Chez Nous

Well, after five weeks with hazardous cables draped across a living room, a haphazard Internet connection, sleeping on twin beds pushed together, cooking out of a tiny kitchen, and getting glorious weekly housekeeping, we left the aparthotel for the greener pastures of our apartment. We moved in yesterday and we’re thrilled beyond belief. We love it! Although we have yet another week before our shipment (with most of our belongings) is delivered, we’re not exactly sitting on the floor eating out of tin cans, either. We have some furniture and kitchen appliances already and a loaner mattress to make our first week here far less barebones than it could be. I’ve included some pics so you can get a taste of our space in its nascent state. (Stay tuned to see more of its transformation!)

Our first hour in the apartment was a perfect demonstration of the division of priorities in our household. I immediately started cleaning and unpacking; Nate rushed to set up our Internet connection, lest we be reduced to early 90’s-era communication standards. (Oh, the horror…the horror.) But once I saw how insanely fast the Internet connection is here, I was (as I usually am) quite grateful for N’s quickness to act and get all that techy stuff dealt with. At this point, we’ve got a fully operational multi-media set up on my desk, and if you know Nate, you know this is NOTHING compared to what the scene will be once our shipment arrives.

This weekend was all about errands and setting things up. Although shopping for hardware and banal items like a dish drying rack doesn’t sound terribly exciting, it’s good times for us at present. We’re reaching the end of all the hard work involved in preparing for the move and actually doing it. Now that we have the blank canvas of a new home to work with, the fun can truly begin.

We had a brief visit yesterday from Candice, who is currently on her way to Morocco for a weeklong trek in the Atlas Mountains. It was great to have our very first visitor on our very first night – it made our still-spare apartment feel more lived in, not to mention how lovely it was to see my sister-in-law for the first time in two years! She returns next Sunday for a longer stay in Paris. Hopefully by that time our shipment will have arrived and this place will be up and running for real…

Cultural Perspectives (This Might Take a While…)

Being an expat is like carefully examining a Russian nested doll. Each experience in the new culture enables you to remove yet another smaller layer before reaching the essential nugget nested deep within its core. After only being in Paris for a month, I clearly have not yet permeated its entire core. However, I have been immersed in it long enough to have picked up on one small nugget and some of the layers that comprise the national character.

One small nugget I have plumbed from the depths of this intricate, complicated nesting doll of a country is that it is quite illogical. Nate discovered an almost perfect manifestation of this irony in the neighborhood where he works. There’s a street called rue de Progrès (yup, it means what you think it means), which boasts a string of run-down, two-story buildings, laundry lines strung haphazardly between them, paint peeling, cracks running down their faces down to the street. And poking up in the background from another street where times haven’t been as tough is a proud, sleek, silver skyscraper. This image is but a taste of the rules of French life that I have thus far discerned.

And before you read any further, I must caution you that what follows contains a fair dose of facetiousness, but is not meant as a complaint against or denunciation of the French. It’s just that I’ve learned that patience, expecting the unexpected, and, most importantly, a steadfast sense of humor are crucial to one’s survival of what may seem at times to be utterly absurd.

Rule #1: Red Tape Gone Wild
You need documents to get anything done. Not one, not two, but loads of ‘em. And in order to get those documents, you need to get all of the myriad prerequisite documents. I’ve been in several situations in which I had all 99 documents I thought I needed, except there was always just that one that I didn’t have or didn’t know I needed to have, and there wound up being a crucial piece of paper standing between me and a job, a cell phone, a monthly transportation pass, etc.

Rule #2: Adventures in the Land of the Ill-Conceived
Paris has some of the most amazing architecture in the world. One building is more intricate and lovely than the next. Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard it before, but what you don’t know is that sometimes they ain’t so pretty on the inside, and I don’t mean aesthetically – they seem to miss the mark on the structural design. For example, our hotel room is equipped with an Ethernet port and a desk, which you would think would be placed right by the Ethernet port so you could happily plug in your computer and be on the Internet in a snap. You would think that. On the contrary, the port is located on the opposite side of the room from the desk, so we’ve had Ethernet cables strung precariously across the living room for weeks, risking our necks for a chance to communicate with the world outside France. (Yes, we do it all for you.) Another instance of this was at a hotel in Provence where you had to literally climb over a high ledge into the shower. And don’t even get me started on the double-door “security” system at our bank…

Rule #3: Is Consistency Part of Your Job?
We’ve dealt with quite a few services already – bank, ISP, hotel, government agencies, cell phone provider. And in dealing with every single one of these services, we’ve gotten different information from different people. Case 1: An employee for a cell phone company told us certain documents were needed to set up an account, while another employee of the same company gave us a different list of required documents. Case the second: The government agency I visited to get my carte de sejour asked why my passport wasn’t stamped. If you’re a government agency tasked with looking for passport stamps on a daily basis, wouldn’t you be aware of the government’s regular passport stamping practices? Case 3: Even though my name hasn’t officially been on our Paris bank account (more on that later), I was able to deposit cash last week but then couldn’t the other day. Indeed, you must never take anyone’s word for anything here. Just keep asking until you get the answer you want.

Rule #4: Modern Banking in France: Where Leisure Time Goes to Die. AKA, NATE’S GUEST BLOG NESTED WITHIN A BLOG.
For those of you who watch the show “Lost,” you should be familiar with the frustrating principle of “It is not what information each new episode divulges, but rather what new mysteries and questions it poses.” Similarly, French banking is not about getting any particular thing done, but rather having new obstacles arise on subsequent visits, because naturally, on any particular visit it’s either the wrong time, the wrong day, or the wrong person is there to assist you. Although the full details of our banking escapades are beyond the scope of this post, suffice to say, we’ve probably spent more time at our bank than any other location outside our home and work – and we’re just now almost done with our major tasks. Some frustrations have included: no deposits accepted on Saturdays; three different branches had to be contacted in order to authorize a wire transfer from our US bank to find the proper level of clearance; Jess couldn’t be added to our account for weeks because the documents had to be prepared and signed by the lady who created our account, and she was on vacation until today (and what if she had quit her job, what happens then?).
JESS BACK AGAIN…PLEASE ENCOURAGE NATE TO TEAR HIMSELF AWAY FROM WOW AND GUEST BLOG SOME MORE IN THE FUTURE.

There’s much more to the slow-as-molasses progress that drives this society (anyone who’s ever visited the country can attest to what feels like pervasive customer non-service). But the truth is, there are also several innovations here that put American systems to shame. French bandwidth plans are a dream. For 30 euros total per month, you get Internet (at 20 times the speed of what you get in America), French TV, and a VOIP phone that allows you to call the US and other international locations for free. In addition, the magnetic transportation passes can be scanned – not swiped - at turnstiles, so you don’t even have to take them out of your bag; plus the pass refilling machines are far easier to use than the NYC Metrocard machines, which have the faultiest touch-screen interface I’ve ever encountered.

Paris has also implemented two environmentally-friendly measures that I really respect. Many large markets do not simply give customers plastic bags, but instead charge a nominal price for them, incentivizing consumers to bring their own totes or mini-shopping carts. Moreover, in July the city installed a public bicycle rental service. The bikes, called Velibes, are located at racks throughout the city where you can pick one up or drop one off. The first 30 minutes are free, with the cost getting quite high by the hour. The bikes seem to be ready available and are wildly popular. I haven’t partaken yet, but I plan to make use of it for commuting and leisure purposes.

The process of maneuvering the hassles and complications of life here is more than outweighed by the pleasures and charms. As mind-boggling as these issues can be, I've also been able to maintain enough objectivity to find them rather amusing (even after going out of my way to deposit cash at two different bank branches and being turned down). It’s nice to have some likeminded people (N of course and expat friends) that can appreciate the differences but also poke some fun at them.

The New Gig: First Days

Two days into the new job, my sociological observations have so far taught me that the French have acquired whip-smart productivity in the work place. After my 9am class yesterday, one of my students mentioned she was then heading off to do exercise. “Is there a gym nearby?” I asked in French. “Mais, non!” she replied, as if that was the silliest thing I could have asked. “There is a gym here on the work site!” Oh, silly me, indeed. Morning coffee > two-hour language class > workout…What’s next, pottery and then mani-pedi, followed by baking class after which we eat our confections? As I said, whip-smart productivity.

Aside from growing green with envy over corporate summer camp, I’ve been overcome by the openness and warmth of my students. Gone are the affected adolescent apathy, stunna shades worn indoors, and phantom text-messaging menace of yore. My current students, ranging in ages from early 20’s to 50’s, are an eclectic bunch in terms of English skills, but are all united in their eagerness to learn the language. One student was so visibly happy to speak English, he was beaming. It was fun indulging this attitude with extended conversations on any topic at all, from travel to the French education system to homeopathic medicine. The latter happens to be a popular phenomenon in France, but I’ve been assured that it’s not quite as fanatical here as in California (glad to see the hippy-dippy liberal Marin hot-tubbing stereotype is alive and well). By the way, you know you’re dealing with sincerity when a chemist at a major pharmaceutical company advises you to try acupuncture instead of continuing your course of prescription allergy medication manufactured by said company.

During my full day of teaching at a company in the Paris ‘burbs, I felt like the new kid at school who everyone wants to befriend—well, everyone being the two middle-aged women and four young guys I ate lunch with at the company cafeteria. One of my students had kindly invited me to join her and some co-workers for lunch (I had an hour-long break between classes), and it quickly turned into a game of which language would reign supreme. Everyone wanted to hear about San Francisco, everyone wanted to know what I, as an American, think of France, and of course, everyone wanted to speak English. I, on the other hand, wanted to seize the opportunity to practice my French. They won me over with their enthusiasm for speaking my native language (not that my French vocab limitations had anything to do with it…English is mighty). One woman particularly took to me in an almost maternal way. She kept making sure I had everything I needed, plied me with coffee and chocolate, and confessed to me a rather moving bit of her personal history. She and her family tried to escape Vietnam as the war was ending, but during their journey, her husband, sisters, and parents all died on a treacherous boat ride. All alone, she made her way to France as a refugee and has been here ever since. Inspirational. Being a teacher has always been enriching, but being able to make these kinds of connections with people in a new country has added a wonderful new layer to my professional life.

Coming off a full day of teaching English as a language is a bit like disembarking from a long boat ride. Even though you’re back on solid ground, you still find yourself swaying to the gentle tide of speaking very sloooooooooooooowly and enunciating vvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrrry clearly. (I had to consciously stop myself from doing this, but at least I’m not one of those fools who, when faced with people not comprehending him, just repeats himself, only five decibels louder.) It’s also a bit disorienting exiting such an intense few hours of English instruction only to not hear one shred of English spoken around you. It was oddly comforting to overhear a young Canadian couple discussing this evening’s dinner plans on the RER ride back to Paris.

Life Is a Carnavalet

It’s been a few days since my last post, so let me begin by wishing all the fellow members of the tribe a Shana Tovah, as well as a happy post-BMan to those who went. And if you don’t fall into either category, well, your time for a special shout-out will come…don’t you worry .

After a rather gray Saturday (and another trip to the bank during which we could only accomplish one of several banking tasks…sigh), we were delighted to wake up to a brilliantly sunny Sunday. This weekend happens to be Les Journées du Patrimoine, an annual event during which many national monuments, museums, churches, and points of architectural interest are open free to the public. It took us about one millisecond to decide against going to the Louvre. While free admission seemed appealing, judging from its zoo-like atmosphere on a normal day, we decided fighting the crowds was not a favorable Sunday afternoon activity. Hence the plan to visit a lesser-known, relatively off-the-beaten path museum. Ironically, avoiding crowds was just not in the cards, but we had a lovely day nonetheless.


We headed to the Marais and first grabbed a bite at the much-lauded L’As du Falafel on Rue des Rosiers. The huge line snaking up the narrow street assured us that this was, as reported, the best falafel joint of the lot—and there are, literally, a lot on this street, with nary a line a third the size of this one. And so we waited, in a manner reminiscent of Sunday jaunts to Zazie. Our people-watching went into high gear. Now it’s true, there are many stylish people in this city, but there are also some pretty heinous fashion crimes running rampant. One particular disastrous trend we’ve noticed is a style of pants I can only describe as MC-Hammer-meets-50-Cent: super baggy, carpenter-style parachute pants that cinch at the bottom. Ugh. And no matter what type of shirt or shoes is worn with them, it’s a look that cannot be salvaged. Make it stop! (Ze goggles, zey do nah-seeng.) I wonder…is there a Vice Mag Paris bureau?

We took our falafel to go and ate in the street. It was DELICIOUS. Although we were then subject to the sandbag-in-the-belly sensation that naturally follows, we hopped over to the nearby Musée Carnavalet, a museum dedicated to the history of Paris. Nate didn’t seem as wowed by the grounds as I was upon my first discovery of the museum earlier this week (see previous blog entry). Apparently the grounds of the Musée Rodin outshine these, but I’m easily impressed, unlike the oh-so-jaded Parisians (toward which N seems to be slowly but surely evolving, hehe).


The Carnavalet galleries contain artifacts, paintings, furniture, and miniature architectural models from various time periods, ranging from the first to the twentieth centuries. We ogled the Merovingian medical instruments, Medieval stained glass, Renaissance iron works, deluxe 18th-Siècle furnishings, and images of Roaring Twenties taverns. Abundant paintings depicted views of the city from 200, 300, 400 years ago that boast the exact same architecture and Seine views that you can see at present. Of course, it’s impossible not to recognize this when walking the city streets nowadays, but it’s another thing altogether to see it captured on canvas by the artists who breathed that air. Europe is so thrillingly different from the States in this respect.

But our favorite section at the museum by far was the top floor, wholly dedicated to the French Revolution—one of the most fascinating historical periods, in my estimation. The artistic renderings of the siege of the Bastille and beheadings by guillotine were chilling in their realism. The replica of Marie Antoinette’s prison chamber was relatively amusing, as it was quite posh considering the people were rabid at the prospect of beheading her.

All the blood and gore was exciting at first, but eventually wore us down. We abandoned the bayonet-fueled battles of the past, only to enter the fray of present day foot-traffic battles. The Marais’ narrow streets (and even narrower sidewalks) that were so tranquil only a few days ago were now teeming with people. Free sightseeing + gorgeous weather + great shopping and dining + limited space = rubbernecking central. And I’m sure pedestrians do this all over the world, but we’ve noticed that it’s rather frequent in Paris—people will just stop in their tracks, right in front of you, and then it’s an acrobatic feat to circumnavigate them and the adjacent dense flow of foot traffic. Not to complain– it’s all part of the experience and small potatoes compared to places in other parts of the world (Chatuchak Market in Bangkok comes to mind). Nonetheless, it was a bit hairy getting out of the Marais, and afterwards we felt thankful that our apartment is removed from this part of the neighborhood, yet only a few minutes away by foot.

Now it’s time to hunker down and do some lesson planning for my first full week of teaching English to Parisian professionals. The prospect of alarm clocks and bleary-eyed subway rides is not too palatable, but I’m excited to teach again, to establish a routine, and to gain footing in this new chapter of my life.

High Heels, Tasty Teas

My employer had to send me to a doctor for a government-mandated, basic medical examination. I’m still not sure if this is a requirement when an employee takes any new job in France, or if I had to do it because it’s my very first job in France (some things do get lost in translation sometimes). Anyhow, I was promised an hour of pay for the doctor’s visit, so I wasn’t at all put out by the prospect.

During our visit to France five years ago, Nate experienced bad carpal tunnel, so he decided to visit an acupuncturist in Marseilles. We were surprised to discover that the doctor’s office looked more like a private home: the waiting room was a richly appointed parlor and the exam room where Nate was transformed into a human pincushion had the air of an old-fashioned study. At the time we thought it had something to do with the taste of the acupuncturist (or perhaps he just worked out of his home?), but I recently read somewhere that this decor is quite typical for private medical practices in France. So color me surprised (and admittedly a bit disappointed) when I entered a highly sterile, nondescript doctor’s office today. Where’s my Louis XV waiting-room chair?

I’ve been surprising myself with the amount of French I can understand. My French speech skills, however, are foundling at best. I’ve managed to get through basic transactions at the bank, post office, restaurants, and various shops, but today at the doctor’s office I came across my first big hurdle—with hilarious results. Everything started out fine. I gave my name, answered some basic questions, and then was told to wait. I asked the receptionist to point me toward the bathroom, and on my way a pair of nurse practitioners accosted me. They started squabbling away at me in French and I stood dumbstruck, only making out two words: “pee pee” (I can only assume this expression transcends language barriers) and “verre” (the word for glass or cup). Before I could respond, one of the NP’s produced a metal cup—slightly bigger than but in the same style of the kind a barrista would use to steam milk—and handed it to me. Are you kidding? I have to pee in a cup, and it’s then going to be frothed up for a cappuccino? The receptionist must have overheard the exchange, because she came rushing over and explained to the NP’s that I didn’t need to provide a urine sample. Pfew. I made it through the medical exam (very basic, mostly consisting of q & a) speaking “Franglais” with the doctor, who I think was more nervous to make inquiries in English than I was to answer her in French.

Whoever coined the phrase “no pain, no gain” has never traversed four arrondisements worth of Paris in 3” wedges. I have newfound respect for the pair of shoes I hurriedly slung on today, way before I decided to walk all the way from the doctor’s office in the 2nd to our aparthotel in the 12th. I didn’t plan to walk that far when I first left the doctor’s, but it was probably the abundant eye candy that propelled me onward—and I made it home without a trace of discomfort.


I started out on the pedestrian walkway of rue Montrogeuil, chockablock with produce markets, flower shops, and touristy cafes. I then veered east toward the Marais, thinking it would be a convenient time to explore more of my soon-to-be hood. I passed the Centre Pompidou (which, as Joe so perfectly puts it, looks like a hamster cage) on my way up rue Rambuteau, which eventually became rue de Francois Bourgeois—an apt name for a street full of fashion, gourmet food, and upscale cosmetics. (Oh man, am I in trouble…thank god the paychecks will be rolling in soon.) Today I wasn’t so much tempted by all the lovely wares peeking out of boutique after boutique—it was the siren song of beautiful public space after beautiful public space. A random turn onto a side street brought me to a quaint park alongside a church. It wasn’t nearly as wondrous as the spots I encountered later on, but sitting in the shade, watching tots play in the sandbox, gazing up at the church’s spire amid the tops of ornate Parisian buildings—just heavenly.


I ambled through the twisty alleys until I came across rue des Rosiers, the heart of Paris’ Jewish Quarter, where one can see Hassidim strolling past Marais fashion hounds. Then right around the corner is rue Vieille du Temple, where rainbow flags soar proudly. (I’ll feel so at home in the Marais, as it’s a perfect cross between my NY Jewish heritage and my decade in SF.) I didn’t see any leather chaps, but I did make the discovery of a lifetime: Le Palais de Thés. I really love tea; in fact, I LURVE it. I like to check out tea shops whenever possible, and this tea takes the cake. The blends here are so unusual and aromatic, and after a few sips of the green tea they’d brewed for sampling, I felt reborn. So let me say it now: if we could abdicate alcohol and drugs for the offerings of Le Palais de Thés, the world would be a much more peaceful, happy place. If I’m found months from now wandering the Paris airport in robes and a tonsure, preaching the benefits of tea, don’t say I didn’t warn you. For now, I’ll just enjoy the Hammam Rouge blend I purchased—a kaleidoscope of flavors ranging from jasmine to grapefruit.


I circled back to rue Francois Bourgeois, where I discovered Musée Carnavalet, a museum of the history of Paris. Thankfully, you don’t have to pay the admission price to soak up the grounds. This is one of the most jaw-droppingly stunning places I’ve seen in Paris. I’ll let the picture speak for itself, although it doesn't nearly do the place justice.


It gets better. I ventured on to Place des Vosges, a square built in the 17th century on perfect symmetrical principles. Nine connected houses were constructed on each side of the square, with arcades covering the sidewalks. A fountain runneth over in each corner, benches are located throughout, and people of all ages lounge on the patches of grass. It’s no surprise Catherine de Medici chose to live here at one point. It’s hard to decide whether to hang out in the park or kick it at a curbside café on the perimeter, but today I opted for a bench as the sun reared its head for the first time all afternoon.


By the time I was ready to head home, I realized I was right around the corner from place de Bastille, a mere 10-15 minute walk from home (go wedges!). I don’t know why this weird carnival booth was set up in the middle of a traffic island—Parisian wonders never cease.

Tuileries

I dropped into the office for a brief spell to peruse some teaching materials for Monday’s lesson. Afterwards I wandered about and realized how ridiculously close my office is to the Jardin des Tuileries. I haven’t been there since my first visit to Paris 11 years ago, so I felt compelled to go, even though a huge gray storm cloud hovered.


To get there, I had to cut through Place Vendôme, a.k.a. the Posh Pavilion (my name for it, anyway). The plaza boasts an impressive column, oxidized by time and intricately engraved; a statue of Napoleon rests on top. All around the plaza and on the streets leading to it are the schmanciest businesses imaginable (Chanel, Cartier, Boucheron, Van Cleef & Arpels, the Ritz, etc.) I then realized my plan to grab a bite on my way to the Tuileries was a mistake. Nearly an hour later, my wallet 13 euros lighter and my belly satisfied with a French version of Caesar salad (much better than in the US), I entered the Tuileries.


Even on a less-than-idyllic day, this public garden is a paradise. I wove through a kiddie football game, striding up the leafy lanes leading up to a swath of flower gardens (hello, dahlias!). After admiring the colors, I made my way to the fountain, which was surrounded by comfy looking chairs free for the sitting. I sat down, opened my book, and tried to read, although I was distracted by the utter beauty of my surroundings. Plus I could see Musée D’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, the arcades of Rue de Rivoli, the Obelisque (over at Place de la Concorde), and the Ferris wheel from my seat (behold the pics). Directly behind me was the Louvre, the pyramid looming up from a bevy of camera-snapping internationals. I was in a tourist’s paradise, but interestingly enough, a lot of the voices around the fountain chattered away in French.


Soon some Russian intermingled with French, Italian, and English. An elderly Russian woman sat on a chair right near me, muttering at her husband, who was blithely filming the scene on his camcorder. Suddenly the woman toppled backwards in her seat and was splayed out on the ground. Her husband continued filming it, unfazed. Struggling to hold in some laughter at his ridiculousness, I was the one to get up and help her. I think at that point he finally stopped shooting, so hopefully I won’t wind up on YouTube.


Fiinally descending into the Metro, I was reminded of a wonderful little segment in the recent film, “Paris Je T’Aime,” a collection of shorts that each take place in a different arrondisement of Paris. Each short is written and directed by a different director, and is in essence its own unique ode to the city and its inhabitants (I definitely recommend renting it). The Coen Brothers directed the “Tuileries” short set in the eponymous Metro station, in which Steve Buscemi manages to make you laugh without ever saying one word. It’s all about the eyes.

No Tomato Throwing Allowed

More positive developments this week. After putting myself through a total of 8 interviews in a period of a week, with 8 offers to choose from, I admittedly was in an enviable spot. Apparently English teaching is in high demand here! I accepted an offer yesterday at a language school for French professionals. I’ll teach adults who want to improve English skills for their respective jobs—spanning finance, fashion, tourism, and other industries. Gone are the days of 37 rambunctious 15 year olds (for now, anyway) – I’ll be teaching mostly one-on-one lessons, with some small group classes (a maximum of 6…don’t hate me, public school teachers). It’s a mobile job, as I’ll mostly be teaching my students offsite at their offices, with a weekly workday of teaching onsite at the school itself (very centrally located, right near the breathtaking Opera House). However, the schedule will be fairly set, so I’ll know my regular appointments through the year’s end and can thus build a routine. A lot of the places at which I interviewed have a similar m.o., but the school I chose really stood out due to the way its employees spoke about the organizational culture, the school’s philosophy on education, and the incredible perks (some of which are standard-issue French, others of which are unique to the school).

Speaking of perks, I don’t want to make all of you over in the States jealous. Remember that salaries here are indeed lower than in the US (although I’ll be able to make a decent contribution to my household). But I may have to rub it in, just a little bit. Here are the standard benefits an employee receives in France: 5 weeks of paid vacation, free healthcare (with nominal co-pays for prescriptions), 50% coverage of one’s monthly transportation pass (key for frequent Metro use), and daily meal vouchers (enough to buy a sandwich at most, but hey I’m not complaining). [My company also offers me a 10% hourly increase on all classes taught outside the city center, plus full reimbursement of my transportation costs outside the Metro zone.]

And if you thought that wasn’t enough, here’s an almost utopian perk: the government requires that companies earmark an annual budget to be spent on employee education related to the job. For instance, if I worked at a software development company and needed to improve my “full HTML” (TM DeFonso) skills, my company would pay for a class. Now, not every single employee reaps this benefit; in some companies, employees fight tooth and nail to be the chosen ones. But regardless of the internal competition and inherent elitism that could result, I think it’s wonderful that it’s a REQUIREMENT to spend money on this. In fact, it’s how I’m earning a living in France – all of my students are taking English classes to be covered by this very budget.

I’m so fortunate to also benefit from this budget at my own place of employment. The school has offered me free French lessons (with two other Anglophone employees), to be taught by one of its French teachers. C'est fantastique! I was planning on continuing my French studies, but now I have the convenience of taking the class at my workplace and not having to cough up tuition. The other great perk my employer has to offer is a vast array of teaching materials and resources that I can use to develop my lessons. I have a toolkit of secondary-school vocab, grammar, and writing strategies I can recycle, but teaching business English has its own new set of challenges. I’m grateful to have a library available to me to minimize planning.

Teaching adults should be fascinating and worlds apart from teaching teenagers. I get to capitalize on one of the things I love the most about the profession, which is the intense interaction with individuals. I’ll get many perspectives on life in France and insight into industries and work culture that I wouldn’t get otherwise. I’m going to miss out on the joys of discipline (oh boo), but also on the hilarity that can only come from a group of 30+ adolescents trapped in a room together for one hour. They just say the funniest things, and my stand-up routine about it was just starting to build momentum. I’ll have to settle for the vicarious tales from abroad…unless these Frenchies give me some new brand of comedy gold. (BTW, El Camino people – I’ve been thinking of you since the new school year began and hope the honeymoon period lasts a very, very long time. Please send my love to the juniors.)

I officially start on the 17th, taking next week to do some planning. I agreed to teach a one-off lesson Monday morning, so I have to do a smidgen of advance work, but it’ll be good to get my feet wet. I haven’t worked in three months due to the heavenly summer break of the school calendar, and I’m rusty on the whole “show up somewhere at a particular time and be in charge of doing some stuff” thing…Yeah, I’ve done enough gloating for one day, so I better end here before you all hurl produce at your monitors in disgust .

Carte de Suaveness

OK, I’m back from vacation (like the rest of Paris) and let me start by sharing the fabulous news: I got my temporary carte de sejour today, sans hitch! Nate and I arose at the crack of dawn and arrived at the prescribed Prefecture at 7:40a.m., only to be the third party in line. (We were widely cautioned to do this, as the line winds up getting quite long and you can consequently spend half your day just waiting to see an agent.) It was cold and I was underdressed for the occasion of waiting outside a police station for 90 minutes, but then the doors opened slightly after 9:00 and we wound up getting helped rather quickly. We kept marveling at how speedy things seemed, which buoyed us through the 25 minutes we spent with the dourest, most unenthused government employee I’ve ever encountered. She never cracked a smile, and even glowered at us a couple times, such as when she discovered the lack of a customs stamp on my passport upon entry to France and that we didn’t have a French translation of our marriage certificate – to which I say, Huh? In all the CDS literature I’ve seen – and trust me, I’ve been triple checking facts on this matter left and right – this item never made any list of requirements. Turns out neither item mattered, but why the sourness? Anyway, I strutted off happily, temporary CDS in hand, with an appointment in two months to get the real document (this is protocol). When we emerged from the building, the line’s length had quadrupled – which made us feel even better about our early wake-up time and our express (for France, mind you) service. Now I can work, get a phone, open a bank account, and gain access to the French healthcare system and probably scores of other things. Now it begins!

We had a lovely time at DMD and Stella’s wedding in Provence over the weekend. The event was set in Saint Saturnin les Apt, a charming village in the Luberon region. Nate and I had driven around the region when we visited France five years ago, and were delighted to return. The Luberon’s rolling, verdant hills dotted with vineyards and the occasional village cropping up bear a resemblance to the Tuscan countryside (our guess, confirmed by those who have been). Most villages have been standing for hundreds of years and much of the land has been undeveloped (at least by American standards), so at a glance the region looks almost untouched by time. By early September, the lavender harvest is already over, but the fragrance still looms in the air, adding sweetness to the breeze rustling through abundant poplar, olive, and fig trees. It’s a magical part of the country, one that I certainly plan to return to (although the list goes on of places I want to visit!).

Something I adore about destination weddings is the intimacy created over the course of a weekend between people who hadn’t yet known each other, but are brought together out of common love for the happy couple. On the night before the wedding, all guests were invited to a lively rehearsal dinner at a French-Tunisian restaurant, honoring the heritage of the groom’s family. It was fun meeting DM’s French relatives, Stella’s family and her fun American and British friends, and reconnecting with our own crew. Now, apparently this is a Jewish-French-Tunisian (love that combo) tradition carried out at bar mitzvahs, weddings, and so on – but none of us outside that cultural category were quite prepared for the surprise of the belly dancer. It was a riot watching DMD shake it with her, and even better when Stella joined them.

The wedding was held at the elegant Domaine des Andeols, a hotel set in what was once an ancient village. Each building houses its own domaine and is decorated around a theme. Ours was Maison Blanche, appointed in all things white, including a chair that felt like sitting in a white feather boa. The grounds were absolutely beautiful (potentially one of the most idyllic settings for a wedding I’ve ever encountered), but nothing compared to the joy of seeing two good friends celebrate their love. The ceremony was heartfelt and moving, and I honestly feel touched to have been there and share in the beauty of it all.

It was also a blast to spend time with dear friends. Although surely there were many others who couldn’t make it, we had solid representation from both college and Bay Area days. My gut is still sore from all the laughter. We spent a lot of time relaxing, eating, and drinking wine in the charming villages of the region. This was my first opportunity to feel French, as we hadn’t even been here more than a week and I was already on vacation – and what a way to do so.