Allez Les Bleus!

The spirit in the air here is good, much needed, for all that's happened as of late in Europe, around the world...

I'm back in Paris, this time as a tourist, but it really feels like I've never left. I get off the plane, on the bus down the streets up the stairs and arrive to my old work office like I did every morning at 10am to start my casual 35 hrs a week. Im greeted by my good friend Joao, 6ft3 and in his typical pastel dress shirt and blazer and it's hard not to cry because it's so good to see him, to be back, knowing I'm about to stuff my face with buttery pastries and see the faces that were once my familiar. 

I'm here for a brief visit, spawned by the news of my sweet friend moving and also a ticket to the Euro Cup final. To you sad soccer virgins this is THE (other) cup you should know about: European national teams battle each other once every four years for the crown and bragging rights of being the best in Europe, a pretty big f-ing deal to at least those who have heard of it. And the finals are happening right here in my sweet bitter Paris, so wins all around. 

In other awesome timing news, it's the SOLDES!!!!!!! What are the SOLDES, you ask?!!!?????

jambon fromage!!!

Well you know about Victoria Secret's biannual sale? You do, because you like the boobies. Well think that (the sale, not the boobs) but every store in the entire country. France doesn't do markdowns for every holiday like we do, but twice a year for four weeks straight the stores take an axe at the prices and chop them down, sometimes by half or more, and it means two things: an influx of Chinese tourists and overzealous shopping sprees that contradict my pay slips. I've only brought one suitcase but the material angel on my shoulder whispers "buy one get one free!" And she is the only angel there, so of course I'm gonna listen! 

I arrived on Wednesday after lots of hours on the plane: departing from Cali rather than Chi added a significant chunk of time, made bearable thanks to the Big Short, Spotlight and Zootopia (fine, I admit I hadn't seen them yet, I do work in television). A delayed flight made me miss an opportunity to pick up Garrett's popcorn from the o'hare airport as the go-to gift: luckily I had bought extra boxes of double-stuffed Oreos that I hadn't yet demolished. 

I arrived exhausted but the rule to overcoming jetlag is making it 48 hours sans nappy time and so I fought through and went straight for my old office in the city centre. I hadn't really announced my visit and so many past coworkers were surprised to see me, or at least the huge zit on my face. A lot of new faces, who still recognized me as the high-pitched one from the company recruitment videos (my only dabble in stardom) but overall, as I said, it felt like I had never even left. Now that I think about it, they were definitely most surprised by the zit.

Monet's water lily garden

I've managed to stay (mostly) awake for the past two days, having drinks with friends, biking to the Claude Monet Gardens (a real treat!) and watching France beat Germany 2-0 in the semi-finals! Germany definitely deserves the win and had way more scoring opportunities, but I'll spare you the futbol commentary and just say that the post-game ambiance is untamed joy throughout the city. Cars honking in the streets, drunk Parisians also honking in the streets, it reeks of beer and piss but the spirit is sweet. Last time France hosted a major soccer event was the 1998 World Cup (THAT cup), which they ended up winning, so if all goes well this weekend could also end with a big fat W. Who else won tonight? Monsieur Jetlag, as I'm writing this post at 4am, which means tomorrow is gonna suckkkkkkkkkkk. Thank god for croissants. 

The big final game is Sunday, France v's Portugal, and I am PUMPED! I've never been to a sports final game before (other than junior year IM intramurals for my dorm... which we won, BTW). I'm going with three girls I used to play with back when I lived here, and we will wear face paint and jerseys and look ameeeezing and cheer our hearts out for the country we love to bitch about love so much. It will be my second time seeing Cristiano Ronaldo play (saw him play in Madrid a couple years back) which will satisfy by sex appeal quota, making it a sure win of a night. Though I can't help but feel a tingle of fear to be at a major European event with herds of people jammed into one space in a city that's had two horribly violent incidents in the past year and a half... It's a shame that excitement is often clouded with a dark filter these days... But I am still SO excited. DUH. You know how much I love this sport. And such a big game beside good friends in my old 'hood... A win would be EPIC, much needed for a city still suffering from loss. And for a spoiled girl who is enough of an arsehole to brag about it on her trivial blog (Mind you I was recently jobless and have developed adult acne, so let me have this!!!) 

Okay the sun is coming up and I need to try to steal some z's or else I WILL suffer. But apparently travel is the one thing that inspires me to write, and I've got a cool trip planned, so expect some more words of the wisecrack in the coming days! And I'm asking you all to chant along this Sunday: Allez les bleus!!  

Saying Goodbye

Hello, goodbye. Let's keep in touch. Until we meet again. If we meet again. 

The thing about saying goodbye to friends abroad is that you're never sure when you're going to see them again. It's the same for anyone who's ever made a big move, but across continents to lands with different cultures and languages and rhythms, it feels extra heavy. More concrete. More like goodbye. Of course, those memories will remain close at heart, in a glass ornament brought out once in a while to reminisce the good times of that epoch in Paris, or wherever. But man, I'm really going to miss some of you.

Oh yeah, so some context. I'm moving back to the states in four days. For good (for now). OMG. Apologies for the lack of posts as of late, but this decision has consumed me and I've been traveling and... and... and you know how it goes. Anyway, this marks the end of my life in France, this pretty little thing that came and went so unexpectedly, so abruptly. Am I a changed woman? Perhaps. I drink sparkling water now, and am open to eating raw meat. I speak another language, and don't wear sneakers out in public. Though I doubt these habits will follow me home. Really, all I can think about at the moment is gorging my last croissants and what I'll be doing next. And prolonging the goodbyes.

People keep asking how I feel about leaving. Truthfully, I'm just excited for what's to come next. Sure, I'm nostalgic and will miss things: it's been glamorous, no doubt. I've seen places and eaten foods and experienced things that I never would have back home. Things that have opened my eyes to new ways of understanding people and governments and it's certainly changed my attitude towards America. A lot is wrong with the US, no doubt, obvious things like gun control and healthcare, and the amount we waste on food, light, litter, gas... it's really shameful. And needs to change. Some things are much better, more secure, in Europe, and I've appreciated them in my time here. 

But if I'm being honest, as a feminist who's loud and competitive and prefers smiling but loathes cigarettes and people who wear scarves when it's not cold out... France has been a terrible fit. Cheating ex aside, I've never been so frustrated with people as I have been here. To all the chauvinists who have told me girls can't play soccer, or that I'm too pretty to wear sweatpants, that I'm too ambitious professionally or that Americans are all racist... fuck you. Seriously.The doctors who prescribe without listening, those who hang up or close doors because my French accent isn't perfect, and everyone leaving problems unsolved because it's time for the two hour lunch break... I despise you. This country has a stigma for being unfriendly and cold and after three years I can't say I disagree. You're beautiful, France, no doubt, but the echoes of the complaining on every street corner can be a real drag. 

So thank you to all those, in spite of the debbie downers, that have still made it worthwhile. Made it fun. Made me happy. It's a little bit the baguettes and the cheese. The cheap wine and cheap flights. The chateaus and terraces. But mainly it's you, my soccer team, those special colleagues, roommate and friends of friends, and random encounters here and there on dance floors in metros at markets and over drinks... you are my Paris, my years abroad, my early twenties, my days and nights of not knowing what the hell it all means but moving along anyway. France was never in my agenda, but life throws curve balls like attractive men and job opportunities, and so I decided
to go for it. It's been a remarkable chapter in my life. I mean, I speak French now! I've visited over a dozen countries. I even dated a model (which I will be bragging about forever). And mostly, I've made friendships that are in for the long haul. And I'm truly thankful for that.  

It's come to an end now. Endings are sad, and I still have some goodbyes left that will no doubt be tear-filled and hard. You know who you are, and I'm writing this for you. It's funny how your excitement for me and what's next to come makes it that much harder to leave. Wish you could come away with me, along with all the things I love about my life here. The camembert and the fois gras won't make it past airport security, but I'll do my best to safely carry that little glass ornament of memories with me wherever life takes me next.

Ninjas in Paris

As I embark on chapter three of the French trilogy that’s been my post-college life, I’m feeling less like a king or a jedi and more like a kindergartener starting her first day of school. Or rather a kindergartener who’s been held back two years but finally stopped wetting herself and can now function in a classroom setting. I guess I thought by the third time going that the attachment issues would go away, but the truth is that it gets harder each time I kiss my America goodbye.

Love Locks Bridge in Paris. 

Leaving home is hard. First you’re stuffing animal crackers in your bum without a care in the world and suddenly you’re expected to sit at a desk and cooperate with others who don’t give a damn that your parents nicknamed you ‘Dali’ for your exceptional finger-painting skills. You’re in the wild now. The things that once brought comfort are no longer accessible, and mommy won’t be there to cheer you up when no one wants to be your friend.

While none of that actually happened (I was very popular in kindergarten), my first two years abroad have made me realize how good I had it back home. Where I used to receive praise for good grades and good hair, I’m now aware of the areas I’m not so strong at, such as speaking other languages or chewing with my mouth closed. Being funny doesn’t count for nothing if the jokes aren’t in French, and even when they are, with such a heavy accent you’re never sure if they’re laughing with or at you (and honestly, French people don’t laugh all that much). Plus, no one knows how to twerk over thurr. And everyone smokes. And they’re all so damn skinny. Gross.

But, but, but… it’s also really not so bad.

Tour Eiffel (in English: Eiffel Tower)

So I’m in the airport now, finishing off deep-dish leftovers and feeling nostalgic and yada yada yada, and there’s this part of me that’s getting kind of pumped to take off again.  That same part that decided to head out 2 years ago, that’s led me to 13 European countries, and will take me running with the bulls in two weeks. THAT part of me is hella ready to start my new adventure in the City of Light.

Oui, oui, this time around I’m doing France the RIGHT way, à la mode, and living the dream life (for everyone other than Sedaris and myself) of working at a hip company in downtown Paris. That’s right, I’m moving to PARIS! It's that one with the tall phallic looking building where Moulin Rouge takes place. And what’s even better is that I’ll be doing what I actually went to college for (cool) and getting paid to do it (even cooler) and it’ll all be in English (wow that’s the coolest)! I’ll be writing story scripts of murder mystery cases for a popular computer game, which is the absolute perfect job for a Japanese girl who studied scriptwriting in the murder capital of America.  

They say that third time's the charm, and I finally believe after two years of language setbacks, relationship hiccups and mad stomach pains from the cheese, that this time around I’m going to do it right... and do it well. Suck it, le France, I’m back.  

Stay tuned. (and come visit!)

What Smells in France

Please excuse my delayed second post; I managed to keep myself pretty occupied these past few days with some noteworthy firsts:

-  Successfully asking for directions in French, then successfully flirting to get my 115lbs of luggage to cette destination;

 

-  Training with a professional women’s soccer team; 

-  Spending the night in an emergency room next to a woman who soiled herself. 

-  Making unintentionally-sexual conversation with a stranger thanks to Google Translate

-  Testing into intermediate B1 French knowing only 2 weeks worth of Rosetta Stone and the lyrics to Lady Marmelade

But personal frivolity aside, I’m here to dish the dirt on zee culture francaise, and I must begin with the most fundamental, indispensable subject matter:dog shit.

Yes, that’s right, canine feces. Doggie dung. Piles of Big O' Poop.

It’s literally everywhere.

While I have yet to fall victim to these sidewalk landmines, I can predict with my clumsiness the inevitability of a future shoe-cleansing.

The French love their dogs; that hallmark card of the woman in a beret walking her poodle aside the Eiffel Tower clearly comes to mind. In fact, I noticed during my strolls through the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, or along the Garonne River in Toulouse, that the dogs themselves appear quite content with their quality of life. And why wouldn’t they, born into the luxury of fresh baguette heels each morning and the freedom to plant a big one wherever they so please?

This poop predicament is no trivial matter; or at least, it has put a stench on my daily routine (yes, pun intended) as someone who doesn't particularly enjoy getting smacked with fecal fragrance every corner she turns. Smells aside, constantly looking down to dodge oncoming piles has led to missed opportunities. As a photographer trying to capture a candid kiss on the Seine, or a lone traveler desiring the comfort of a friendly nod from a passerby, looking up can make all the difference.

I do not intend for this blog to turn into a diary of my 1^st world problems where I relate Adele’s lyrics to my own life. However, I must question how this idolized nation, the Romantic Capital of the World, has managed to prevent this reasonably normal, yet still kind of gross, dog-poop dilemma from tainting its image.

Why don’t the travel books discuss the lack of fecal pick-up in a country where leather boots and pumps are acceptable footwear for taking out the trash? Of course, a guide listing the best places for boat rides and cooking classes will likely outsell the one labeling heavy doo-doo hot spots. Perhaps excrement is just something not discussed, or not worthy of any online article aside from a silly girl’s blog.

Yet at the same time, coming from the ever-mocked United States to the land of hoighty-toighty, nylon-clad fashionistas, it actually feels a bit relieving to see that Europeans have some not-so tidy habits of their own. The French maintain their class and dignity while letting their dogs live a little, and that’s not all. I’ve witnessed more than one elbow on the table, mismatched socks, and a late night chug of milk… straight from the carton. These are the stolen moments, moments that contradict the image of poise so desperately maintained, that actually make me feel most at home.

In the end, dog shit is dog shit, and the day it gets on my shoe is the day I perfect my pronunciation of merde. Meanwhile, I will use what little language I've attained from Rosetta Stone to see what else ces personnes have hiding in their crepes.