Paris vs NYC: The Winner!

Last week, I participated in a Blog Hop and part of the event was to do a giveaway. My giveaway is the entertaining, graphic comparison of Paris vs. New York. Along with discovering a lot of new and interesting blogs, I also discovered that most people like Paris better than New York.

And the winner is...

Vanessa from Life on La Lune !!! When Vanessa visited New York, she loved it but also loves Paris too. Of course I completely understand her love for both.

Vanessa, send me an email with your address and I'll send the book to you!

Hanging out in the south with my French mom

As I mentioned in my recent Weekend Round Up, I headed to the south of France on Sunday for a few days with my friend's boyfriend's parents. And it turned out to be a lovely trip hanging out with my new French mom.

Being an only child I have always been really close to my mom - especially when she went through the divorce with my dad and it was just the two of us for awhile. So I was pleasantly surprised when I saw that my time spent with Ally was just like being with my mom.

Instead of going to my mom's morning yoga class, I went to Ally's pilates class. And of course, I as usual was extremely stiff.

Instead of Starbucks afterwards with the local women from my town, we went to the local café for café crèmes with the expat Anglo ladies.

Instead of long walks through the hills of my town outside of Pittsburgh overlooking the Ohio River, we took a gorgeous walk throughout the hills of the vineyards of Castelnou overlooking the Languedoc-Roussillon region admiring all the new spring flowers. I saw Pine Nut trees, almond trees, pomegranate trees and olive trees. All stunning.

Instead of walking along the beaches of New Jersey or North Carolina, Ally and I took a long walk along the Cap d'Agde beach, taking in the early spring sunshine and last remnants of the winter winds.

Instead of sautéed greens with my mom's homemade "special sauce,", we enjoyed a fresh big salad with Ally's delicious mustard and walnut oil vinaigrette. I made sure to bring home the recipe.

Instead of sitting next to my parents while they watch the CBS Evening News, 60 Minutes or The Daily Show, Ally read in the Sunday Times (yes, she actually looked in the paper to see what was on TV! So sweet! When was that last time you've done that?) that there was a documentary film on the BBC. I can't remember the last time I watched a Sunday night movie on TV.

All of the older building have amazing courtyards that
 make you think you're stepping into the set for Romeo & Juliet!

One of four colors that residents of Pézenas are able to paint their windows.
I love this green pistachio!

Town of Pézenas 

Pézenas town square

It was calm, sweet and comforting. Aside from the fact that getting away from Paris and being in nature and near the sea was a real treat, it felt nice to be in a family setting that felt so familiar and welcoming.

Ally even waited with me for my train back to the Gare de Lyon station and made sure I would be taking a taxi since the train was getting in late.

While I know Sharzie is back in Pittsburgh just as concerned, there is something nice about knowing I have someone only a few hours away that is willing to help whenever.

Because sometimes you really just need a mom.

Expat Blog Hop: Paris vs NYC

Hello from Lady Lancelot on location in Agde!

Today is my first expat blog hop brought to my attention by my friend and fellow blogger, Mary Kay.

Here's what happens:
1. I tell you something about me
2. There's something in it for you
3. You get to discover new blogs that are also participating (and see what fun treats they are giving away!)

#1. I tell you something about me & expat life...

Paris vs NYC? I honestly can't answer that question yet. You all know how much I loved living in New York and sometimes my heart aches to go back to the City That Never Sleeps. But then there are days where I'm walking around Paris, exploring something new or doing a repetitive errand that just keeps getting easier each time, when I look around and just can't get over how beautiful Paris truly is.

So far we've been here for almost nine months and the biggest thing I've learned so far about expat life is that remembering that things aren't meant to be perfect and that it takes a long time to feel comfortable somewhere - especially when you know you're going to be there for awhile. So if you're considering a big move sometime soon or if you've just done one, take a deep breath and know that with time, the difficult things will soon seem easy. 

#2: There's something in it for you...

Do you like Paris? Do you like New York? As much as I do?

Have you seen this awesome book based off the Paris vs New York blog?

Do you want it? 

Here's what you have to do: 

1. Follow my blog (if you don't already)

2. Follow me on Twitter (if you don't already)

3. Leave a comment telling me Are you Paris or New York? Or both? And why?!

4. Don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! 

The giveaway ends on Friday at 5pm. 

PS: I'll ship the book to the USA as well (the forward is in French)

#3. You get to discover a few new blogs! 

Weekend Round Up

It was a good April weekend.

*Sir Lancelot, The Kooples and I tried Brasserie le Thoumieux, a restaurant in the 7th: As usual, I was more enamored with the starters than the meal.

*We went to a sketchy karaoke bar. Of course I sang Madonna and the Spice Girls and serenaded Sir L to Jewel's, "You Were Meant For Me." He wasn't impressed. In fact he told me that I go into a "weird zone" when I listen to or sing Madonna. I'm second guessing whether he should come with me to her Paris show on July 14. The night ended with margaritas and dancing late into the night at Silencio. This time we didn't get mugged.

*Saturday we slept in, did the market and I bought a variety of Paris-themed books at WH Smith. It's staying light out now until almost 9pm so Sir L and I shared a bottle of champagne in le salon and admired our terrace plants in the dusk dimness. I made chili and we watched Shame. Don't watch Shame. It's weird and depressing.

*This morning I took an early train to a town not far from Montepellier called Agde. Why? Well because the parents of my bestie Bannie's boyfriend, J-Dawg, live here. They're Irish but his dad always worked in France and the States and now that they're retired, they've settled here. J-Dawg's mom moved to France from Ireland when she was 26. She quit her job, didn't really know French and felt we may have a few things in common. She told Bannie and J-Dawg that I had to come visit them when Sir Lancelot was away on business. So here I am. We went to lunch by the sea, took a long walk on the beach and then I saw their adorable house tucked away into ancient stone walls that are of course way older than America. Sometimes I just sit and laugh about how strange my life is. Think about it: I'm spending a few days with my friend's boyfriend's parents who I'd never met. They're 79 and 65. Luckily parents like me and I like parents - one of the perks of being an only child. 

*The French schools are always on holiday. This week is no exception, which meant the train was packed with moms and their kids. A mom and her six year old were practicing French verb tables. I was about 30 seconds away from asking to join in. Then they played Go-Fish, or some French equivalent. Listening to the numbers, names of the animals and her two kids argue made me realize that maybe I'm now at Kindergarten level of French. 

*The first round of the French elections were today. About a week ago they put up campaign posters. I'm talking one poster per candidate. ONE week ago. Look at them... it's like Photoshop hasn't come to France yet. Well, maybe it actually hasn't. I wouldn't be surprised. 

Top Left: Worker's Party - you'd think she'd take a better photo.
Top Right: Mr. Bruni
Middle: This is ALL the advertising there was in the streets.
Bottom Left: Hollande
Bottom Right: The Eco Party - otherwise known as the woman that came straight out of Harry Potter.

You'd never even know that an election is happening minus the fact that the mairie (neighborhood town hall type places) were a bit more hopping than usual. Cut to America where all we hear about on NPR is the election. All we read about is the election, blah blah blah and we still have how many more months to go? How much money will be wasted on those stupid campaigns? Minus the lack of propaganda craziness here, the election is still a huge deal in France and with the top two winners tonight being Sarkozy and Hollande, it will be very interesting to see who wins out during the final round in two Sundays.

*And finally, Sir Lancelot is at a big meeting at Chateau de Touffou. For those of you that don't know, this is the Chateau where David Ogilvy retired with his wife. Since his passing, she still lets larger summits take place there and during Ogilvy orientation, you see photos and HR tells you all about Touffou to the point where you really want to go but know that it's basically impossible. The entire place seems very magical. Sir L sent me a text tonight to tell me he's staying in David Ogilvy's writing room. The same room where he wrote the famous book, Confessions of an Advertising Man. I told him he better be doing major mobile uploads to Facebook. 

Voleur is French for thief: Part III

I always loved summer thunderstorms. I liked the smell of rain from my third floor bedroom or sitting on my parent's large front porch rocking away to the sound of thunder. Even better was if the electricity would go out for a few hours and we'd be left with nothing but candles and flashlights to guide our way. There was nothing else to do but sit together and wait until the lights came back on. 

Blackouts in France are a bit different and way less romantic. Especially when it's the kind of blackout we had. I returned home recently around 6:45pm to an empty and dark apartment. Not out of the ordinary when no one was home all day but the lights would not switch on. And it was beginning to get dark and Sir Lancelot told me that he would be at work until at least 11pm. Not good for the girl that doesn't speak French. Nothing was working. Not our lamps - nothing. Sometimes if I'm using the dishwasher, washer and dryer at the same time, our fuse will go out, but I knew that I had not left anything running when I left the apartment. In fact, the washer/dryer were completely shut off and not using any power! When I checked out the fuse box, all switches were in place. It was a mystery. 

Blackout mood lighting.

My first thought was that for some reason the monthly payment that is automatically debited each month to EDF had not been taken out. To be honest, I wouldn't have been surprised if EDF or HSBC just stopped the payment; it seems quite French for something like to happen. So I went to check our bank statement online until I remembered that, oh yeah, the internet needs electricity to work! Duh. 

So there was nothing left to do but call Sir L. You can imagine how well that went over. Remember when I got stuck in the metro and wouldn't eat my orange? Yep, he was having one of those days again; you know saving the world. 

So I went down to our guardienne so Lancelot could have a proper conversation about the problem. Her husband came up to help me and did basically the exact thing I did - which was a whole lot of nothing. He did confirm that we were in fact the only apartment in the building with our lights out. In the meantime, this was probably the first time I spoke more French to our guardienne than ever before! More than just the normal Bonjour. 

There was nothing left to do but call EDF and Lancey-poo was not happy. I shuffled through a million papers, using my iPhone as my only light, trying to find EDF's number (I wasn't even sure if they'd still answer their phone at 7:30pm) and our account number. Somehow after trying three numbers and Sir L navigating their horrible website, we got through to someone that confirmed we did in fact pay our electricity bill, but that it was absolutely impossible for him to help us until Lancelot called from the apartment and not at work. Oh boy... that meant he would be bringing his grumpiness home early, to a dark apartment. 

While Lancelot was coming home, the guardienne told me to bring our perishables from our fridge so they could store everything - which was so kind of her but it also involved me spending a lot of time in our lobby, while everyone was coming home from work. That's a little too much visibility for moi. Then the Building Mascot, of course, starts to get involved asking a million questions. My head was starting to spin. 

I will say that with all of the French chatter back and forth, I did fairly well trying to talk to everyone and explain the situation. But it's difficult when everyone speaks so quickly and I'm not used to the way they talk. 

Then in walked another man that I'd seen before who has a really ugly dog with stringy hair. He started asking me questions in French and at this point I was pooped. No more French was going to happen. But guess what?!?! He spoke English! Someone in our building speaks English! I did a quick mental dance, proceeded to tell him what happened and he was so sweet and offered to lend us an extension cord which we could plug into the outlet right outside our front door - to at least have one lamp until the whole problem was solved. So in all four of us (me, the neighbor, his wet, stringy dog and our guardienne (who while is very sweet is a bit plump), went into the elevator that is really not meant for more than two very skinny people up to his apartment on the sixth floor. 

Following French protocol, I stayed right outside his front door but my eyes didn't. I think I made it quite obvious that I wanted to see his place and for good reason. The man had literally built shelves and cabinets into and off  every single wall. He invited me in. I eagerly jumped over the doormat while the guardienne hesitates. "I'm Frank and this is our apartment. I've been here six years and let me give you a tour!" I secretly did a big "yes," Full House style. "Look at this shelf I built here. And I closed up this wall. And come into the second room. This is my office. Do you see? I've built a bed with a closet underneath and shut off that door from the hallway." It was claustrophobic central. I wasn't sure how long I was going to last in this maze of an apartment. Back we went to the hallway as the guardienne became more and more uncomfortable as she didn't know what to do with herself since we were only speaking English. 

Frank continued down the hallway, "And do you see how I've built cubby holes above us? This place had no closets and now we do." Into the bedroom we went, "And here is the new door to the bathroom." Note there are no toilets in the shower/sink rooms in Paris, so basically any guest that uses the loo can't wash their hands without going into Frank's master bedroom. He went on, "What does your husband do? What do you do"? I replied with the normal answer, "Advertising, blah blah blah, New York, blah blah blah," and then asked him what he did. 

"I'm an inventor." Of course he is. 

I then noticed all the lovely photos of his family, "You have such great photos of your kids." Frank smiled, "Ahh yes. I have four sons and four daughters," he said proudly. 

He could see my amazement at this procreation and added, "I've had six wives." Of course he did. 

With that, I took the extension cord, thanked him and promised that Sir L and I would come over for drinks one night - if only for the entertainment value. 

When I returned, Sir L was home lighting a million candles, unhappy and I went out to pick-up thai food while he waited for EDF. The EDF guy, who was wearing a jumpsuit like he came from Lost's  Dharma Initiative (why do they still need to wear these jumpsuits in 2012?), started to inspect our fuse box outside our front door. And guess what he found?

Absolutely nothing. 

Someone had stolen our fuse right out of the box! Apparently this is really common in France for people to just not pay their electric bill and then go around and steal other peoples' fuses! 

As always, with his impeccable timing, Mr. Communication (our next door neighbor), pops his head out and inquires about all the noise. He then proceeds to tell us that he had heard someone outside the door around 2pm but just assumed it was a neighbor or something. So we had a half-witness who was completely unhelpful.

EDF jumpsuit man replaced the fuse, our lights came back on and we ate our thai take-out in light-filled peace. 

The biggest question was with the two "security" doors to get into the building... How on earth did this voleur get into the building in the first place to even steal our fuse?! 

The first thing we knew we had to do the next day, would be to alert the guardienne that someone had stolen our electricity. 

But that's for Part IV.

Here's what else happened with voleurs in other tales: 

Voleur is French for thief: Part I

Voleur is French for thief: Part II

J'adore kale: Part Trois *Kale in Italy and Raw Kale Salad Recipe*

While Sir Lancelot was back in New York for business, my lovely cousin Anais and I traveled to Cinque Terre, Italy for a four day little trip. I have lots of lovely photos to share but wanted to talk about one of the best events of the trip.

We were in day three of our Cinque Terre exploration and had just taken the local train from Monterosso, where we stayed, to Riomaggiore, the fifth of the five towns. Right when we entered the main street of the small town, I spotted a little market and it was like the sky opened up and angels were singing...

Kale in Italy!

I screamed, "KALE," loud enough so that everyone stared at me and immediately bought the two bunches in the basket. The woman in the little shop looked at me strangely because I was wearing a very unattractive but functional purple striped zip-up and was clearly a tourist buying a green vegetable that would die in two days. I also begged for a larger bag since this was 11am in the morning and we had a full day of sightseeing and a three hour hike ahead of us.

Needless to say, I was determined and Anais was a good sport and was supportive of my kale buying. Please, her dad grows the stuff and has it coming out his ears in Florida and Pennsylvania. *Insert plug for my farmer uncle and his awesome produce. If you live in America, go buy Lady Moon Farms!* 

I carried that baby for a three hour hike wearing my ugly purple zip-up.

After taking the romantic walk on Via Del Amore from Riomaggiore to Manarola, we had a wondeful two hour lunch at Tratorria da Billy (highly recommended!) on the top of the town. It was almost near disaster because by the time we walked all the way back down to the bottom again, I realized I left the big bag of kale at the trattoria! I swear it wasn't the bottle of Dolcetto that accompanied our homemade, fresh lobster pasta...

Anais was so supportive of my kale that she encouraged us to walk back to the restaurant where the nice owner had my kale waiting for me - but clearly thought I was crazy that this was going to be my Cinque Terre souvenir.

There is a beautiful Vineyard walk in Manarola, along pastel-colored homes with the quintessential Italian gardens and look what I found there... again the sky opened and angels sang...

Gorgeous gorgeous kale! 

I was about 1 second away from stealing all the leaves off this person's plant to add to my already large bag of leafy green goodness!

Luckily, the kale survived the entire day as well as the following day's 14 hour train journey from Monterosso to Paris. I returned home to a happy Sir Lancelot who was excited for his first raw kale salad in months! Not to mention he brought me some kale surprises from America! It was a true kale party in Chez Lancelot!

So what was the first thing that I did with my kale treasure? I made a raw kale salad. Miam Miam!

I don't know whether it's because everyone from home knows I have a healthy mom or if it's because they read my blog that they know I am obsessed with this vegetable, but I receive about one request a month from people that actually have access to this green on what the heck they should do with it.

I'm not one to go all cooking blog on you but I just have too much love for this leafy green and since I finally have access to it for one day, I present to you the very easy and simple but tasty, Raw Kale Salad. It's nothing I created but one of the dishes I hold nearest and dearest to my heart. 

Step 1: Carefully clean the kale leaves one leaf at a time under cold water. 

Step 2: Cut each leaf horizontally at the point where the kale stem seems to become too thick to easily chew. 

Step 3: Vertically cut the piece with the larger stem on each side of the stem so that you can add the good part of the kale to the top half of each leaf.

Step 4: Put together all of the leafy part of the cut kale and chop into smaller 1/2 inch pieces. 

All you need is a lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper. Since it is spring, I decided to add sliced cherry tomatoes and red/black radish - but this can vary depending on your mood, the season or really anything! 

Step 5: Place the kale in a larger bowl and squeeze one half of the lemon. Add a drizzle of olive oil (start with a tablespoon) and add salt and pepper to taste. You can add more lemon or olive oil later after tasting depending on your preference.

NOW HERE IS THE KEY PART

Step 7: The Kale Massage. 

As my cousin's friend said once, "Who wouldn't want a good kale massage? You must work the kale with your hands and massage in the lemon juice and olive oil. This softens the kale leaves and when it's later in the season and kale is not as young and the leaves more tough, this step is even more crucial. After about a minute or so of your kale massage you can let the salad sit in the fridge or room temperature until the rest of your meal is ready. Or if you're like me, try not to eat the whole thing right away! 

Add whatever additions you like (squash, sweet potato cubes, almonds, parmesan cheese, avocado, etc...) and voilà! 

One year.

Happy anniversary Sir Lancelot. 

Finding a French boyfriend

It's unfortunate how quickly any progress I make in the French language disappears after a short time away. After a ten-day break with my cousin in both Paris and the lovely coast of Cinque Terre, Italy and then being stuck in bed with a sinus infection this week, I've pretty much lost all confidence I had in trying to speak the French language - to anyone. I feel like I can barely ask for a café creme!

I started thinking about all the American women here in France that I either know personally or stalk them through their own blogs and the ones that have learned and speak really good French have French boyfriends. Or had French boyfriends. Or had French boyfriends that turned into French husbands. And while the French whatever-he-is may speak English, most of these women end up only speaking French to this person... which results in, you guessed it: learning French!

Obviously I'm not on the market for a French boyfriend - and after reading so much about the French dating scene (while different than New York's it does not sound much better...), I'm happy that I've moved on from that phase of my life but I've grown a bit jealous about all these lovely ladies that are able to practice and improve their French to the point of fluency!

But wait... I know what you are all thinking... "Lady Lancelot, silly one, you have a husband that while he may not be French, he speaks French! Why don't you two speak French to each other"?

And you know what? You are all right. Why don't we speak French to each other? Well there are many reasons why and the main ones being that by the time Sir Lancelot gets home at night he's exhausted and annoyed with the world (because let's all remember, he thinks he's running it) and for us to continue to have an adult relationship for the two to three hours a day that we see each other, it's counter-productive to attempt communication with my pitiful French. I can only go on about my day or the dinner I made in three, maybe four tenses with limited vocab.

One of my friends said to me that while her husband speaks French, they met speaking English and have only ever spoken English to each other. She finds that her husband takes on a much different tone when he speaks French. I can't really tell if Sir L's tone is much different while speaking French - but it's true that couples who meet speaking one language rarely move on to speaking another language together, so I should not be that hard on myself. But the time is here and the time is now! We're living in Paris! What better way to further my overpriced French lessons than to really try to speak French...

There must be a way that we can make this work or at least begin to integrate French into our daily life.

First off, I've assigned flashcards to different areas/items of our apartment. Perhaps I'll learn new words through osmosis!

Sometimes I really do need a reminder of this word! 

If only we actually had an attic or a basement!

Now I know how to say tweezers, comb, and nail polish remover.
Did I forget anything? If so, let me know!

We only eat in here when we're not illegally watching TV shows in our salle de sejour... 

Another person recently told me about her daughter-in-law who grew up learning five languages! I'm not even sure how that is possible, but she said that this woman's family would speak a different language in each room of the house. I find this to be a very clever idea and have decided that maybe this is the perfect way to begin to incorporate French into our lifestyle.

Who wouldn't want to only speak French in the bathroom (salle de bain) or kitchen (la cuisine) or ooh la la, the bedroom (la chambre)... oh please... all you need to know for that is bonne nuit  (wink, wink).

Bonne nuit!

So while I will never know if having a French boyfriend could have improved my French, I do know that I need to start taking advantage of my bilingual husband.

Bon weekend!

Voleur is French for thief: Part II

I normally don't write about things from the past or that don't deal with our life in Paris and such, but this story is probably one of the weirdest nights ever in NY and shows how I'm well practiced in kicking away scary men with big high heels.

It was a cold February night in 2007 in the great city of New York. And ironically, this incident also has to do with a club - don't judge. I'd been out with two girlfriends. Let's call them Girl A and Girl B. Girl A is a very good friend of mine and was in my wedding. Girl B is a good family friend of Girl A. 

Girl A is one of those people that always knows people or just knows the right way to get into a club with a long line. And I am always the person in the back, poking my head out of the crowd thinking someone might just pull me to the front. Clearly that doesn't work. But this time we were lucky enough to get into the once cool (and in existence) club, Stereo, in Chelsea. 

It was a grand night full of dancing and a surprise guest appearance of Vanilla Ice who took it in his own hands to request "Ice Ice Baby" and sing it from the DJ booth. (Trust me, Stereo didn't hire him to actually be there... he was just there still singing his song from 15 years before...) It was pretty hilarious but the crowd loved it. We were so pumped from the fun we'd had at Stereo that we thought it would be a good idea to head down to Tenjune in the Meatpacking District to continue the night out. Why not go there? It only makes sense after X drinks in the freezing February cold... Sometimes I wonder if I ever actually made it through high-school with my intelligence. 

So we nabbed a taxi and were on our way downtown. About three blocks into the ride, Girl A announced that she wasn't feeling well. The X drinks were kicking-in but not in the good way. We halted the cab, paid and all got out - well more like all fell out of the cab...the bruises on my knees the next day were a nice reminder to our sidewalk tumbling. 

So, Plan B: Grab another taxi and head back to Girl A's apartment in Murray Hill. For some reason, I decided to jump into the front seat with Girl A and Girl B in the back. I never ride in the front seat. I hate the front seat. I always feel that I miss out on any good conversation if I'm in the front which is why I make Sir Lancelot sit in the front. Leaving from 28th & Broadway and heading to 31st & Lexington is not far and I knew Girl A could make it a few more blocks in another taxi. Or so I thought. 

Within a minute or two, Girl B quietly whispered to me, "Girl A just got sick back here. Oh no. Can you have him stop the cab"? I pleasantly ask the taxi driver to stop the car, "Our friend got sick. Can we stop and let her out? We'll pay you extra money for the cleaning. Please sir." 

Clearly I was not pleasant enough as the cab driver immediately started screaming, "Absolutely not. I will not let you out. Not at all. I'm driving you to a car wash in the Bronx!" 

The Bronx?!?! I'd never been to the Bronx and frankly had no desire to ever go to the Bronx. At this point, my pleasantness went from 100 to 0 and I was now breaking out my normal taxi-driver rage. 

"You have to let us out." And that's when I heard all four doors lock. The driver did so from the inside. Holy shit, I thought to myself, he's not kidding. He's really going to take us to the Bronx. I was now scared and screaming as the taxi driver was swearing at us and kept saying how he was not letting us out.

So I did what any other girl would do in this situation - or at least that's what I always tell myself...

I turned towards him, brought up my legs, adorned in three-inch yellow patent leather heels, and started kicking him, "Let us the f--- out of here right now. We are not going to the Bronx! Let us out of here now!" And these weren't little kicks, but repeated bicycle kicks to his head (he was wearing a hat of some sort, so he had protection). What else was I supposed to do? I didn't want us ending up in the Bronx post X drinks with a sick friend and some angry man. Please. 

He stopped the car, I opened the door yelling, "Come on Girl A, Girl B... let's get out of here now!" I rushed out of the cab, slammed the door behind me and watched the taxi speed away.... with Girl A and Girl B still in it! I stood there, in some horrendous 2007, Forever 21 outfit, my Steve Madden heels with only a dead cellphone and empty clutch to my name. I later realized my license and money fell out during my kicking episode. I could only think about how my friends were being taken to a car wash in the Bronx and I was stuck in the middle of Lexington Avenue with no way to help. 

I grabbed another cab and the driver thought I was crazy since I was only about two blocks from Girl A's apartment - he didn't even charge me after I burst into hysterical crying when I realized I'd lost my ID and money. After ten minutes of incessant crying that felt like hours, Girl A and Girl B showed up at the apartment unharmed. The best reunion ever. 

So yeah, there is no actual French thief here - just a taxi driver who almost stole me and my friends off to a car wash in the Bronx. But I did get practice with kicking scary, mean, harmful men - which clearly came in handy a few weeks ago. 

Here's the best part: when we woke up the next morning, still wearing our Forever 21 outfits with major 80's hair band hair, Girl A sees me in the living room and asks with a big smile on her face, "What are you doing here?!?" 

Oh the joys of my early twenties... 

Here's what happened a few weeks ago: 

Voleur is French for thief: Part I

Illustration credit: http://bit.ly/HLutty 

A springtime treat at Repetto

With the recent amazing weather, I spent my Friday afternoon post-ballet class picking up a springtime treat for myself.

Paris is a walking city and now that winter is over and we've put our thick coats and boots in the cave (code for dirt, small basement room), it's time to break out the ballerinas again. This year I decided to go for the real deal: black ballerinas from infamous French store: Repetto. 

Fact: I will never be French. I will never really speak French. 

Fact: My feet can be French. Or at least wear French shoes. 

What are you pining after this spring season?! 

Metro Monday: Notre-Dames-des-Champs

My Monday, Tuesday and Thursday metro stop.

I make my way from northwest Paris to the 6th for French class.

Are you Amélie and on your way to Montmartre?

Or are you more Hemingway and heading home to Montparnasse?