, I thought about going for a long weekend - taking advantage of the Monday holiday, I could leave Friday night and come back on Sunday, but Gui thought that was just too crazy.  He reminded me that I work in France, and when my contract is all said and done, I still won't have used up all of my paid vacation and RTT (days accumulated each month that act like paid vacation).  So, I guiltily asked my boss if he would mind my taking a few extra days off - even though I'd already taken two days the week before, and he was totally cool with it.  More than cool.  He waved his hand and told me to take whatever days I need to and not to worry about any asking in advance.  I was elated.


I don't know if this last-minute trip will make everything better or if I'll return with a renewed feeling of positivity and happiness, but I know it will do me some good.  Just knowing that I'm leaving on Thursday morning to finally meet my new nephew and see my loved ones has already made such a difference in my mind.  I've never planned a transatlantic flight so spontaneously before, and this time it's not about how smoothly everything goes or how efficiently my time is spent.  Once I see those toothy grins and hear those hearty grunts from the sweetest boys in all the world, my thoughts will be light-years away from the trifles of time and economics. 

I just wish the sun wouldn't be so fleeting around here.  It's warmed up a bit, but the days have been mostly grey with patches of sunshine, and it would be really nice if spring just sprung already!  Despite my complaints, I am pretty happy that I can still wear my tweed wool sweater that was finished just in time to greet the giboulées de mars (the French version of April Showers or June Gloom).  I'm really proud of my first attempt at sweater-making, and I'm getting as much wear out of my new knit as the weather will allow.

…and stuff.

Gui and I were recently invited to the top-secret, velvety-drape-lined K&K boudoir to be guests on the ever-popular podcast hosted by fellow Paris-based expats, Katia and Kyliemac. We’ve known these lovelies for some time now, having met them through the shrinking circle of expat friends that we’ve been lucky enough to have made here. They’re a rather dynamic duo who dish the dirt on life as anglophone transplants in Paris and offer tidbits and advice on how to survive the often bittersweet streets of this bipolar city.

I’ve always secretly wondered what it would be like to be a guest on their show – if costumes were the preferred dress code attire and if cocktails and pineau really did pour freely. Now I gladly know that the answers to my thoughtful queries are indeed, yes and YES.

Gui and I enjoyed bottomless Muffin Manmade rhum-rhums while recounting the tales of how we met, how we managed a long-distance relationship and how we eventually got to Paris. They refilled our glasses and we stayed to record a second episode where we talked about cultural differences in the workplace. It was loads of fun, and I even learned a bit about Gui that I never knew (like how much he missed the morning taco-truck at work).

I’ve got to say, it’s a little unsettling listening to my recorded voice (which I think sounds like a mix between valley-girl and cowgirl), but the K&K team have really got their technical shiz together!  Listening to their show is such an indulgence that I gladly make time for and being on the show felt like a real honor.  Walking home after such a fabulous time spent chatting with friends, Gui remarked on how great of a souvenir the podcast will make for the future us and our eventual offspring. And, he’s so right.

I'm linking our podcast debuts here, but the K&K website has every episode from 1 to 324, and you can also subscribe to their biweekly shows on iTunes (like I do)! 

The other day, a busy and rainy Sunday afternoon, as Gui and I were leaving McDonald's to get on with the day, a young boy stopped me and asked me if I had a euro. We were still inside the McDonald's when the boy approached me, and I had to ask him to repeat himself because I wasn't really sure what he said the first time. When I understood that he was asking me for a euro, I told him, "no," continued walking out of the restaurant and then proceeded to feel like the scum of the earth.

Being asked for money from strangers has just become part of my daily life as a Parisian city-dweller. I come across homeless people on a regular basis, and I've managed to grow a thick skin of indifference, knowing that my usually overly-emotional self is just not suited for denying a beggar some change. But, it wasn't until I firmly and quickly rejected this child's bid for a bite to eat that I realized how cold and callous I'd actually become. I walked by the McDonald's again a few minutes later and saw the boy sitting at a booth eating a burger. I wanted to cry.

A friend of mine makes it a point to give food and not money to beggars he encounters on the streets and in the tunnels of Paris, and I generally agree with that approach. But, rarely do I find myself with an extra piece of fruit or bag of chips in my handbag, and sometimes it's just not all that practical for me. And, I realize the trouble with handing out cash to people when they ask for it; that there's an organized ring of criminals who make people beg and take their money, but how am I supposed to pick and choose who I help and who I don't help?

I understand now that I should have asked the boy what he wanted to eat, bought him his Happy Meal and made his day instead of flatly rejecting him a slice of happiness that I could so easily have provided. But what if someone older had approached me instead? I might have felt less guilty knowing I'd said no to an adult and not a child, but is that morally OK?

There are a lot of things that I have changed about myself to adapt to living here, but I refuse to let my moral compass be one of them. Of course nobody has asked me to change, to become a different person or to conform to the norms of my new social setting; any changes I've made about my personality or my habits have solely been self-imposed. But, I'm realizing the high price my need to "fit-in" has cost me, and I don't plan to continue paying it.

If I can spare some change to make someone happy or buy a cheeseburger to feed a hungry boy, there's no reason I shouldn't. I won't be able to feed the world or make everyone happy, but at least my humanity will remain intact, and really that's the only thing that fits in everywhere.