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!!  

Sick Day

Sorry for the not-topical photo... 
it was this or my bleeding tonsils

I’m at home with strep throat, something I thought only children get but I’m young at heart and at throat apparently, so boo hoo and a whole lot of guck. I took a couple days off to rest and it hurts too much to talk or eat so I try to do a bit of writing, but that’s the thing about being sick: you've got the whole day free but really you’re so weak that just getting up to pee takes up every ounce of energy, forcing you to go back to sleep to conserve enough for the next potty break. So I give up and put the laptop away, cozy into the couch and finally get aboard the Game of Thrones train (better late than never!). I’m nearly done with season 1 but let me guess… EVERYONE DIES.

I started getting symptoms on Sunday at which point I followed my usual “freak-out-when-my-body-does-something-slightly-abnormal” routine: go onto WebMD, search every fatal disease I could possibly have, narrow my diagnosis to either aids, cancer or scarlet fever, write a eulogy for my parents and friends, decide what I’ll do with my remaining money, and end with going through facebook albums to determine whether “I’ve lived life to the fullest.” From there I’ll waste another hour or two online, thinking how lucky these people have it to be alive. And my mother says I need to be more cautious.

this is the waiting room...

I got my actually diagnosis today at my pediatrician’s office. That’s right, pediatrician: doctor for KIDS. His name's Dr. H and he's a pretty cool dude. He’s the same guy I’ve been seeing since elementary school and for some reason I’ve never managed to find or need a doctor after turning 18 or he’s just nice enough to keep me as a patient. So there I am in the waiting room, sitting beside a mother and her five-year old playing with action figures. The only reading material consists of highlights! magazines and picture books (both of which I am a huge fan) so I get down to word play until the doc calls my name. Yada yada symptoms, yada yada tests, yada yada knick knack and he prescribes me the pills. Only this time, assuming that I’m of age to be “off of my parents’ insurance,” he asks me if I’m on a good enough plan to afford the medicine. Excusé-moi?

At times like these I miss the good old days of socialist France. I’d go to the doctor, pay my 23 bucks, get a laundry list of medications, take that to the pharmacy, not pay a cent, then get the 23 bucks reimbursed back within two weeks. Pas mal, pas mal. For specialists like ophthalmologists and coochi clinics I might not get the full refund but still it was a no brainer to pay a visit at the very moment I felt a bit ill.  

Now back home and at the prime age of “almost 26,” I need to pay attention to things like PPO, HMO, HBO and other things that can seriously stack up my bills. At the time Obamacare became a thing I was already abroad, and from an external point of view it’s like “well no shit, Sherlock. Everybody should be able to afford healthcare.” But now as I dive into my new life as a “freelance artist,” picking out plans, determining coverage, and paying for it out of pocket each month directly applies to ME, and I am not at all excited to be dealing with that. Especially coming from a country where month-long (paid) sick days can be issued simply because you’re feeling triste (that, by the way, means "sad," and people use that to get paid to stay home). 

Today's affair was relatively painless, with a co-pay here, and a co-pay there (and a cotton swab all up in there). I won’t be getting that 23 bucks back in the mail this time, and in a few months time when I’m no longer covered by mommy and daddy, it’s gonna be more like “here a Co, there a Pay, everywhere a pay! Pay!” Until then, expect to be seeing a LOT of me, Dr. H!

LESSON LEARNED: Always wash your hands. And don’t kiss strangers. At least not strangers who might have mono. Or if you must, do it while you're properly insured. Or just do it in France. 

Welcome Home, and Cheesy Fries

So I thought I was feeling nostalgic Saturday on my last walk through le Marais, baguette in hand and another in the other, enjoying the slow paced, boutiquey quaintness/richness/gayness of my favorite neighborhood in Paris. But ever since I stepped off the plane at O’Hare, the real sensation of “OMG I’m not in France anymore” has definitely hit. Multiple times. Like a cannonball. Or wrecking ball, as Miley Cyrus is on the radio here. Holey Moley I’m back.

Can I get some cheesy fries with that?

Suburban America is… BIG. Big portions. Big driving lanes. Big… people. Walking around in Europe I mostly noticed the clothing worn by passersby and judged accordingly, but returning back you can’t help but notice the size of people. The corridor leading to the plane was lined with wheelchairs not simply for the elderly or handicapped but those who just don’t… walk. Motorized scooters in malls, and lines at the drive-through pharmacy when there’s no wait inside… doesn’t anybody walk? And the portions… boy I love me a Portillo’s cake shake but a medium-sized drink is bigger than a large anywhere else in the world. None of this is new information, of course. It’s just, back in France I didn’t have to worry about portion control because the portions were just… already controlled for me. But you know the American way… more, more, more!  

Also, screens are EVERYWHERE. In restaurants, in stores, even in the library. At my 8am dentist appointment (no problem, as I was up by 4am), I get seated in a chair with an HD television screen in my face showing Good Morning America. I can’t help thinking of that episode of Black Mirrors I recently watched and suddenly feel claustrophobic about the screen and noise and just want it to be turned off but at this point I’ve got sharp objects dancing away at my gums so I just hold my tongue (away from the sharp objects). It’s a stark contrast to my French doctor, who operates out of her apartment living room, no thrills or frills (I wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom).

Now lean back!

Some things have changed, at least in my little suburbia. We have a new Trader Joes and the cutest family moved in next door. I went to the movies yesterday and the seats are literally armchairs with adjustable footrests that are more comfortable than my couches at home. And there are the sweet things that I’ve missed. People say thank you ALL the time. And it always feels good. I can call a cellphone provider and a human answers. 2pm appointments actually start at 2pm. And there’s frozen yogurt galore!

So now it’s day 2 of being back, and I guess by now the shock factor has faded. I feel myself sinking back into old habits. Hummus and pita bread. Ice in my water. Coach purses. I haven’t even worn black all week! And if feels great to let it all go but at the same time, I’m a bit scared, afraid that those layers of my French years I’ve built up are beginning to peel away. Walking through the same mall I went to back in high school, I got a sort of vile feeling that I’ve landed back where I began. I used to be that girl that was just home for the holidays, off again in 5 days to her exotic life in France, where they don’t even speak English! I’d say “oh stop, it’s really not that great” but it was still cool to be that somebody that did something different. Now I’m back to being the American girl living in America and following her American dream. Just like any other American girl. And it’s not so exotic but it’s what I want. And I don’t think I would have been this sure about it if I’d never gone away. But still… I wish being the girl who “used to live in France” sounded just as cool.  

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.

To Eat or Not to Eat... There is no Question

This is my 7^th time flying back to France in the past three years, making it my 38^th international flight since graduating college, and all I want is a banana. I’ve grown so accustomed to taking planes (and trains and automobiles) that 9 hours squeezed in seat 37F feels like a snooze.  Traveling has taught me a lot about myself. All those hours roaming through airport terminals, or in 37F between cryers and farters and sometimes babies, and never remembering to charge my kindle… these are the moments that have shaped the woman I am today. Because thanks to all these worldly experiences, I believe I’ve finally learned, or should I say been enlightened, about one of life’s most valuable lessons: what NOT to eat while traveling.

May the odds be ever in your favor. 

I love bananas. They go great in pancakes but not in duffel bags. No matter how careful I am they end up smashed at the bottom of my carryon and then it’s all wet and mushy on the bottom and feels like I’m carrying a dirty diaper that’s got my laptop inside. And that’s gross.

So slice it up, put it on some bread with some pb and make it a sandwich. Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. Peanut butter leads to dry mouth, followed by thirsty mouth, resulting in urges and frequent bathroom trips which are a pain in the ass unless you’ve got the aisle seat but who wants the aisle when you can have a window seat and stare at the pretty clouds and tiny buildings. No peanut butter. Same goes for chips, nuts and pretzels. Avoid salty things that make you want to do wet things.  

On international flights I know that I’ll be stationary for the next 8-12 hours, so I prefer to avoid things like pizza where I’ll literally feel the fat soaking into my love handles. I also try to limit desserts like donuts, cake, cookies, brownies and muffins to one (of each) to not feel regretful. Those chewy granola bars are packed with high fructose corn syrups and the healthier ones leave crumbs all over the seat and on my lap and in my bra, which is just itchy and rude. I could just wait and try the airplane food, but that’s a high-risk decision I’m not willing to take.

Oranges get sticky. Salads are pretentious. Bagels make me gassy. Apples seem like the perfect medium, but then you’ve got that darn core to worry about and unless you flag down a flight attendant, that too ends up on your lap on in your bra and that’s no fun either.

So what’s the solution? Buy an overpriced meal at the airport? On my writer’s salary… Ha.

After countless trial and errors, it’s still a struggle I battle before each takeoff: how to pack the perfect snack to carry me through to the next time zone. Perhaps I’m thinking way too much into this, but I’m a writer so I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.

Today I’ve armed myself with what might be the winning meal: sliced bread with spreadable butter; a fruit/nut salad in a shaker (not at all pretentious); a cookie; probably a second cookie; pre-sliced apples (coated with orange juice so they don’t brown… thanks, mom); and an empty water bottle to refill once I’m past security. I may have also packed an entire loaf of pumpkin bread… only time will tell. One could call this type of travel lunch preparedness “extensive,” “over-involved,” even “stingy”… but I like to think of it as “art.” Because rather than joining in with the stinkers and the screamers in row 37, my belly-happy self can instead spend the next nine hours daydreaming of croissants, macarons, and other treats that await me once I land.

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.