Home is where the cheese is?

So here we are, January 27 and back in Paris. Japan was an amazing trip filled with the fast-paced energy of Tokyo, the calm of two different Ryokans (traditional Japanese Inns) and then the zen of Kyoto's temples and mountains.

Coming home to France didn't feel like I was coming home. I was leaving one country where I felt like a total foreigner and coming back to a country where I still feel like a foreigner. Thinking about arriving in France didn't have the same comforting feeling as if I was heading back to New York. Home is where the heart is? Not for right now...

While Twitter surfing, I found this note that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote to his daughter, Scottie when she was 11 years old. The letter, in list form, talked about worries and things to think about.

Things to worry about: 
Courage, cleanliness, efficiency, horsemanship

Things not to worry about: 
Popular opinion, dolls, the past, the future, about growing up, about anybody getting ahead of you, triumph, failure (unless it's your own fault), mosquitoes, flies, insects in general, parents, boys, disappointments, pleasures, satisfactions

Things to think about:
Scholarship.
Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it? *

Now while I'm not worried about insects, dolls, my parents or boys and Scott & Zelda should have taken their own advice about making their bodies useful instruments, I think the three simple things to think about are a good guiding principle for my Paris life in 2012. During the trip, I use the quiet time to think about the last five months in Paris and how I want to live the next five plus.

Scholarship ---> Get a job. 
I stopped working at the end of July and I'm ready to go back. Having unlimited time is wonderful but as I've mentioned before, sometimes having too much time is more overwhelming. There are so many things that I want to do that I don't know where to begin. I didn't work as hard as I did in New York to just come here and not continue my career. I believe that I still have more to add to the silly world of advertising and am too young to be a Lady of Leisure for much longer.

Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them? ---> Improve my French. 
The bane of my existence. The French language. But you know what? It's my own fault. I don't study as much as I should. I don't practice the 200 flashcards I made. My Rosetta Stone headphones are in some box down in our cave and I hate going to cave, so they'll probably stay there. I'm only signed up for one more month of lessons and am not sure if I'm going to sign up for more. But the only way that I will understand people and people will understand me is if I do make more of an effort. I know this is something I will continue to struggle with for a very long time.

Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it? ---> Get back on track. 
We're finally joining a gym this weekend and I'm changing my routine to make running and such a priority. Pre-Paris, pre-moving, pre-wedding running and fitness were two of the most important aspects of my life as was eating healthier. So February is running, gym and no cheese, white bread or meat but an overload on whole grains and vegetables. I'm sure I'll be able to tell a few tales as I explore the co-op/organic stores this weekend trying to find a few key things for the Lancelot French Detox to start on February 1.

So now it's off to run, buy a juicer at Darty and have lunch over my 601 French Verbs book.

And stay tuned for fun details about Japan. Those are coming, I just had to get this off my chest first!

Bon week-end!



*http://www.listsofnote.com/2012/01/things-to-worry-about.html

Métro Monday: Tokyo

While this is not about Paris I thought I would share a few metro pics of Tokyo. My observations so far being the system is expansive but easy to navigate, people are very orderly moving from train to train keeping left at all times and walking up and down the correct sides of stairs and escalators. And this metro makes Paris' look dirty (and NY look like a third-world country). And being the obvious foreigner - no one stares. Which is refreshing after four months in France.

The Lancelots head to Japan!

That's me at six years old with a very dear childhood friend in our Halloween costumes. To this day my kimono, which also came with a cool paper umbrella, is still the best costume I've ever had. Paired with pink, shiny dance tights and white slip-on Keds, we were ready for trick-or-treating!

Ever since I saw Big Bird In Japan as a kid, I was pretty obsessed with all things Japanese. What Would Sharzie Do raised me macrobiotic until I was five so I was full of seaweeds, miso, tofu and brown rice most of the time, which are big staples of a Japanese diet. She'd buy these tasty rice crackers covered in tamari and sesame seeds. She also packed homemade veggie nori rolls for my school lunches. Imagine if the girl next to you in the school cafeteria whipped out nori rolls in 1990!

Since Sir Lancelot is in Asia for business, I'm flying out tomorrow to meet him in Tokyo for a ten day tour of Japan where we'll spend five days in Tokyo, two days at a traditional Ryokan and then the rest of the time in Kyoto. I've been reading non-stop and am so excited to explore and experience this new culture - that everyone says is like a different world.

I'll miss you Paris (a little bit) and who knows maybe after ten days in Japan, French will seem easy??!

Tales of the Lancelot tree and homepants continued...

I let you all know about how we offended the French in Monoprix with our sporty outfits. I have yet to head out there in my unitard (just wait people... I'm waiting for nicer weather so at least the outfit makes more sense).

Clearly we didn't have enough fun because before I headed back to the States last week, we did it again.

This time taking out our Christmas tree.

Like most women I know, I've found a way to get out of this task my entire life. As a child, well I was a child and the tree heavy lifting is dad's job. During my in-between years, I didn't have a tree or missed the breakdown since I was back at school. And so far during my Lancelot years, the man's duty continued until this year.

One difference was the tree. As I mentioned when Chez Lancelot was festive Parisian trees do not "need" water. But my prediction was right. By December 20 we had a drooping tree that was dry as a bone. If you touched it 50 needles would fall off. The leaning tree of Paris. For the ridiculous amount of money we paid we were not impressed with our fancy Russian tree. Not too impressive for our NYE dinner party - the tree looked drunk.

The tree people kindly gave us a large plastic bag so the tree wouldn't shed the last three needles it had left while carrying it out of the building. Imagine putting a too small plastic bag on a tree that falls apart when you touch it. Yep. Well, imagine watching someone put a too small plastic bag on a tree that falls apart when he touches it. True to tradition, I quietly wrapped all my ornaments (with the reverse nostalgia of unwrapping them of course). I think it took Sir L about 15 minutes to get the tree sort of wrapped. Sharp branches were piercing through all angles of the bag.

We started to carry the tree and after 2 inches, more of the tree's needles were in the corner of our apartment than actually in the bag. This is why I will lose the real vs. fake tree battle next year.

Next was getting the tree out of the apartment and onto the street. Friends told us that a lot of Parisians just tie their tree with a rope and throw it out their windows. I now understand why.

Here's where our neighbors come in again. I guess we made a good impression on them at their little party because while Sir L and I are debating whether or not the tree can fit into the elevator, who pops his head out the door but my best friend, Mr. Communication.

And to make matters worse, what are we dressed in? I bet you can guess.

Sir L in homepants that are about 100 years old sans boxers and Lady L in a t-shirt sans bra. We really know how to win the building over with nipples and butt cracks. Ugh. When will we learn? THIS ISN'T AMERICA. BUTT CRACKS ARE NOT ACCEPTABLE HERE!

Mr. Comm: "Oh, looks like you have your work cut out for you with that tree."

Sir L: "What should we do - what do people normally do"?

Mr. Comm: Silence. Shrug. Silence.  "Are you free Friday - we're having a classical concert at our apartment." (who are these people??)

What I wanted to say back was, "Yes, we'd love to come to your classical concert with your weird friends - but only if we get to wear these exact outfits."

As we made our way down the steps, I predicted a run-in with the rest of the building. Which is exactly what happened. As if carrying the tree without losing his pants wasn't difficult enough for Sir L... he had to face everyone half-naked.

The guardienne was there, her husband and the building mascot (who is actually a super-Catholic lawyer that lives on the first floor). He's the man that snooped around our apartment one day after moving-in, inquired about Sir L's clients, asked if we were married and upon our response said, "Oh! The building needs a baby!"

Seeing that the two of us could not handle getting the tree out of the two front doors, all three of them proceeded to help us. Very sweet but also just too much considering our lack of attire. Five people, two in the nude pushing a sharp tree out the door. Leaving a pile of needles in the foyer of the building. Thank goodness I'd already given the guardienne her Christmas card (which is code for money).

The tree landed on the street - plastic bag intact. Done. Finished.

Until next year.

*Top Photo by E. Gueyffier

My blog can't speak French either...

So while home in Pittsburgh after a dinner with family, I was spending some quality time catching up on my favorite Paris expat blogs and began writing a new post when something dawned on me...

The graphic of my header was grammatically incorrect!

Oops. I really can't speak French. Or write French. Or DIY-header in French. Ugh. How mortifying. No wonder no one reads this thing but my mom and her co-workers.

Sir Lancelot didn't even catch my masculine/feminine error. Un homme should be just that. Not UNE homme.

In my defense, he helped me with my homework once and a lot of the answers were wrong.

In his defense, it's his first language until seven years old and grammar in your native tongue is difficult. I never did too well with transitive verbs and such.

In my defense, the title of the blog within blog spot was correct. But I think I had one too many glasses of Sancerre back in September while being creative with my lack of art-direction skills.

In his defense, he reads my blog in between meetings on an iphone.

In my defense.... um. There is nothing left. I work in advertising and this is a JUNIOR error (like that time I put the wrong phone number in the print ad...it happens to the best of us).

Anyways, it's fixed now and will go through a few more transformations until I "perfect" it. Hah.

The moment of discovery was the cherry on top of a fantastic few months of French language trauma.

To anyone who DID notice my little (big) mistake - thanks for not calling me out. I promise to do better in 2012.

Paris Métro Monday: Assemblée Nationale

On the days I have French class, I have about a 40 minute underground commute on Line 3 and Line 12. The first métro station on Line 12 after crossing the Seine from Rive Droit to Rive Gauche is Assemblée Nationale.

This station is one of the most interesting because there is absolutely no advertising, which on any other stop is very common. It's a refreshing stop full of primary color visuals instead of ads (says me who does advertising for a living). It's also the "bright" reminder that I've crossed the Seine and am only about six stops away from French class.

What I really loved was that in mid-December, that all of sudden one day the walls were stripped. First one side, then the other to where both looked like a machete came through and tore the place up. Then just as quickly as the walls were torn, they were painted again. I do not have any photos of the walls before they were repainted and can't really tell if it's the same painting or not.

My instinct tells me that the colors are bit darker this time with less white. Not sure.

For people who have lived in Paris for a long time - what's the story with this stop? How often do they repaint it? Which walls do you like better? Painted or torn?

Back in Pittsburgh: To Gandy

"Here's to the girl with the little red shoes. She spends all your money and drinks all your booze. Then she goes to her mother to snooze. Isn't she mean"?

After a ten year battle with Alzheimer's, my Gandy passed away on Monday and I was fortunate enough to fly home to Pittsburgh to be with my Grandad and family. 

As the amazing qualities of my Gandy had disappeared long before this week, I'm approaching this as a celebration of the woman she was.

She loved to dance - especially the jitterbug and was really good at it.

She loved high heels and was perfectly put together from head-to-toe.

She baked excellent cherry pies and I still dream about her spaghetti sauce.

She worked at a library and would save American Girl posters for me and bring home wonderful books.

She loved to entertain and threw amazing dinner parties. So much of how I entertain is because what I learned from her. 

She had the biggest blue eyes and a contagious laugh. 

Her and my Grandad, married 65 years, had a true love story and a partnership that Sir Lancelot and I admire. 

While she didn't know Sir L and could not come to our wedding and had no concept that we live in Paris - so much of her is with me in my life. I wear her rhinestone necklace and fur out to special dinners and we drink champagne out of her vintage glasses. I think of her each time I try something new in the kitchen - although I will never bake like her! 

One of the most special being the toast above, which she repeated all the time and something I always toast at dinners with friends and family. 

It's these special things that will always have her be a part of our life in Paris. 

Lancelot sportifs and Monoprix Embarrassment

I think we've gone too far.

Our habit of running and then running errands for hours afterwards has officially offended the French.

It's not that I don't want to look my best while shopping for humidifiers or potatoes or new pillows, it's just so much easier to get out of the house and stay out of the house while completing annoying but necessary tasks.

In our previous New York life, sometimes we'd have entire days of prancing around Manhattan in our running clothes. And depending on the time of year those range from spandex tights to short shorts - remember I'm married to a European.

We've tried it here and about an hour or so after our actual workout, we start to really feel like outsiders.

For example, the Boulevard Raspail Organic Market: We like to go here on Sundays. The variety of produce, meats, cheese is fantastic - especially since everything is organic. Imagine Whole Foods - just outside and without a never ending beverage selection and of course no one respecting the idea of waiting in line. Aside from those setbacks, the market is pretty fantastic and when spring arrives, I plan to share in more detail.

Point being, we like to go here on Sundays, but like to run to the market since we live in the 17th and the market is in the 6th (and in Paris the two aren't that close). It ends up being a beautiful 40 minute route across the Seine with the Eiffel Tower and Grand Palais in view as we jog deeper into the St. Germain area. I carry our reusable bags and everyone's happy.

That is until we're done shopping and Sir Lancelot is hungry and we're very far from home. A few weeks ago we decided to stop at one of the many cafes along Boulevard St. Germain for brunch - it didn't happen. After scanning the outside areas of many cafes, we looked at each other in our trendy but every so silly looking running clothes and just felt downright out of place.

After that moment, we've kept our 'running clothes errand time' to a minimum BUT with last week's holiday, we were pretty lazy and got out the door late - so time was of major importance!

Yesterday was the final straw. The French are over our outfits.

Or at least an old French woman shopping with her friend in the Monoprix is.

I never would have known if it wasn't for Sir Lancelot overhearing her discussion with her friend.

"Blah blah blah, something rude in French..."

That's French for: "Look at those two slobs who come here in their training outfits. They can't even get dressed. What pieces of shit, crap, losers."

Next time I'm going to wear a unitard complete with camel toe and then we'll see which one she likes better.

Paris Métro Monday: Cité

When I studied abroad in 2005 I was very lucky to travel to many different cities and being a student, metros and trains were the best way to travel - no matter what. I really enjoyed experiencing the various metros through Europe and to this day find underground systems fascinating.

Now living in a city with one of the best métros in the world, I love when I'm able to see a new station. Last week I walked through the Cité metro stop on Line 4 where I was meeting Sir Lancelot for a a concert of Vivaldi's Four Seasons at Le Sainte-Chapelle.

The globe lights are what struck me as unique about this station and reminded me of a brasserie. Add a few tables and chairs, a dashing waiter, music and rosé and you have yourself a great concept restaurant. Keith McNally ---- this might be your new one (Gasp! What would the cuisine be? Maybe a French brasserie?)

The Paris métro was built quickly which always amazes me. This stop opened in 1910 and is part of the line that goes underneath the Seine and the Cité stop is located on the Îl de la Cité, one of the two islands between the Rive Droit and Rive Gauche (right and left banks).

New Year's Eve or Happy New Year!

Sir Lancelot worked late the week before Christmas so I took the opportunity to go see a movie. I love going to the movies but always have a hard time getting there. Either I can't work it into plans or the two of us make plans and instead of one drink and the movies our evening becomes three drinks and dinner.

As part of my French education, I try to go see one French movie per week with zero English. But this time with the holidays coming, I decided to treat myself and opted for the quality American movie: New Year's Eve or as it has been renamed for France: Happy New Year! 

Like its award-winning sister movie, Valentine's Day, the premise is the same. A cast of 30 well-known celebs involved in a host of different vignettes that may or may not intertwine. 

It was pretty bad. I left feeling pretty much the same as when I walked in: damp and ready for 2011 to be over. 

- I think the French translation is funny. New Year's Eve to Happy New Year! I was told by my friend's French husband that it's because there is no proper way to translate "eve." 

- Sarah Jessica Parker must have in her contract to always have a cameo wearing expensive and really high heels and an over-the-top designer dress. I mean honestly, let the Carrie Bradshaw character go already! She was an aspirational character ten years ago and the well-known squeal is not believable at almost-50. 

- I couldn't even recognize Michelle Pheiffer. The entire time I just thought it was a mixture of Sally Fields (with a lot of work) and the Miss Geist character out of Clueless.

- Katherine Heigl should not wear clingy, spandex silver dresses from American Apparel.

- Like Gossip Girl, it always only takes people 5 minutes to get anywhere in NYC. This includes between boroughs. If only...

- There were a few funny NYC & taxi jokes (how many times have I only taken pedi-cabs during holidays because there are not taxis!) where I was the only one in the theatre who laughed. 

-Robert De Niro made me cry. 

I'm sure most people in America didn't go see this gem but I'd say it's worth watching on a plane. 

Happy 2012!