Squeamish Girl's Guide to Paris

It works both ways

2006-04-12T21:08:00.000+02:00

Ooh la la! After a long hiatus squeamish girl is back. Taking a honeymoon and starting a new job do create time constraints, but here goes:

The other day my husband called out to me from the bathroom, "Cherie d'amour, my skin is falling off"

I think he was calling me in to look, but understandably, I was sincerely apprehensive. "What on earth could he be talking about?", I asked myself.

"Comment?", What? I asked. He said come, come look, his skin was falling off.

I should have gone in to see him sooner. That would have cleared up the confusion. After being severly sunburnt due to 2 hours of snorkeling sans a good sun cream, he was peeling! PEELING!

Another one:

A bunch of French teenage boys hanging out together muttering a french so heavily peppered with slang that I barely understand. I turned to my husband to say how silly and incredibly informal they seemed, even with the elderly lady that stopped by to ask one of them a question. He replied, "Yes, but often it is really surprising because the same teenager can be so polite when they ask you for a fire"

This says two things about France:

1. Fire is, in my opinion, very inappropriately used to say "light" (very dramatic)
2. Smoking is so socially accepted in France that it is expected that teenagers know how to politely ask for a light from any stranger they may encounter

So you see, the language stuff, It works both ways......

Watch your mouth

2006-03-13T09:59:00.000+01:00

Learning French, or any other language for that matter, is bound to be full of mishaps. Often the toughest step in learning a language is to start speaking it. Before learning French I never understood Europeans when they would explain to me that they spoke Dutch, English and French and understood Spanish and German. I would ask myself "But how can you understand if you can't speak?"

Now I know how context shapes our comprehension of a situation, allowing us to understand that the shop is closed or that the shoes don't come in other colors, without necessarily being able to respond.

Context has often worked to my advantage, or fortunately, in some cases to the advantage of my listener. For example when I say to my husband: Oh, I like your shrimp (crevette), he knows I am really saying that I like his tie (cravatte). Or the time after my trial updo with the haidresser before the wedding.

Not knowing how to find a hairdresser to come the house, I called my local salon. The gave me a number to call, another salon, which finally gave me Josy's number. Unbeknowst to me, Josy worked for a very chic and expensive salon on the rue du Louvre. When I went in for our "discussion" Josy, dressed in black from head to toe, explained to me that a wedding was not like any other day and I would need to be perfect for her to work with me! She proceeded to sign me up for a series of treatments to ensure that her blank canvas was of the best quality, facial, highlight touch-up. I refused her request for a haircut, politely informing her (I think) that I was confident that her talents could manage any of my other shortcomings.

Throughout this first visit, as well as the trial she continued to sputter off in a French that I think is exclusively used by hairdressers. A French that no matter how hard I try, it too hard too understand. I think it's the fact that they must sound so cool in French. Relaxed and all with the language. I, on the other hand, can barely understand English slang and was thrown for a loop when my sister explained that her goal by June was to have something called "sick build".

However, there was one phrase that I did manage to memorize in hopes to ask my to-be husband to translate. When I came home and my to-be husband asked me how thing went I said fine, but there was one thing Josy kept repeating that I couldn't understand, "Il faut que je soit nicable". He had a very hearty laughed and responded, "Yes, that's true, but that's not what she said." Confused, I replied, "But how do you know, how can you be so sure?"

He laughed again and said that she must have said "Il faut que tu soit nickel" (You need to be perfect), because he would have been shocked had she said, as I understood, You need to be fuck-able.

You see, it's all about context!

Obligatory accessories

2006-03-13T09:20:00.000+01:00

Ok, so maybe I've been living underneath a rock, but before moving to Paris I have never even heard of Longchamp. And my first encounter with the brand was when the woman helping us organize our wedding list told me that a standard choice for the list was a set of Longchamp luggage. I knew just from the way the word rolled off her tongue that it was bound to be an expensive and exclusive French brand along the lines of Hermes, Louis Vuitton and Chanel. I hestitantly did add the luggage to the list and our friends did not hesitate to NOT offer us this present. Instead they opted for much more original ideas like classes at the "Ecole de Vin" and a personalized tour around Paris in a 2CV (one of first Citroen models!) and an olfactory course at L'Artisan Parfumeur.

So a new entry into my life was an awareness of French luxury brands. This, along with the superb French reputation for wines and cheeses, makes gift selection for stateside friends and relatives somewhat complicated. Do I want to luga bottle of champagne in my carry-on? Or having luggage reminiscent of the smell of a men's locker room and risk possible confiscation of the cheese by US customs? Or should I just go with the $300 Hermes scarf? You can see my dilemma, can't you?

So now I am caught in the position of deciding if I too should just give in and buy the Longchamp pilage sac just to prove my Parisian-ness? But it feels so very un-original. I mean, last night, on the way home I think about every third woman was carrying one version or another of the same exact bag! But I feel the pressure bearing down on me. I feel an itch to purchase coming on. If only they could make the bag in one of those funky Hermes patterns.....

Nothing beats a coke and pizza

2006-03-10T09:02:00.000+01:00

I've come to realize that my life in Paris is quite 14th-centric. I live in the 14th arrondissement (district) famous for Le Dome restaurant, the Tour Montparnasse (Montparnasse tower) and the Catacombs. But I think that its good that I provide a bit of exposure to what I consider to be an undervalued district.

In the 14th there are magical streets to discover like square Montsouris or the Villas Adrienne. There's lots of shopping to do up and down avenue General Leclerc and in the outlet shops along rue d'Alesia as well as rue de Rennes and the Montparnasse and Gaite shopping complexes. And there are lovely places for take a languid stroll such as the Parc Montsouris, Cimitiere Montparnasse and rue Daguerre.

Rue Daguerre is one of those perfect Parisian streets that tourists' conjured up in their minds at the hint of the word "Paris". The first section of the street begins next to the Denfert-Rochereau metro station. This part of the street is a typically pedestrianized market street hosting several cheese shops, butchers, a bakery, a string of ethnic delicatessens (Greek, Italian, Moroccan, Chinese, French etc.) as well as wines shops and a book store or two.

The road continues up until ave de Maine. Famous in my mind for the Centre d'Acceuil des Etrangers (Foreigners' Welcome Center) where I have passed many, many hours in my quest for my residency card. But that is another story.

All along the street there are shops and building depicting the richness of this historic neighborhood. There a little boutiques filled with original designs in fashion, jewelry and home furnishings, as well as artists' studios, bookshops and a wealth of restaurants.

One of our favorites is Enzo. Run by Monsieur Enzo himself, the restaurant is open all throughout the week , but shut Saturday evenings and all day Sunday. (Tip: Frequently successful small family run restaurants are closed on Saturday evenings).

Step inside and you step into Enzo's world. He offers a selection of scrumptious pizzas, pastas and my husband's favorite, the foccacia, at very reasonable prices. I equate him to Seinfeld's soup Nazi, but for pizza. Actually I had initially entitled the post as such but realized that the term had a much much stronger effect here in France. Ok, so maybe the term is a bit hard, but I had been told prior to my first visit, that M. Enzo was "special", a polite French way of saying 'different' or 'weird' or 'having lots of idiosyncrasies'.

Last night, when he came over to ensure that we were pleased with the food (it's a rare occurence to have Parisian waitstaff ask this question anytime before clearing the plates) he informed us how he made the fresh pesto sauce. When I commented that it was good, he replied "Je sais" (I know). But even with his "special" ways the place has a certain charm about it. It's our local pizza place where the waitress knows to bring me the pepper mill without me even having to ask.

Enzo
72 r Daguerre 75014
01 43 21 66 66

Half-Day of Bliss

2006-03-09T10:06:00.000+01:00

I was so happy to have the chance to make use of my birthday present yesterday. Understanding that the process of looking for work was taking its toll on me, my husband offered me a half-day of relaxation at the Hammam at the Mosquee de Paris (Paris Mosque).

I was forewarned, as he was forewarned, to come early. The gentleman firmly insisted that my husband be clear on this point, "You don't want the whole gift to spoiled because it's too crowded".

I arrived just after 10am, when the Hammam opens. Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays are reserved for women, while Tuesdays and Sundays are exclusively for men. I called in advance to find out what I needed to bring. Just myself, although one can bring along a bathing suit and/or a towel, sarong. Although I have grown comfortable with my body's flaw, I certainly didn't to subject a crowd of unsuspecting women to them so I wore a one piece, which turned out to be a very conservative choice.

The woman at the main desk instructed me to the changing rooms and provided me with my tags (one for a 30 minute massage, the other for a gommage (body scrub)) and a package of "black soap". Even with her explanation, I didn't fully understand the "ritual" of the Hammam. It would have been a good idea to read up first. As it was I was afraid I was going to be arrested for watching the other women and what they were doing too intensely. The first few minutes were quite nerve-wracking indeed. But after a few minutes in the vapor filled tiled room, my worries slipped away.

As mentioned above, I also had a gommage and massage. Remember when your mom would ask you "Did you scrub behind your ears?" ? I liken the experience to using a table-sized pumice stone to cover one's entire body, several times. It wasn't really table-sized, but that's kind of the level of detail the lady goes into in scribbing away your dead skins cells. I had been forewarned that the woman might ask me if I washed myself at home. Apparently, with the pollution in Paris the dead skin can seem quite dirty. I felt proud that although I was missing about a kilo in dead skin (reason alone to go), the remnants were still quite close to the color of my skin.

Finally, the really fun part: the massage. I had heard stories about Turkish massages and had a fear of, I don't know, broken ribs, stiff muscles. But this massage was heaven. Covered from head to toe in soothing eucalyptus massage oil, I drifted off in my thoughts to the lull of the masseuses conversation in Arabic. I love all the "l" sounds they make, almost like a lullaby.

And all of this relaxation was topped off with a warm, sweet glass of mint tea, taken in the tea room. Luckily I was off to meet a friend for lunch. If not, I would have been quite tempted to relish in one of the wonderful desserts on offer. Next time I would bring along both a friend and a bikini bottom and maybe arrange to stay for a savory couscous.

Squeamish girl tip: Put your name on the massage list before your gommage. This will reduce the waiting time for the massage, especially when the Hammam is busy.

Week-end away from Paris (Normandie)

2006-03-07T16:08:00.000+01:00

I fits right in that I've been feeling Parisian, as we just returned from the standard weekend away from Paris, Normandy. Amongst my husband's group of friends, various country weekends are organized throughout the year. These weekends range from a pig (or maybe two if we are really hungry) slaughter, and the corresponding butchery and porkery that follows (I know porkery doesn't work, but what's the English equivalent for charcuterie?) to a duck confit-ing session to this most recent culinary weekend in Normandy.

"What do we do in Normandy", I asked. "Eat, of course" was the reply. And eat we did. The weekend began with a very early morning trip to the Saturday market at Dieppe. We needed to ensure that we had the pick of the litter, you see. Unsatisfied with the fish selection, we made an emergency call back those who chose to sleep in at the house, to ask them to go to another market to check out the fish selection. (I had never known that there were fish emergencies!). We settled for some fresh merlin and sea scallops. Our chef in residence, Edouard was scanning his head of recipes to see what we would need to get next in the market.

After a few hours grazing the market we had all the necessary supplies for a series of five meals for the 11 adult guests. We arrived back at the house with 3 shopping trolleys full of goodies, not the least of which included hard cider and Normandy cream. Perhaps the easiest thing would be to include the menu of the three meals that we relished in during our brief stay:

Pan-fried Whiting served with a vegetable julienne of carrots, leeks and onions in a cider reduction
Fresh grilled sea scallops followed by Normandy potatoes (made with fresh, thick cream and ham)
Farm-raised roasted chicken accompanied with a salad garnished with a shallot-mustard vinaigrette

This is not to mention the limitless fresh bread, fresh cheeses (pont l'eveque, camembert, and neuchatel), cakes and fresh fruit.

So.... to help digest all of this wonderful food we took afternoon strolls by the beach and visited a small seaside town called Eu-le-Treport.

I am really getting used to life as a Parisian.

Daily routines

2006-03-06T17:04:00.000+01:00

Being that I have been traveling quite a bit over the past several years, I got out of the habit of routines. Of course I brush my teeth everyday, but I am talking about, maybe more, I don't know, rituals. Meaning that there is something meaningful or special behind the routine.

Today, after a week of gray Paris skies and wintery cold wind, I took advantage of the bright sunshine streaming through the bedroom window to partake in a cherished, but recently forgotten routine.

When I first moved in with my now husband, when we were still dating, we would take advantage of my flexible morning schedule to steal some extra time together. Even in the frigid December air, we would stroll to RER station, Cité Universitaire, a bit further away from our place so we could escape the morning rush of Paris. There, after a stroll down avenue Réné Coty, we arrived in the tranquility of Parc Montsouris. We would feel as though we had left the city completely, crossing the almost unpopulated park in the early morning hours. Every once in a while we would see a woman walking her caniche (poodle) or a troop of firemen preparing their bodies for the week ahead as they jogged the park's circuit. This was a time for us to reconnect and realize how lucky we were to have this precious time together.

Over the past few months, between jobs and job searches, inclement weather and restless nights, we had abandoned our ritual. I admit that it was mostly my fault, wanting to scamper back to the warm bed after a morning cup of tea.

Today we renewed our routine and I think that I enjoyed it even more than ever before. Correction: I enjoyed the return trip back home alone more than ever before. Today I felt like a Parisian making that walk back home. I passed by familiar streets that have become a part my memories of Paris, like the rue des Artistes, an elevated street that has been home to many artists' studios over the years. I enjoyed walking past the bakery where they recognize my face and the dog shop where I revel in the excitement of the day ahead along with the newly arrived puppies. Today Paris was my Paris despite all the difficult or bizarre encounters I have had over these past (almost) 2 years. I thought of all the lives that I could have had and I realized, more than ever, how lucky I am with the one I've got.

I only hope that this great lesson too becomes a part of the ritual.

Once upon a time,in a land far far away......

2006-02-18T13:30:00.000+01:00

Ok- this is not going to be a fairytale story. It's just a bit how I feel being back home in the States on a small break. It's funny really, because at the same time, I've never been so far away and yet felt so connected to home. I can use pretty much any cell phone to contact mu husband, 3,00o miles away. And the phone line sounds no different than if I had called him from down the road.

However, things are different and most surprisingly it's not the size of things, it's the choice. I faced a dilemma in the supermarket when searching for tissues. Do I prefer Kleenex, Marcel, Puffs, Fluff out or the shop brand? Did I want a rectangular or square box? Did I want a floral design or did I prefer the night sky? Most tricky of all was the actual tissues: anti-viral, lotion, ultra-soft?

And this theme continues everywhere we go. In an average restaurant in an average town I have a choice of 8 chicken dishes, 8 burgers, 5 salads, or 6 fish dishes. In Paris, I am used to menus that offer one or two of each choice.

None of this is better or worse, just different and something that I somehow easily forgot.

Perhaps one of the more uncomfortable differences is the differing ideas of private matters. I opened a bank account here in the U.S.. I have gone through this procedure in both countries. However, I was surprised when the bank employee starting asking me rather personal questions during "small talk". Oh, so how long have you been living in France? DO you like it there? Is it different? Oh wow, five weeks vacation, but you have higher taxes right? So how does that work? Do you pay your taxes there or here?

I suppose even in writing this it doesn't sound so strange, I just remember feeling like I was in an interrogation room at the time.

But even with all the differences, there no place like home, whether it be NY or France.

Where to get your "cuppa" in Paris

2006-02-10T18:52:00.000+01:00

Having lived in the UK, I naturally associate the tradition of taking tea with the Union Jack. To my suprise, however, Salons de the (Tea rooms) are arguably as popular here in France as they are across the channel.

Today, as the weather was a perfect as one could hope for, a friend and I (a Brit) ventured out to relish in our afternoon gouter (snack). I had read about a tea room on the Rue du Cherche-midi, a street well-known for the famous Poilane bread shop. Roger and I met up in the Food Hall at the Bon Marche to have a peek at their Valentine's season delicacies before popping down the street to sip some tea. (Unfortunately, I was forbidden from taking a photo to share the delight displays with you here).

Unbeknownst to us, the rue du Cherche-midi has several tea shops to choose from. Tempted by the scones on the menu and the French farmhouse kitchen design we decided to try "Mamie Gateaux". What a treat! Both the scones and the crumble were scrumptious, the tea warm and soothing and the service friendly and relaxed.

The shop also sells antique and collectible french goods like linens, glasses and bowls.

A perfect afternoon in Paris with nothing to be squeamish about at all. Hmm....maybe I need to reconsider the theme?

Mamie Gateaux
66, rue du Cherche Midi
75006, Paris
01 42 22 32 15
Metro: St. Placide or Vaneau

Two other favorites:

Ladurée Bonaparte, 2 rue Bonaparte, 75006

L'Empire des Thés, 101 av d'Ivry, 75013

Un petit bouquet

2006-02-09T13:18:00.000+01:00

Walking back home from a coffee with a friend, I partook in one of my favorite Paris experiences: buying flowers. In Paris, I find this even more exciting than at home, because there are several shops that allow you to choose an assortment of flowers at a great price, only 10 euros, enough for a full bouquet's worth. I liken this to my phase of paint-your-own-pottery back home. I loved the freedom of brushing some colors on a mug. It was supposed to look and feel "hand-crafted". What a treat for us creatively-challenged individuals.

You see, very accurately, I do not consider myself to be a very artistic person. How do I know this? Well, one time, when making Christmas cookies with a women who had 25 years of experience of Christmas-cookie-making and second woman who considered a doing her degree in Art, I failed miserably at my sole cookie-decorating task. When admirers glanced at the plate full of appetizing homemade cookies, one asked why someone had made a ghost. Yes, yes, that was my angel that apparently didn't work out! (For those new to christmas cookie making- the cookie has already been baked in the form of an angel.)

Anyway, as with the pottery, I find selecting flowers for a bouquet a very low risk task. I mean, how can you get flowers wrong? Well that is a good question, because when the women in the shop asked me if the flowers were "Pour offrir?" (as a gift), I fibbed and immediately said yes. This is my sheepish way of getting the shop assistant to do the arrangement, rather than leaving me with the potentially self-imposed disastrous results of my OWN arrangement (see above cookie reference).

I like to view it as my own special way to provide artistic mentorin. I choose the flowers, the palette, and shop assistant creates the art. And how can you complain for the price? I can even be daring and try out flowers that I have never even seen or heard of. In today's bouquet I added a bit of decorative chou (cabbage) Decorative cabbage; who knew that existed?

Paris through fresh eyes

2006-02-07T11:18:00.000+01:00

After a weekend away in Budapest, I have returned with a newly rediscovered appreciation for Paris. This often happens when I go away. As glamorous as it sounds, living in Paris can be a bit mundane sometimes, especially when there is laundry to do!

Paris is a bit gray and overcast today, but that didn't stop me from venturing out to take part in the daily activities that bring my so much pleasure. Also, after the sub zero temperatures in Budapest, the city seems quite balmy. I half-seriously considered taking my cafe au lait at a street-side table.

These small pleasures are what remind me how fortunate I am. I calmly perused the French free daily "Metro" which offered a more French and even Paris-centric view from the international papers I have been reading in the past few days. I learned about the student demonstrations against the new Villepin-supported CPE (Contrat de premier embauche), a work job contract for students to, in theory, more easily move into the workforce. The theory is that employers will be much more likely to hire an inexperienced worker, if they also reserve the right to fire them at any time during their first to years. The students fear, a probably rightfully so, that employers will abuse this privilege, making it even more difficult for students to fully integrate into the work force. It was a short intellectual distraction from the constant stories on Syria and Lebanon recently dominating the international press.

Afterwards I strolled to my local market. This is a real treat for me. In DC there was a Farmer's market weekends from April-Oct. Here in my local quartier (neighborhood), come rain or shine, the vendors come with the country-made sausages and freshly-captured fish. Even when I have nothing to buy I take delight in strolling amongst the stands and breathing in the smells and life freely on offer.

I've had my little dose of French life to sustain me through a day of household chores and (ugh!) resume re-writing! Oh and of course, I can't forget the taste or the smell of the fresh French bread my husband brought us back from the Boulangerie (bread shop) for breakfast this morning. Why is it that sometimes you have to leave home to really recognize it? Another thought to ponder while washing my French dishes....

A jewel of a museum in Paris

2006-01-27T12:37:00.000+01:00

A friend, a jewelry-designer, invited me to join her for the newly opened exposition "Bijoux de Stars" (Star's Jewels) at my favorite Paris museum, the Musee Carnavalet (site in French). The exposition includes 200 "American Masterpieces" on loan from the National Jewelry Institute of New York.

As the museum permanent collection extensively chronicles the history of Paris, I was intrigued to see this exposition that does not appear to remotely touch upon the museum's theme. The introduction to the exhibition claimed that through this collection, visitors would gain insight into the American spirit, as well as the social and political climate of the time. I must admit, I felt a bit cheated. I did not leave the exposition feeling a sense of connection with U.S., but rather a distance. Some of the jewels displayed were indeed masterpieces, but I didn't have a sense of the context. Who sported these pieces? When and for what occasion?

All this said, I highly recommend a visit to the permanent collection. The museum is housed in a Marais mansion that is well worth visiting for a peek at the gardens alone. I find the museum fascinating in that you wander from room to room, admiring paintings, architecture and furnishings from various eras in Paris' history. There is also a rich collection of artifacts from the period of the Revolution. You can admire a painting depicting the Palais-Royal or the Place de la Concorde as they were 200 years ago.

And the real kicker: access to the permanent collection is free of charge.

One last piece of advice: The exhibition "Three Humanist Photographers"
has been extended until February 19, 2006. Here you can see inspiring and provoking photos of Parisian life by from Frederic Barzilay, Lucien Herve and Willy Ronis.

Ronis' works are also on display at the Hotel de Ville until February 18th to mark the Parisian artist's 90th birthday. (entry is also free of charge). Photo: © Willy Ronis Agence Rapho

Squeamish doesn't exist in French

2006-01-24T17:13:00.000+01:00

Last night, I mentioned my blog to our French friends. They were over for the "Bouffe de Mardi" (Tuesday Chow-down) that takes place weekly at someone in the group's place. It's a long running tradition amongst my husband's friends that I have taken to quite fondly. Every few weeks (or months depending on the schedules/level of lethargy of the group) the whole gang is invited to someone's place for a home cooked three course meal. The fact that grown men throw dinner parties for each other definitely had a positive impact on my romantic images of French men.

So, at the end of the evening I mentioned that I had started a blog. "What's it called?", I was asked. After saying squeamish out loud three times and trying to define the word in French, I grabbed a dictionary. No wonder there were looks of confusion on everyone's faces, there is no word for squeamish in French! Harrap's advised us that it can be roughly translated to bien delicat (very delicate) or facilement degoute (easily disgusted). I suppose these ideas work, but they don't provide the listener with a visual image of the word. The "squ" and the "ish" say it all, I think.

It was as if the door was cast open to a whole new world of understanding. Of course "squeamish" wouldn't exist in a land where women take bare-breasted walks along the beach and men talk openly about the virtues of having a mistress. Don't get me wrong, it is not that I am against any of these things (although neither one works personally for my lifestyle), it's just that they are not done in my culture. From now on, I think I have not only the task of providing insights into French culture, but also American culture as well. Because at the bottom of this is the fact that my culture has molded my understanding of, well, mold on cheese for example (a definite no-no in any Kraft-loving U.S. household.) This makes my journey even more interesting....

A Sunday Stroll through Paris

2006-01-23T15:37:00.000+01:00

One can never tire of roaming the ancient streets of Paris. Over the past few months, with the distractions of the holidays and the blustery cold, I have not done much meandering. This Sunday, blessed with a mild and sunny wintery day, we ventured out to discover new treasures. Below are some photos from our stroll.

I highly recommend wandering around and getting lost a bit, taking the small alleys and time to appreciate the aesthetic pleasures of Parisian architecture. I always discover a new hidden treasure.

Enjoy.......

The Booksellers setting up along the Seine

Hotel de Ville

Hotel de Ville (view from rear)

Place Louis Lepine looking towards Sainte-Chapelle

Rosette Sainte-Chapelle

View to the Left Bank from Notre Dame

Say Cheese

2006-01-18T10:47:00.000+01:00

Living in France does not always bring out the squeamish in me. I can even say that I've grown personally and explored new horizons. Take for example a French delicacy: cheese (fromage). Growing up, I never liked cheese. Well, that's an exaggeration. I would eat melted, mild cheeses in prepared dishes like Lasagna or Mac and Cheese. I know that you are saying that American cheese does not count.

I remember the when my now-husband and I started dating, he would stock up the refrigerator with French delicacies as one of his ways to spoil me. Little did he know that I wanted no part of these cheeses, with their locker room odors and "put-hair-on-your-chest"- strength tastes. It took me several wiffs to finally figure out that the stench in the kitchen was indeed the cheese. Lucky for us both that I did figure it out because I was seriously considering the future of our relationship after my first few visits chez lui (to his place).

Let me explain, French cheese is like, I don't know, American hamburgers or chocolate chip cookies. Literally hundreds exist. And French people seem to know about them all. What kind of milk is used to make them (cow, sheep, goat). The peak time to eat a particular variety (when it's young, in-between or well-aged). Whether the milk has been pasteurized or not (cru=raw, and therefore forbidden for U.S. export due to customs control). And very often the cheeses STINK. So here I was wondering when my to-be-husband was going to wash him smelly old socks, when in fact it was the cheese!

Now times have changed, and like any respecting Frenchman, my husband trained me in the delights of cheese through months of rigorous, and sometimes painful (i.e. "quick, where's the wine?!") degustations (tastings). I suppose the proof of his success came just the other day when, passing in front of a fromagerie (cheese shop), I actually started salivating and asked him if we could pick up a few in lieu of a dessert with dinner. This is saying a lot for a chocoholic!

Now, with the three hundred varieties I cannot, in any way, claim to be an expert, but here are just a few of my personal recommendations, if you can get your hands on them:

Mont d'Or : a creamy, soft cheese that is often eaten with a spoon

Cantal: a semi-hard cheese that pairs well with light red wines (my favorite is entre- deux- in between very "young" cheese and aged cheese)

Rocamadour: a creamy and fresh-tasting goat's cheese

Roves des garrigues: a goat's cheese with a distinct thyme flavor as the goats graze on fields of herbs

And, I am always interested in hearing about new varieties. In fact, I go to the local market on Fridays to buy my cheese from my favorite vendor. I'll see if I can get a few photos this week to share with you.

Say fromage! :-)

Trusting your instincts

2006-01-13T16:26:00.000+01:00

As an American in Paris it's hard looking for work. Even with legit working papers. So, I have been exploring creative ways to earn some income. From small translation contracts with my previous employer, to video taping expat's experiences for a website, to executive assistant roles with various companys.

You know the good thing about all of this?.... I learn about what I DON'T want to do.

Case in point, I "volunteered" for an American woman in February as her assistant for a property search company she started. I should have followed my instincts when she asked us to split the bill from our deal-signing meal, where essentially I was convinced into working for free as she dangled the carrot of future growth and hence, a real, full-time paid position. That wound up being 10 hours a week of sorting through her fan email and spam. I said goodbye when she pushed for more free work time so I could organize her upcoming conference.

More recently I struck a deal to exchange some assistant type work for another American entrepreneur in Paris for her small business mentoring. I have to admit, I was impressed with her committment to and belief in her company, her skills AND her success over the French bureaucracy. As it turns out, she was very good at image and her luxurious Louis XVII decorated offices in her press pictures were her official corporate headquarters. Her actual work space, on the other hand, was in a small Parisian apartment shared with her production center (drafting board), business center (computer) and family (a very cute dog and cat- Did I mention I am allergic to cats?). That should have been the no-go factor....

Instead, I thought, "OK this is not ideal, but hey, you can learn from this woman, suck it up". The straw that broke this camel's back was when I was asked to take out the trash. Now, at the risk of sounding VERY spoiled, I will admit that I am one of those very lucky squeamish girls who has negotiated household chores with her partner, and hence I don't even take out my OWN trash. (Another marvelous bonus includes the fact that he goes to collect freshly baked bread from the Boulangerie (bakery) every morning come sleet or snow?).

I said to myself "C'mon it's just the trash." Little did I know that it would be a three way struggle between me, the filth (the likes of animal fur, orange peels, half eaten pretzels and used tissues) and the aforementioned very cute dog. I won, a bit beaten up and trodden upon, with dog slobber (love) on my face as my war wound. Actually, the last straw came really when I asked for gloves for the obvious safety and hygiene reasons and superwoman entrepreneur said they weren't in the budget.

So YOU call me a sucker. You are probably right. But I prefer to think of it as a managed risk taker. I mean for me, it was a way to peek into other people's lives with a very small comittment on my part. But most importantly, these were experiences that helped teach me to really listen to my instincts. It's like in the Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo. "When you decide to follow your destiny, the world conspires to help you" or something like that. I haven't found it yet, but I have faith and dog slobber kisses. That's gotta be good luck!

Not a Theme, I hope

2006-01-12T10:01:00.000+01:00

As I sat down to write today, I realized that within only 5 posts, I'll be talking about the Post Office twice. Effrayant! (scary!)

You know those situations where everyone around you is tense and somehow you manage to stay calm? It was like that yesterday. The post offices in France are no better or worse that post offices that I have visited in most developed countries. Long lines, miserable looking staff, lack of information, etc. However, in France there is a special service for business accounts. Unfortunately, it's not so well organized.

I entered the canary yellow and royal blue themed post office off of Rue de Rivoli, a famous shopping street in Paris, around 4:30pm. There were 3 guichets (counters) open andabout 22,000 people in line. No, that's an exaggeration, it was more like 18. (Just seeing if you were paying attention- which makes me think of an interesting story about the formal and informal "You" in French- but that's for another day.) I took my place in line, very careful to guard it amongst the confusion of the lines for the automated stamp machines. After about 15 minutes of waiting, and an advance of about 5cm in the line, a woman walked in and went straight to a guichet.

The other customer's who had waited in line were very disgruntled and they expressed their unhappiness to both the client and the post office employee behind the counter. I did not help that the postal employee said that she could do nothing to stop the woman from cutting the line as she herself was not a manager (French hierarchical organization model stories to come.) Apparently the fuss was due to the fact that the client in question flashed her bank card rather then the obligatory business owners card.

But the BEST part of all of this was that I was calm. Very out of ordinary for my character. But I was just pleased that a little boy, also frustrated with the wait, tried to make friends with me by showing me his airplane. He had asked his dad about 10 times how many more people to go and the same answer always came: deux madames et trois messieurs (2 ladies and 3 gentleman). The boy attempted to repeat this to his dad to express his understanding "deux madames et un messieurs, non trois madames et deux messieurs, non deux madames et deux messieurs" And finally gave up. Kind of like me and my ideas of fighting the postal system in France. It's much easier if you just expect it to be bad. A great lesson learned for this squeamish girl.

Queen for a Day

2006-01-09T12:07:00.000+01:00

So yesterday we went to a housewarming party at a friend's place in the banlieu (suburbs) of Paris. I haven't really been out and about in the Parisian suburbs of mal-repute. However, this was a lovely one and what a treat spending an afternoon with friends in a living room the size of our entire Paris apartment.

To celebrate their new home we indulged in the famous "Galette des rois". These galettes are made by wrapping some almond cream with french puff pastry. Before I moved to France I had no interest in a dessert that did not include chocolate. But, oh boy, can France do desserts!, this one included.

When I did a little research on this tradition I unfolded a debaucherous link to the Saturnales celebrated by the Romans. These were annual celebrations where the slaves and nobles switched places for a day. The term saturnales evolved to describe any party that favored excess, even orgies.

Our more PG-rated day included champagne. That's about as close as we got to any misbehaving. But the highlight came when I bit into my galette to discover a stone hard, inedible substance. It was the petit porcelain token that comes with every galette, indicating that it's finder in the designated king/queen for the day. Very exciting. I was crowned with a silver couronne, that I suspect was designed with small children in mind, given the size. And that was pretty much it. A few jokes about the size of my head, but as Queen I quickly put that to all stop.

Oh and I forgot to mention the link: In France the galettes are traditionally served on the 6th of January, the Ephiphany, in celebration of the three kings visit to Jesus. These days French families take part in the festivities all throughout the holiday season.

Les gens qui prennent les transports puent des fois (a.k.a. stinky people)

2006-01-06T22:29:00.000+01:00

I always have this internal debate about the best form of transport in this transport-rich and accessible city. The metro takes me from my apartment to Chatelet (the center of town) in about 12 minutes. I can get across town in about a half an hour. I am damn lucky really. The bus, on the other hand, allows the passenger to daydream while taking in all the beauty, excitement and culture that Paris has to offer.

The only problem is that sometimes they both have some pretty stinky passengers. This could range from an occasional less-fortunate soul to squatter teens to a man who has worked quite hard that day. Don't even get me started on the month of August, where it seems as though even the most innocent-looking passengers are as likely to be culprits. ....But I get most squeamish during rush hours. It's not just the olfactory issues either.....

Today, after a visit at a friend's place I decided to take the 62 bus back home. The 62 bus line is great. It takes all the way along the south end of Paris, the whole left bank in one fell swoop. Yet, they rarely have enough buses running.

Today I risked life and limb just trying to get on, after a 11 minute and 25 second wait in the 0 degree weather! And yes, I am one of those people who has started to force themselves on, space-willing or not. (I consider myself a true European in my adaptation to space constraints) Anyway, I witnessed some of the unkinder parts of Paris when a group of teenage girls pushed a baby stroller firmly out of their way and an eldery woman reprimanded the other passengers for their slow response time when she needed to get off the bus. I luckily found a seat about halfway through the journey and when I offered it to the earlier mentioned elderly lady, she politely refused. (It rewards to offer to do good deeds.)

My neighbor commiserated with me about the chaos and lack of buses and the other impolite (or just tired and cranky passengers). Even with all the chaos her kind smile that made me forget the inconveniences. There is always a cheery soul in Paris if you know how to spot them. Needless to say, I think I'll be sticking within walking distance tomorrow.

La poste- Quel prix?

2006-01-05T10:46:00.000+01:00

Ok, so I am squeamish just about approaching the post office. There is always a long line, several grumpy people and inevitably, once I reach the counter, the discovery of french words I have never before heard.

Today I was pleasantly surprised. No line! Well, it was all me, the line. Before entering I quickly kissed my husband goodbye. I didn't want anyone to run in an steal my spot (have I mentioned that I was first in line!).

Now it would make sense to mention here that I was at La Poste to send some Christmas presents back to the states for an exchange (hubby's shirt was a bit on the snug side). So that means that I didn't want to spend a lot, seeing as it was a gift and all. I politely asked the man at the counter the cheapest way to send it. He said I could use the medium-sized box (colissimo) for only...... 18 euros!!! You see, La Poste has a system where you buy the box for a flat fee and ship all you want (within weight constraints, I believe) for that flat fee.

This was all a bit much for squeamish girl as 18 euros was much more that she wanted to spend AND for goodness sake, she understood all that in FRENCH. This can be quite exhausting.

So I am now left with the option of packing the thing myself (10 euros for shipping plus 3 euros or so for the packaging equipment) OR finding someone headed to the States who would be willing to post the package Stateside.

Ooh la la. Onto the next challenge I say

First day on the Job

2006-01-04T16:59:00.000+01:00

So, I admit it. Even though I have voyaged the world round and don't mind missing a shower for a day or two if my company shares in this misfortune, I am squeamish.
And THAT makes for some interesting moments in this highly-developed country, yet somehow significantly-less-sanitarily-obessed, called France.

The idea is start a Squeamish Girl's Guide to France. I am tired of reading restaurant reviews that include the word's "veal's head" and "haute cuisine" in the same paragraph. I am on a mission to discover all of the glory that France has to offer to the delicate-stomached masses.

Stay tuned for more from this squeamish girl's adventures in France

Squeamish girl