Hibernation

I am mortified by how long it has been since my last post. However, it cannot be helped; my fingers are frozen.

If only those temperatures were in Celsius.

Soon, Paris will heat up again and I will be out of excuses. But in the meantime, I’m hunkering down. Brrrrrrr.

Boo (hoo)!

The time is once more upon us for Halloween in France, that pinnacle of the anticlimactic, sandwiched in between Saint Patrick’s Day and Groundhog’s Day on the roll call of holidays that no one gives a damn about. I mean sure, there are a few (Anglo or pseudo Anglo) bars in Paris that will be having Halloween parties tonight, and I have just read that costume sales are up, but between us, Halloween still has a long way to go before it officially catches on around here. Which is a shame, really, because how can you not love candy pumpkins? Seriously? 

Hurts (my teeth) so good!

A few years ago, sensing the onset of yet another bout of expatriate Halloween blues, I came up with a Parisian alternative: champagne, macarons and a bubble bath. But this year, no can do; my place has far too many people in it. So instead, last night we decided to go for a spin though Père Lachaise cemetery in eastern Paris. In preparation for All Saints’ Day, the 110-acre cemetery was bedecked with police officers and flowers—mainly chrysanthemums, which I now realize are official tomb flowers and thus explains why they’re so, um, inexpensive. During my less abundant years I was a big, big fan of chrysanthemums: for my apartment, for my friends, as hostess gifts, housewarming gifts, birthday gifts.... I’m beginning to understand some of the reactions I got. Huh.

So, Père Lachaise. It seemed appropriate to go, even more so at day’s end. Between the uneven (creepy) cobblestone paths, fluttering autumn leaves, cackling crows and crumbling tombstones, we got a nice dose of the hibbie jibbies. I mean sort of. I’m not sure that the Headless Horseman could exactly hang out in Père Lachaise; not with all those gendarmes everywhere. Not that I’m complaining.

Sorry, Sir. Do you have a permit for that head?

I must admit to busting a few Thriller moves at one point, hoping I wouldn’t be sentenced to eternal damnation for daring to make fun in a cemetery. But despite the decidedly macabre atmosphere, frankly, visiting Jim Morrison’s final resting place for the 5th time in my life wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as, say, munching on a couple of those miniature Butterfingers would have been. My kingdom for a Hershey bar! Maybe I’m becoming jaded.

A case of the Mondays

Today is once again that much-dreaded, much-detested first day of the week: Monday. In America, it’s technically the second day of the week, but here in France, Monday comes first and Sunday comes last. Why? Because it’s a country of heathens. I’m kidding (kind of). No—there is undoubtedly a long, fascinating explanation for why the US follows the Judeo-Christian tradition of beginning the week with Sunday whereas Europe does not, but that isn’t the point of this blog. I’ll look it up later and write about it if it’s interesting enough (it probably isn’t).

But let’s get back to Monday, which we can all agree is at least the first day of the work week on both sides of the Atlantic. Personally, I find that Monday has gotten a bad rap. Why, as I’ve grown older, I’ve found that Monday actually tends to go fairly well for me: I’m rested from the weekend, so when my alarm goes off at 6:40 am, it’s not nearly as painful as it is on Friday; work usually goes well, since the mistakes and irritations of the previous week have been forgotten, plus my colleagues are mentally absent and thus unable to effectively defend themselves from my usual barrage of witty insults; and before I know it the day is over and I’m on my way home.

C’mon guys! Monday is just a question of attitude! Am I right? I said, am I right?

However, my favorite part of Monday is hands down cocktail hour: G. and I have begun a family tradition—now that we are an official (2-person) family—of leisurely sipping one cocktail each on the balcony on Monday nights, as a means to kick off the week and shake off any pesky negativity that may have followed us home from the office. I come from a long line of dynamite cocktail makers, a talent that I feel it my duty to share with my husband—which I do, every week. And every week we end up perfectly hammered because a) we’re both lightweights and b) we eat dinner at 9:30 pm like good Europeans, which means that those cocktails are the first thing to hit our stomachs since lunch. Effect guaranteed! As such, any attempts at constructive adult discussion are quickly abandoned in favor of pointing and laughing at passers by, insulting the sushi delivery guy who keeps double parking his scooter across the street, complaining about the insane noise of all those damn vehicles barreling by, and critiquing the interior design of the apartments en face. Sometimes we launch a few peanuts at unsuspecting tourists and the occasional old lady walking her dog. See? Mondays are fun!

So about those cocktails. A native southern Californian, I love margaritas. But ordering them in French bars has never felt right. One, the (small, sad) rendition I’m served often reminds me of postmodern art (i.e. it sucks); two, Mexico and France just don’t mesh well. As proof, consider the French “Mexican” restaurant. Oh, there are a few that get it done right, but they still come in a distant second to basically any hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint I’ve ever tried in SoCal. (Sorry for the taco snobbism; I’ve gotta call a spade a spade. French guacamole—fear it.) So imagine my surprise to find myself nose-to-nose with a tequila bottle calling my name from the shelves of our local grocery store a few days ago. “Hmmmm,” I responded, with typically razor-sharp acumen. In the end, I bought it, along with a bottle of Cointreau and a handful of limes because hell—I may be physically closer to Beijing than I am to Mexico City, but far be it from me to ignore a clear message from the liquor gods.

An hour later, G. and I had assumed the position and were ready to toast to international relations. I had to substitute jumbo wine glasses and fleur de sel for margarita glasses and rock salt, but who cares? Those puppies were muy bueno. And muy fuerte! Even if my Monday had been bad, that margarita would have erased any memory of it. Come to think of it, cocktail hour and its mind-altering effects may be precisely why I have the impression that Mondays are cool. I wonder if that could work for the rest of the week....

Back to business

I’m back!

After quite an absence from spouting witticisms into the void, I have at last returned to my trusty AZERTY keyboard and am ready to pick up where I left off. I seem to recall a rant involving a giant bottle of olive oil. Geez, it has been a long time.

To sum up, I have just gotten married. In the US. Hence the long silence (I took a month of vacation ... kindly paid for by French employment law!). And while preparations for this Grand Event have kept me both highly occupied and highly on-edge for the greater part of the past 12 months, in the end it was a resounding success. In fact, it was such a success that I almost want to change career paths (again) and go into wedding planning. Yes it was totally stressful, but also quite a lot of fun. We did everything ourselves, meaning personal creativity + local suppliers + many pairs of helpful hands to bring it all together. And it really was the sweetest, most magical day I could ever have imagined.

And then suddenly it was over and we were heading to the Bahamas on our honeymoon. That’s how it generally works, no? For months and months you pour your whole heart into planning to marry, then all of a sudden the wedding comes and goes and before you have any time to process the whole thing you’re in another time zone. In the space of a few hours we passed from 4,000 feet in the mountains of San Diego to a sprawling white beach beneath nodding coconut palms in the middle of the Caribbean, feeling almost obligated to forget everything and RELAX! NOW! Which we did—in spectacular fashion—so I’m not complaining! I just find it psychologically bizarre that weddings work this way.

And now, a few weeks later, we are officially over our jet lag and more or less back to living our “normal” Parisian lives. I must say that so far I’m finding married life to be quite similar to fiancéed life, although something definitely does feel different. It’s a bit as though we’ve been initiated into a secret society, like we have a special wink-wink complicity that wasn’t there before. In the métro I find myself discreetly eyeing the left hands of my fellow passengers—and generally discovering precious few signs of membership in this particular secret society. Does no one get married around here anymore? (Answer: no.) So while I may no longer be “The Bride,” and thus no longer the center of attention (alas!), at least I AM part of this cool—and increasingly exclusive—married people’s club.

But that aside, G. and I are actually having a rather rough time of this post-wedding period. I especially am having a rough time of it. Which isn’t so surprising, really. I mean, for a full year this wedding constituted a real Project toward which I could direct nearly all my creative energy; an event brimming with symbolism and emotion, set in my hometown and uniting my loved ones from North America with my loved ones from Europe, my family with G.’s family, in the definitive fusion of the American me and the French-ish me.... In its wake, how could everyday life not seem somewhat pale? On the upside, I have total faith that these post-nuptial blues (that’s their official name—look it up) will disappear with time, much in the manner of the “day after Christmas” blues. But in all honesty, I hadn’t planned on how hard the adjustment would be; that’s the one thing I neglected to include in all those wedding lists, charts and spreadsheets.

And just to add insult to injury, since the Big Day has passed, the myriad wedding-related on-line newsletters to which I subscribed over the past year have spontaneously transformed themselves into newly-wed newsletters. So now when I sign in to my email account, I find it inundated with home decoration ideas, helpful hints on enjoying married life, and of course, everything related to maternity. While I find this unsolicited advice both invasive and anxiety-inducing (OMG am I supposed to have a POST-wedding to-do list? Quick! Where's my organizer?!?), I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I didn’t unsubscribe myself immediately. Would “my” newsletters just keep automatically evolving throughout my whole life? Would I receive pregnancy newsletters, then parenting newsletters, middle age newsletters, retirement newsletters...? “Personality quiz: what kind of mid-life crisis are you?” “Tips on planning the ultimate retirement party!” “Why drafting a will has never been easier!” The worst part is, this stuff probably really exists—or will someday. I think I’ll unsubscribe after all.

So to boil it all down, the wedding of the century (mine, obviously) is over and I’ve come to a big “NOW WHAT?” moment. I feel a bit as though I’m still sitting inside the movie theater after the credits have rolled. My colleagues like to joke that from here on out it’s giving foot massages, ironing shirts and whipping up complicated gourmet dinners that will be keeping me busy. But no, seriously—what is one supposed to do post-marriage and pre-pitter-patter-of-little-Franco-American-feet? I think I need a hobby. Or a dog. Or at least a new purse. Sigh.

 

Baby, it's cold outside

Growing up in America, I learned that Christmas cards are supposed to be sent before Christmas. OK, that’s not exactly true. My mother has always insisted that the “Twelve Days of Christmas” grant one a 12-day extension—from December 25 to January 6—but even she must admit that Epiphany is the absolute limit of what good Christmas card-sending etiquette will allow. This is yet another reason why my parents should move to France, where the custom is to send Christmas cards all through the month of January. Hence, on this final day of the month, the Christmas season in France officially draws to a close. And I must admit, it has left me a bit melancholy.

Christmas is something that I look forward to for roughly half the year. Being of firm Cancerian nature, I can’t help myself. I may have hit 30, but Christmas to me still means magic: it means the Nutcracker; it means Handel; it means the heavenly smell of Douglas firs and a festive array of Norwegian specialties like lefse and julekake, lovingly baked by my mother every year. In short, Christmas means Home, wrapped and adorned in all the best of what the subconscious associates with it. When I fall asleep in December, I dream of sipping mulled wine at Fezziwig’s Christmas party.

But when the holiday season draws to an end and life returns to normal, I find myself suffering from a sort of emotional hangover. I leave the festivities and my family behind once more and return to Paris, which may be my adopted home but somehow never seems less welcoming than when I land at Charles de Gaulle airport after the Christmas holidays, my suitcase heavy with gifts and my heart heavy with farewells, to gray Paris skies and bitter January cold. In a city where winter temperatures arrive in November and can sometimes stick around right through March, January is a month that Parisians just grit their teeth and get through. There are of course some “winter people” out there, those thermally-misguided few who embrace the cold and find some sort of bizarre fulfillment in wrapping themselves in coats, scarves, hats, gloves, boots, etc. Not me. Once Christmastime is over and presents put away, I don’t care to see a single snowflake floating down from above, no matter how pretty they are or how ardently I may have celebrated their appearance only a month prior.

If I had it my way, the year would progress as follows: April, May, June, July, August, September, October, December. The only downside that I can see to this abbreviated approach is that I would now be 15 years older than I actually am, which would automatically skip me right over the whole child-bearing period and would thus deprive the world of my future scions—truly a shame. On the other hand, I would also be that much closer to retirement, which almost makes giving up said future scions worthwhile.

But alas, winter for the moment is showing no signs of letting up. Snowflakes continue to fall, night continues to reign, and if I am to believe what I’ve just heard on the news, it ain’t over yet. But we shall not give up all hope: spring is surely out there somewhere, just waiting for the right moment to show her lovely face (right? Right?). So until then, G. and I will continue to “hunker down,” warming ourselves with comfort food and 14% ABV reds, until that blessed day when Old Man Winter finally decides to shuffle off.