The Paris Year(s)

Recently the kids and I did a tally of our travels since we have moved abroad and concluded that we have visited 13 countries in just a little over a year (I’m including Monaco and Vatican City at Cash’s insistence). The kids were both wide-eyed in awe at this number, but I had to wonder if they really understood the sheer magnitude of it. I was in high school before I even set foot on an airplane and in my 20’s before having a passport. I have learned and grown more than I could have imagined but I would say the two most important things I have learned from seeing so much in a short time are: 1. Never rule anything out, you just might be surprised what you find you like and also dislike (a great practice in tolerance) and 2. Never define a place solely based on one visit (a great practice in patience). That is to say, my experience in repeating cities has always brought on new insight and very different comparisons. Our personalities and projected desires shape so much about what we want and expect of a vacation, but sometimes stepping out and doing something different can deliver an unforgettable experience.

Our one and only voyage without kids has been to the island of Ibiza. On our first trip there, I couldn’t help but silently giggle each time I thought of us on our way to this much famed island. Back in our NYC years (my mid-20’s) Ibiza had been a popular destination with some of our friends and a certain jet-set crowd that would fly there on the weekends. Back then, like everyone else, I defined it by nightclubs, dancing, drugs and essentially partying your ass off. I loved my happy hour and occasional late night out, but I had no interest in Ibiza. For us it was a ship that had sailed, leaving us safely behind to the comforts of familiar land.  Living in Europe broadened this perspective where we met several people of  like-minded ages that spoke very fondly of this beautiful and tranquil island. Tranquil? That somehow didn’t fit into my definition of Ibiza. But hey, we thought, it might be worth a look. Turns out it was a short cheap flight, the weather looked to be great and the kids were away for four nights at camp.

What we discovered was a beautiful and peaceful island (particularly if you avoid the nightclub area) which was speckled by private charming beaches and quaint coves –so many you could easily try a new one every day for weeks. We found the food amazing and the islanders warm and welcoming. It ended up being so great that when we had the opportunity to getaway for the weekend for Tommy’s 50th we chose to return. We had another incredible and different experience. Trying new beaches, visiting parts of the islands that locals lived, and even one night staying out until 2am. We had failed to do this the first trip, where we found ourselves one evening sitting in a nightclub parking lot near midnight waiting for it to open (yes, open), and looking over at eachother,  in a moment of synchronized thinking, we started the car and headed back to the hotel. Are you old or just wise when you realize nothing is more important than a good nights sleep?

Ibiza, an island that I drew conclusions on based on top 20 music and DJ groupies has now become one of our favorite places. As I popped my decongestant pill on the plane, I caught site of a fashionable trio looking over at me and I felt the need to explain. Nothing exciting over here folks just a middle-aged flyer with ear problems.

Finding ourselves with an unexpected four day weekend recently, we did a quick inventory of destinations and decided to head down south to a little beach town in Northern Spain called San Sebastián. We had only heard wonderful things of the Basque Country. Once train tickets and hotel were booked I didn’t think too much about it in the weeks before. As it got closer I checked the weather and upon seeing the lineup of sunny days and warm temps (which I have become unaccustomed to since leaving Santa Barbara) I couldn’t help but do a fist pump and pride myself on my excellent vacation planning skills. The short trip combined with perfect weather gave me no stress in preparing, and I began to pack the night before our early train departure. With all the practice I’m getting I am proud to say I have finally become a good packer, and I am getting close to that seemingly unattainable level of bringing only what’s needed. As one very wise woman once said “when preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money”. Throwing in swimsuits and shorts and one sundress for good measure,  I was finished in under ten minutes. I laid out the clothes for the morning and luckily (you will see why soon) included jackets to wear on the train due to the chilly morning weather.

We had a pleasant and uneventful train ride. As we started drawing nearer and began  passing the beach towns of Biarritz and St. Jean de Luz, I noticed that the weather was foggy and drizzly. Checking my weather app I assured myself that it still looked sunny and beautiful in San Sebastián. In hindsight, I was a bit slow when the walk from the train station and the umbrellas being carried by passer-bys didn’t alarm me. We were focused on finding our hotel and getting settled and we were all starving. While checking in, Iyla asked the front desk person if the water was warm at the beach. Between the look on his face and the gust of wind blowing in from the front door every time it opened, I started having a creeping feeling, and before I could say it Tommy said, “I’m thinking we might have been looking at the weather in a different San Sebastián”. And there you have it folks. While somewhere in the world (I guess Puerto Rico, although turns out there is also another San Sebastián in Spain) people were basking in the warm sun rays, we had in store a weekend of considerable rain, combined with wind and a wind chill, that made it a good 15 degrees colder than Paris. Since I hate frivolous buying (and I’m cheap) I didn’t let anyone purchase rain jackets, but thank god we had the sweatshirts and jackets we had worn on the train. On the plus side we all wore the same outfit the entire weekend so laundry was at a minimal on our return.

So we changed the course of our weekend. We still walked a lot but toned it down. We made lots of stops. This worked well in this charming Basque town which is famous for its pintxos bars and is very conducive to popping in and out of places for a drink and some pintxos snacks. We played a lot of cards and games in these different cafés. I have said it before but I so love this about Europe, that is being able to hang out as long as you want and have noone question you or make you feel unwelcome. We ate a lot. And we ended with movie nights at the hotel. The adventures of traveling. You go with the flow and since it is becoming an impossibility these days to predict weather anywhere (and minus an idiot move like mine) you really need to be prepared for the unexpected. Not so much physically but mentally.

Speaking of the physical and mental, it is interesting to think of different vacations and what they target. I think ideally, we might all agree it would be great for a vacation to stimulate both the physical and mental side. For most of us this would mean putting both the body and mind at rest. Of course if you consider the large scope and general nature of traveling you will realize that travels often can tax the mind and body as well. We recently got back from Marrakech, Morocco where we went for our fall break. This time I actually got to do a legitimate fist pump as we had a near perfect week of weather (sandwiched between rainy gloomy days before and after). We spent hours at the pool swimming and lazying and playing, which was relaxing for both mind, body and spirit, particularly coming from busy city life. On the flip side we ventured every day into the old city (they call the Medina) which I adored. However, between the constant threat of getting run over by a moped, stepping in animal excrement, dirt, dust, poor living conditions, topped by pollution from cars and breathing in fumes in the narrow market streets all of our minds and bodies were spent on our first visit. Here is a trip I thought I was prepared for and nothing I had read could’ve prepared me for what I saw and felt being there. The initial discomfort was quickly replaced by intrigue. Tommy and I agreed that sans kids and maybe as young backpackers, we would have spent more time exploring the Medina. The kind locals with gentle eyes and the sweetness they showed the children, the backbreaking work done by laborers way past retirement age, the rawness, the lack of pretense, the unabashed honesty, marked by the beautiful hymn of Islamic prayers throughout the day both awakened a part in me and stirred emotions. In the end I loved it all. And the stress of being placed out of our comfort zones, for lack of a better phrase, left a lasting and I believe positive impact on all of us.

We often get asked, what has been our favorite place. I think naturally when we think of the answer we generally form our response to the place we may have resonated the most with, be it people, climate, food. The reality is there are no favorites. It is not the point of travel to feel comfortable all the time or have everything just the way you are used to. If it was, then why leave your home? Of course this is nothing revolutionary on my part but I have realized the value of seeing such different land, culture, people, customs, food and beliefs. I’ve loved all of them and would feel so grateful to experience each and every one again if I happen to be so lucky. Marcel Proust once wrote “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” So I give my gratitude to all these countries for opening our eyes and forcing us to see this beautiful crazy world and all its unique people.

 

To say we went out with a bang would be accurate. Our year ended with a full blown fête. No kidding aside. It just happened to be my birthday, Bastille Day and the World Cup Finale. Bastille Day (Fête nationale as it is called here) is celebrated to its fullest, with the day being kicked off by an amazing parade and jet show which was followed later by a  firework show to be rivaled. We watched all this, à la parisienne, while picnicking on the Seine. The next day rolled straight into the World Cup Finale, which thanks to the outcome, turned into the biggest celebration I have ever witnessed. It was a party to end all, and the entire city partook.

 

The next morning as the sun rose, we were all bleary eyed in a cab headed for Charles de Gaulle.  Driving up the Champs Élysées the debauchery of the previous evening was quite evident. Quite a few gens, whom I can safely guess pulled “all nighters” stumbled around looking confused while piecing their night together. Simultaneously, I was piecing my year together like a film on fast forward. How fabulous it was… and at the same time how could it be over?

 

 

After completing our first year abroad, and all the emotions that came with it, I found myself probing into what exactly would sum up the definition of the experience. I began thinking about this on the plane ride and continued to ponder it throughout the summer. Several cliché phrases and hyperbolic sentiments came to mind, but nothing really gave it justice.

It wouldn’t be until touching back down on Parisian ground, that I concluded I had been looking for a much too complicated way of expressing my sentiments. It was actually quite simple. In Paris, one lives. You live through your senses, you live through the buzz and energy of the people surrounding you, you live through the change of weather and unpredictable nature of the day, you live to eat and breathe and run and play. Not the other way around.

Taking effect only a few minutes after landing in the states (after being gone for a year), the stark contrast of the two worlds- Santa Barbara and Paris- inevitably led to the induction of culture shock. I can tell you this is a very real phenomenon.  I walked around half-dazed saying “everything is so big” until I drove Tommy crazy, and then I just whispered it under my breath, until about the third week when I cruised through Costco as if nothing had ever happened. I had two things in my cart. One of them being a box of tampons, and at the risk of sharing too much, lets just say they are on the list of misses (maybe a close tie with a garbage disposal). I felt self-consciously stupid in the line with carts filled to the brims. What was I doing here anyway? In Paris, I was always the one in the line with the most items (and yet I still felt like I was holding back most of the time– isn’t it much easier to just buy four boxes of granola bars?)

I also felt out of sorts and uncomfortable sitting in cars, my body not used to the seated shape and lack of movement. I felt older than my years getting in and out, as if I had to retrain my legs to walk. Ironically, in the land of mass health and fitness I felt a bit sendentary. Tommy and the kids and I quickly found a round-about trail down to the beach that provided a most calming morning routine, and forced us to be agile on our feet depending on the tides. I discovered, in those early mornings, the California I loved. The raw beauty and poetic nature that made me want to write an ode to its magical powers. The answer to that flittering question we all might come across from time to time, do you appreciate things more when you are away, is an unresoundly, yes. At the same time the things that drove you away might very well be magnified. Such is life, the good and the bad and the finicky appetites of our humanly ways.

Change can definitely be uncomfortable. The goodness from it is not always immediately evident. I now believe without it we become stifled. Sometimes this can cause us to create distractions and to fulfill our time in whatever fashion we desire, be it healthy/unhealthy productive/unproductive. I don’t think there is a soul not guilty of this, myself of course included. But I thank the challenge and change living abroad has done for all of us and the enlightenment it has given me.

Once again the time came for us to leave behind what was familiar but had now become somewhat foreign. The kids had not missed a beat in getting back into their old life, but I like them sensed the inner conflicts. Life in California was so easy and comfortable. So many familiar faces and family. Big open spaces. Predictable days. I saw how they reasoned through this. Whether it be one too many hot days where they vocalized how they could not wait for winter (I made sure to get that on video) or getting excited about seeing friends in Paris and the big class reveal. Their home is of course Santa Barbara, yet in Paris they have grown a new familiarity –and might I even say level of adoration for. It has become part of them and they have respect for its ways and nuances, so many of them so strikingly different for us just this time last year.

The kids treaded the water gently back into the city life. Gone was the constant excitement and stimulation of a jam-packed summer spent at the beach, pool with family and friends and replaced by a different stimulant from cars, bustling people, city noises. We didn’t have the luxury to be lazy after arriving, with doctors appointments scheduled, errands to run and back to school shopping. The exhaustion of jet-lag began to set in the late afternoon. We stopped at a boulangerie and bought not one but two baguettes (the day called for it).  Ceremoniously handing them over to the kids, they instinctively both took a bite out of the crispy pointed tops, the French equivalent to licking cake batter from the whisk. Cash let out a sigh and said “ahhh I missed this”. My inner cheerleader clapped. It is not about taking away from them what they know and love but teaching them to have an appreciation for a different life. To cherish the differences and to invite the unknown.

As the Parisians say, “tchin tchin” to year two and we only hope the experience can emulate if not top last years. We are waiting with open arms and minds to all it will bring. C’est tout and stay tuned!

Once l’automne began shifting to l’hiver we found the days to not only literally be getting shorter (kids leaving for school in the dark and getting home in the dark) but the days also feeling shorter as we started settling in and getting busy with trips, visitors, school events and the like. It has indeed been magical and festive filled with vibrant Christmas markets, lights strung throughout the city, warm drinks and sweets galore. We have taken wonderful side- trips to Munich, Amsterdam and London and have had dear family in town for a good part of it. If you ever have the opportunity to visit any of these amazing cities during the holidays I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.

Resignations

We are close to our six month anniversary of living abroad leaving us with so much to reflect on. We have all grown, changed and adapted. I have learned that going with the flow and resigning yourself to whatever your situation might be is the best method for living in a foreign country (and perhaps just living anywhere!). So when I recently had an issue with our visa and was shuffled from one préfecture to the next and then for reasons I still don’t understand, told to go see the US Embassy (even I knew that our embassy couldn’t help me with French visa issues) and then back to the préfecture to be told to contact our local consulate. Almost at my wits end I sat down to write a very carefully crafted long letter to the Los Angeles French Consulate essentially pleading in the nicest way possible for a helpful answer. This was met with a half sentence response containing four words “go see your préfecture”. Did I scream or bang my head in frustration? No, and mostly because I’ve grown so used to this I actually would’ve been more shocked to have had my questions answered. So in the words of  Jim Carey from the movie Liar Liar “what i’m gooooing to do is piss and moan like an impotent jerk and then bend over and take it up the tail pipe”.

Resignation and humor in my opinion work best together and can help you get through almost anything, including the humiliating experience of being looked upon unsympathetically by the madame whom you are trying to explain your situation to in kindergarten french (I’m fairly certain she spoke English but maybe she also has to get some humor out of her day). That was a loss. But atlas there have been wins! We have finally secured a French bank account (it only took six months). It was, like many things here, a test in mental strength but now feels like a mini victory and our treatment upon entering the bank is proof. When the formerly stern faced and slightly annoyed receptionist now smiles upon seeing us, I feel the same emotions swell up in me as a child being rewarded by their teacher.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kids are doing well, and unsolicited, speak often about their love for Paris. It is fun to see the beauty of it all through their eyes. Cash is fascinated by the weather patterns and seasons and is also resigning himself to the fact that he will be wearing pants for at least two to three more months. Recently, I heard a lot of noise in the bathroom and found him trying to reach up high to a shelf where I store their summer clothes (space is limited) when I questioned him he sheepishly replied “I just wanted to see what it felt like to wear shorts”. Iyla has resigned herself to the fact she must get used to walking everywhere. I can’t say it always goes without any complaints, but we are making progress and both kids get a kick out of seeing our end of the day mileage on my phones health app (we have a record high of 17 miles). Tommy has resigned himself to living in small quarters. To be fair, by Paris standards our apartment is a decent size but still a quarter of the size we are used to. Our dining room has now become our favorite room (namely because it is big- tellement français) and opposite to our home in California it has become where we do almost everything. He has also resigned himself to the fact that a few french phrases will only take you so far (but his enthusiastic “fantastique” has definitely given me much entertainment). So now we both board a bus twice a week for French lessons. I was also  trying to get by on my average level of French, but a situation where I spent an embarrassing amount at a Fromagerie (the truffle cheese was amazing though) and another situation where I was aiding a woman who took a serious fall and needed an ambulance made me realize its time for me to also step it up.

One of the best things is that by virtue of living in a city you inevitabley learn so much about art, history, food, traditions and different cultures. I would say on average we have at least two experiences a week involving either a museum, church, cemetery, or exhibition of some kind (last week we saw an exhibition in the Louvre on the private collection of French Kings and Emperors and we also took a trip to Reims to see its historical Cathedral). Even just walking in the city there are plaques everywhere commemorating the spots that famous people lived or died or anything of historical significance.

 

 

 

 

Recently Paris has been in the news due to the rising levels of the Seine. It is about 19 feet above water level right now (normal is six feet). We have been surprised to hear that rainfall has been twice the amount usual (we had expected a lot of rain and had thought this was normal). The city is fine but there are no boats or river cruises at the moment and you cannot walk on the pathways along river. Of course weather has been bizarre all over the world notably in our dear hometown of Montecito and Santa Barbara where they have been through drought, fires and then a devastating mudslide. Our hearts were with all those who suffered and lost homes and loved ones. We stayed up most nights during that time (9 hour time difference) feeling helpless but wanting to know the news and wishing in a strange way we could be there to do something. It’s been healing to see the community come together in such a positive way. We wish the best in our hometowns road to recovery and rebuilding.

A few of my winter loves

glasses of 4€ wine

babies bundled up on the metro and buses their big eyes looking around with wonder

waving at my neighbor (and now dear friend) across the courtyard through our kitchen windows

les Soldes (the big sale of the year in January)

thick blanket like scarves

rain at night

watching people bask in the sun in cafés or parks on that rare sunny moment

no sunscreen

construction workers sitting and having their lunch in a café

café crèmes all day long

cheese for dessert (or maybe both)

nutella on toast

the best and cheapest fresh orange juice in almost every store (including gas stations)

grey skis illuminated and softened by the lights of the city

saturday morning breakfast and walks to the park after

sounds of church bells and school children playing

the prospect of Spring and the change and beauty that awaits

 

I had a moment yesterday, walking along the Seine near the Île St. Louis where the river beomes narrow and slightly curves, its stone walls lined with trees that are now turning the glorious burnt orange and yellow trademark colors of Autumn. It was perfect walking weather, mild with a slight playful breeze, and it felt truly like a dream. I really had to take a moment and thank the Universe for letting me have this amazing experience. With that said, don’t get me wrong here. There have been many times I’ve been snapped out of this dream-like trance into a harsher reality. There are things you see and hear and experience in a city that you might only read about elsewhere. The noise and traffic alone can at times be shocking to your senses. Simple tasks can deplete even the strongest of spirits and test your patience. It can be a roller coaster of sorts. It can trick you and play with your emotions.

A few weeks ago I felt that the whole city was down on Paris. Everywhere I went and everyone I met seemed to want to get away. I became weary of telling people we were from California only to be met by “That’s my dream! To live in California” I would laugh and explain it was my dream to live here. In someways this was familiar to me because I had heard much of the same when I moved to New York City. A lot of disenchantment with city life and idealization of California lifestyle. Which hey, I’m not saying I can’t understand it. California certainly has an understandable attraction. I started wondering if this “grass is always greener notion” was just a human attribute or a flaw per se. That maybe some carry more than others, myself included. But then I found myself wondering really–who could not love it here? I had shared the same sentiment as Adriana in Midnight in Paris in that “..if Paris exists and anyone could chose to live anywhere else in the world-  that will always be a mystery to me…” but even she wanted to live in a different era- La Belle époque over the Jazz Age 20’s.

I walked around a bit sullen for a few days. Like most things in life emotions are always a progression that are built up over a course of events or time. We had just come off of a fabulous weekend trip to Normandy and had ended it by visiting the American Cemetery. A very prolific and heavy experience. Upon realizing I had never seen Saving Private Ryan we watched this the next night (sans kids) I woke up in the morning having dreamt of those horrors only to read about the horrific shooting in Vegas and feeling that utter despair we all go through in times like these- and so the week kind of rolled out that way. By mid-week it peaked when in dire need of a restroom (always a fun experience in the city) I ran into a cafe and promised to buy a bottle of water if they let me use their restroom. The young girl and man at the bar gave each other a look and rolled their eyes. When I returned to get my water, to my horror, I was out of cash and they wouldn’t take a credit card. Now it looked like I had planned this all along. I apologized profusely but was met with more eye rolls and dismissiveness. Aside from being humiliated, I began to feel a bit defensive (never a good quality). I wanted to say to them “You know I love your country and your people. Really truly do. I actually defend you to your critics” I even imagined telling her she was acting like a real bitch (en Francais) a line I had memorized from a movie- but mercifully didn’t have the courage. I walked out with a bit of a bruised ego and feeling like “une stupide americaine”

By Friday my mood was lifting a bit with the weekend in sight. Running errands, I befriended a very sweet shopkeeper and after chatting with her for ten minutes I confided in her about my experience, and how so many people seemed to want to get out of Paris. She dismissed this with one wave of her hand and said “that’s everywhere and you can’t listen to them. The city is fabulous and if people don’t see that, they won’t see it anywhere”. And just like that I felt revalidated. Of course it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks, but a mood and energy can really kill the vibe at times.

So not every moment in Paris is perfect, and idyllic and magical but there are many. More than anything I am realizing I love the spontaneity and uniqueness to living here. I might walk down a wrong street only to discover the home of Oscar Wilde, or step into a Church and  find myself crashing a funeral (I know a bit morbid but fascinating), experience an impromptu opera (on the streets) by one of the most beautiful singers I have ever witnessed, enjoy the mouth-watering smells coming from the boulangeries and pâtisseries all through the day. Point being is you cannot get bored here, unless you are walking around completely devoid of all your senses.

It has been a lovely October and our very first real fall in over ten years (I suppose that would make it the kids first) and I alternate from feeling as if we have seen more of the city than a lot of people might in a year, to feeling like every time I turn the corner I am met by something surprising. We are now most likely transitioning out of the honeymoon phase and into the more comparative stage. Comparing the nuances between home life and here, that is. I have found humor can be of much help. Some of the stereotypes revealed:

• Yes everyone smokes. I’m actually lucky to not be too bothered by this, but I am

  

  sometimes shocked at how many people smoke knowing exactly how horrible it is for you. The cigarette boxes here even have ghastly photos showing the consequences of smoking (I’ve never studied an american cigarette box so not sure if we do this) I can’t help but find it funny when I sit next to a chic looking group of ladies and/or men with their cartons on the table displaying these almost inhumane images.

• At any time of the day you will see a ridiculous number of people carrying around baguettes (hey the Boulangeries do more than just look pretty people) I am a proud baguette toting lady now as well.
• Service takes forever. You need to plan well in advance for your check and always need to ask for it (they actually consider it rude here to give it to you before you ask). This also works in your favor because they have no problem with you taking a table for two hours even if just for un café!
• Setting anything up here (detailed in my gripes earlier about a French bank account) takes forever. I’m sure there is a foreign component here but in general the sense of urgency is nil.
• In a land where things move a bit slower this does not hold true for their metro system which is the fastest and most efficient public transportation I’ve ever experienced (and blows NYC subways away)
• French people are genuinely lovely. If you give them a chance and don’t come in as a demanding (hate to say it but yes, American) they are quite receptive and fun. And they really love Americans. Especially Californians 🙂
• Protests or as they call them “manifestations” are a way of life and a normal occurrence. The most recent one I witnessed was a retirement inspired march and I couldn’t believe how many people of retirement age and much older showed up (I would say a strong percentage with walkers and canes and their effort was not lost on me)
• Café culture is beyond vibrant. I love the intrigue of seeing people breaking bread or drinking a café or having a glass of wine at any time of the day.
• The food is truly amazing. The butter the bread (and as good as the bread is I now

  

  see the bread as a vehicle for the butter which is heavenly) the pastries, the crêpes, the cheese. It’s their pride and it shows (or should I say tastes) wonderfully.

• True to many cities (especially in Europe) everything starts later here. Cash just had a birthday party for a classmate turning ten years old that went from 6pm-10pm. The disco ball on the invite was no joke.
• Cars park wherever they possibly see fit (including blocking entrances and other cars) and we’ve watched many amusing situations arise and street fights as a result.

  

So many more observations and almost too many to list but in the end you realize that going into anything your expectations of a perceived outcome are so important. Aside from just having a fabulous time in Paris and every experience  being of  a wonderful and storybook nature quality, I realize that these tougher life lessons are perhaps even a more important aspect of being here. This was highlighted one day as we sat on the grass at the Champs de Mars and watched all the silly things people were doing to get a good picture of themselves with the Eiffel Tower backdrop. We were all amused by this and in particular watching two girls, one who was trying to do a flying leap of some sorts and the other a handstand, and both looked like it might be the first time trying such acrobatic feats. I watched in amusement and honestly at times embarrassment for them, and after a few minutes of observing all the failed attempts at getting their priceless shot I realized that it didn’t matter. They were having so much fun trying to get the shot- practically doubled over in laughter with their photographing friends. And that was it. That was where the moment was. Not the picture. Inspired I wanted to capture this but instead I took note and made a reflection. The process at times humiliating, less than perfect, frustrating and vulnerable are really the endearing aspects of life itself.

 

In preparation for our move I had read several books which detailed the cultural differences between France and America and child-rearing was always a hot topic. I felt pretty well-versed in what to expect, but obviously nothing you read can come close to the real life experience of these matters. Interestingly enough most of the information was fairly accurate. I guess there was a part of me that thought maybe someone or some group had found in France a good marketing gimmick that might be appealing to desperate American parents.

From the time we got here I have noticed small things. Kids sitting on subways quietly and still, moving out of their way for the adults on sidewalks, of particular fascination was one day at the playground in the Jardin du Luxembourg kids waited patiently in line to have their turn at a kind of miniature zip line/rope swing. It took two other kids to manage the line and bring the swing back to the front every time this was used. They worked efficiently and with respect to one another and in the thirty minutes I watched not one problem occurred. Even my own children remarked at how nice everyone was and wondered if those kids who helped were paid employees. The thought had also crossed my mind.

In their third week of school it felt a bit strange at times to be so detached to their school life. At home as most other moms in our town I had been fairly involved spending a decent amount of time on campus between volunteering, social engagements etc. I would be lying if I said that this new freedom wasn’t liberating. Not to mention their school (located 8 miles from the city center of Paris but almost impossible to get to without taking a taxi) was not that convenient to pop in and out of. We lucked out that a fair number of students lived in our arrondissement and ended up having a bus stop two blocks away. Our morning routine even seemed less rushed and everyone became aware exactly what time by the minute we had to make our bus. For the first time in my life I’ve had to set an alarm and either I’m still adjusting from summer or our black out shades work very well. I think the latter. Recently my alarm did not go off and Cash woke us all up approximately 8 minutes before we had to catch the bus. In a mad rush I got the kids out the door to meet Tommy at the corner where he had picked up their breakfast to go (croissants) that they could shove down before they got on the bus (no eating on this bus). Iyla, whom had seen kids running after the bus attempting to catch it at the next stop thought this sounded like an exciting adventure and asked if we could do this. She might get her wish at some point but so far we have been able to  make it. Another day Tommy waved the kids off and started his walk back home when he realized (a bit too late) he was carrying Iyla’s backpack. I’ll give him the father of the year award for taking the three trains out there to hand deliver it to her. We were fairly certain she would have survived without it, but just the day before we had heard a grim story of another kid leaving her backpack on the bus and the trouble that ensued.

Feeling a bit neglectful I contacted the bus coordinator at school to see if it would be okay to ride the bus to school with the kids one day. The friendly bus coordinators response was, “well yes we can arrange that… I suppose.. but how funny” I took her response to be the English version of what was going on in her French brain as “Quelle bizarre!” why would any parent want to ride the school bus with their child. The arranged morning came and we excitedly boarded the bus. The kids were enjoying being our tour guides and letting us know all the upcoming stops, who we could expect to see board-and their observations on said person(s)- and all the sites we would see. The highlight was driving so close (you practically go under it in their words) to the Eiffel Tower. We were one stop away from this point and as a well dressed teenager barely made it on the bus with a French exasperation “ooohhh lala” as he boarded (which made us all giggle a bit). I looked up to notice the driver going outside to play with the door (which apparently was having difficulty shutting) he shoved it one last time, got back on the bus, and hit the button to close it when all of a sudden everyone on the bus was woken up by the sound of shattering glass. The entire bus door had cracked into a thousand shards that now lay on the street. It turns out it had been stuck on a small pole outside and the pressure of budging loose bent it in such a way the glass could not tolerate. Well this was certainly an adventure. And of all the days for us to have taken the bus. As the bus driver took a minute to figure out what to do (I’m sure a few “Merdes” had to have been said under his breath) he continually stuck his head out of the gaping whole that used to be a window, while I held my breath as a few leftover shards hung off the top precariously close to his exposed neck. The last thing we needed was to see a live guillotine here. The whole bus was so quiet I wondered if this was an ordinary occurrence. The reaction from most was calm and unalarmed and conversations with classmates were carried on as usual. Most of the upper schoolers on the bus were local french kids. One girl who had been deemed a bus monitor and bore the tasks of buckling in the younger children and making sure everyone got off the right stops was now having her position tested. She succeeded with much composure and quietly stayed on the phone with the head of the school (as I leaned as far forward to try and hear every word). Approximately 40 minutes later we were greeted with a new bus all boarded and headed off to school in normal fashion. The kids on our bus aged from 5 to 18 never made more than a peep during that wait. And do you think we got a memo from the school about it? That would be a no. In fact when we rushed the kids into their classes thirty minutes late the teachers whom had been informed shrugged it off as no big deal. I think the bigger shock was that parents had actually ridden the school bus with their children.

After dropping them off we decided to explore the surrounding area of their school. It is highly suburban and hilly and we had absolutely no idea where to go but decided getting lost had normally worked in our favor. We stumbled across a small farmers market and sat down for a café and croissant and then headed towards the neighborhoods. After a few times of what seemed like going around in circles we got into an area that was a bit more wooded and dense. Lo and behold we saw the beginning of a trail. Being regular California hikers and having sustained four weeks of pounding on concrete this was a welcome site. We began the trail as I observed the sign telling us we were entering “Le Forêt de Malmaison” my internal translation of forest of the bad house could not be right could it? Rain had been in the forecast for later in the afternoon but the clouds were looking ominous. We stayed on the path veering here and there for about 40 minutes. I was glad I was with Tommy who had an amazing sense of direction and at this point his phone was dead (and I course yup you guessed it I still had no phone). I was relieved when we finally heard the sound of cars and were on our way out, and that I hadn’t seen any scary rundown houses.

Our original plan was to take a cab back into the city, yet I felt with the circumstances of the morning I had not been able to chat with their teachers and see more of the school, so I decided why not go back and surprise them for lunch. Calling the school to make sure this would be alright, I was greeted by a very confused receptionist. I switched over to English but was still given a confused response “and what exactly is your purpose for wanting to visit the school madam?” I racked my brain knowing that the obvious response “um to see my kids” was not going to fly over. I ended up telling her a longer version of how we live in the city and don’t get many opportunities etc. etc. I was told to call back in ten minutes. When I finally got clearance we were nearly at their school. I’m not going to lie when I say it is about as tough to get into as Fort Knox. Here your badge is not just a casual implementation it is absolutely mandatory. Not to make light of a sensitive topic (which realistically is now the world we live in) and to be quite honest the extra security and precautions which might seem excessive put me at ease.

We made it just in time as it was now pouring and we were able to see the kids splashing around the playground with their friends (unaware of our presence) from the inside of a classroom. We met Iyla in the cafeteria for her lunch which was the first session and we were yet again met by more odd looks from adults working in the cafeteria (At this point I felt like we most definitely would be written up in French parenting books). The kids lined up as the cook served them their lunch and then sat down at their assigned tables. Tommy and I sat at a table in the back corner and I was learning pretty quickly that it might not be smart to interrupt this lunch process by requesting to sit with her. The kids sat in their spots and a woman with the look and authority of a trained drill sergeant walked up and down the aisles making sure every child was eating and noone was talking. It was so quiet I could literally hear a pin drop. I held my breath. The kids had to sit still and eat their lunches for 15 minutes (and all fifty third graders did) and then once given permission by sergeant lunchlady could then begin chatting with friends. She was so intimidating that as starving as we were I was too afraid to swipe an apple from the fruit basket. I pictured her swatting my hand away and admonishing me in front of everyone. They also had their playground time before lunch so noone was rushing off to play.  Having heard my kids say one too many times that they had no time to eat their lunch I thought this was a brilliant move.  Just before leaving the cafeteria Iyla’s teacher (a very likable and friendly Irish man) walked in and congratulated the kids for their behavior and ended with a “Bon Appétit children” of which they all responded “Merci, Mr. McGregor“. Then spotting us he came over and said “Wow it’s a first! Parents in the cafeteria!” He was very friendly and jokingly offered us champagne but the message was loud and clear that parents didn’t hang out at this school.

All of these experiences took me back to something I had read that had struck me at the time and that summarized French parenting pretty concisely:  “we consider our children to be small people, but they are not equal to an adult. They need authority, they need rules and they need to be kept in line. In France we see authority as a form of affection and believe that a child blossoms because of, not in spite of, that authority. “ So there you have it, and generally speaking it looks as if it works well for them in terms of respect, behavior, independence and politeness of children. The long term effect I cannot speak to. Interesting enough we are at an international school (and from what I’ve heard one of the more open-minded ones). I can hardly imagine what the inside of a real French school looks like (but I’ve heard stories) and this might be why the school we are at has had a high increase of French children.

The kids are becoming more comfortable and confident in their new surroundings. I can give them money and simple tasks to buy a bottle of water or baguette or go ahead to the playground without them being fearful of not being able to speak the language or any other notions of unfamiliarity that might dissuade them. They begged for scooters from day one upon noticing immediately how all the kids out here have them, and they now happily ride ahead of us knowing the route to the Jardin du Luxembourg. I took them for their first crêpes (I know it’s been a month but we did a lot of ice cream to start) and after having them order en Francais, I got a nod of approval from the crêperie man.  Which in France is as close to a compliment as you are going to get. And at the end of the day it’s those small redeeming gestures that make you realize you might just be an okay parent.

 

It’s hard to believe it has been over three weeks since we touched down at exactly 11:11 on European soil. This was brought to my attention by our kids who are fascinated by repeating numerical sequence times (are they weird or do other kids also find this amazing?) and shortly after by a ping from our new landlord, whom had been tracking our flight, saying “11:11 landed! It’s a good sign“. I was feeling a sense of relief and glad we had arrived without too many bumps on the road despite the normal anxiety of fearing delays and missed connections. Sitting on the tarmac, I was shaken to reality by my nice thoughts, when Cash said “mom I don’t feel so well”. Let me tell you as a mother you never want to hear those words but you especially don’t want to hear them on the airplane.  Iyla decided to keep the score even and followed suit 24 hours later making our first two days in Paris interesting to say the least.

By the second afternoon everyone was feeling better and it was a gorgeous afternoon. We strolled from our hotel to the Jardin des Tuileries and found a nice spot to bask in the sun. The kids ran around and I could see the color returning in both of their faces.  I didn’t even let their conversation of comparing who had puked the most bother me (they were bonding after all). We walked quite a bit and ended the day at a neighborhood playground where we watched (what must have been the neighborhood crazy man-or one of many) as he went around to the kids giving them high fives. I watched all the French families laugh and allow their children to interact with him while they sat unconcerned on benches. I spotted a woman in the middle of the playground hovering over her daughter protectively and before I could even guess where she might come from she said out loud and to no one in particular “doesn’t anyone realize this man is totally crazy???” Before she could make eye contact with me I turned and watched him walk away in his corduroy pants, blazer and leather loafers and thought even the transients in Paris are stylish.

The next day still jet-lagged and feeling like zombies we somehow found ourselves on a sailboat in the Baltic. It was rainy and cold and I couldn’t help but initially think to myself, we could have been in the Mediterranean, but atlas the weather turned and ended up being very picturesque for the rest of our stay. Having not spent much time on boats at all, sailing in the open seas was an experience hard to put into words. The beauty and peace and tranquillity were unparalleled. I had no phone, no agenda and no mindless errands to busy myself with. I was able to read two long books (a major luxury) and the kids kept themselves entertained (sans electronics) with their friends and very rarely seemed bored (even Cash who was one of three girls). Our times at our stops, including Copenhagen, Stockholm and some small islands in the archipelago and fishing villages, were filled with lots of exploratory bike riding, and stops to visit the local museums, parks and sites. Our host Erck was a fabulous story teller and lover of history and kept us amused with fascinating tidbits wherever we went. Cristina was so sweet and amazed me how at any given time she could whip together a beautiful italian meal. She taught me how to make a delicious tiramisu that kept us all up (note to myself if I ever attempt this to use decaf espresso) and I never got tired of hearing their children alternate between German, Italian and English without missing a beat. Northern Europe had not been high on my radar in the past but it proved to be amazingly beautiful, lively, cultured and filled with very sweet people.

Ten days later we were off the boat and ready to head back to Paris to get our new life started.  A bit over a week later now and I can tell you we are counting our blessings with how lucky we got doing everything sight unseen. We could not be happier with our charming Parisian apartment and the wonderful neighborhood it is in. We sit on our little balcony morning and night and have observed the transition over the past few days from the city being on  “les grandes vacances” to the full force of “la rentrée”. Our days have been filled with exploring all of the city and its wonders but it always feels like returning to a little village when we come back home. We already have our neighborhood favorites and the beginning relationships with shopkeepers and workers- from the darling girl at our local boulangerie whom we buy a baguette from daily-sometimes twice (for one euro!) to an amazing home made greek take-out place, to cafés, boucheries, poisonneries and so much more. This is not even mentioning La Grande Epicerie a foodies paradise with food so pretty you feel bad eating it (well not that bad)   Tommy and I have already spent quite a bit of time at the fromagerie counter where the sweet lady at the counter (fromgerienne?) now recognizes us and is, to our delight, very generous with samples.

In between our sight-seeing we ran around getting the kids ready for school. Innocuous items like water bottles and children’s sneakers were more difficult than I thought to find. I think its safe to say one of the conveniences of being in the states is having everything at your fingertips online. While you can order everything online here as well you better cross your fingers that it will get to you. I found this out quickly as I had pre-ordered their P.E. uniforms (and paid for expedited shipping) while in Stockholm and they were supposed to arrive on a Wednesday.. well Wednesday passed and then Thursday. By Friday I ran into our guardian (building keeper) a friendly guy named Jean-Marc who speaks very little English. When questioning him about this (in not so great French) his response was “c’est la France!” with an exasperated smile.  When calling the sender got me nowhere, defeated, I just prayed it would somehow show up. Well it did eventually (and six days late). I’ve since learned this is a phenomenon here and in the city people just deal with it or try and make sure they are around the day they have a delivery. I’ll chalk it up to a “wtf” (what the france) moment.

Having been without cell phone for a couple weeks (which in it’s own way was very liberating) I had decided it was time to get my international number. Silly me for thinking it might be as easy as walking in the local phone store and getting a new SIM card. Turns out in France you need a French bank account to have a phone plan. So back to square one. Walking in and out of several banks our consensus was that unlike in America the banks were not that eager to take our money. First we needed the paper-work, then we needed our lease and other documents, then after all that and getting clearance we had to make an appointment. Some banks couldn’t even pencil us in for weeks! We finally found one that seemed the least intrusive as far as requirements and made an appointment a couple days ago. My plan was to head over to the phone store immediately after seeing that now not having a phone was becoming slightly inconvenient. We had managed like the old days setting up meeting times and places but now with kids in school a local number was trés important. Well “wtf” moment number two came during the meeting when we were told that in order for our French bank account to be official we would have to wait (at the minimum) another week to receive a letter in the mail and at that time could fill out more forms and come back in for a second meeting. Bottom line, I still don’t have a phone and not sure if I ever will. Thank God, I love it here so much I can tolerate these nuances.

One of the many things I do love is that retail is booming here and you don’t see anywhere near the empty store fronts we have become accustomed to in the states-most victims to online competition. People are actually out here shopping and it’s glorious. Store front window displays are incredibly ornate and beautiful and it’s no wonder why the french phrase for window shopping is “lèche-vitrine” which literally means to lick the windows. Feeling inspired one day and tired of of wearing the same three outfits, I put a dress on and some black dress flats to go run some errands. Ok. Last “wtf”. I still can’t figure out how woman can wear flats (and I’m not even going to try to understand heels) around the city. After four blocks I felt the signs of the first blister coming on but ignored.  By the time I made it into La Grande Epicerie I was grimacing and my heels were looking unsightly. I felt every French woman’s eyes on me with what might have been pity but was probably more horror, as I limped around the aisles. At this point I abandoned my original grocery list and decided to just get the big dessert I had promised the kids (for killing them that day on a walk to Sacré-Coeur and back in sweltering heat). I went a bit overboard, partly trying to cheer myself up and also the selection was extraordinary. After ogling everything for a bit, I ended up with some artisinal ice cream that came in the most lovely white silk wrapped bag, macarons and an assortment of delicate pastries and cakes, I paid my forty euros and hobbled home.

The kids have now finished their first week of school. The transitions was mostly seamless despite the normal disruptions that occur every year from the lazy days of summer to the hustle and bustle of the school year. Iyla skipped home everyday happily telling us about all of her new friends and the countries they come from and languages they speak (the school is largely international). Cash who had been especially exhausted and admitted to even falling asleep a few times on the bus ride was more nonchalant in his response. We had witnessed in him the first signs of homesickness. Coming home one day and going straight to his room and shutting the door, broke my heart a bit. Of course we wanted his enthusiasm to be on par with his sisters but right now I surmised he just needed space, time and understanding. As I began to make dinner the doorbell rang. The kids both peeked their heads out with wonder–and then as if someone from the heavens had been looking down on us, we opened it up to find four sweet children from our building looking to see if Cash and Iyla could play in the courtyard with them. It just might have been the highlight of the week. They ended up playing for two hours with them, tag, hide and seek and lots of laughing. Our dinner sat and got cold but I let it go, I knew they needed this. When Cash walked in the door at 8:30pm his smile said it all. We were all going to be okay.

The Paris Year was born 10 years ago on the streets of New York. The conception process had in actuality been years in the making and had involved visions of Italy and other exotic locales, until I settled for more practical purposes on New York City in the summer of 2002. With a one way ticket, a samsonite suitcase (which I still can’t seem to part with) and a place to actually live (secured two days before I left) I felt as prepared as I ever would be. I didn’t know a soul in the city, I didn’t have a job but I had a burning desire. I still believe that’s all you really need to do anything. I had your textbook experience my first few weeks from the gypsy taxi driver ride in, to my cockroach infested walk-up under the Queensboro Bridge in which I had only enough money to live in for two months. But I digress. Those are other past stories and maybe one day I will write about.

Flashing forward to 2007 my fifth year in the City and I proudly considered myself a through and through New Yorker. In some ways I feel like I had grown up in the City. It had taught me so much and I loved it dearly. Yet I was exhausted. Tommy had ended up moving to New York unexpectedly a few months after I did. Our courtship taking place over the years in what will always be my fondest memories. Yet here we found ourselves in the spring that year the air heavy with change. Him at a company that had been dwindling down to its last pennies- an end bittersweet but inevitable, myself at a thankless job as a corporate legal assistant that served to pay the bills, but offered nothing in return with the exception of the almost regular abuse from asshole attorneys. After one particularly trying day, in which my boss at the time had thrown a tuna sandwich at me (I had no idea he had such an aversion to pickles) Tommy watched me come home slam the door and take two shots of vodka. It was time. Not even springtime in New York could help.

SO we did what a lot of other unemployed dreamers might do. We decided to travel. Tommy had made some amazing connections in his job in investor relations for a biotech company. Even angel investors who had lost their shirts stayed friendly. We were offered by one such angel of a man to stay in his flat in Paris. You didn’t need to ask twice. I had been to Paris on three separate shorter trips before, and each time had become more and more enamored.

The three weeks we stayed in Paris sealed the deal. Well for me. In so many ways it was not what we expected. The flat ended up being tiny maids quarters in the attic of the main apartment, it rained 19 out of the 21 days, we both got hit by massive allergy attacks due to a foreign tree being in rare bloom, neither of us spoke any French, which  was decidedly frustrating especially as communicative New Yorkers. And on top of that we both felt the pressure of being unemployed, what our future held and the overall reality of life looming over us. In spite of all this I loved every rain-drenched minute. Even the sad ones. It felt good to just be there. Like Paris understood. And here I apologize because I know I risk sounding like so many other stereotypical Francophils experiencing this phenomenon. I loved being away from the skyscrapers and bustle of New York. Paris is no sleepy city but there was a calmness an openness. I could breathe.

We got a break the last few days of our trip and we were invited to stay in the main apartment. Oh how breathtaking it was- situated on the corner of Avenue Montaigne and George V with sweeping floor to ceiling french doors that commanded such a magnificent view of La Tour Eiffel that one would think it might have been constructed to be perfectly centered for our interior viewing pleasures.  The maids in true French form lovingly did all of our laundry ironed to perfection and Tommy’s dress shirts starched unlike anything we’ve ever seen since. He was feeling the groove of Paris too, but when it came time he happily boarded the plane to get down to the French Riviera-completing the last leg of the trip.

When we returned to Manhattan the city was experiencing its first heat wave of the summer and it stunk. How had I never noticed how filthy it was? The trash piled up on the streets, the rats which seemed to be everywhere (yet I could have sworn having never seen one my first few years) And the rush. The mad rush. Noone sat leisurely. Everyone had somewhere to be, somewhere to go. Had that been me? New York is a lot of things but it does not take kindly to the unemployed. Meanwhile we were at a standstill. Do we leave New York? Look for jobs? Go back to California?

So it was there one late saturday morning walking back from our favorite brunch spot in Hells Kitchen (which looked especially Hellish that day) that I proposed the idea. How about Paris? I might as well have told Tommy we should fly to the moon. His look said it all. I remember him even laughing at the absurdity of the notion or joke of it all. Yet I wasn’t kidding. And so that day began many talks, discussions, conversations on the subject. I would be lying if I said none were heated. But I knew how far to push. Nothing was growing from it but the seed was planted.

Now we find ourselves married, two kids later and back in Santa Barbara. With the exception of a couple of years during the baby phase (knee-deep in diapers and sleepless nights) I have not let up on Paris. In 2015 I made a hard push for the move but atlas it was not in the cards. I did get a consolation prize of an amazing trip for our anniversary. It was my first time back in nine years. I knew while there that this dream was not out of my system. Much like I found myself many years ago during that one spring in New York, the fall of 2016 had a similar change in the air. From our countries political climate being especially precarious (to say the least), to our children, whose childhood suddenly seemed to be moving at warp speed, and all the while I could feel our roots getting deeper imbedded into the soils of life. And wasn’t that good? Hadn’t I learned in all those years of yoga to stay rooted? Groundedness was good. But flying even better I reasoned. In the end it was destined, as they say the stars and planets in the Universe lining up. I knew in my heart this had to be the year. Reflecting, I realized that I had had such an array of wide-ranging experiences in Paris-from the investors incredible apartment, to the hostel life in college, to low-budget hotels in questionable neighborhoods to indulging on our anniversary trip at the classically revered Le Meurice. All so unique and all so memorable. From living on baguettes and cheap wine to dining at the most amazing restaurants ever, I have loved the totality of it all and so happy to have seen it in all its glory and grayness.

By February 2017 Tommy finally agreed, after about six months of information, explanations, spreadsheets in which I presented him. Once he conceded he got on board fairly quickly. It’s been a whirlwind of a year and most of it spent preparing for this move. Now we find ourselves approximately a week out from the dream. Well my dream that has now become the families dream. Even with all of its emotions I have enjoyed the journey that has brought us to this point. Our family adventure. Our Paris Year.

“Fais de ta vie un rêve, et d’un rêve, une réalité.” Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Make your life a dream, and a dream, a reality