New Kicks

So, a while ago, I showed a picture of a dress one of the Moroccan ladies in class brought back from her summer at home.  Now, I just wanted to take a brief moment to show you the new shoes that another student brought back from Morocco.
They are nice and bling-bling, huh?

I would say that no one else would ever wear the same shoes as me, but then again, this student brought a matching pair of shoes for my colleague too, so no such luck.

End of an Era - the bank edition

Just a few steps closer to the end:  I closed down my bank account today. 
After two years of grief from my bank, I was thrilled (and somewhat shocked) at how easy it was to close my account.  So, bless the bank.  Oh, and by the way, on my way out, my account counselor gave me a stuffed Alvin the Chipmunk for a souvenir.  He said I could give it to a younger sibling, but seeing as Jon's 23 now, I gave it to someone at the office who has actual children.  Still, it's the thought that counts, right?
So task number 45: Close down bank accout?  Check.

Snow and Being Katherine

So...I move home in 9 days, and this Paris experience of mine will come to an end.  Incroyable.  But I won't go into all the bittersweet feelings concerning this upcoming change. 
Instead, I'll say that for the moment, life continues as normal, although there is something a bit foreign on the ground...

We had a huge snow in the Paris area today.  From my experience, this kind of snowfall is unexpected for this early in the winter, and while Stephan groans about it and says, "I'm African.  I'm not made for this weather!", my spirits remain high.  I think snow is beautiful.  And most people around here have kept fairly positive about it (when they're not driving, that is).  As I was sloshing home in my soaked-through shoes, my neighbor was shoveling out his car, and he laughed when he saw me slipping past and said, "C'est Noel!"  And I do think that snow is pretty great during the Christmas season.
Today, I was passing through Les Halles and saw this church.  No matter how cold and wet the weather, snow does add a lovely touch to already beautiful scenery.

It's been a while since I shared an anecdote, so before signing off, just wanted to relate something that happened yesterday.
I was preparing to give my class when a very small, round French woman came into the building, and without preamble, said, "I've come to help out."
She turned out to be something of an odd duck.
She asked my name, and I told her, "Katie."
She replied, "I'll call you Kathy, then, because I don't like the name Katie."
Later on, she asked me if it bothered me that I had a diminuative form of a "real" name.  I told her no.  She said I should consider legally changing my name to Katherine, being as so many queens have carried the name Katherine.  I tried to act as though I were considering the suggestion...
Later, I made some Moroccan mint tea, and I had handed a glass out to each of the ladies, and I offered her a glass too.  She took it and drank the whole glass down.  When I offered her seconds, she said, "It's really far too sugary.
"Well, that's how they like it," I told her.
"Alright then.  Let me have another cup just to be sure," she said.  Sure enough, she drank the last glass down, telling me again how sugary it was.
She'll be coming to class again tomorrow if the snow doesn't keep her at home.  I hope to come out alive and with more stories...

The Creativities of Jour Fériés

Today is a jour férié, also known as a bank holiday.  My calendar tells me we're celebrating Armistice Day 1918.  On November 11, 1918, the Allies and Germany signed an armistice in Compiègne, France, thereby ending World War I.  So, today, all these years later, everything closes down in memory.
The bad weather has me rained inside, preparing lessons and stories for the coming week (I've also been working on my November Novel a bit!  Actually, no exclamation point belongs at the end of that sentence, because I'm sorry to say, this is my most abysmal novel yet.)  But what I hadn't thought about was the fact that I haven't been grocery shopping in a week, and so, have practically no food.  Here's a view of my refrigerator for any doubters out there.  There's some homemade ranch dressing I attempted, two pieces of badly made apple pie, two pear halves, an old container of lardons and some crême fraîche.  I'm not sure even Jamie Oliver could make anything out of these elements. 

Being Armistice Day, all the grocery stores are closed.  Fortunately, I found a frozen pizza shoved in the freezer, but more than anything, I badly wanted hot cocoa.  So, while I didn't have any packets of cocoa left, I decided to go through my cupboard and try to make cocoa on my own.  ON MY OWN.  That's a big thing for me.
So, off I went to try and make a miracle happen...

With a little cocoa, some sugar, some milk...

...and one failed attempt at whipped cream to put on top...

I finally made myself a fantastic mug of hot cocoa.  Maybe the best I've ever had even.  And, while working on this, I noticed there was a carmalized almond hot cocoa recipe on the back of my cocoa box.  Once the stores open again, I think I'll get really ambitious and see if I can make that!

But word to the wise, it's best not to drink too much cocoa and cream and milk.
Yesterday in class, I was teaching when one of my students pointed out toward the street and said, "Look that pregnant lady is coming."
The woman beside her replied, "That isn't a pregnant lady; that's just a fat lady."
So, better be careful from here on, now that I know that they notice those sorts of things.

Monday Night Indian Food

Monday was business as usual, so I taught my classes over in Asnières, and after, headed to Anvers to give a lesson to my unmotivated Sri Lankan student.  I arrived at her apartment at 5 in the evening (for the class scheduled at that time), but she wasn't there.  I called, and she assured me that she was only ten minutes away.  So, I waited...and waited...and waited.
After 45 minutes, I finally, walked out of the apartment, ready to go home, when I saw my student sprinting down the street, calling, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
So, we ended up having our lesson, and not unsurprisingly, she seemed very distracted.  I kept pushing her to conjugate her verbs, but her heart just really wasn't in it, and at about 6:15, she announced that the lesson should end because we should go out to eat at her restaurant.  She had to be in to work at 7, and why shouldn't I come along for dinner?
I agreed, and we took the bus over to the restaurant.

She immediately went to work behind the bar and brewed me some caramel tea.  Meanwhile, the waiter, a 26-year-old electrical engineering student who has only recently arrived from India, also came out and offered to start me out with some "sweets."  Which turned out to be a plate of deep-friend zucchini and spicy sauce.

People in France tend to be really late eaters, so though I arrived at 7, it was only me in the restaurant.  It wasn't too disappointing, because my student and the waiter had plenty of fun goofing around, making jokes, and teaching me the Tamoul alphabet that had been taped to one of the walls.  (Sadly, I didn't retain much, but they assured me that the pronounciation was okay.)

The restaurant used to be a French restaurant, if I remember correctly, but they're doing their best to Indian-ify it.  When my student arrived last night, she brought with her some "pictures." They were large pieces of fabric with scenes depicting the life of Vishnu, the Hindu god, on them.  I asked why he was blue, and the waiter said, "Well, because he drank poison!"

When, after nearly an hour, still no one had arrived, they started taking all sorts of pictures for me.  Here's one picture my student took of me looking like a school marm.  In my defense, it was cold, so I wrapped my scarf around me.  Still, I look nice and awkward sitting at my table all alone.

But eventually, the main meal came.  My student ordered Tandoori chicken and nan fromage for me.  The meal was really delicious and cooked by someone called Abdullah, a faceless chef, being he never made it out of the kitchen.  I was very impressed with the food, and my student and the waiter both sat around and watched me eat, saying "What do you think?" after each bite.  They told me that the nan should be eaten with the hands, which seems contrary to everything I've learned in France, but as they say: when in India, do as the Indians.
We were really enjoying ourselves, but a little after 8, the woman who owns the restaurant arrived.  Then, all hands were on deck, so to speak.  No more joking.  Just polishing the silverware, putting salt shakers on the tables, rearranging the sugar bowls.
I got up to leave when I heard the owner began arguing with the waiter.  I walked up to pay (but my student refused to let me, saying I could "next time").  I have to say I was slightly relieved after the 3 course meal they had set in front of me.  So, I thanked her, and was almost out the door before the ower caught me and said, "Sorry to make things uncomfortable for you.  His mother is very ill.  We need to send him to India, but we must see how."
I told her I wasn't upset, that I understood, and that I would certainly be back.
But I really did have to run in order to catch my train at 8:40, so I said my goodbyes and hopped on the metro that took me to the train station.
And finally, an hour and a half later, I made it home and slept with a stomach more full than I think it's ever been.

En Suisse

This past weekend, I headed off to Geneva, Switzerland with two of my bridesmaids-to-be to see the Salon Genevois du Mariage.  The Salon du Mariage was held in the beautifully lit Bâtiment des Forces Motrices that swims in the middle of the Rhône River.  We were able to see a défilé, a new word I've learned that, in this case, applies to a fashion show, but actually just refers to a standardized way of walking (since a military can also have a défilé.  Interesting, no?)  We also looked through tons of wedding photographs, wedding invitations, honeymoon destinations, and were given tiny, silver wrapped chocolates in a reward for our efforts.  Great fun.
But, as a spoiler, let me say to anyone thinking of going to Geneva: you probably don't have any business being in Geneva unless you are a) King of a very large country or b) incredibly rich.  I have never been to a place that was so expensive.
After the Salon du Mariage, the three of us decided to find a restaurant and have dinner.  Dominique, my old housemate  who has since moved back to London, really wanted to find raclette, something we eat on special occasions in France.  When we have raclette, we usually eat about 6 potatoes that we smother in raclette cheese and various bits of sliced meats.  Delicious.
We finally found a few restaurants serving raclette, so we stopped in at one that offered the meal at what we thought was the cheapest price.  I felt a little hesitant when I saw that the meal had been translated as "melted cheese."  Still, it was a special occasion, so we decided to order the raclette anyway.
Here's what happened:

The above picture is my $30 raclette.  So what do we have?  A plate of melted cheese, two small onions, three potato halves, and a pickle.  This is definitely the most expensive meal I've ever eaten.
But these are the moments that make memories, so we all laughed at our incredibly bad fortune and ate up anyway. 

The next day, we headed off site-seeing.  We saw the horlage fleurie, the large clock whose face is made entirely of seasonal flowers.  We saw Vieille Ville, or Old Town.  We also saw the famous jet of water shooting out of the Rhône.  We went to a park and saw the Reformation Wall where you find memorials to John Calvin and Martin Luther.  And when we were sufficiently soaked, we ducked into a coffee shop to warm up (and paid 7 Swiss Francs for a drink...oh my.)
Later on that day, just before it was time to head to the train station to get our flights to London (for Dominique) and Paris (for Madeleine and me), we saw a man get mugged.
We were walking past a tourist shop, and these two young guys starting trying to feed us all sorts of lines--drague-ing.  So, after giving them our withering stares, we walked off.  But soon, one of the two guys started running ahead of us, heading straight for a smaller Indian man who was busy photographing the Rhône.  Before we realized what was happening, the younger man stole the Indian man's wallet and disappeared under the bridge.  The three of us rushed over to the man who had just been robbed.  We helped him get directions to the police station, but really, all of us knew it was too late.  The thief hadn't gotten the man's credit cards, but he'd stolen all his cash, which is almost impossible to recover. 
In light of my recent history, the situation really upset me.
As we left Geneva, we concluded that, in Geneva, you will get robbed one way or another.  Either you will pay $30 for a plate of melted cheese or you will get mugged.  It's a simle, unavoidable fact of life.
But that sounds so negative, and shining a bad light on Geneva, of course, isn't fair.  While I wouldn't go to Geneva for a weekend of shopping or restaurant discovery, Geneva is a stunning city.  With all of its bridges and quays, with its mountains in the backgrounds, with its clear, crisp air and beautiful fall leaves, Geneva was a truly lovely place.
So, maybe what I said at the beginning about needing to be wealthy in Geneva isn't entirely true.  If you're planning to eat in Geneva's restaurants or shop in Geneva's shops, yes, you must be wealthy.  But even if your pockets are not spilling over with cash, Geneva's still worth the flight over.  It offers so many gorgeous parks, friendly people, the quaint sound of church bells, and breathtaking views.
And for all those who love chess, you'll be happy to find all the "people-sized" chess boards sitting around in Reformation Park...

So, with that,I'd better be off.  Geneva was a great diversion, but it's still November, which means it's still National Novel Writing Month, which means, my novel needs some serious attention...

So, à bientôt!

A Picture Tour of Heurtevent

This past weekend (as previously mentioned), I attended a work retreat weekend in Normandy.  We were in a tiny hamlet called Heurtevent, in a small retreat center called Béthanie.  It took about 3 and a half hours to drive from Pontault to Heurtevent.
I was absolutely amazed at the scenery--hills and vallies and everything the greenest green you've ever seen. 

In the time I've been here in France, I think Normandy has been by far my favorite weekend destination.  Two summers ago, Stephan and I took the train to Deauville and spent the day shivering on the beach.  This past spring, I drove out to Etretat with a few friends to see that famous door cut into the cliff.  And just before autumn cooled the air, Stephan and I spent a Saturday exploring the port city of Honfleur.
I love Normandy, but had never really been in a home in Normandy.  I've always taken the train to Normandy in the morning, then taken the train back at night, dividing my time between the beaches and tiny ice cream shops that dot the roads.  I've always been the tourist...which is nice in its own way.
But this weekend, at Béthanie, we had a chance to stay in this gorgeous little home with the Longs, an English couple living in Heurtevent, bringing up chickens, cows, and a ten-month-old named Pixie.
I've added a few pictures of their home:

It was a restful weekend with a few obligatory (but not altogether bad) get-to-know-you games and plenty of walks through the hills. 
I loved all the broken down sheds that crumbled in the fields but had been left in their broken state for years and years.  The Longs said that the farmers around them are very particular about noise and traffic and caring for the pastures.  But apparently, the tumbling barns are just part of the scenery.
So after a very lovely weekend, we drove home on Halloween Sunday.  I fell asleep after about fifteen minutes in the car.  It was something of a disappointment to wake up in the Paris area again. 
But here I am, back in Pontault.  It isn't so bad to be back.  I'm here with my vanilla and gingerbread candles...and the month of November stretching before me. 
National Novel Writing Month: here I come.
And Normandy, goodbye.  It was nice to have met you.  I probably will not be back before I move back to the States in December.

St. Germain-en-Laye

The exciting week of exploring continues...
Yesterday, I decided to take the RER A out to one of its (many) termini.  I ended up in St. Germain-en-Laye, not far at all from Paris really.

It was one of those rare, beautiful autumn days in the Paris area.  Usually, October brings rain...rain...and for a change, more rain.  But lately, actually, we've had some fantastic sunny, yet chilly, weather.
So, after arriving in St. Germain, I crossed the street from the RER station, and ended up in the grounds of the chateau there.  St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse was a sleepy sort of town.  There weren't many people milling around.  But St. Germaine-en-Laye was crowded with people.  I especially noticed a pretty big high school, college age assortment of people.  (I noticed the university in Nanterre isn't far away.  Wondering if that's the reason for all the kissing, smoking, laughing, snacking kids sitting on the benches and in the gazebos at St. Germain?).  Anyway,  from what I understand, the chateau is quite famous for being the birthplace of Louis XIV, and also, for the being King James' residence during his time of exile from Britian.

The chateau was a really beautiful structure (as it well should be...most members of royalty don't tend to waste their time building mediocre residences...), but I found the grounds to be much more interesting.  There was a terrace that looked back into Paris.  From the terrace, I could see the business district in La Défense, which I found really cool.

I'd read that, during the French Revolution, when the revolutionaries were removing the names of royals from all the cities names, St. Germain-en-Laye was temporarily called Montagne de Bon Air.  As I stood there on the terrace, looking out onto Paris, I understood why they'd chosen the name.

Another interesting tidbit that I learned about St. Germain-en-Laye:  St. Germain-en-Laye was the headquarters of the German army from 1940-1944 during the occupation.  Because of this, there are occasional bunkers to be seen throughout the city.  Here's one I found just beside the chateau:

So, all in all, a fun and educational little day trip.  I enjoyed the chateau, the church, the bunkers, the parks, and the people (see below).

So, where to now?
This weekend is a work retreat in Calvados, Normandy.  From what Google is saying, Calvados isn't far from the D-Day beaches.
So, I'm excited for the history of the area.  I'm not too thrilled, however, about the prospect of the team building games that the high ups have assured us we'll enjoy during the weekend.
Still, I'm looking forward to the crepes and cider of Normandy, because I feel fairly convinced that nothing, not even jeux de connaissance can tarnish Normandy.
Although (and as a disclaimer, these are not my particular feelings toward my co-workers...), I just read this quote in Chris Baty's book, No Plot, No Problem.
Jobs are places where people who have no business ever meeting spend more time together than most married couples, making work an ideal hotbed for plot-generating alliances, rivalries, and schemes.
Often very true...
And speaking of Chris Baty and his National Novel Writing Month, we're only three days away from the start of Nanowrimo.  So, if there's a sudden absence, know that my laptop is busy pumping out 1,667 words of novel every night.
A la prochaine!

St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse

Today, is the first day of Les Vacances de Toussaint.  So, with no classes for a week, I headed out into the countryside town of St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse.  Stephan and I had first happened upon the city in his Balado "Free Things to do in the Paris Area" book a year ago.  With its beautiful scenery and various walking tours, it sounded like the perfect place to spend an afternoon.  I had written the city down on a list of things to see, but hadn't ever taken any real steps to see it.
Okay, pause.  Let's have a summary of what I've just said: We discovered the city a year ago.  We hadn't ever gone.  Moral of the Story: Tragic, tragic, tragic.
The "hadn't evers" or "haven't yets" are starting to be the story of my life in France.  I tend to get so excited about taking weekend trips to Holland or Ireland that I take the Région Parisienne forgranted.
So, I finally came to the conclusion (today) that I have less than two months left in France, I'm not sure what the future holds (will Stephan and I stay in France for a while after we get married?  If we move to the States, will be back to visit France?), so it's time to start being really aggressive with my To Do List.
And what did I do?  In spite of the eternal strike going on, I found a train heading toward St. Rémy, and began my afternoon adventure.

The train ride from Gare du Nord (in Paris) to St. Rémy lasted nearly an hour, but it was relaxing and fun to watch out the window as the scenery changed from "You are in the heart of Paris" to "Ahhhhh....the countryside."
Once in St. Rémy, I walked from the train station around the small town, snapping pictures of trees and buildings and stores that looked interesting.  The locals stared at me as if I'd lost my mind.  (I'm wondering if they don't get many tourists out their way?)

After walking through St. Rémy a bit, I asked a woman at a bus stop where she suggested visiting.  She said that the chateau Madeleine in Chevreuse was nice, so I followed her advice, and took the bus over to Chevreuse. 
Once in Chevreuse, I found another woman hanging around the city center and asked for directions to the chateau.
She stared at me, baffled, and said, "Why would you want to find the chateau?"
"To see it?" I replied, wondering what other reponse she would have expected.
"Well, just walk up," she said.  "And when you're tired, you just keep walking up."  She looked with a strange smile on her face and said, "Compris?"
I really began to wonder at that point if the chateau was worth seeing.  Asking why I'd want to find the chateau seemed to indicate a certain level of "not-worth-it-ness". 
But I'd traveled an hour from Paris to see St. Rémy, and so, I determined, I would see everything I could.
I climbed the million steps to the top, and once I reached a clearing in the trees (panting like I'd never had a day of exercise in my life) the first thing I noticed was the view.  From the hilltops, I could see over the whole village of Chevreuse.  The crisp fall weather was perfect, and the sky was just clear enough to see for miles and miles.

I wandered around Chevreuse some more, looking at a few of the bridges they're famous for--les petits ponts--and afterward, when the temperatures started dropping, when I had already wrapped myself in my scarf, hat, and gloves, when I had no more layers to add, I got on the train back to Paris.  And in Paris, I met up with my unmotivated Sri Lankan student (who's delightfully the same as always...) and after a tutoring session with her, I was on yet another train, on my way back to Pontault Combault.


Today was a perfect day.  Today reminded me of how much I love France.  France has been occasionally hard on me (I'm thinking specifically of my disagreeable bank and my mugging), but I've decided to forgive her, because there is, after all, really nowhere else like France. It sounds a little contrived to say it that way, but I just get sentimental as the end of my French adventure approaches.
So, here we go again: I love France. 
And with that, let me wish you a Bonne Nuit!

Thanksgiving #1

 Why is she writing about Thanksgiving?, you might wonder.  It is, after all, only the 24th of October, and Thanksgiving doesn't arrive until November 25th...which means, I'm over a month early.  Or am I?
To properly explain what this post means to me, let's rewind a year and start at the very beginning (a very good place to start...)
Last year, Thankgiving arrived in the United States, and I sat alone here in France, absolutely Thanksgiving-less.  I was pretty devastated.  I'd looked online to see if I could find any American restaurants that served Thanksgiving dinner (I couldn't).  I had exactly one American friend in Paris who was still interested in celebrating the holiday (the others had given up on Thanksgiving after their first two years in France), and the two of us talked about throwing a Thanksgiving dinner.  But the idea of a two-person Thanksgiving seemed pretty bleak, so we dropped the idea.
Thanksgiving arrived in France.  I woke up, and I went to work as usual.  The ladies in my literacy class didn't even stay to have tea, because Thanksgiving fell during their Fête de Moutons, so they were off to the house to prepare for the evening festivities.  Thankfully, the woman I work with had cooked a pumpkin pie or else the day would have passed in complete obscurity.
I ate a piece of pie there after class, took another piece home in a Tupperware container, and spent the evening eating Turkey flavored ramen and pumpkin pie.  Worst Thanksgiving ever.
So, in the year that's passed, I've talked to everyone I know about how sad I had been to have missed Thanksgiving last year, and how I really hope things will change for me this year.
Talking out loud helps, you see, because this year, I'm having three Thanksgivings.
Thanksgiving #1 occurred today with my Canadian friends at Noisy le Grand (you can see now why we're celebrating in October and not November.)

 After church today, we all stayed and ate a traditional North American Thanksgiving together.  Of course, everyone (French people, African people, German people) all brought food, so I'm not sure how "traditional" the food actually was, but that's how it goes...  What did the French people sign up to bring for our traditional meal?
Salmon quiche.  Cheese.  Wine.
"A meal without cheese," one of them said today, "is like a day without sunshine."
But thankfully, despite the differing opinions on what should be included in the meal, we pulled ourselves together, and had a table filled with turkey, corn, salad, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes.  Pretty basic, but just what my homesick heart wanted.

 The week before, when I'd signed up to come to dinner, I was asked to bring sweet potato casserole, "American style".  I've never made sweet potato casserole, but valiantly decided to give it my best shot.  I have an American friend who knows her way around the kitchen, and I reasoned that she could help me.  And she did help.  She sent her mother's recipe into my email inbox and said to give her a call if I needed help.
I'd more envisioned her making the sweet potatoes for me, mais fin bref... Life goes on.

 So, I got out the recipe, wrote down what I needed, and began the big shop.  6 sweet potatoes?  I soon realized that canned sweet potatoes don't exist here, so I was going to have to find the actual potato.  After a lot of searching (and insisting that I wanted orange sweet potatoes and not white ones), I found a fat, long potato-looking thing.
The other ingredients were just as much of a question mark.  Brown sugar?  Nope.  I decided to try Cassonade, telling myself, "It won't make that much of a difference."
Pecans?  After asking several vendors for pécans, and all of them understand piquante, I got a little tired of being led to the pepper aisle, and decided that walnuts couldn't taste all that different from pecans.  Again, "It won't make that much of a difference."

And even still, once I was home with my new apron tied around me and my sleeves rolled up, the trouble hung around.  The recipe began with the vague, "Place peeled and cooked and mashed sweet potatoes in a pan."  I looked at the 6 lumps of potato I had on the counter and found myself at a loss.  How did one cook a sweet potato?
Thankfully, google saved the day once again, and I got those potatoes peeled (although, I still wasn't sure what all that talk about removing them from their jackets was about...), cooked, and mashed. 
Somehow, I made sweet potatoes with a walnut (not pecan) carmelized glaze.  Not too bad, if I say so myself.
Although, the French weren't quite sure what to do with my creation.
"It is a cake?" one asked, pointing at the glaze.
"No," I replied.  "Sweet potatoes."
"But it's sweet..."
I nodded.
"On essaie alors?" 
And they all gave a good effort, and whether or not they were all convertis to the American sweet potato ways or not, they cleared out the pan and I left with a smile.  It wasn't quite Thanksgiving in Indiana.  But Thankgiving in Noisy le Grand wasn't anything to complain about either.

Of Late

So, after more than a week of absence, here I am. 

It seems that France has determined to give me the most rounded of experiences.  I’ve had some really fantastic experiences (getting engaged to a wonderful person I met here !), but this last week, something pretty awful happened.

I was walking in Noisy le Grand in the Pavé Neuf, and was suddenly pushed over from behind.  After a few kicks to the head, the attackers took my bag and fled. 

I was an absolute wreck, screaming and sobbing (to my credit, however, I did scream out in French.  You never know what you’ll do under pressure, and I actually feel pretty pleased that, even under pressure, I could still think in French.)  Thankfully, there were plenty of witnesses on the street who called the police and the firemen, so after an initial looking over, I was sent off to the emergency room and then later, to the police station where I filed a complaint against the attackers.

But even though this agression, as they call it, was absolutely horrible, now that I’m a bit further removed, there were actually quite a lot of funny moments.

As I said, after I went to the emergency room, I went over to the Commissariat to file my complaint.  When I walked in, hair everywhere, mascara streaking my face, the man at the desk said, « Let me guess :  You were attacked by two men from behind.  They kicked you and stole your purse. »  I confirmed this, thinking he must have heard about it.  Well, no, he hadn’t heard about my particular incident, but said that it happened fairly frequently over there in the department 93.

Anyway, I began the complaint with this particular man at the front desk, but then, after a few minutes, a really beautiful girl walked into the station.  She was tall, thin, and had these really high heels, long gorgeous hair, and a Louis Vuitton bag.  Would you know ?  The policeman told me to wait a minute and then went outside for a smoke with the girl who, I later found out, had to stop in weekly due to her probation.

After he left, a very dour, man-faced woman came down and asked it I’d been helped.  Confused, I looked out the door where the man still stood talking with the pretty girl.

 « I’m not sure, » I told her.

She followed my gaze, and then told me I’d better follow her upstairs. 

I followed her into this really bleak room with hardly any light and extremely old computers.  We sat in front of one that had a sticker on the outside that read I do evil things.  The woman then said that I should tell her exactly what happened, and she would type out my statement.  So, I began to talk--fairly slowly, I thought.  She kept holding her finger up and asking me to stop, as she typed what I’d said.  She typed, that is, with one index finger.  Then, after every sentence, she stopped and reread everything she’d just written.

Eventually, she began asking questions which I answered as best as I could.

« Did you see the attackers. »

I said I hadn’t seen their faces, but saw their backs as they ran away, so I gave the vague description that I could give :  I described their race and age range.

« Victim…cannot…describe…attackers. » She read aloud as she typed.

« Well, » I said, « that isn’t completely true.  Like I said they were probably  ____ years old and of ________________origin. »

She sort of rolled her eyes and went on with other questions.

« Did you see where they went after they took your bag ? »

« They ran into the alley between the Marantha Church and the hôtel by the woods. »

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Any time I brought up the fact that she’d typed something I hadn’t said, she attributed it to correcting my French.  The situation got so frustrating, I just let it go.  I quit correcting.  I quit arguing.  I just stared at her with glazed-over eyes.   At that point, I’d spent almost five hours in the emergency room and police station, and all I wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and get warm again.

And, I’m happy to say, that’s the way it eventually turned out, because nothing, no matter how horrible, lasts forever.  I eventually made it out of the police station, and I spent the evening watching Le Petit Nicolas with my fiancé, remembering why I fell in love with France in the first place.

And in other good news, some friends of mine went back to the place where I was attacked and found my bag, my train pass, my driver’s license, my Bible, my umbrella and a few other odds and ends in the woods over there.  I’m really grateful for the things I did get back, and on Sunday, when I had the elementary age kids in Sunday school, they were all extraordinarily well behaved and oohhed and ahhed over the chocolate cake I’d made.  I don’t expect the behavior to last, but I’m enjoying it while it does.

Summer Changes

Summer brings changes. I suppose it isn't really that everyone actually changes all that much during the summer. It's more that everyone runs off to their different vacation destinations or summer camps or quoi ce ça soit during the summer, then we don't see one another for several months, and once fall comes, we all are very aware of the differences in one another.

In high school, everyone came back to school with bleached hair, white teeth, brown skin. I spent plenty of time spraying lemon juice in my hair, covering my teeth in Crest Whitening strips, and lotioning my legs, arms and face with selfless tanner in preparation for those back to school days.

Now, with the women in my class, the changes are entirely different.

After not having seen the women for almost three months, I feel shocked at how much their lives have changed.

Here's an example:

This week, one of my women, Fatima flew into class and just started shouting, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!”, “Fatima morte!” over and over again.

My heart dropped to my shins, because I thought that she was saying that her friend (incidentally, also called Fatima) had died. I finally got her to slow down and tell me what happened. Eventually, she found the words she was looking for and told me that Fatima's husband, not Fatima, had died.

This was still a huge shock to me. I've been over to Fatima's several times, and each time, her husband had greeted me at the door, inquired after my family, and wished me health for the future. He had always seemed in much better health than his frail wife.

Fatima explained that her friend's husband hadn't even been ill, but that during Ramadan, everyone finished their nightly feast, and then, they all had lain down on the floor together. Fatima's husband had lain next to the grand fauteuil, she said.

“The big armchair?” I asked.

She nodded. “Grand, grand, grand armchair.”

“The couch?”

“Yes, that's it...the couch.”

She went on to explain that Fatima had tapped him on the shoulder and tried to wake him when it was time to head off to work, but that he wouldn't move. She'd started screaming his name, and all the kids poured into the room, tried to revive their father, and realized that he was dead. They called the urgences but it was too late. He had died during the night.

I was absolutely stunned by this news, and Tuesday after class, I headed over to Fatima's apartment with the other women I work with. We brought along a bag of gifts. My colleague had gone to a Moroccan shop and asked what we would be expected to give a grieving Moroccan widow after the death of her husband.

“Sugar,” the man at the shop said. “Everyone will be stopping by to pay their respects, and she'll be expected to make tea or coffee for everyone who comes. So, in Morocco,” he said, “we bring sugar when someone dies.”

So, we brought along sugar, nuts, and dates (which the shop keeper assured us weren't too festive).

We walked to Fatima's apartment and her son answered the door. When we came in, she was just standing there in the middle of the living room, dressed from head to toe in white, holding a silver tray with nothing on it. Huge, wet tears were sliding silently down her face. I wondered how long she'd been standing there like that.

We all walked over to her and took turns giving her the bise. Instead of the two kisses on each cheek that she gives normally, she gave us a million kisses on just one single cheek and held us so tightly to her that it was painful.

Seeing her like this got me choked up, and I couldn't help crying too.

We all sat down on the couches and exchanged formalities—we asked after her children, after their grades in school and if they'd been blessed with children. She choked through her responses. We gave her the sugar which she took to the kitchen. And as we'd been told she'd do, she emerged from the kitchen minutes later with coffee and trays of nuts and dates.

We spent two hours with her. She told us about her trip to Morocco, how she left her husband's body there, how he was buried in the ground not far from his hometown. She told us that everyone she knew had come over the Saturday she arrived back in France and that they'd all slept over until Sunday. Her older daughters and sisters were taking turns staying with her. She assured us that she wasn't too alone.

But when we left, her sister walked us out to the front gate, and I watched Fatima walk back to her room, open the door, and slip inside. She looked so lonely then.

She won't be back to class for four months, she said before we headed our separate ways. She'll stay in the house.

I was disappointed to hear this, because I leave in three months. I won't have her in class anymore.

Hmmm.

I've decided once again that I don't like change.

I read somewhere that the only people who like change are wet babies wearing diapers. I suspect that's true.

Sporting some Moroccan Fashion

By the way, I just wanted to briefly note that this school year began in one very typical way : back to school clothes.  Here I am wearing a dress that one of the ladies in class brought me back from Morocco.
What's the verdict?
Too Christmas angel?

And since I'm uploading photos, here's one more for you.  I saw this poster still up in the RER.  Thankfully, they're still advertisting the Christmas Village in Reims that took place November 20 through December 27, 2009.
Yes, that's 2009.
Just in case anyone wanted to agonize over having missed the festivities...



And with that, I wish you all a good night.

Back to the job hunt

Monday, classes started up again. I taught during the day, and then, Monday night, I was back over by Sacre Coeur with my favorite unmotivated, Sri Lankan pupil.
I panted up to her sixth floor apartment (summer had done nothing to keep me in shape), and as soon as I entered her apartment, I had a premonition that something wasn't quite right.
First of all, she answered the door wearing an oddly decorated shirt. Oddly decorated, I'm telling you—embroidery all over the collar and sleeves and cuffs and botton holes. They were a multitude of uneven stitches in various patterns.
“I got a new sewing machine!” she told me. She pulled it out and showed me all the features. Finally, she pointed to the top of the machine and showed me that it stitches almost any pattern you could possibly want on your clothes.
“You see?” she asked, pointing at the cuffs of her shirt.
She'd used every different stitching pattern possible on her shirt. I then looked around her room and saw that suddenly, everything bore a new border—the curtains, the pile of clothes sitting on her bed, her bedcovers. Everything had been decorated.
“You've been busy,” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “I stitch all my clothes.” Suddenly inspired, she said, “You want stitch on you?” She pointed at my shirt. She seemed to expect me to yank my clothes off right then and there so she could cover it in stitches.
“Um...well...no.” I said, hoping not to hurt her feelings.
She took it well. She nodded, and then began pointing at all of her new handy work. Second sign that not all was right: her walls were newly covered in homemade crafts. There were beaded potholders hanging from the window and woven doilies hanging from the wall. She'd printed black and white pictures of herself off the computer and colored them in by hand.
“You like?”
I said yes. I told her that it gave the apartment some personality. I thought it looked original.
“And you notice that my house is clean?” she asked.
I had noticed. Usually, all of her possession are poured out over the floor. Monday, everything was in its place. The floor was mopped. The bed was made. The pots and pans were put away.
I didn't want to discourage her sudden domesticity, but I felt like I needed to ask, “Is everything okay with you?”
“Yes,” she said with a huge smile. “Ca va.”
“Work is okay?”
Immediately, her face fell.
“Well...”
“What happened?” I asked.
“No money for two weeks,” she said.
“You haven't been going to work?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I go to work everyday, but boss says he cannot pay me.”
As it turns out, her boss ran out of money, continued having his employees work, but then didn't pay them in return. After two weeks without pay, she stopped going to work.
“Now, I sit home all day and work from home,” she said, pointing around her room at the potholders and doilies and decorated curtains. “No problem.”
“Well, how are you going to pay for your apartment?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I find new job one day,” she said. “I cook Indian food for someone else.”
I agreed that this was a good idea, and we had French class together. After, she insisted on cooking a cadeau—a gift.
She boiled couscous, added orange food color, raisins, powdered sugar, and butter, and gave me a heaping plate of this. We both ate until we felt sick, and she kept bringing the pot round, trying to refill my plate again and again.
“But you must eat!” she said.
I told her I was more full than I'd ever been in my life, and that, as much as I wanted to, I just couldn't eat anymore.
She seemed saddened by this, and scraped the rest of her creation into my lunchbox so I could finish at home.
I've decided she has to find a new job...and soon. This isn't just for financial reasons. This is also for completely selfish reasons. I can't eat enough food to please her, and I don't want all my clothes embroidered.
She's assured me, however, that Operation Job Hunt started Tuesday.
Let's keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.

The Purple Sludge Debacle of 2010

I live in the basement of a house that's been converted into an office building. Have I ever mentioned that? Well, I do. That's where I live, and I have a room at the bottom of the stairs. I like to call it my studio, but it isn't, because, of course, I have to climb the stairs to use the kitchen, use the bathroom, enter or exit the house. The living situation isn't altogether convenient, but it is affordable.
It's odd living in an office. It's odd hearing everyone parade in at 9 every morning. It's odd having a day off when they're all working. It's odd seeing signs posted everywhere. Some of the signs are your normal, run of the mill, signs (there's one of the garage door that read 'Please do not take garbage out of the garage as it attracts cats.' There's another beside the toilet that says, 'Please hold lever down well--4 or 5 seconds if necessary—to clear the basin.' There's another by the sink that reads 'Please wash and dry your dishes. Keep team life sweet.') Some of the signs are a little passive agressive (there's another one beside the sink that reads on one side, 'Don't use this sink unless you want to clean up crap off the floor.' This has been crossed out, and on the other side, someone else has written, 'Sink: out of order'). See what I mean? Living in an office is odd, and while I hate the idea of finishing my 2 year contract and leaving France in 3 months, I am very ready to have my own place.
So, what spurred these thoughts?
Today, I woke up early and ran a load of laundry. It took almost three hours which struck me as odd. I took out the laundry, and my clothes were covered in purple lint and still soaking wet. The machine was still filled with water. Not a good sign. I ran a “Vidage”--emptying--cycle, but the water remained.
Once the office staff was in, I walked upstairs and reported the broken machine. The accountant followed me down, and said, “It sure does stink down here, doesn't it?”
I hadn't really noticed, but as we neared the laundry room, I had to agree. It smelled of hair dye.
To make a long story short, the accountant opened up the basin where the water was draining from the machine. The basin was filled with purple sludge. Purple stinking sludge. Someone had washed a purple, shag rug in the machine.
I spent the rest of my morning scooping purple sludge out of the basin with a kitchen spoon. All the while, I thought, 'I'd really love to have my own place'—I'd love to know exactly who's using the washing machine and to know what they're putting in it. Is this a little controlling? Maybe.
But for now, I live in an office. I live in a bedroom across from the stairs. And, of course, it does have its benefits. The office staff had a lunch today (I was invited. I went. I ate better than I have in weeks.), and they had leftover cheese and baguette. Now, rewarding myself after this sludge-filled day, I'm eating Brie, baguette, and drinking my Fruits de Verger tea.
Life isn't so bad after all, is it? Everything has its perks.

Not Quite Kindergarten

Last night, I had a meeting at church. My church perpetually has meetings—meetings to determine when we should have further meetings, meetings for individual ministries, meetings for the church as a whole, meetings for people involved in this, and meetings for people thinking about possibly, at some time in life, being involved in that.
And every meeting is dealt with with extreme seriousness.
Last year, I worked in the nursery, I played music Sunday mornings, and I taught children's church.
This year, I got three separate emails: we would need to have a nursery meeting, a music meeting, and a children's church meeting.
Yesterday was the nursery meeting, so I met with the other women who work in the nursery.
Subject: should we really call the nursery The Nursery.
We had supporters on both sides.
Me: Well, calling it the nursery has worked so far. Does the name really matter?
Another Women: But wouldn't we like something more soothing, more loving? Something like the Cabbage Patch?
Yet another Woman: Maybe it would be nice to call them The Fleas?
Another: We should probably avoid anything that would make the children feel like animals.
The meeting stretched on.
All the others seemed intent on changing the nursery's name, because after all, some of the children are now going to preschool, so we wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea and think we're calling them babies.
So, the suggestions came: The Cabbage Patch, The Fleas, The Children's Corner, The Teddy Bears, etc.
At one point, I was asked if I had a suggestion.
“Hmmm...” I said, looking at my notebook where I'd written nothing down, but instead had been turning my pen back and forth to form squiggles. “Erm...well...yes, a name.”
They all watched me as I squirmed.
I suddenly had an idea and sat up straight, proud to have though of something. “How about The Lion's Den?”
They all sat silent, not wanting to immediately shoot down my idea.
“It's nice, but...” They decided it was too negative, and that it wouldn't do at all to call the nursery The Lion's Den.
So, the discussion continued.
We left two hours later, having decided to call the nursery The Children's Garden. We'd then take pictures of each child and post his or her photo in the middle of a flower.
Stephan came and picked me up that night. I recounted the experience to him, and he said, “You know, you might as well have called it Kindergarten.”
Hmmm. No wonder The Children's Garden sounded so nice. I guess we weren't so creative after all. But then, what is creativity if it isn't the reformatting of something we've already seen?

The Joy of Elevators

I feel like I've been a little hard on the French lately—accusing them of forming clumps and not lines and detailing the horrors of my particular experience with French banks. But let me take a moment to tell you something that I find extremely admirable chez les Français, because for all their quirks, I do love the French. (I did, after all, choose to live in France.)
Public transportation in France is a great thing. I don't have a car, and aside from the weekends when my fiancé travels home from school and drives me around in his tiny, neon green Nissan Micra, I exist solely on buses, trains, trams, and metros. I can go anywhere I need, nearly whenever I need to go there.
However, when I look around, I notice that public transport can be really difficult for anyone with a physical handicap, with a child in a stroller, or with luggage. Sure, some stations are equipped with elevators, but many aren't. The stations that aren't handicapped accessible have a whole lot of stairs to climb, and believe me, when you're lugging a suitcase around, navigating these stations can be pénible.
But here's the good part of living in France: all those perfectly coiffed French men whizzing past you in their black suits and thin ties heading to or from work will often wordlessly bend over, grab the edge of your baby carriage or the handle of your suitcase, and help you maneuver those stairs. You'll shout merci at their backs, but they'll keep walking. It's all in a day's work.
The other day, I took a train from Nogent to Pontault. I was traveling in the middle of the day, and there were only a handful of people on the train. I got off at my stop and vaguely noticed another three people get off at the same stop, all of them wheeling along their luggage.
We came to the stairs, and it was just me and these three people and their inordinate amount of luggage. Our three friends were attempting to make it down the stairs with three large suitcases, one dog in a carrier, and if we're being honest, lots and lots of body fat.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched them for a second. I felt bad, so climbed back up the stairs and offered my help. They eyed me dubiously, but one of the group, an older woman, handed me her suitcase and said “Merci.”
I grabbed the handle and started walking the suitcase down the stairs. What I didn't take into consideration was the fact that the stairs had been recently cleaned and were still quite wet. Also, I was wearing my tiny black ballet flats that slide on any wet or dry, inclined or flat, natural or man-made surface. So, not surprisingly, only a few steps down, my foot slipped, and I slid down the stairs.
I landed on my back just outside the turnstiles, wriggling around like a beetle. The woman who's case I was still holding came flying down the stairs after me, calling, “Are you all right? Are you all right?”
I was fine. A little humiliated, but fine.
She took my arm and helped me up. She said, “Oh dear. Now that isn't how you carry a suitcase.” She shook her head, “It isn't how you do it at all.” She righted the suitcase, took the handle, and demonstrated. “You need to lift from your legs, not your back.”
I took the suitcase, mimed her movement, and she nodded.
I dragged the suitcase through the turnstiles and waited on the other side for the woman and her fellow travelers to make it through. The two women made it through just fine—pas de problème—, but the man waited on the other side with the remaining suitcases and the dog. He reached the dog over the turnstile and dropped it on the other side. The dog howled. The ladies screamed and rushed over to the animal carrier.
“Why would you do that?” one yelled. “You just dropped him!”
“Oh,” he said. That was it. Just “oh.”
One woman picked up the dog and then there was a lot of shuffling and arguing and pushing until the suitcases and the man passed through onto the other side. We divided the luggage between us and staggered up the last set of stairs, onto street level. Once there, the vocal lady of the group said to a security guard standing by the gate, “A town of this size should really have an elevator.”
“We do,” he said, pointing to the opposite exit. “Over there.”
All of them turned to look at me, and I blushed. “I didn't know,” I said. "I promise I didn't know." I apologized and hurried off home.
Next time I'll know, though, because, you see, France is a wonderful place, full of public transportation, helpful, well-coiffed Frenchmen, and at times, even elevators.

Immigrant Tales of the Bank

I pretty much hate my bank. Each time I go, something horrible happens, and I leave crying about how imbecilic, awkward, and unFrench I am.
Last year, I opened an account for a variety of reasons. For health insurance reasons, I needed an account. For tax reasons, I needed an account. For pay check reasons, I needed an account. So I went in, sat down with the banker, and understood about 14% of what he said (I did catch, “How in the world do you live on this little money?!) And a few months after this meeting, once my French level was a little higher and I started receiving bank statements in the mail, I realized I'd signed up to open all sorts of things that day. Quelle surprise!
A while after, I went to the bank to try and figure out how to transfer money from my debit account into this newly discovered savings account. The teller at the front desk was a young girl, very pretty, nice clothes...someone you'd expect to see in Paris. So, I patted down my hair, straightened my shirt, and walked up and told her I'd like to transfer money. Of course, I have the impression that my request wasn't as clear or direct as I'd hoped. I imagine it was more of a, “Good day, lady, I think transfer money be good idea.”
She laughed at me, took my card, typed in some information, laughed some more and then asked me a question I didn't understand at all.
I told her I didn't understand.
Agitated, she repeated the question, not slower, only louder.
I lowered my head and explained that I still didn't understand. She shouted the question this time, and by this point, everyone in the bank was looking at me. Then she said that typical French phrase that every French person I know says on a regular basis, C'est pas possible ça! (In France, you see, everything is either not possible or not normal.) I left the bank that day, determined to wean myself off money and never go to the bank again. Later that day, I went to the bank once all the employees were gone and checked my account information from the self-help machine. There was only one euro in my account. The accountant had forgotten to pay me. No wonder she'd laughed.
So, after this (and after another embarrassing debacle where I was so surprised to see money in my account that I ran all the way home and forgot my debit card in the machine. You can imagine how excited the teller was to see me wander back in, head lowered, and say, “Me lose card”), Stephan, my then-boyfriend (now fiancé!), and I hatched a brilliant plan. We'd stagger our entrances into the bank—I'd go in first, he'd count to ten and come in and wait in line after me. I'd do something completely ridiculous, the teller would yell at me, I'd wander out humiliated. Then, Stephan would walk up to the counter, and in his perfect, native speaker French, he'd say, “Well, I had considered opening an account here today, but after seeing how you treat your clients, I'm afraid I'll have to look elsewhere.” It was, admittedly, one of our better formed plans, but we never got around to it. Unnecessary trips to the bank aren't really my style.
A week ago, I got a very official looking envelope in my mailbox. Something very French governmental looking. I opened it and found a tax return inside. The check's arrival was bittersweet.
I put the check on my desk, in my To Do pile, and left it for a day. I looked over at it occasionally but never made any move to do anything about it.
I'd never received a check in France before. What was I supposed to do with it? In the States, I could deposit a check blindfolded. I could even cash the said check blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. In France? Well, my track record at the bank has never been so good.
Eventually, I got up my courage and walked into the bank, head bowed, embarrassed as always. But when I got to the desk, I noticed that there was a new teller. She was older than the other teller, less fashionable, but then, this is the Paris area, so let's face it: she was looking good.
I put the check on the desk, explained that i wanted to deposit it in my account, but wasn't sure how to go about doing this. I waited for her to tell me how abnormal or impossible this was.
But she didn't. She asked me to write down my account number and to sign below. I did. And then, she said, “Merci. Have nice day.” I stood there, didn't leave, and finally said, “That's all?”
“Oui,” she replied, “That's all you have to do.”
So, that was it. A pleasant trip to the bank. No humiliation.
I passed by everyday last week to look in and see who's working. My banking nemesis hasn't been back. I'm left to wonder: is this vacation? Or is this a permanent vacation?
I can't say I'm terribly broken up about her absence.
However, I'm hesitant to get too optimistic. My banker called Friday. He wants me to come in this Friday to discuss my banking needs. What banking needs? I'm not sure. But I'm hoping for the best, and I'm listening to all my “Pronounce it Perfectly” CDs in the hope that my bank humiliation is over forever.

Keeping it Real

It's been a long-term goal of mine to go to Ireland one day, and would you know, last week, that dream came true. I booked a Ryanair flight and flew off to see the world (or rather, a part of it). I spent a day in Galway and two days in Dublin. While I was there, I had many a cup of tea, saw Galway's St. Nicolas Church, Galway Cathedral, Lynch's Castle and Spanish arches. I walked the promenade and sat by Galway Bay, feeding the swans. In Dublin, I visited Trinity College where I got a peak at the Book of Kells, that illustrated copy of the four Gospels written by monks in the 8th century. I saw Christ Church Cathedral and Kilmainham Gaol and visited the Dublin Writer's museum.
It was a perfect three-day trip.
But what's funny is that, even in Ireland, I didn't quite lose the French people.
My second day, I arrived at the Galway bus station about a half-hour early to board my bus and to head back to Dublin. As the Irish arrived, they lined up one by one behind me, quiet and unassuming.
Then this group of backpackers arrived, pushed past everyone, and camped right next to the bus door. They looked at each other and, wonder of wonders, started speaking French.
I had to laugh.
In my experience, I've noticed that the French don't really know what a line is. When you go to the préfecture, they wrestle their way to the front of the lines. When I was at a crepe party at church, I stood back at what I thought was the end of the line, and everyone elbowed past me. Eventually, a friend of mine said, "If you don't shove your way to the front, you'll never eat." At the airport, making it past security is a nightmare with everyone forming clumps instead of single-file lines.
But then, C'est la Vie. That's the French.
It's good to see the French keeping it real.